6:25 pm
hey, what you up to?
6:28 pm
Hey! Not much. What's up?
6:30 pm
Kind of want to ask you for a paid favor? kind of need aq stripper for my singer today? Like nowish? Would you be interested?
6:32 pm
. . . excuse me?
6:34 pm
I was wondering, in the most innocent way, if you would be interested in dancing, naked, for a singer for a band I'm working with. There is money involved. I apologize in advance if its out of line but it has to happen and we can't find an employed stripper.
6:36 pm
You can't tell if this is inappropriate or not?! jesus fucking christ.
6:41 pm
Fuck I'm sorry. I didn't know. I thought you would laugh and say no. but I am full sorry. Excuse my idiocy.
6:45 pm
That's the most fucking retarded, insulting bullshit I've ever heard. Go fuck yourself. And how can you not find a stripper in the goddamned mission?!
Monday, May 24, 2010
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Lake Merritt: A very short story
We're sitting on the bed. I know his bedroom better than I know my mother's house.
I can't look at him.
"Tell me the truth. You're not in love with me. You never were."
He's crying too hard to speak, but I hear what he will say over the blood rushing from my heart.
I can't look at him.
"Tell me the truth. You're not in love with me. You never were."
He's crying too hard to speak, but I hear what he will say over the blood rushing from my heart.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
The Mission, continued: Everything breaks. Everything burns.
I rolled to my side and lay stiff, my back to him.
He wrapped his arms around me. After a moment, he sniffled.
“You. Uh. Are you okay?”
“It’s just . . . I . . . you know my friend died last Saturday.”
I did. I’d run into him the Tuesday before at a bar he frequented. I’d been depressed in the aftermath of selling my beloved 11 year old car for parts.
“If it makes you feel any better,” he chirped, “one of my best friends died on Saturday!”
“Actually, it . . . that doesn’t,” I started, but it didn’t seem to matter. For the next 20 minutes he told me and our friends, who crowded the bar, about the days he’d had to take off work, his subsequent bender, the memorial service in San Jose he would be going to on Thursday. He was broken, he said. His friend had been a brilliant young musician, 3 parts Kurt Cobain and 1 part Beetlejuice.
Before he left the bar he absently kissed my forehead and promised to call. Now, five days and an awkward meeting later, his tears dripped down my spine. I rolled over and touched his face.
I’d been angry at him. I was still angry, distantly. All evening he had dominated the conversation with an aggression I associated with cocaine. He had been needlessly hurtful all night, periodically blaming the stress he was under because of his friend. Immediately after sex he’d insulted me.
Now, though. He’s crying, I thought blankly. He’s crying.
“Honey . . . ?” i started tentatively.
“I don’t -- I don’t know what to do now that he’s gone. It’s just . . . he was so young. So fucking young. And he was -- he was kind of an asshole, sometimes. But he was the best of us. You know? I said that, I said it at the memorial service on Thursday. I said “He was the best of us. I wish any one of us had gone ahead of him.” And I do. If I could go back and die instead of him, I would.”
He was wrapped around me now, sobbing against me. I kissed his forehead. “I’m so sorry baby. Can I ask -- can I ask what happened?”
“He was 21 years old. 21 f-fucking years old. He’d been drinking since he was 15 so it wasn’t even, it was like a joke to them. I guess he . . . they said it was alcohol, alcohol p-poisoning. On his 21st fucking . . . his birthday. Jesus christ. Our friends, when they saw -- when they saw what happened the next morning they called the cops, they called the ambulance. And then they had to go -- they had to fucking go tell his mom. And Tony said when he walked into, into the house, she could just tell, she started screaming. His mom fucking -- her child, she lost her child. We all lost him. I can’t fucking -- he was the best. The best of us.”
“Shhh, honey,” I rubbed his back. “I’m so sorry. Shhh.”
"The crazy motherfucker -- when he was with his old band, out somewhere in the midwest, he got busted for weed. So he finished the tour and came back to California and then flew out to serve his time. Fucker learned how to do prison tattoos there. Used to give himself the worst fucking tattoos all the time, I never fucking -- I never understood why. But he just, that’s how he saw the world. He just wanted to try everything one fucking time.
