Available

by Matteson Perry

  Normally, I would never use the term “sucking face,” because it is the grossest possible name for kissing, but it is the best way to describe what we were doing. Our mouths were wide open, our tongues flapped around like two spasming fish, and there was a loud smacking sound, like when a dog is trying to get peanut butter off the roof of its mouth. Yep, we were definitely sucking face. Our hands were all over each other too. She initiated the first contact, guiding my palm to her ass, and then, later, placing my hand on her breast.

  This went on for several songs, but then she disappeared. One second we were making out like nineteen-year-olds in Cancún and the next I was humping air. I looked around, but a strobe light made it hard to see. Where’d she go? I pushed through the crowded dance floor trying to find her. After a couple minutes I spotted her off to the side, surrounded by friends—they must have pulled her away. I locked eyes with my dance partner and she beckoned me over, but when I tried to approach, a short blonde stopped me with a scowl.

  “Stay away from her, you sleaze,” she spat, before spiriting my dance/face-suck partner away to the women’s room.

  I was stunned. A sleaze? Me? IMPOSSIBLE. How could I be a sleaze? I was shy in high school!

  Sure, our physicality was a bit over the top, but the girl I’d been allegedly sleazing drove the behavior. She’d followed me off the dance floor. She’d suggested shots. She’d said, “Finally,” when I put my hands on her. If anything she took advantage of poor innocent me. There I was, expressing myself through the art of dance, when she made me touch her boobs and butt.

  Plus, was it that bad, what I was doing with . . .

  Shit . . .

  I didn’t know her name. You should probably know someone’s name before you know what her tongue tastes like. That was a bit sleazy, I had to admit.

  Back in college, I’d often been on the other side of this equation. While we were out at the bars, my friend Tanya would get drunk, inevitably start dancing with some weird guy, and my college girlfriend, Maria, would get me to go “rescue” Tanya by pulling her over to dance with us. It wasn’t that the guy was being horrible or that Tanya wasn’t complicit, but Maria could tell Tanya would regret hooking up once sober.

  I was now the potential regret from which a girl needed rescuing. I hadn’t harassed the redhead or done anything “wrong,” but you don’t have to be doing something malicious to be sleazy. And now that I thought about it, some of my other behavior that evening had been unseemly too. I’d been texting, or more accurately, sexting, with two girls at once. I’d even reused messages, copying from one conversation and pasting into the other. The needle of the Sleaze-o-meter was swinging dangerously close to the red.

  But that wasn’t all.

  I’d also texted a third girl, my Fuck Buddy, and invited her to the club. So, I’d been making out with the redhead to kill time before another girl arrived. Classy. And when the FB did arrive, I acted out the same script, dancing and kissing her aggressively.

  “Let’s take it down a notch in public,” my FB said as she pulled away. Being too aggressive for a Fuck Buddy? That’s definitely sleazy.

  I’d started my mission with such high aspirations, wanting to learn about the modern state of dating and explore my own feelings when it came to relationships. I had planned to interact with women honestly and leave both of us satisfied, physically and emotionally. It had even worked for a while. Most of the people I’d dated had enjoyed our time together and I felt I’d grown as a person.

  But that night at the club, my virtuous aims had fallen by the wayside. And it wasn’t an isolated incident—this had been happening for months. Honesty had taken a backseat to getting laid. Figuring out what traits I wanted in a long-term partner no longer mattered—figuring out how to get another girl in my bed did. I had shed my Nice Guy baggage, but I’d gone too far in the other direction. I was the adult equivalent of the bra snappers I’d hated so much in junior high.

  I was now the Sleazy Guy.

  The next morning, after my FB left, I could barely get to brunch I felt so sick. Yes, 90% of it was the massive hangover caused by ten straight hours of drinking, but the other 10% was something else, something that couldn’t be placated by eggs and sausage (not even farm fresh eggs and chicken-basil-cracked-pepper sausage). Beyond the headache and queasiness, I was ashamed of how I’d behaved. I didn’t want to be the Sleazy Guy.

