If I was out on the town with friends or in bed with the LRS, I didn’t think so much about Loser and Loserette: the two of them jogging together into a magenta sunset. Loser telling Loserette she was the “most beautiful woman he’d ever known,” just as he’d told me. Loserette preparing his beloved hot dogs for him every single night without a single sarcastic comment. Loserette letting him sleep in on the weekends instead of “forcing” him to go hiking. Loserette being the angelic and accepting Florence Nightingale that I could never be, thus becoming the recipient of even more adulation than I had once received.
But I once again abandoned my Nervy.com hopefuls when the doctor resurfaced. I’d almost forgotten about him in the whirlwind of my first week back from New York, but when he did call, I thought, “Hallelujah, now I won’t fall in love with the LRS!” Dating two boys at once, I’d decided, was much more preferable than one. Especially if one was only twenty-four. I could continue to have hot sex with the youngster until the relationship self-destructed (which I was sure it would, even if he had called me the very next day after we’d slept together), meanwhile being chaste and coy with the Jewish doctor, thus paving the way for our eventual marriage.
Ha. Only a grief-choked mind could have come up with such a brilliant plan. My friends, enablers that they were, supported me in it—or it seemed to me that they were supporting me. And the “Breakup Babies,” as I’d now started calling them, loved it. Of course. Several men at once? What could be better?! My hits climbed to fifty a day! To an “A-list” blogger, this would be peanuts. To me, it was astronomical!
GalPal #2, for example, had given me advice about the Li’l Rockclimbing Spy one night about a week after I’d started sleeping with him.
“Suggest to him that you can date other people but not sleep with them. If either of you wants to fool around with someone, then you should tell the other one. But until it gets to that stage, you don’t have to,” she’d said. “Then, after a couple months, you’ll know whether you want to get more serious with him or not. Meanwhile you keep your options open.”
“If I kissed someone else, would I have to tell him?”
“Well, it would be up to the two of you to decide the particular parameters. Hey, do you think I can borrow that purple Anthropologie blouse of yours for this thing I have to go to next week?” GalPal #2’s attention span was often limited, but she gave good advice while it lasted.
I’d been quite nervous to have this discussion with the Li’l Rockclimbing Spy. Though there had been no repeats of the Flirting Incident, I sensed his general restlessness. He always talked about leaving Seattle to go on an “epic adventure.” So I worried he might balk at any suggestion of “commitment”—even one as limited as the one I proposed. But instead, when I made my pitch, it was a nondiscussion.
“Sounds good,” he said absently, while lightly caressing my stomach with his hand, as if I’d just suggested an acceptable place to go to dinner. I didn’t know whether to be happy or offended. I opened my mouth to say something else, then closed it. Because his hand had started moving into other regions, I opted for happy. I figured we could discuss “details,” i.e., what happened if we kissed someone else, later. And I succumbed, once again, to his charms.
So, with the cooperation of the LRS, my evil plan worked. For a while anyway. It distracted me from the silent soap opera going on at Empire with Loser and Loserette. I shut my mouth, did my job, and prayed not to see the perpetrators of The Great Unpleasantness in the hallway. They kept themselves pretty scarce, and who could blame them? The pair of them were worms of the lowest sort, subterranean dwellers who couldn’t expose themselves to daylight lest the world see how slimy they really were. Of course I had no proof that they were doing anything other than exercising together, but I knew.
I also knew we couldn’t avoid one another forever, but meanwhile I would fortify myself with the attentions of other men until I had to face them. Who knew? Maybe it would make me strong enough not to care by the time it happened. Because if there was one thing I’d always thrived on, it was excitement, and I was getting that in spades from the Li’l Rock-climbing Sex Machine and the striking yet standoffish doctor. Especially when things finally started to heat up with the doctor, and it looked like my happily-ever-after fantasies might just possibly come true.
By the time the doctor and I went on our third date, I’d successfully ignored a number of red flags. On our strictly G-rated second date, I’d barely been able to get a word in edgewise between all his Robin Williams-like impressions and comic monologues. But there had been a few moments when his “real” personality had shown through, and in those moments he struck me as kind, compassionate, caring. He just needed to relax around me and things would flow more easily. Or maybe not. I tried to adopt a skeptical attitude after receiving this cautionary e-mail from GalPal #1.
