I cried because I’d seen Sexy Boy touch Jenny on the back when we walked into the bar. I cried for my father, who would have known from the beginning that Sexy Boy was an utter waste of time. I cried for my cat, Spider, who’d died three years ago, and for my dead golden retriever, Samantha, who’d played hide-and-seek with me when I was ten. I cried for Loser, and for anyone who once loved me and no longer did.
What made me cry the hardest was that the whale sounds reminded me of the Judy Collins record, Whales and Nightingales, that my mom used to play in the seventies. When I’d been five, the whales’ eerie songs spoke to me of mystery and possibility. Now, though, they seemed all about loss.
Finally, after three times through the Orca’s Greatest Hits, I walked out of the booth dry-eyed and determined.
I’d decided three important things: (1) I was never dating a stoner again, (2) I was never dating again, and (3) I was taking the ferry back to Anacortes. How I would get to Seattle after that, I didn’t know. I’d take a bus or a f*cking taxi if I had to. I probably had just enough in my life savings to cover the fare. One thing was certain, however. I was not getting back in a plane with Captain Sexy Boy and copilot Jenny.
As I was halfway through my latte and just hitting my authorial stride, two shaggy-looking guys walked into the place, sat down at the table right next to mine (hello, the place was empty!), and started talking loudly. The surly barista was nowhere to be seen, so they hadn’t been able to order coffee. But they didn’t seem to mind.
“The sound was really off last night, man.” Wannabe Rock Star #1 wore a tight-fitting wool hat, a three-day growth of beard, and an Army-Navy surplus jacket of the same type I’d worn when I was sixteen.
“Shit, I can’t even remember, I’m so fucking hungover. I didn’t think it was bad.” WBRS #2 had on a red flannel shirt and khaki shorts over waffle-weave long underwear.
“No, that sound dude had his head up his ass.”
I thought about telling them to talk more quietly. There was an artiste at work who had important things to tell her fans (ahem!), but then I reconsidered. I didn’t feel like making enemies this early in the day. Even if they were just wannabe rock stars who didn’t realize that it was 2002, not 1992. Trying to ignore them, I went back to the blog.
So, using motion sickness as an excuse, I didn’t get back in that plane. And one ferry ride, one taxi ride, two bus rides, and eight hours later, I was home safe while rain continued to lash the Sound.
The three of them, of course, made it home just fine after the storm subsided late that night. Oh, I was happy that GuyPal #1 was safe, but I wouldn’t have minded seeing Sexy Boy and Jenny take a little dip in the Sound.
Because now that Sexy Boy had successfully piloted his plane back to Seattle (damn him!), there was an unpleasant task I had to complete. I had to confess. Only after I confessed would I be purged, and only after I was purged could I move on.
I wrote Sexy Boy a heartbroken e-mail confessing my crush on him, and telling him how much he’d confused and hurt me. He’d written back, apologized, and then made me a strange and surprising “offer.”
I enjoy spending time around you, R., but I make it a rule not to date people on the rebound, which I think you are. However, I would be happy to oblige if you are looking for a casual romantic encounter, etc.
I did a double take when I first saw this e-mail. I’d expected either a flat-out rejection or a confession on his part (admittedly, a much less likely possibility: “But I DO love you! That Jenny person—she’s no one!”). I hadn’t expected Sexy Boy to take this kind of messed-up middle ground.
After exchanging multiple e-mails on the subject with various GalPals, it made much more sense. Sexy Boy, in a word, was lame. All along his position toward me had defined “messed-up middle ground.” So, in fact, his “offer” made perfect sense. The most outspoken advice came from a long-lost GalPal—now living in the ’burbs with three children—who still loved to experience the dating life vicariously:
From: Long-lost GalPal
To: R.
Tell Sexy Boy if he wants a “casual romantic encounter” he should have one with himself. Meanwhile, as he’s jerking off to thoughts of his ex-girlfriend, you’ll be out looking for a real man.
The GalPals were right, of course. But I responded to him by suggesting that we meet to discuss his proposition over cocktails. I knew, on the one hand, that it was ridiculous. I certainly had better things to do with my time than dillydally with men who were offering me casual sex. On the other hand, it seemed apropos—glamorous, even—that in my new incarnation as Breakup Babe, I should be meeting sexy stoners to discuss meaningless flings in pseudoseedy bars.