  “I think I’m done with casual sex,” I told the guys at Bros’ Brunch. “No more flings. I’m officially looking to date girls I could have a real relationship with.”

  “End of an era,” Kurt said. “End of a slutty, slutty era.”

  “Speaking of an end of an era,” Evan said, “I think I’m done with Joanna.”

  Evan was supposed to be in Salt Lake City that weekend, but the trip had gotten canceled. Two days before he was supposed to arrive, Joanna had asked him not to come because she was “confused about her feelings.” The next day she had changed her mind, apologized, and asked him to come after all. But it was too late—Evan no longer wanted to go.

  “I just don’t think I can do it anymore. When things are good between us, they’re so good, and I keep waiting for her life to settle, but it may never happen. I think I have to accept that this is what our relationship is and it’s probably not going to change.”

  This was good news from my point of view, but I could tell Evan felt down, so I wasn’t sure whether to offer condolences or congratulations (condolulations?). Kurt and I told him we were proud of him for making a firm decision, though I think we both secretly wondered if this break would actually stick. We’d heard the “I’m done with Joanna” speech before.

  22

  * * *

  CAN WE HAVE SEX BEFORE THE FIRST DATE?

  So, I know I just said I would stop my philandering and start looking for a relationship. And I meant it. But then I got this text message: Do you think we could have sex before the first date? Everyone says not to have sex on a first date, but no one says anything about BEFORE the first date.

  I mean, how could I turn that down?

  I told her I was intrigued. She said she’d be at my place in ninety minutes.

  What harm could one more bout of meaningless sex do?

  * * *

  Our mutual friend Emory, whom I had performed with at a couple shows, had set me up with Lillie. She looked cute in pictures and seemed brilliant—she had a PhD in physics—so I’d given Emory the go-ahead.

  Two weeks earlier, Lillie had sent an email inviting me to go hiking. Normal. Except the hike she proposed was in Arizona and would take place in four months. Not so normal. Lillie wanted me to come with her to a natural attraction in Arizona called The Wave. Only twenty hikers were allowed in per day, and she’d won a ticket through a lottery system. It did sound cool, but a long weekend in another state seemed a bit much for a first date. I suggested we meet for a drink so we could get to know each other and I could learn more about the trip.

  But a few days before the scheduled date, she sent me that text, and now a stranger was on her way to deliver me sex as if it were a pizza. The only thing that could make it better was if she also brought a pizza.

  But I was nervous. What was I supposed to do when she arrived? She was coming over explicitly for sex, but should I offer her a drink and get to know her first? Or was I supposed to pull her inside, throw her on the ground, and ravage her with my passion?

  Her knock was shy, almost inaudible. I opened the door. She wore a yellow dress that hung loosely over her petite body. She was smiling meekly. I invited her inside and decided against the instant ravaging, instead making us drinks. Small talk quickly gave way to silence. We’d called each other’s bluff on this sex-before-the-first-date thing and neither of us knew how to act. Before she’d arrived, this had felt like a situation out of a porno movie, but the awkwardness was not like a porno movie. This was more like a scene from a black-and-white Nordic film about the loneliness of the human condition.


  Lillie took charge, grabbing my shirt and pulling me toward her. After a few minutes of kissing she stood up.

  “Can we go to your bed now?”

  I nodded.

  “Unzip me,” she said once we were in the bedroom. I helped her remove her dress and then took off my clothes. From strangers to naked in fifteen minutes, a new record for me. We got into my bed and after a few minutes of kissing I fished a condom out of my nightstand.

  “So soon?” she asked.

  Apparently, I was the one in a hurry now.

  “There’s no rush,” she said, “we have all night.”

  I didn’t know we had “all night.” When she’d texted me, I assumed it would be a fast, passionate encounter, possibly over in an hour. Porno movies don’t last all night.

  We kept fooling around until she pulled away, mid-kiss, and said, “You’re a screenwriter, right? What happens when you finish a screenplay? How does it become a movie?”