TO: Rachel Cooper
RE: the Doctor
I think you should watch your feelings on this one: People who seem to fit a perfect package sometimes can lead one to close one’s eyes to problems. Just because he is handsome and Jewish and went to Harvard means nothing. Loser had all that except for the Harvard part. Do not be seduced by status. The Doctor may be a great guy, but he’s going to have to convince you by showing you he’s great. You’re going to demand nothing less.
She was right, of course. I’d fallen for Loser in part because of his trappings (handsome! Jewish! rich!), and blinded myself to the faults in his personality (the insecurity, the workaholism, the estrangement from his family, the way he threw a fit if I forgot to put fabric softener in the dryer or tried to sneak vegetables into his Kraft macaroni and cheese). Had my seismographic instruments been working, I would have seen the Big One coming. But, of course, they’d been broken from the beginning. He’d fit my idea of perfection in so many ways. How could I find fault with a rich, gorgeous, and generous man who adored me?
In the post-Loser dating world, however, I had the chance to redeem myself, to keep those instruments fine-tuned and alert for ominous tremors. The doctor, I’d noted on my blog, was only up to three red flags: glib, show-offy, and self-absorbed. According to Juliana’s law (five red flags and he’s out!), he still had two more to go. If those two popped up, well, I would unceremoniously show him the door.
But my oh-so-sensible attitude evaporated when he asked me out again a mere week after our second date. For a weekend! Thus far, our dates had been sedate midweek affairs. No doubt the doctor would comport himself differently under the spell of alcohol and a Friday night. He would shed his smarmy exterior and reveal himself for what he was: a funny, grounded, and affectionate man just waiting for a girl like me.
To earn that trust, I donned a sexy black sheath dress that showed plenty of cleavage ($8 from the Take 2 consignment store) and figured this date would be it, the night we’d fall into each other’s arms. In the four days between the time he asked me out and the actual date, I became more and more convinced that a mighty passion was about to be unleashed upon the Earth. I shivered at the thought.
Monday, November 18, 2002
9:57 AM Breakup Babe
My third and most-anticipated date with The Doctor started out badly. Over dinner at El Camino, a loud, faux-Mexican joint with killer margaritas, he was standoffish. Distracted. Gone was the annoying jokiness that had at least kept his attention focused on me, the pretending-to-be-rapt audience. No, tonight his head was somewhere else. He spoke in monotones and barely looked at me and my artfully revealed cleavage. Instead he stared off into space during the many silences.
Alas, he looked devastatingly handsome. A midnight blue shirt (bold color choice for a man!) clung to his narrow-yet-still-manly shoulders. His face looked exquisite in melancholy mode. I yearned for him more than ever, but his dark mood struck fear into my overly hopeful little heart.
He’s going to dump me, I thought. I put my lacy black cardigan on (a steal from Target at $25!) to cover my poor, perky cleavage, which was performing we
ll and yet had not earned even a glance from its ungrateful audience.
Meanwhile, as my heart sank lower, I asked questions and tried to uncover the source of his malaise. Maybe he’d lost a patient? Maybe something else bad had happened? But to no avail. His answers were flat, perfunctory. And he asked very few questions in return. Even the margarita I drank in record time did nothing to quell my nerves.
By the time we paid our bill, a sick feeling suffused my stomach. Grim-faced, he drove us to Part II of our date, karaoke at the Rickshaw, a tacky Chinese restaurant in Greenwood where we’d be meeting GuyPal #2. As we drove in near silence in his tricked-out Mazda with the license plate that read “Dr. Bones,” I snuck glances at him. He looked as if he were heading for a root canal rather than a fun-filled night on the town.
Why, I wondered, trying to fend off despair, did he hate me all of a sudden? What had happened between the time he asked me out for this date four days ago and now? I dreaded our arrival at the Rickshaw, when, I imagined, he would drop me off in front and then screech off into the night without a word.
Instead he parked (rather abruptly) in front. To my surprise, he even opened the door of the club for me.
