Walking into the restaurant, I noticed he had a beanie in the back pocket of his jeans. There are so many things wrong with that picture. It’s like, “Come on, dude. You’re a thirty-something-year-old businessman. Why would you ever need to wear a beanie?” And did I mention that it was June . . . in Los Angeles? I decided it must be his version of a security blanket—or, more likely, to cover up the bald spot on the back of his head.
When we were finally seated, I immediately ordered a glass of white wine, thinking that maybe a little alcohol would loosen us up. He ordered a glass of water. Fuck me, I thought—and not in the good way. I squawked on about my job and my kids as he sat there rocking a pimp lean. You know the one—where his left leg is straight out to the side and his right elbow is leaning across the table. It dawned on me that this guy seriously thought he was gangsta. I wanted to say, “Honey, you’re not Jay-Z. You’re a New York Jew.” (Ironically, this is why I eventually fell head over heels for him . . . or so I thought.)
After I drained my second glass of wine, I was waiting for my booze goggles to click on, but they never did—which I have to admit is pretty unusual for me. The dinner lasted about forty-five minutes (I would eventually learn that nothing lasts longer than a few minutes with this dude), and I glanced down at the watch I wasn’t wearing and announced, “Well, I have to go.”
It was still light outside when we pulled up to my house well before my self-imposed curfew. “Can I come in?” he asked. Men rarely surprise me anymore, but what about that incredibly awkward forty-five-minute date caused him to believe that there was any chance that I would let him into my house where he believed my kids were? I mean, he didn’t know that the house was empty. I thanked him for dinner and leaned over to give him a weird hug/back pat combo before jumping out of the SUV.
I went inside, put on my heels, slapped on some red lipstick, and hit the town. The night was still young.
I don’t remember the first time we had sex. I remember the car ride to his house, and I remember waking up in his bed with my top still on, but the actual sex? Nope. Not a clue.
But in my defense, I was drunk and alone on Christmas Eve. My children were with their dad for the night (spending the holidays without my boys isn’t something I think I’ll ever get used to), so I needed something to take my mind off of it. Knowing what I know now, I’m not sure there was much to remember anyway.
After our tragic first date, he started inviting me to the weekly soirees at his Malibu rental. By then, I decided that he was a nice guy; he just wasn’t my cup of tea. (I’m actually pretty picky about my tea bags. #TeaBagging. #GetIt?) He was somewhat charming during our phone conversations and witty, but I wasn’t really seeing any sparks fly. So while I wasn’t necessarily interested in dating him, who was I to turn down a Malibu beach party? He suggested I bring a few girlfriends with me, which I didn’t think much of at the time.
When my girlfriends and I got to his not-so-humble abode, it didn’t take long for me to figure out why he had invited them: he was a unicorn chaser. He was the kind of guy who had a mental checklist of every unrealistic quality his ideal woman should have. And what was Mr. Beanie in His Back Pocket’s particular flavor of unicorn? A quick-witted twenty-something Victoria’s Secret model with an MBA (and that’s just the tip of the iceberg). So he and his friends would pack their parties with tall, leggy women who they could pick and choose from before ultimately dissecting. He knew that I met most of my closest friends while modeling, so it was a pretty safe assumption that whomever I brought to the party would also fit this mold.
If that wasn’t another red fucking flag to send me in the opposite direction, the beanbag chair, zebra hide rug, and motherfucking water bed surely should have sent me running. A water bed? Really? These grown-ass men fell into some money and were living out the equivalent of a nineties-themed bachelor pad. I didn’t know whether they’d be serving wine or charging for keg cups. Was someone going to Sharpie an “X” on my hand? Were we going to play quarters? Or maybe beer pong? Actually, I don’t even know what beer pong is, but I’m sure the twenty-two-year-olds did.
At first I was totally disgusted, but then I was surprisingly flattered. His laundry list of ex-girlfriends could pretty much double as the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, and he wanted to date me: a thirty-eight-year-old mother of two. I do have the vagina of a seventeen-year-old (or maybe more like a twenty-three-year-old now), so I guess it averages out. #NewKitty.