I planned, of course, to tell him that I just wanted to be friends. But could I help it if I wanted to drag it out a little bit?
We met at Hattie’s Hat, the most happening bar in Ballard. As we seated ourselves in the vinyl booth, surrounded by boys in band T-shirts and girls in tattoo-baring tank tops (embarrassingly similar to my own tattoo-baring tank top), it required an act of will not to throw myself at him and say, “Take me, whatever the cost!” My hands trembled as I held my drink. After twenty minutes’ worth of small talk, I said “This is what I think.” I looked up at Sexy Boy through a smoky haze. He had on a soft-looking brown sweater with a white stripe across the middle. I wanted to reach out and touch it.
“I think,” I said, talking as slowly as I could, trying to ignore the ache in my chest, “that we should just be friends.”
The smile fell off his face. He raised his eyebrows. It took him only an instant to regain his composure. Then he leaned back in his chair, nodded, and said, with a wise expression, as if it were his own idea, “It’s probably best if we were just friends.”
I looked away from the computer, remembering this moment. It had been so bittersweet to see that disappointed look on Sexy Boy’s face. Gratifying and heartbreaking at the same time. Just then, the chick from the cash register materialized, interrupting my reverie. She minced over to the table next to me. How she moved in the skintight jeans she was wearing, I wasn’t sure.
“I heard you guys were awwessomme last night,” she said, beaming. The dark purple lipstick she’d applied far outreached the bounds of her suspiciously voluptuous lips. “Did you read the review in The Times today?”
The Times? I whipped my head around. Oh, shit. Was that—??
God, I was obvious. What a celebrity whore! I whipped back to face my computer. My mind worked rapidly. Was it…could it be…the guys from Nirvana, now the Foo Fighters? I desperately wanted to turn around again. If it was the Foo Fighters, was it possible that it was Courtney Love at the counter? But what would Courtney Love be doing working in a coffee shop? Maybe she’d been shooting up in the back. But didn’t she have a Hollywood career? And wasn’t she embroiled in legal troubles with the rest of Nirvana?
Aargh. When people had raved about the beans at Vivace, they’d said nothing about it being a haunt of loud and hard-to-recognize rock stars. With half an ear cocked to their conversation, I plowed ahead.
So Sexy Boy and I made a toast to friendship, Hope-a-noma was surgically removed from my chest, and we walked next door to the Tractor Tavern—Seattle’s temple of alt-country music—for a rendezvous with GuyPal #1.
And that, my friends, is where I met the Li’l Rockclimbing Spy. (Yes, I know I said I wasn’t going to date anymore. But we all knew that wasn’t true to start with, didn’t we?)
The LRS was chatting with GuyPal #1 when we arrived. At first I was so distracted by Sexy Boy’s presence, I didn’t take much notice of the lanky kid with the bleached blond mop of hair. But when Sexy Boy floated over to the bar, the LRS and I started chatting. Then I found out, in short order, that he knew my old flame, Ziggy—the crazy, sexy rock climber I’d dated just before Loser—and that he himself was a rock climber.
That was all the aphrodisiac I needed. I henceforth took a keen interest in the apparently well-developed biceps
that lurked under the T-shirt and the charming way he used words like “epic” (as in “that’s epic, dude”) and “amped” (as in “I was really amped to come to this show tonight!”).
Ever since I’d experienced the defining love of my life, at age twenty-two, with a long-haired, guitar-playing, poetry-spouting rock climber named Josh (nicknamed “the Feather” by my father) who discovered god—lowercase g—on a climbing trip and then dumped me, I’d not very sensibly developed a thing for climbers. Before I knew it, the Li’l Rockclimbing Spy asked for my number and I gave it to him. But not without asking, to my credit, thank you very much, “So do you smoke as much pot as Ziggy does?”
Not exactly the most subtle question in the world, but I had my standards to adhere to now. I tried to ask it with a tolerant-looking smile, so that if he was a gigantic pothead he wouldn’t be afraid to tell me.