And, when we walked into the Rickshaw, my mood shifted. The dim lighting, the happy laughter, the frat boy singing “Play That Funky Music White Boy,” all had their effect on me. If The Doctor was going to be a wet blanket, fine. If our wedding was called off, fine. But I was wearing a slinky dress, and, damn it, I was going to have fun! The Doctor could f*ck the h*ll off.
I paused and glanced over at the counter despite myself. My mind was firmly on Friday night, but I couldn’t help sneaking a peek at the cute barista. It was my first time back in Victrola since the Beret Chick incident. I wasn’t going to stop going to my favorite coffee shop just because some pretentious bitch in a beret was flirting with the help.
I looked quickly away from the cute barista before he could see me. We’d already exchanged significant smiles when I walked into Victrola, and I didn’t need to be caught looking longingly at him again. I wondered, briefly, how old he was. A whole new world of younger men had recently opened up to me. I thought, suddenly, of the Li’l Rockclimbing Spy. The last time we’d been together, he’d been so attentive. So sweet. Little did he know I had a date the next night with the doctor. I shook the thought off and started typing again.
Two vodka tonics later, I was still waiting to be called for my first song when I realized I was leaning up against The Doctor (who was on his third Manhattan). The alcohol had clearly had a salubrious effect on him, because there was no way I would have gotten into this compromising position without his help. He sat on a bar stool, long legs slightly apart, and I was standing—of all places—right between them, leaning up against one thigh. A ripple of fear and excitement went through me. “Watch it,” yelled Sensible Girl over the din of the crowd. She was trying to move toward us from the middle of the room, but had gotten caught up in a karaoke mosh pit of sorts. Needy Girl, on the other hand, was smiling at us from just a little way down the bar, where she’d secured a seat between an Ethan Hawke look-alike and a guy who resembled Latino singing sensation Ricky Martin. Ricky Martin was staring pointedly at Needy Girl’s cleavage, also proudly on display tonight in a sequined silver tube top. She gave me a happy little wave.
Just as I noticed my own strategic location, GuyPal #2 leaned over and said, “Hey, R., what are you going to sing?”
“You’ll see,” I said, looking into GuyPal #2’s wide cobalt blue eyes while trying to decide how I felt about being in such thrillingly close contact with The Doctor. Despite my preoccupation with The Doctor’s proximity, I noticed yet again how sexy GuyPal #2 had gotten in the last few years. We’d been roommates long ago, and I’d watched him go from chubby, insecure college grad to devilishly flirtatious ladies’ man. We were long past the point where anything could happen between us, or I might fall prey to those eyes myself.
I’d invited GuyPal #2 along not only because he was a karaoke master, but to get his objective opinion on The Doctor. So far they’d hit it off swimmingly. The Doctor’s mood had immediately improved when GuyPal #2 showed up. Right away they’d started joking around with each other, swapping Johnny Carson and Frank Sinatra impressions. The Doctor warmed up to me then too, and had even said—putting his hand on my bare shoulder, his mouth close to my ear—“Sorry I was so out of it earlier.” My body temperature jumped five degrees with that touch. Things had only gotten hotter since then.
I, of course, was going to sing “The Rose.” Unlike GuyPal #2, whose repertoire ranged from Foreigner to The Boss, I always sang “The Rose.” But it was the very best I had to offer in the karaoke department. If anything could win The Doctor over, it would be me singing “The Rose.” It fits perfectly within my limited range, and when I hit the high notes, my voice cracks just a little—but appealingly so, as if tinged with the pressures of a drug-filled life on the road à la Bette Midler.
Given The Doctor’s inconsistent behavior, I knew I shouldn’t be trying so hard to win him over. But the alcohol and the physical contact had gotten me so giddy there was no going back. Especially because Sensible Girl had been waylaid by a middle-aged guy in a cowboy hat trying to engage her in earnest conversation. She kept shooting worried glances in my direction.
“What about you? What are you going to sing?” I asked GuyPal #2, though I knew he wouldn’t tell me either. My arm and right hand were palm down on the bar, and now—I noticed—The Doctor had also put his arm down on the bar right next to mine. It seemed that his fingers—wait, were they really?—were lightly stroking my hand.