“He just, everyone’s so fucking broken. He was so talented. His band just signed to a label. And. Christ, I can’t believe -- it's so fucking raw. I got the call and just, I turned off my phone and got fucking fucked up. I t-told my boss and he, he understood. He understood after I told him what - what happened. I couldn’t take it anymore. He was the b-best”
“I’m so sorry, sweetie. I’m so sorry, I wish I had something to say. I wish I could make this better.”
It went on like that.
*********
I got dressed in the dark the next morning, afraid to wake him from the teary sleep he’d fallen into around 6. As I sat to put on my shoes he mumbled “Thanks for last night.”
“Oh, uh. You’re, you’re welcome.”
“For. For being there. It meant a lot to me.” He sat up and wrapped his arms around me like a child. His pulse beat against my lips and I felt a crush of affection that I had once almost mistaken for love.
“It’s, I was glad to be here. To do it. And if -- if there’s any way I can donate to his family or, or anything. Let me know, okay? I know they don’t know me or anything but, I’d like to do something. For them. If I could. No one should have to -- no one should have to.”
He took my face in his hands and kissed my cheeks again and again. I felt the tears dripping between us. “You’re so good,” he whispered. “You’re so fucking sweet. I wish - I wish you could have met him. I wish you could have heard his music.”
********
We had changed. We had survived something together. Our fitful, sputtering fling was something that someday might be real.
His friend’s music was part of our shared history, now. I wanted to hear it.
That night I googled the name. I found a tribute myspace, a series of news releases on his death. I opened the first, scrolled through the familiar details -- the musical promise, the 21st birthday, the drunken stupor, the distraught single mom. No band name. I moved the cursor to the “back” button.
Stopped.
I went to another news clipping.
Another.
The tribute myspace.
The band’s.
A press release.
An obituary.
I swallowed.
******
Weeks before we’d lain in the darkness. I poked him in the ribs.
“I cannot believe you don’t have Facebook. Are you a caveman?!”
“I have a myspace!” he protested, then “What?!” over my helpless laugher.
******
I found his myspace and skimmed the blog he sporadically updated. I found the post in seconds.
“________ died yesterday. I don’t know what to do now he’s gone. He was the best of us.”
Above the first sentences was the date from all the news releases.
October 1, 2007.
He wrapped his arms around me. After a moment, he sniffled.
“You. Uh. Are you okay?”
“It’s just . . . I . . . you know my friend died last Saturday.”
I did. I’d run into him the Tuesday before at a bar he frequented. I’d been depressed in the aftermath of selling my beloved 11 year old car for parts.
“If it makes you feel any better,” he chirped, “one of my best friends died on Saturday!”
“Actually, it . . . that doesn’t,” I started, but it didn’t seem to matter. For the next 20 minutes he told me and our friends, who crowded the bar, about the days he’d had to take off work, his subsequent bender, the memorial service in San Jose he would be going to on Thursday. He was broken, he said. His friend had been a brilliant young musician, 3 parts Kurt Cobain and 1 part Beetlejuice.
Before he left the bar he absently kissed my forehead and promised to call. Now, five days and an awkward meeting later, his tears dripped down my spine. I rolled over and touched his face.
I’d been angry at him. I was still angry, distantly. All evening he had dominated the conversation with an aggression I associated with cocaine. He had been needlessly hurtful all night, periodically blaming the stress he was under because of his friend. Immediately after sex he’d insulted me.
Now, though. He’s crying, I thought blankly. He’s crying.
“Honey . . . ?” i started tentatively.
“I don’t -- I don’t know what to do now that he’s gone. It’s just . . . he was so young. So fucking young. And he was -- he was kind of an asshole, sometimes. But he was the best of us. You know? I said that, I said it at the memorial service on Thursday. I said “He was the best of us. I wish any one of us had gone ahead of him.” And I do. If I could go back and die instead of him, I would.”