We didn’t start sleeping together immediately. In fact, it took about eighteen months before our Christmas Eve blackout sex. That summer I actually dated a few of the Unicorn Chaser’s friends—including one who was a pretty famous movie star (just google it)—but he and I would spend a lot of time together just trading jabs and goofing around and actually developed something of a friendship. He would offer me career advice, and I tried desperately to talk him out of wearing True Religion jeans. And beyond the fact of having nothing to talk about on our sushi date nightmare, I discovered we actually had a very similar sense of humor and would start beating each other to the punch line of a joke. My interest was slowly starting to rise—despite his ever-present beanie. Whenever I went to one of his parties, he would get drunk and tell me how “into me” he was, and without fail, two minutes later I would see him off in a corner with some other girl.
It only made me more interested.
When September rolled around and my Unicorn Chaser headed back to New York, he and I would have weekly phone dates where we would catch up on everything going on. It became a routine and I looked forward to it, but still nothing physical ever happened between us. He was clever enough to subtly drop the name of a girl he was seeing into the conversation, always some twenty-something model type, making it abundantly clear that beyond his mother, I was the oldest woman in his life. We would see each other whenever we were both in the same city, but always in a group environment, so I wouldn’t confuse it with a date. For someone who wanted me as desperately as he claimed to, he never wanted to actually be alone with me. Even if he asked me to meet him for a drink at the Beverly Hills Hotel, he would have a buddy there. He was the king of the backup plan. (One more time for the cheap seats: red flag.)
The following summer, the Unicorn Chaser was back in Malibu at his nineties bachelor pad beach house. (Seriously, where was Brandon Walsh? Or even David Silver?) He invited me over for a party (translation: with his friends and about twenty model-looking girls in bikinis) and spent the entire afternoon flirting with other women right in front of me. And guess what? It worked. Seeing him get all this attention from hot young women made me want to devour him. It had been nearly a year of buildup and home girl was ready!
I begged my friend to stay with me while the party started to wind down. Getting my Unicorn Chaser alone was going to be a challenge, so I needed to enlist her help! #DesperateTimes. And like any quality wing woman, she agreed to make out with his friend . . . on the beanbag chair. #TrueFriend. I knew damn well that there was no real future with this guy, but when have I made smart decisions when it comes to guys? Besides maybe divorcing one.
With my friend fully engaged in a tenth-grade heavy petting session on the beanbag chair, I excused myself and headed toward the kitchen, hopeful that my Unicorn Chaser would follow me. I knew what I wanted, but he was going to have to come to me. I was pouring myself another glass of wine when I heard someone behind me. I spun around expecting to see my Unicorn Chaser, but it wasn’t him. It was one of the model groupies who had been flirting with him—and me—all night.
“Who makes this?” she asked, rubbing the side of my waist.
“Cavalli,” I said, not quite sure what to do but not hating the attention. She leaned in to kiss me, and I thought, Why not? If my Unicorn Chaser wasn’t going to give me any action, I might as well get some from the hot twenty-something model. #WaistUpLesbian.
We were in a full-blown make-out session when my Unicorn Chaser finally found us in the kitchen.
; “Oh,” he said, sounding surprised and amused at the same time. The groupie girl was clearly a little embarrassed and excused herself immediately, which meant I was finally alone with my Unicorn Chaser. He was so turned on that he walked right up to me and kissed me. I guess seeing me flirt with the hot, sexy models made him want me too.
We made our way down to the cold, hard marble kitchen floor as his hand made its way up my dress. I immediately thought about how disgusting the floor was and how expensive my dress was. Did I like him more than my dress? But before I could react, I felt a few of his fingers find their way inside. #ShockerStyle. While it wasn’t the incredible make-out session I hoped it would be, it wasn’t completely unenjoyable. After a few minutes, he pulled his tongue out of my mouth and whispered, “It’s getting late.”
Just like that, I lost whatever power I had. The dynamic had completely shifted, and I gave Mr. Beanie in His Back Pocket total control.
