My relationship with Stan left me thinking somewhere deep down that I’m not desirable.
I sit for a second in the sand, watching Lance wax and stroke that lonnnnng boaaarrddd, with his forearms that have sun-kissed blond peach fuzz on them. “Can I help?” I say, wanting to be that surfboard.
“Here.” He hands me the melting sex wax. “Like this.” He puts his hand on top of mine and shows me exactly how his board should be rubbed. After a few moments he smiles, a big smile that looks as if he just got his braces off.
Flutter, flutter.
With that he invited me out into the water for a surf lesson. And I said the least likely thing, “yes.” It was cold on my feet, but not ice-water cold, mostly refreshing, and the air was hot. He sat behind me on his knees and I lay on my belly as we paddled out to where the other surfers were all sitting up. One guy nodded at Lance, the silent surfer speak. I felt immediately safe with my legs straddling this boy’s board.
Sitting out there, waiting for our wave, we somehow bonded without talking. The motion of the ocean kept me writhing this way and that, trying to keep from falling in, but he helped me keep my balance. Then it was our turn. We paddled and caught the wave, and he helped me to my feet with the confidence most men show when they open a car door or lay their credit card down to pay for dinner. As soon as I was standing, balance came effortlessly. We were flying.
His hands guided my hips as we flew beneath a dozen drifting seagulls. The wind blew my hair back and I’m pretty sure he took a deep breath of it. Then it was over. We popped up over the back of the wave and I jumped off into two feet of water on soft sand. The most honest emotion filled me.
Walking into Dr. D.’s office, I want nothing more than to show him that I’m not the hopeless bore he saw the week before.
“You look tan,” he says.
“Yeah. We had our last hoopla at the beach this weekend … I saw you on the road.” “Yes, you did. I saw you as well.”
“I like your boat, but it looks like it needs a lot of work,” I say, taking the awkwardness off my blatant pry into his life, as if I’m not supposed to know about his life outside the safety of the wall at 20002 Sunset Boulevard, Suite 402.
“It’s a great boat, a 1968 classic, all wood. It just needs some TLC.” His eyes light up as he leads me into his office, as I can tell wants to tell me about the boat. Hmmm …
“How are you doing?” he quickly regroups.
“Good, I feel really good.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, which to me should be forbidden as a therapist for it is Bad Body Language 101.
“Well, I was starting to think I was never going to have sex again, with another person, and then I met someone.”
He nods. “Did you have sex with him?”
“No, but I’m going to.”
There’s a silence as I am waiting for feedback, judgment, approval, something!
“I know what you’re thinking,” I say.
“Do you? What am I thinking?” he says, poised to write it down.
“You’re thinking that I’m jumping into another relationship. But I’m not. This is simply arm candy.”
He says nothing.
“Arm candy, you know, like men who have trophy wives. A young, hot, firm, guy who looks good and tastes even better.”
“Someone you can boss around,” he smiles.
“No. Hmm, maybe,” I tease, “but only in bed. I am NOT making him into a boyfriend. I am simply going to have an easy-breezy dating adventure filled with a ton of sex to make up for the last seven months.”
More silence. God. I hate his silence. I should have gotten used to it by now. I am never quite sure if he is just reevaluating the situation, waiting for me to talk, or planning what he is going to make for dinner tonight. UGH!
“What?” I finally blurt. “You think it’s a bad idea, don’t you?”
“No, I think you should do what makes you happy. But sex or no sex, I think you need to be careful about the men you let in, particularly into your body, because you and I both know that there is no easy-breezy for Emily. Did you make a list?”
“I don’t need to make a list, as I don’t want him to be my boyfriend,” I reiterate with an authoritative tone.
“How young?” he asks.
“Young.”
I can see this is going nowhere, as Dr. D. is predisposed to thinking that I am, as I always do, making a bad decision with Lance. But he is wrong. For the first time, I am not looking for Lance to bring something to the table other than his naked body, so I spend the rest of my session talking about the potential of changing jobs, apartments, or possibly hairstyles.
Dr. D. didn’t bring up Lance again until I got up to leave. “Make a list. At least try.”