He was wrapped around me now, sobbing against me. I kissed his forehead. “I’m so sorry baby. Can I ask -- can I ask what happened?”
“He was 21 years old. 21 f-fucking years old. He’d been drinking since he was 15 so it wasn’t even, it was like a joke to them. I guess he . . . they said it was alcohol, alcohol p-poisoning. On his 21st fucking . . . his birthday. Jesus christ. Our friends, when they saw -- when they saw what happened the next morning they called the cops, they called the ambulance. And then they had to go -- they had to fucking go tell his mom. And Tony said when he walked into, into the house, she could just tell, she started screaming. His mom fucking -- her child, she lost her child. We all lost him. I can’t fucking -- he was the best. The best of us.”
“Shhh, honey,” I rubbed his back. “I’m so sorry. Shhh.”
"The crazy motherfucker -- when he was with his old band, out somewhere in the midwest, he got busted for weed. So he finished the tour and came back to California and then flew out to serve his time. Fucker learned how to do prison tattoos there. Used to give himself the worst fucking tattoos all the time, I never fucking -- I never understood why. But he just, that’s how he saw the world. He just wanted to try everything one fucking time.
“He just, everyone’s so fucking broken. He was so talented. His band just signed to a label. And. Christ, I can’t believe -- it's so fucking raw. I got the call and just, I turned off my phone and got fucking fucked up. I t-told my boss and he, he understood. He understood after I told him what - what happened. I couldn’t take it anymore. He was the b-best”
“I’m so sorry, sweetie. I’m so sorry, I wish I had something to say. I wish I could make this better.”
It went on like that.
*********
I got dressed in the dark the next morning, afraid to wake him from the teary sleep he’d fallen into around 6. As I sat to put on my shoes he mumbled “Thanks for last night.”
“Oh, uh. You’re, you’re welcome.”
“For. For being there. It meant a lot to me.” He sat up and wrapped his arms around me like a child. His pulse beat against my lips and I felt a crush of affection that I had once almost mistaken for love.
“It’s, I was glad to be here. To do it. And if -- if there’s any way I can donate to his family or, or anything. Let me know, okay? I know they don’t know me or anything but, I’d like to do something. For them. If I could. No one should have to -- no one should have to.”
He took my face in his hands and kissed my cheeks again and again. I felt the tears dripping between us. “You’re so good,” he whispered. “You’re so fucking sweet. I wish - I wish you could have met him. I wish you could have heard his music.”
********
We had changed. We had survived something together. Our fitful, sputtering fling was something that someday might be real.
His friend’s music was part of our shared history, now. I wanted to hear it.
That night I googled the name. I found a tribute myspace, a series of news releases on his death. I opened the first, scrolled through the familiar details -- the musical promise, the 21st birthday, the drunken stupor, the distraught single mom. No band name. I moved the cursor to the “back” button.
Stopped.
I went to another news clipping.
Another.
The tribute myspace.
The band’s.
A press release.
An obituary.
I swallowed.
******
Weeks before we’d lain in the darkness. I poked him in the ribs.
“I cannot believe you don’t have Facebook. Are you a caveman?!”
“I have a myspace!” he protested, then “What?!” over my helpless laugher.
******
I found his myspace and skimmed the blog he sporadically updated. I found the post in seconds.
“________ died yesterday. I don’t know what to do now he’s gone. He was the best of us.”
Above the first sentences was the date from all the news releases.
October 1, 2007.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Hayward: Holler
I'm walking to my favorite Mexican restaurant on my lunch break when I hear the honking. I'm not surprised -- hollering is the official sport of Hayward, and I'm wearing high heels.
"Hey honey! Hey! Hey!" he yells, but I pretend I can't hear over the traffic and head for the restaurant, a Christian, family-owned establishment that proudly offers a full bar from open til closing, "Special in tequila!".
I sit, facing a the huge windows, and wonder whether it would be inappropriate to have a glass of wine with lunch. A big glass. A bottle. It's been a long day.