“Yeah, you’re right,” I muttered, not quite sure how to handle the situation.
“I’ll call you guys a car,” he said. At least he was offering to send us home in a town car; it was the gentlemanly thing to do, after all. He spent the last twelve months trying to get down my pants, and here he was with two fingers up my kitty cat and he’s rejecting me? Are you fucking serious? #FuckOff. Something about me that night wasn’t meeting his standards, and it made me want him even more. #FuckMe.
Five minutes later, a yellow cab—not a town car—appeared in front of the Malibu beach house to drive my girlfriend and me home. I paid.
“There’s been an accident,” I said. My Latino boyfriend was ten minutes away, and I needed an excuse to flake. We had been dating casually for about six months, and I had offered to make him his favorite home-cooked meal. I was sipping a glass of white wine (#DrinkingAndCooking) and chopping green onions, bell peppers, and mushrooms when my Unicorn Chaser called. He was staying at a friend’s house in Bel Air and wanted to see a movie with me.
“It’s my, um, cousin,” I lied through my teeth. “I already ordered a cab to the airport.”
It was a horrible thing to do, but I hadn’t seen the Unicorn Chaser in months, and this sounded like an actual date. The Latino said that he was already down the street and would come help me.
“I’ll drive you to the airport,” he offered.
“No, the cab is already on the way,” I said, before adding, “but if you could watch the dogs that would be awesome.” If I spent the night with the Unicorn Chaser, it would be helpful if my Latino could watch the dogs. To be fair, the Latino had me jumping through hoops for months. It was his turn to repay the favor.
“Um, okay,” he said, begrudgingly. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
Fuck, I thought. I ran into my closet and grabbed my black carry-on Tumi bag with cranberry ribbon and tossed it by the door. I’ll tell you this, if I was going to fake an emergency trip to Sacramento for a cousin who wasn’t injured, I was going to really commit. Looking back, I should have won an Emmy for my performance. At least someone in my family would have an acting award.
By the time my Latino arrived, I was putting the chopped vegetables in Tupperware.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, clearly annoyed, but attempting to understand. “I’ll take care of it.” The creases in his ear lobes were really starting to bother me. I know how insane that must sound, but I couldn’t stop staring at them as he pouted over the sink. So I did what any girl would do: I faked a phone call from my mom and pretended to cry.
The cab had arrived, and the Latino grabbed my empty suitcase to carry to the car.
“This is really light,” he said.
“I’m only going for a night,” I quickly snapped, praying to God that he didn’t think to open it. I really was planning to be back by morning. I jumped in the cab; I was almost there. I yelled at the driver, “Yo, homes, to Bel Air.” #FreshPrinceRules.
I pulled up to a ridiculous mansion about ten minutes later and hid my bag to the side of the front steps; I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing I made an excuse to see him. I rang the bell, and his friend answered the door. Apparently, this was going to be a double date.
By the time we got to the theater, I was starved. I hadn’t eaten all day, and I had planned to be eating beef Stroganoff by now. My Latino had already texted me that he locked up the house and wished me a safe flight. #ImGoingToHell.
“I’m going to get a hot dog,” I announced. He seemed totally annoyed that I was ordering food. Was I not allowed to eat? I dressed my hot dog with ketchup, mustard, and tons of relish.
“Who puts relish on a hot dog?” he asked, looking totally disgusted. Apparently, unicorns don’t eat relish.
“I do,” I responded, taking a big bite of my kosher dog. Despite his feigned repulsion, I thought that it wouldn’t be my only wiener that night.
I had no idea what we were even seeing, but when the opening credits rolled, the headlining name was a familiar one—to both of us. I was totally confused. Why would he take me to see a movie starring his friend who I had hooked up with?
I realized that he wanted to get jealous. Knowing that I hooked up with the guy on the big movie screen was turning him on. He spent the entire movie playing high school grab ass with me—rubbing my leg and holding my hand. I was just waiting for the fake yawn when he would put his arm around me. And yes, in some twisted way I was really into it.