“No,” he snorted. “That guy smoked sick amounts of weed.” He shifted from one foot to the other, took a sip of his beer, and looked around the bar.
I waited, hoping he would provide a little more information so I wouldn’t have to come right out and say, “So how many times a day do YOU get high?” (For Ziggy, it had been at least three. For Sexy Boy, who knew?) Out of the corner of my eye I saw Sexy Boy and GuyPal #1 walking in the front door of the Tractor. They’d probably gone outside for a toke.
“I hardly smoke at all,” he said, giving a dismissive little shrug.
Test passed! And now, after just one dinner and half a movie, here we were on the Red Couch o’ Love. I hadn’t expected things to move so fast, but I also hadn’t expected to feel so comfortable with him.
“So,” said the Li’l Rockclimbing Spy as he slipped his hand under my shirt, “should we go in the other room?” I let it stay there, even though I knew I shouldn’t. It felt hot against my breast. I looked into his gray eyes, which were now staring at me intently. He had a pierced eyebrow, which at first I thought was ridiculous but now found quite alluring.
“I don’t know,” I said. It felt so good to have a male body pressed up against me, to feel, if not loved, then wanted, desired.
“I—um…” Before I could answer him, the LRS started kissing me, kneading my breasts gently with his strong hands. My resistance weakened another notch.
“Tell him you have to go to bed!” Sensible Girl’s voice was high-pitched, full of alarm. She sat on the end of the couch, watching us with wide-eyed terror, as if the Li’l Rockclimbing Spy were a hockey-masked psycho. “You can date him,” she barked, “that’s fine! BUT DON’T SLEEP WITH HIM TONIGHT!”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, stop worrying so much.” Needy Girl was perched on the sofa’s other arm, wearing a pink-and-orange psychedelic halter top. She had a Mojito in hand, and bright blue eye-shadow sparkled on her eyelids. She crossed her legs. “This guy is just a kid! If anyone is going to get hurt here, it’s him! Why should she stop herself from having fun? She could die tomorrow!”
“You’re really hot,” the Li’l Rockclimbing Spy whispered, his voice resonating deep in my groin. Then he slid his hand downward and under the waistband of my jeans. His hand was rough and calloused from years of climbing. Somehow I found the willpower to reach down and gently remove it. Undeterred, he slid it back up to my breasts and started gently licking my earlobes. I held my breath. Closed my eyes. His breath in my ear was so…
“Don’t let yourself go there!” yelped Sensible Girl.
My eyes flew open. I looked up at the ceiling, where the Li’l Rockclimbing Spy and I cast huge shadows that moved jerkily, as if in a silent movie. His shadow looked like that of a monster devouring its prey.
When I spoke, my voice was husky. “I really have to get to bed,” I said. It came out a half croak.
“Why?” the Li’l Rockclimbing Spy took a breath and then started kissing my neck.
“I have to get up early and…and…write.”
“Oh yeah?” said the Li’l Rockclimbing Spy. He stopped kissing me, and there was interest in his voice. I could feel his warm breath on my cheek, his body resting on top of mine. He peered down at me. “What are you writing?”
“Um…a….” I almost said “blog,” but then I said, “A book.”
“Really?” He sat up and looked at me curiously. His hair was sticking up in different directions, making me melt into even more of a puddle. “What about?”
“It’s…” Why did I always have to open my big mouth about being a writer? People inevitably wanted to know what you were writing, and at this point, my credibility was questionable. “It’s, well…” What a liar I was. It’s a book about how I’ve always wanted to write a book but have failed miserably.
“How about I tell you next time?” I said, before realizing that up until this second, we had not talked about any “next time.” My heart started to pound loudly, right after which he laid his head down on my chest with his ear right up against it. Great. My stupid heart always gave itself away.
I waited for him to comment about the loud pounding, or to reject my coded request for another date, but all he said was, “All right.” He reached his hand under my shirt again, but this time just caressed my stomach. He sounded completely unfazed that I had just proposed a second date.