He flings open the door and saunters in to a beat only he can hear. He stops at my table, leans over, and lets loose with a rapid fire patois that equal parts Hayward, Mexico, and pure bravado: "Heeeeeeygirlhowyoudoin'myname'sDionandIsawyouonthestreet. I'mapersonaltraineryoucanlookmeuponyoutubeIgotvideosandspecialsthere'sevendiscountcodes. Here'smywebsitelemmegiveyoumynumber."
I break in, "You're . . . a personal trainer?" The busboy, standing behind him with a glass of water and a basket of chips, looks as dazed as I feel.
He scribbles his number on the back of a napkin. "YeahgirlIgotclientseverywhereletmegiveyoumymyspaceandlookmeuponyoutube."
"Do I . . . look like I need a personal trainer?" I ask, trying to make sense of the auditory assault. "Is that why --"
All the blood drains from his face. "OHnogirlnoyoulookgoodyoulookgreatyouFINEIjust"
For the first time, he slows.
"Oooohthiswasn't . . . a good idea . . . well . . . canIhaveyournumber?"
"Hey honey! Hey! Hey!" he yells, but I pretend I can't hear over the traffic and head for the restaurant, a Christian, family-owned establishment that proudly offers a full bar from open til closing, "Special in tequila!".
I sit, facing a the huge windows, and wonder whether it would be inappropriate to have a glass of wine with lunch. A big glass. A bottle. It's been a long day.
He flings open the door and saunters in to a beat only he can hear. He stops at my table, leans over, and lets loose with a rapid fire patois that equal parts Hayward, Mexico, and pure bravado: "Heeeeeeygirlhowyoudoin'myname'sDionandIsawyouonthestreet. I'mapersonaltraineryoucanlookmeuponyoutubeIgotvideosandspecialsthere'sevendiscountcodes. Here'smywebsitelemmegiveyoumynumber."
I break in, "You're . . . a personal trainer?" The busboy, standing behind him with a glass of water and a basket of chips, looks as dazed as I feel.
He scribbles his number on the back of a napkin. "YeahgirlIgotclientseverywhereletmegiveyoumymyspaceandlookmeuponyoutube."
"Do I . . . look like I need a personal trainer?" I ask, trying to make sense of the auditory assault. "Is that why --"
All the blood drains from his face. "OHnogirlnoyoulookgoodyoulookgreatyouFINEIjust"
For the first time, he slows.
"Oooohthiswasn't . . . a good idea . . . well . . . canIhaveyournumber?"
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
West Oakland: Fourth date
“Don’t get drunk,” she reminded herself every night before. “Don’t be loud. Don’t exhaust him yet.” He’d been with only one woman before, a girlfriend of 7 years. Despite herself, she found this charming. He hadn’t asked how many men she’d been with, for which she was grateful. She joked about sex, called herself a slut. She loudly criticized the virgin mystique. The day after she woke up with the man who had been her tenth partner she stared out the window and chainsmoked mindlessly until the waves passed.
She had met him the month before at a party. During their first date they talked about books and gentrification and the recent election. He had chastely kissed her goodnight. She reminded herself to feel cherished instead of impatient.
It was the longest he had dated anyone since the breakup he called The Divorce. He was coming to her house for dinner and a movie. “Bring some wine or something, if you want,” she’d said, hoping she sounded offhand. She wasn’t sure if a man who’d been with one woman for seven years knew what that meant.
“I’m not even sure I know what it means,” she told her best friend on the phone. “I don’t DO this. I’m not . . . I feel like this is someone else.”
“It'll be fine. You have to calm down.”
“It’s just -- this isn’t me. I don't do this part.”
“Why are you?”
“What?”
“I mean it. Why are you? He sounds like a great guy, and all, but . . .”