At home I dig through my bookshelf desperately looking for Rilke’s Letters …
“Do you think he’s too young?” I ask Grace and Reilly on a three-way call.
“Young-shmung, men do it every day,” Reilly pipes in. I reach to the top of the bookshelf …there it is … almost got it …when I catch a glimpse of myself in the living room mirror.
I raise my arm in the mirror and watch the skin on the bottom jiggle. I cringe, grab the book.
“Look at it this way … you won’t have to go to spinning class—he’s totally exercise,” Reilly laughs. “After gay-straight Stan you should go for it.”
“You deserve it, honey,” Grace chimes in. “I say, go work up a sweat! I gotta go. Mark and I are going to his parents’ for dinner. Love you.”
“Thanks. Love you.” I pick up an arm weight and try to flex.
As Grace hangs up, Reilly’s other line beeps. “Hold on,” she says.
Arm lift. Arm curl. Arm curl. Shoulder rep. OW! Something just pulled in my shoulder. I set down the weight and pick up the book.
“Hi. Sorry.” Reilly clicks back on.
“Well?”
“Do it. DO him. For Christ’s sake, Emily, you’ve had sex what, like, once in seven months?
And almost two of those months you were in a monogamous relationship.”
“As always, I appreciate your love and understanding,” I chuckle.
“I just think it’s about time you had someone to be nice to you, ‘kay? I gotta go, I have a blind date,” Reilly adds.
“With who?”
“Some Brazilian guy that my boss knows.”
“Good luck. Love you.”
“Remember that you’re a great, beautiful woman, who could possibly be mistaken for his mother, but you’re a Catholic so don’t let it bother you.”
When is a man too young? In this day and age, age isn’t supposed to matter. As a thirty-one-year-old woman I have at this point in life found myself not in need of a man for anything other than company and sex …maybe love. So why not do it with a young hot guy who worships me. What’s wrong with having the upper hand for once?
Friday night Lance comes over for dinner. He arrives in a white, dented, 1971 Chevy Malibu with surf racks on the roof, minus hubcaps. My eyes squint a little and I feel my stomach cringe, as the thought of spending the rest of my life in the passenger side without bling-bling tire decoration scares me. Scares me a lot.
I watch him get out, see his big brown eyes, and remember why it was I wanted him to come over.
The instant negative emotion that his car gave me could be a potential “reason,” but that would be IF I wanted him as a boyfriend, which I don’t. Everyone has different needs in a relationship. This is NOT a relationship. It is sex.
Then why does the car still bother me? Am I shallow? Or is it that I have worked damn hard, taken a lot of bull, put in too many weekends and nights, to have nice things, clothes, and a decent car? So why do I feel like a piece of shit for wanting the man I am having sex with to have the same? Perhaps there is something to be said for not “needing” anymore, but “wanting.”
Wow, self-realization without Dr. D. I feel like I am evolving.
But then aga
in, I don’t want to have sex with his car, and besides, I drive everywhere anyway.
Just for the record.
Reason #1: Monetary gaps in the bridge over the river of a relationship make it unsteady.
I am breaking one of my cardinal rules, never cook on the first five dates. I am cooking dinner. I love to cook, particularly for a man. My mom now says, well after Stan, that I will spend the rest of my life cooking, so date outside of the kitchen for at least a month before going there, that I don’t need to prove I am a perfect homemaker, because I am. Which I know deep down, but can’t let go of the need to hang it out there like my American flag.
The “right” man will know and eventually get the privilege of seeing that side of me. But here all bets are off, because I know Lance is not boyfriend potential. He is a tasty biscuit, plus he is a little strapped for cash, so this is fine. I am cooking.
The candles burn while Miles plays on the stereo. I am grilling halibut and peppers, and almond rice simmers in the pot.
Lance walks around the house inspecting every picture and book, making mental notes. He pulls out a poetry book by Neruda from the shelf. As he flips the pages of The Captain’s Verses he starts to recite a poem. I stand there, frozen in my living room, as in a hushed whisper he recites a poem. Only toward the end he closes the book, and continues the poem because he KNOWS IT BY HEART!