“Well, when do you want to get together again?” he asked. I let out a sigh of relief. Then I thought quickly. I was going on a date Thursday night with some Seattle-dwelling friend of Longtime Lover Boy’s. (LTLB and I were so practiced at the on-again, off-again thing, that when we were “off” we could do things like set each other up on blind dates.) A Jewish doctor, apparently, who’d gone to Harvard with Longtime Lover Boy. I hadn’t seen a picture of him, so I was suspicious, but my mother would never forgive me if I turned down a date with a Harvard-educated Jewish doctor.
“Maybe Saturday night?” I couldn’t believe this was really me, staid, devoted girlfriend for two years, now making dates with two different guys in the same week. Then again, I remembered that pre-Loser, GalPal #3 had once referred to me as a “dating machine.”
At least, I thought, running my fingers through the Li’l Rockclimbing Spy’s soft blond hair, my body humming with desire, I’d learned something since then. In ye olden days, I’d sleep with cute boys on a first date only to have things end with a sickening thud three weeks later. This time, I wasn’t going to get too close to anyone unless I really trusted him.
“All right,” the Li’l Rockclimbing Spy said again, sounding relaxed and comfortable. He lay back down on top of me, but the urgency was gone. We lay there for a few minutes not saying anything, our bodies entwined. It was warm in my apartment, and he smelled like clean sweat. It excited me to be this close to someone I barely knew at all. Excited and frightened me at the same time. Maybe because, as much as I seemed to be leaping into beginnings these days, I was also preoccupied with endings.
Now that this has started, I wondered as we lay there together, our heartbeats slowing down, how is it going to end?
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Back at Vivace, Courtney Love was still sucking up to the Foo Fighters. They were dropping names left and right, but I didn’t recognize any of them because they were on a first name basis with the celebs. They talked about a “Pete” (Pete Buck from R.E.M?), a “Dave” (Dave Matthews?), and an “Angie” (Angelina Jolie?), but I didn’t have time to sit around and decipher their stoned-sounding babble.
As I packed up my laptop, none of them, of course, even shot me a glance. Why would they, I guess, when they partied with the likes of Angie? They might be a little more impressed if they knew I was a purveyor of soft-core porn! After pressing the “Publish” button to make my blog entry go live on the Web, I couldn’t quite believe I’d written phrases like his hand felt “hot against my breast.” I giggled at the thought.
I hoped, as I headed for the door, that I wasn’t writing about sex just to keep people entertained. Suddenly I remembered Mrs. Bloomstedt proudly telling my fourth-grade class that I would be a fa
mous writer someday. When she said that, she probably hadn’t thought I’d be writing things like “his voice resonating deep in my groin.”
Embarrassment engulfed me as I hurried out of Vivace into a chilly, gray October morning. Who did I think I was? Danielle Steele? “Sorry,” I said under my breath, to whom I wasn’t exactly sure. Mrs. Bloomstedt? My younger, more innocent self? I rushed toward the bus stop, late as usual, and waited for a thunderbolt to smite me on the head.
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Ah, that’s more like it. You’re a girl after my own heart! Delilah | Homepage | 10/07/02—1:02 P.M.
There are people with children reading this thing, you know. Think of the children!
Mother of Two | 10/07/02—4:00 P.M.
Have you ever thought of writing a Romance Novel? I bet you’d be good at it.
Jeannie | 10/07/02—10:38 P.M.
Good thing Mom hasn’t found your blog yet. Li’l Sis | 10/08/02—8:41 A.M.
Chapter Twelve
Friday, October 11, 2002
9:47 AM Breakup Babe
Last night, I went on my first blind date since becoming a swinging single. On paper, this guy would give my mom a major orgasm with these three little words: Jewish. Doctor. Harvard.
In person, well, let’s just say it was a blind date. And you know how blind dates usually are. Lots of nervous anticipation thudding into dull disappointment. Plenty of alcohol to lubricate the conversation in the face of creeping boredom.
This was not one of those dates.
When I walked into Pasta Bella, however, I did not have high hopes. Longtime Lover Boy had failed to provide any details about The Doctor’s looks—even when pressed—which I took to be an ominous sign. The Doctor himself had said, over e-mail, that he would be “the tall, dirty blond, dorky-looking guy.”
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