“I - I mean it’s”
“No, I mean, I’m sorry, just, he sounds great, and he’s cute, you showed me the pictures, it’s just, since I’ve known you --”
“No, I know. Yeah. it’s just like -- I don’t know. I’m 25, you know? It’s what people do. I - he’s great, and tall and he’s so, it’s just like -- he’s not the guy I get. I feel like, maybe if I don’t ruin this”
“Yeah”
“I don’t know. Anyway. I don't - I have to clean my bathroom.”
The bathroom didn’t look any different after she scrubbed it. She gave up and turned on the shower. By the time he arrived she looked, she told herself, as well as she could. She turned on The Talking Heads and opened the door to the tiny balcony. She regretted her decision not to cook - she had nothing to do with her hands. Should she put out some chips and make salsa? She was halfway to the kitchen when the doorbell rang.
God, she thought. He’s so tall. She wondered if there was anything significant about what he’d chosen to wear.
“Hi.”
“Hey!” she smiled, stepping aside. He followed her in, leaned in and lightly kissed her on the lips.
She’d forgotten, they did this. People who are dating did this.
“Come in, honey!” Honey, she thought, helplessly. Honey. But it was too late, she couldn’t take it back.
“I brought wine,” he said unnecessarily.
“Great! I was just, I was thinking about dinner, what did you want to order?”
“Anything that’s good with you”
“Oh . . . well, there’s a good Thai place down the street, I think I’ve got their menu.”
“Sounds great.”
“Have a seat, sorry it's such a mess. I’ll open the wine.”
Just like grownups, she thought, searching for the corkscrew she’d purchased the day before, the new wineglasses she’d shoved next to the half empty bottles of cheap whiskey and tequila that sat above the counter.
“How was your day?” she called suddenly, aware of the silence, of him in her living room, alone with her books and DVDs.
She was afraid that they wouldn’t have anything to talk about, that three dates had exhausted all they had to say to one another. She was relieved to look at the DVD player and realize that hours had passed, and the curry was cooling in front of them. The movie, carefully selected to be both arty and accessible, sat unopened in the Netflix envelope. They’d started watching Twin Peaks after he’d admitted he’d never seen it. Their knees touched. She was brave as she pushed aside her empty wine glass and said, with a disarming candor she’d trained to sound natural, “I have to admit, I’m not really a wine person. I just bought these glasses yesterday.”
“Why’d you ask me to bring it?”
“Well, I’m more of a whiskey kind of girl. You can’t just ask someone to bring a bottle of Jack Daniels on a date.”
“You could ask me. I like girls who like whiskey.”
“Well now I know for next time.” She could feel herself blushing, and turned slightly away, fiddling busily with her napkin. “I suppose this is my way of asking if you want a real drink.”
“I would love a real drink.”
As she poured the familiar portions of whiskey and coke into battered tumblers she told herself Don’t get drunk. Don’t be handsy. Don’t be too much.
“I’ve been told,” she observed some time later, the bottle now on the table after they’d both decided on a second drink, “that I can be a little . . . much.”
“Hm?”
“That I, I guess I exhaust people.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah. So you know. Fair warning.”
“Well, I’m not exhausted. I like . . . I don’t think you’re too much.”
“Yeah?”
“It takes a lot to exhaust me.”
He’s going to kiss me, she thought. He’s going to kiss me and I’m going to kiss him back.
“Don’t drink any more” she reminded herself as his hands slid from where they cupped her face to her breasts.
“Don’t go too far” as he pulled her leg over his hip.
“Don’t be too much” as she straddled his lap and arched against him.
“Baby” he groaned, pushing her shirt up.
“Please,” she breathed against his lips, “please.”
He knelt between her legs and fumbled with the condom as she stroked his arm. “You're - this is okay?” he whispered into her mouth, bracing himself over her. She put as much certainty as she could into her gaze. “Please,” she said again. “Please.”
He pulled her leg over his hip and gasped as he pressed his lips to hers. “Okay? Are you okay?”
“Yeah . . . yeah”
She tightened her legs around his back.
“Oh god . . . oh god”
He pushed inside her again and she tightened around him. His mouth found the pulse at the base of her neck.
“Oh,” he groaned. “Oh.”