After the movie, I had no less than ten text messages from the Latino asking if I landed safely. “Yes,” I quickly typed. “At hospital. Can’t talk.” (I realize that if he’s reading this now, he’s probably pretty pissed. So let me say it here: #ImSoSorry.)
When we got back to the Bel Air house, my Unicorn Chaser and I went immediately to the bedroom. I was ready for an evening filled with crazy, hot sex, but we ended up snuggling the entire night. It felt intimate and sweet. Or maybe it was that my breath still smelled like relish. Either way, I was okay with it.
The next morning, I grabbed my empty suitcase and went home, thoroughly confused.
My Unicorn Chaser was back in Los Angeles during the holidays, but I hadn’t seen him yet. We kept up our regular phone calls and e-mails but never talked about what happened on the kitchen floor or the movie theater. I knew he was dating other people and he knew I was as well, but neither of us brought it up. When you ask that question, everyone loses. Plus, we weren’t in a relationship, but clearly something was going on, I just had no clue what. I knew he was attracted to me, but at the end of the day, I was just too old to be his unicorn. And I liked relish.
I was spending Christmas Eve with my L.A. family: Yolanda and David Foster. They were gracious enough to invite me to dinner at Yolanda’s ex-husband’s mansion in Beverly Hills. While I don’t ever anticipate having a blended holiday dinner with my ex-husband anytime soon, I definitely respect the relationship Yolanda was able to maintain with her ex for the sake of their children. We had finished up a gorgeous meal, and people were starting to trickle out. The Unicorn Chaser had already called me earlier in the day, and I told him that I would let him know if my dinner ended early. I was already in a champagne haze, so I decided to see if he wanted to meet for a drink at the Beverly Hills Hotel.
This goes against everything I stand for, but I was alone, and the idea of going home to an empty house on Christmas Eve depressed the shit out of me.
By the time he got to the Polo Lounge, I was pretty tipsy. He had, of course, brought a friend but climbed into the booth next to me. We ordered a round of drinks, and without much hesitation, my hand made its way into his lap. I started feeling him under the table, while he was struggling to pay attention to a story his friend was telling. I kept one elbow perched on the table, with my head in my hand, laughing at all the right moments, while I got him hard underneath the table. #Vulgar. #ButHot.
After a few minutes, I looked at him innocently and said, “Should we go?”
He drove us to the Bel Air palace, and I don’
t remember much after that, except that I woke up a few hours later with just my pants off. He had already called a cab, which was waiting outside for me. I took the ten-minute cab ride back to my house alone. I paid. #FullCircle.
The next time I fucked the Unicorn Chaser, it wasn’t much more memorable.
I was in New York for work about two months after our Christmas Eve encounter, and he invited me out to dinner.
“If it’s going to be a group date, I’m not really interested,” I said, thinking I was playing it cool. He assured me it wasn’t but told me his friend was having dinner at a nearby restaurant and he promised to stop by. Once again, I should have known better but agreed nonetheless.
Cipriani is something of a New York institution. It’s an upscale Italian restaurant that’s been around for eons with an impressive list of celebrity clientele and Manhattan power players, including Jay-Z, naturally. Basically, you go for the scene, not for the food. When we arrived at the table, there were three beautiful women and one older man and, of course, two empty chairs for the Unicorn Chaser and me. We weren’t going to be making our dinner reservation.
I immediately recognized another woman at the table—the ex-girlfriend of a guy I had dated. She recognized me too, but we both played dumb. I settled into my seat and thought, So much for stopping by. Not long into my group date dinner, the Unicorn Chaser actually had the balls to start flirting with this other woman right in front of me. After dinner, we made our way to the rooftop nightclub, and I started wondering if he was getting a fucking appearance fee for bringing me there. What the fuck did I sign up for here? #Loser.
I started drinking, dancing, and posing for pictures with other guests when they asked, which he scolded me about later. (Gee, thanks, Dad.) By this point, I wasn’t even paying much attention to him and he knew I was annoyed, which, of course, turned him on. He finally asked me if he could take me home.
Drinking and Dating: P.S. Social Media Is Ruining Romance Page 13