OH MY GOD! He is such a potential boyfriend.
How is it possible that my arm candy has turned into a cerebral, sensitive poet guy?
“We’re studying Neruda in class.” He places the book back into its slot.
Class? Did he say CLASS? As in a school classroom? What class, college, my God, he is still in college.
“I’m studying music at UCLA. Our teacher says poetry is one of, if not the best source for lyrical inspiration.”
I suddenly have images of him as a teenager while I drop him off in the white Chevy outside of Townsend Middle School in Tucson, Arizona. I shake it off.
I am torn between sending him home and tearing off his clothes.
Maybe it doesn’t matter that he’s a starving artist in his senior year of college. He is young, yes. Maybe a little naive, yes. But firm, sexy, introspective, dark, and mysterious. Yes. Yes. Yes. Such an oxymoron of a male specimen. And those old-soul brown eyes. Why think about it too much, no need to think, DON’T THINK, IT HURTS THE TEAM …no need to make a list. He isn’t a boyfriend, he’s a tasty treat. I am confused by the whole situation, but I am still very hot and bothered and the night is as young as he is.
Rule #2: Male or female, dating someone in college is too young if you’re in your thirties.
He lights a cigarette and sits down at my kitchen table to watch me. “Need some help?”
Did he just ask me to help? My arm candy is asking to help with dinner. Ahh, love him already. Housebroken and all, he’s not a pup.
He gets up and opens the kitchen cabinets. “I’ll set the table.”
I watch him set the table and we talk about the fleeting and temporal nature of life as he rounds the table with Sam at his heels. He leans down and scratches Sam under the muzzle as they share a look. He doesn’t think we get second chances in life. He doesn’t believe in heaven. He thinks it’s a place we create here on earth. In the ocean (sitting in the surfing lineup, waiting for the wave, judging the peak, paddling into position, and that moment when you know you have it, when you feel its power accelerate beneath you, when it picks you up and throws you down the face), he has been taught. Taught about love and opportunity. Taught him how to seize the moment. He loves the freedom. He loves knowing that for the next few moments life has nothing to do with the world onshore.
He helps me with the dishes, all the while wooing me with those puppy-dog browns and his knowledge of my favorite poets. I empty the bottle of pinot noir into our quarter-full glasses and he pulls a little cigarette from behind his UCLA backpack and asks me if I want some. Surprise, it’s a joint. Mary Jane, Ganga, weed, pot—I am cool with that, but haven’t really gotten high since college. Not that I have a problem with pot, but simply that every time I smoked it I got cravings for things like mayonnaise sandwiches, chips, dips, cookies, cake, ice cream, fried chicken …anything, and not in small amounts.
When the “freshmen fifteen” turned the corner heading for twenty with momentum, I gave up bong hits for a waistline. Lance lights the end of the joint and I take a little puff, followed by extreme coughing, eye-watering, and laughter.
It feels good to laugh, to be at ease, to forget about having the upper hand.
Lance hands me a glass of water. “Would you like some ice in that?”
“Sure,” I say, watching him make himself at home in my kitchen. He pushes the dispenser and puts an ice cube in his mouth. Leaning down, he lets the ice cube slide from his mouth into mine with a HOT! HOT! HOT! kiss.
That night in bed, I think I am going to have to tie him down like Nuke LaLoosh in Bull Durham, but instead we just lie in bed taking turns reading The Story of O out loud to each other.
He takes off one piece of my clothing every few pages, and slowly touches every inch of my body. He asks me what I like, and I have no problems telling him. I like it here and there and everywhere and for a moment I feel like Dr. Seuss …
Fifteen days later: Living on Macro Bid … my prescription for a bladder infection.
“I am not making him into a boyfriend. I am not making him into a boyfriend. Shit, I am making him into a boyfriend,” I say, looking at Dr. D.
“Yes, but you have been since you saw your, what was it, lollipop?” Dr. D. smiles.
“Arm candy.”