My head swam suddenly with the lights, the vodka, those feathery strokes on my skin. For a moment, I thought I might faint. GuyPal #2’s face blurred before my eyes.
Just then the M.C. called The Doctor up for his song. My head cleared. I felt a wave of disappointment as he pulled his body away from mine, quickly followed by anticipation as he walked—or, rather, swaggered—up to the stage. GuyPal #2 and I exchanged skeptical glances. Longtime Lover Boy had mentioned something about The Doctor’s karaoke skills, but I’d been too busy trying to get other kinds of information from him to pay attention.
Within thirty seconds of taking the stage, The Doctor had the audience—me included—firmly under his control. He had everything just right. The poise of a professional singer and the comic timing to parody a rock star. Not to mention a perfect—slightly husky—tenor voice that filled every corner of the room and cut the drunken babble to near silence. His choice of song was bold. In fact, I wasn’t sure I’d seen anyone ever do it, much less a nice Jewish boy from Connecticut. “Little Nikki” by Prince. I was shocked at the magnitude of his stage presence. The guy was a born performer.
Halfway through the song, I tore my eyes away from him and looked around the room. More than one woman in the audience was staring at him. A few guys snickered and whispered to each other. Then I looked at GuyPal #2. He watched The Doctor with a mixture of jealousy and awe, his mouth slightly agape. I knew exactly what he would say later: “You gotta marry this guy.”
And maybe I would, I thought, as I turned my puppy dog eyes toward the stage again. My imagination suddenly conjured an extravagant Jewish wedding with a karaoke-themed reception, which The Doctor and I would kick off with a cheesily romantic duet. “Endless Love,” maybe? It would bring down the house.
Just then, he locked eyes with me. He was now finishing up his song, grinding his hips in an exaggerated yet still sexy way to imitate Little Nikki and her magazine. He kept his eyes on mine for the last fifteen seconds of the song, transforming my whole body to molten lava. The audience burst into cheers and whistles when he finished, and a few people even started banging on their tables. And, if he hadn’t secured my undying lust already, the smile he gave at this applause for his blisteringly raunchy song—the modest, sweet, and even slightly embarrassed smile—made me his prisoner for life.
My song went off well too, t
hough The Doctor was a hard act to follow. But I saw the way he watched me. I saw the sultry smile that spread across his face when I sang, in my most soulful, drug-addicted voice, “Some say LOVE, it is a ri-i-i-ver…” and knew that whatever cloud hung over him earlier in the evening was gone. He wanted me now.
The feeling of mutual lust was even more palpable when we got back into his car at one in the morning. Now, instead of awkward silence, the car was filled with sexual tension. By the time he pulled up to my house, I could barely restrain myself from tearing my seat belt off and straddling him in the driver’s seat.
But it wouldn’t have been a date if Sensible Girl and Needy Girl weren’t battling it out in the backseat.
“Invite him up!” Needy Girl leaned forward from the backseat and yelled in my ear. She was even louder than GalPal #1. I rubbed my ear.
“NO! Play a little bit hard to get, at least.” Sensible Girl was directly behind me. She must have escaped the cowboy’s clutches. She grabbed my shoulder, startling me. “There’s something fishy about this guy and his moody crap. Now he wants you, now he doesn’t. What’s up with that?”
I couldn’t see Sensible Girl’s face, but I could picture the expression of tension and fear on it. Poor Sensible Girl. She tried so hard, and was always on the losing end. I really needed to listen to her more. I took a deep breath.
“I—really had fun,” I said.
“Fun—yes. Fun was definitely had,” he said, turning to look at me. Then he turned the car off. My heart tapped an obnoxious rhythm. Miraculously, I kept my mouth shut. Didn’t babble. Didn’t invite him up. But just let myself enjoy, as much as possible, the electric awkwardness in the car.
He looked at me in the dark and didn’t say anything either. Cigarette smoke clung to us both from the bar, mingling with my perfume and a whiff of alcohol. I worried that he might try to fill the awkward silence with jokey banter, like he’d done many times on our dates. He started to say something, then stopped.
BreakupBabe Page 16