  A Hollywood Q&A session at this point seemed odd, but if “odd” were a problem, we wouldn’t have gotten this far. With her lying naked on top of me, I explained the inner workings of the film industry.

  The rest of our foreplay session went on in this manner, alternating between physical interplay and chitchat. While kissing my neck, she told me about her favorite TV show (House) and in the middle of giving me a hand job she asked how many siblings I had. Combining awkward first-date small talk with hooking up was strange. It’s weird to be telling someone where you were born while you’re fingering them.

  With no warning, Lillie took hold of my penis and started to put it inside her.

  “I need to get a condom,” I said, twisting away from her.

  “We don’t need that,” she said.

  I am a safe sex advocate. I believe you need “that” whenever you engage in nonmonogamous sex. I especially believe you need “that” when having nonmonogamous sex with a stranger. And I doubly-super-especially think you need “that” when the stranger says, “We don’t need that.” I reached for the condom.

  Our interactions thus far had led me to believe she was assertive and sexually experienced, but the actual sex told a different story. She lay beneath me, silent and unmoving, giving no signs of enjoyment. It was just a biological act, barely pleasurable for either of us.

  When we’d finished, the passivity she’d had during intercourse disappeared. She cuddled up next to me, nestling her head in the crook between my arm and chest and wrapping her legs around my hips, clinging to me like a baby koala. Her skin was warm and soft, but the contact felt forced and strange, too intimate.

  “I got my driver’s license last week,” she said suddenly.

  WHAT THE FUCK? HOW OLD IS THIS GIRL? Was the sex so unremarkable because I was having sex with an underage virgin? I sprang up in bed, shoving her off of me.

  “How old are you?” I demanded.

  “Thirty.”

  I let out a sigh as I settled back onto my pillow, relieved that the crew of To Catch a Predator wasn’t about to burst into the room.

  “I’ve always lived in cities where I didn’t need to drive,” she explained, “so I never got a license. I still don’t have a car.”

  “How’d you get here, then?”

  “I took the bus.”

  In an evening filled with odd behavior, not having a car in LA was the strangest yet. Public transit in Los Angeles is like an urban legend. It seems made up to scare people out of driving drunk. No wonder she’d said We have all night—she had no way of getting home.

  As we talked, I found her evasive when I touched on certain subjects.

  “Emory said he met you at a storytelling show?” I asked.

  “I don’t want to talk about that.”

  “What made you invite me on the hiking trip in Arizona?”

  “I can’t say. Emory might tell you.”

  “How do you know Emory?”

  “LONG story. I’d rather not talk about Emory.”

  “Did you used to date him or something?”

  She peered at me for a moment, unsure if she should answer, and then it all came gushing out.

  “A year and a half ago I saw a video of Emory performing on YouTube. I was spellbound and watched the video over and over again. I was just drawn to him. I started attending storytelling shows and eventually I met him. He had a girlfriend, but we started up an email correspondence. A few months later he became single and we went on a date—hiking and dinner. It was an incredible day, like being on drugs, pure euphoria. But I didn’t hear from him the next day or that week. I went into withdrawal. I could barely function. I needed my drug again, another Emory fix. He moved to New York and I visited him twice, but he wouldn’t let me stay with him, wouldn’t even invite me up to his apartment, only meeting me for lunch or dinner. Emory got a new girlfriend, but I kept emailing and calling him because I knew we were meant to be together. I said yes to going on a date with you because Emory has a way of getting me to do things.”

  This date was a setup, in every sense. Emory hadn’t thought we’d be a good match; he was pushing her my way and saying, “Not it!” In over a year of dating strangers from the internet, a friend had arranged the only weird date.

  I sat there in silence, not sure how to respond.

  “Emory told me not to tell you any of this because it might ruin things between us. Has it?”

  “I’d say my being some sort of sexual surrogate for Emory has hurt the chances of us dating seriously, yes.”

  “Are you angry?” she asked.

  “No.”