“Yes, arm candy. Emily, if you want to find the right guy, why are you wasting time with someone that you knew was wrong from the moment you met him? Are you somehow setting lower standards for yourself, so you won’t be disappointed? Won’t be alone?”
Yes, I am. Why wouldn’t I? I mean, every time I think that a guy has potential, like Reese, they turn out to be a complete piece of shit. Why not just keep the bar low in my wanting? If I don’t want him to be my boyfriend, he can’t hurt me. Then if he turns into my boyfriend, well, presto …
“Lance is great. Lance is smart and sexy. He’s just a little young,” I argue. “I didn’t know that he was going to be someone that I would like … I mean, like-like.”
“You’re making him into someone you can like-like. Tell him to go home.”
Reason #3: When your therapist flat-out tells you that the guy you’re dating is wrong for you, he probably is.
“No,” I say, crossing my arms. “I am happy.”
“Do you want to find true love?”
“That’s not fair, you know I do.”
“Than send the boy home!”
“I thought you weren’t supposed to tell me what to do. I thought you were, as a therapist, supposed to help me come to my own conclusions.”
“You’re a special case.”
The clock cuckoos and I look up. “Oh, lucky me. Time’s up.” I pick up my bag and swing it over my shoulder. I do not look at Dr. D., who is still sitting in his chair as I open the door…
“Make the list for him,” he barks just when I thought I’d escaped.
Maybe he was right. Lance hasn’t really left my house except to go to class, as he doesn’t really have a home to go home to. He still lives with his parents, but in the guest house.
But he still lives with his parents.
Reason #4: He lives with his parents.
Fucking Dr. D. got me all worked up. He did have a point about wasting time. But when is it really wasting time? Tick-tock. I can hear my ovaries dying. If only I were twenty-two again, time wouldn’t matter. Am I supposed to sit at home waiting for Mr. Right, Mr. Reese Callahan, to just knock on the door and pronounce us man and wife? Why is it so bad to kill some time with someone who makes me, well, hot coffee before going off to work in the morning? None of this would matter if only I had ten years back. Why can’t I
just enjoy my arm candy and not worry about it? Tick-tock …
“He lives with his paaarreeennttts?” Reilly almost spits out her drink.
Reilly, Grace, and I sit at our usual spots at the bar in Atlantic.
“Wow. How young is he?” Grace asks.
“Twenty-three, but he has an old soul.”
“Where is he tonight?” Grace questions.
“Waiting for me to get home.”
“Your home?” Reilly asks.
“Yes.”
“Nicely trained.” Grace tings my martini glass.
“We do it a lot. In the kitchen. On the table. Over the sofa. In the shower. In the back room. You name it, we’re doing it, and it is amazing. I don’t know. I mean, I am not making him into my boyfriend or anything, but …”
The girls both roll their eyes, knowing that I am indeed molding Lance into the guy I want.
Maybe they were right. Maybe I was molding him. But so what? There is a fair amount of training that goes into every guy, into every relationship.
“WHICH ONE?” LANCE asks, holding up two shirts. I feel sick, as both are thrift-store Hawaiians and we are having dinner with my new boss at The Ivy.
“Why don’t we jump over to Barney’s and take a look around.”
“Barney’s? The big purple dinosaur?” he says, almost making fun of me.
“No, Barney’s the big overpriced trend store on Wilshire, baby.”
“I know what you mean, but I can’t afford Barney’s,” he says, pulling on his shirt.
“Yes, but I can,” I counter with a lift of the eyebrows.
“Touché,” he says, tossing me my keys.
After watching the salesgirls fawn all over my tasty treat, I leave less $400 plus two shirts. But, he looks smokin’ hot in Armani! If I could just fix that hair.
Reason #5: If you want to dress up your boyfriend, buy a Ken doll.
On our way home I stop in Umberto’s to buy shampoo and various products as a ploy to see if my hairdresser, April, is working. April takes Lance’s semidirty hair and snips away the curls, giving him a George Clooney buzz cut.
We went to dinner that night and it was like dating a different mannequin …I mean man. Can you dress them up and take them out? What was I doing to poor Lance?
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