  And I wasn’t. My main emotion was relief. Her revelation meant I had no responsibility. After tonight, I didn’t have to see her again, didn’t have to have The Talk, and didn’t have to feel bad about it. Mine was only a bit part in Emory’s play. I went to sleep calm, knowing this would be over the next morning.

  * * *

  “You know how pets wake you up early because they need to eat?” Lillie asked.

  I blinked awake and glanced at the clock. It was 5:30 a.m.

  “What? Do you need food? I could make oatmeal.”

  “No, I want to have sex.”

  She (still naked) climbed on top of me. I felt myself becoming erect, but there was NO WAY. I was done being a part of this situation. Sorry, penis, the brain’s gonna apply his rarely utilized veto power.

  “I’m not up for that right now,” I said.

  She nodded and rolled back to her side of the bed. An hour later we got up and I drove her home. Despite the weirdness of the evening, making her take a bus at 6:30 in the morning was too cruel.

  The “walk of shame” can be awkward, but it’s nothing compared to a drive-her-home-through-an-hour-of-LA-traffic of shame. As we drove, I spoke as little as possible and stared straight ahead, my focus completely on the road. I kept both hands on the wheel, using the proper 10-and-2 alignment, so there’d be no chance of hand-holding.

  During a red light, Lillie pointed up at a billboard advocating condom use and said, “I can’t believe you like using those things.”

  “I don’t LIKE them, but it’s important to use them unless you’re in a monogamous relationship.”

  “I don’t plan on sleeping with anyone else,” she said.

  WHHHAAAAAAAATTTTT? Was she suggesting we were a couple? This was too much. I could no longer be polite.

  “Well, I do,” I said. “I’m dating other people. And I plan to continue doing so.”

  “That’s fine,” she responded.

  “Yes, it is.”

  I pulled up to the curb outside her apartment.

  “I’ll see you Tuesday,” she said as she stepped out of the car.

  She was referring to our originally planned “first date,” which I knew wouldn’t happen, but I didn’t need to tell her right then.

  “Um, yeah, see you Tuesday,” I said before speeding away.

  * * *

  The first text came only two hours later.

  I miss you.
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br />   How could she miss me? YOU DON’T KNOW ME, LADY!

  Though I didn’t respond to any of Lillie’s texts, they streamed in, dozens of them. Updates about work, her weekend plans, and thoughts on our trip to Arizona (which I still hadn’t agreed to). Putting aside the weirdness with Emory, THIS was bizarre behavior. Didn’t she know the proper protocol to follow if you like someone? Pretend you don’t like them.

  She seemed to believe our night together was the beginning of an epic romance. I sent her an email explaining it was nice to meet her, but that I didn’t feel a romantic connection. I canceled our date and suggested she find another person to take to Arizona. I was kind, but firm, leaving no room for misinterpretation. I thought it would put an end to the messages.

  It only increased them.

  My phone started buzzing and didn’t stop—calls, voicemails, text messages, emails. She asked what she’d done to anger me, offering different theories for why it hadn’t gone well between us. Was she too serious? Was she not serious enough? Was it the Emory thing? She pleaded for me to respond, kept saying she missed me. If I send two unanswered texts I assume the person is either uninterested or dead, and I never contact them again. But my silence had the opposite effect on Lillie. I had to turn off my phone to get to sleep that night and the messages kept coming through the next day.

  I speculated that Emory had gotten wrapped up with Lillie by trying to be polite and subtle, a mistake I wouldn’t repeat. Ignoring Lillie wasn’t working; I had to be blunt.

  Lillie,

  Our evening together did not offend me and I wasn’t mad at you, but I did not feel a strong connection, romantically or platonically. Though it didn’t help, it is not about the Emory thing—I just didn’t feel the “spark” needed for us to date, even casually. I feel like I’m being hounded and it’s making me angry. I sent you my first email as a way to kindly and honestly let you know I wasn’t interested in us pursuing anything further. Please accept and respect my wishes. I think it’s best if we don’t hang out again, even as friends. Please stop trying to contact me.