She pulled his face to hers and moaned into his mouth.
He pulled back and she braced herself, spreading her legs slightly, his lips resting on hers.
“. . . honey?” she asked, after a moment. “Is . . . is everything -- ?”
“I . . .” he rasped, “I”
“Is . . . did you . . . “
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and she felt air gust against her lips as he stuttered.
“I, it’s okay, just”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t-“
“I don’t love you. I can’t do this.”
He pushed away and stood up, a stranger in the darkness.
The sound of the bathroom door closing was loud in the apartment. She knew, after a moment, that he would not open the door until she left. The room was bright with lights from outside. She pulled on her tank top and panties, then wrapped herself in a blanket. It was unthinkable that he see her skin.
She blinked at the harsh light of the living room. The house was still, an artificial calm she remembered after childhood fights. She was afraid of it. Somewhere she heard the bathroom door open, footsteps in the bedroom. She drained the dregs of whiskey from a tumbler. She did not know the taste at the back of her mouth. The blanket slid as she knelt and fumbled with the takeout boxes and wine glasses.
He stood in the doorway. She felt his desire to speak against the terrible quiet.
She stared at the base of the wineglass, at her fingers against the stem. I bought these, she thought. She saw the words printed on a blank screen stretched in front of something she did not want to see. I own wineglasses, she thought desperately against whatever was behind it. I was not too much.
Whatever was behind the screen grew louder and louder. She could barely hear the front door closing over the roar.
She had met him the month before at a party. During their first date they talked about books and gentrification and the recent election. He had chastely kissed her goodnight. She reminded herself to feel cherished instead of impatient.
It was the longest he had dated anyone since the breakup he called The Divorce. He was coming to her house for dinner and a movie. “Bring some wine or something, if you want,” she’d said, hoping she sounded offhand. She wasn’t sure if a man who’d been with one woman for seven years knew what that meant.
“I’m not even sure I know what it means,” she told her best friend on the phone. “I don’t DO this. I’m not . . . I feel like this is someone else.”
“It'll be fine. You have to calm down.”
“It’s just -- this isn’t me. I don't do this part.”
“Why are you?”
“What?”
“I mean it. Why are you? He sounds like a great guy, and all, but . . .”
“I - I mean it’s”
“No, I mean, I’m sorry, just, he sounds great, and he’s cute, you showed me the pictures, it’s just, since I’ve known you --”
“No, I know. Yeah. it’s just like -- I don’t know. I’m 25, you know? It’s what people do. I - he’s great, and tall and he’s so, it’s just like -- he’s not the guy I get. I feel like, maybe if I don’t ruin this”
“Yeah”
“I don’t know. Anyway. I don't - I have to clean my bathroom.”
The bathroom didn’t look any different after she scrubbed it. She gave up and turned on the shower. By the time he arrived she looked, she told herself, as well as she could. She turned on The Talking Heads and opened the door to the tiny balcony. She regretted her decision not to cook - she had nothing to do with her hands. Should she put out some chips and make salsa? She was halfway to the kitchen when the doorbell rang.
God, she thought. He’s so tall. She wondered if there was anything significant about what he’d chosen to wear.
“Hi.”
“Hey!” she smiled, stepping aside. He followed her in, leaned in and lightly kissed her on the lips.
She’d forgotten, they did this. People who are dating did this.
“Come in, honey!” Honey, she thought, helplessly. Honey. But it was too late, she couldn’t take it back.
“I brought wine,” he said unnecessarily.
“Great! I was just, I was thinking about dinner, what did you want to order?”
“Anything that’s good with you”
“Oh . . . well, there’s a good Thai place down the street, I think I’ve got their menu.”
“Sounds great.”
“Have a seat, sorry it's such a mess. I’ll open the wine.”
Just like grownups, she thought, searching for the corkscrew she’d purchased the day before, the new wineglasses she’d shoved next to the half empty bottles of cheap whiskey and tequila that sat above the counter.
“How was your day?” she called suddenly, aware of the silence, of him in her living room, alone with her books and DVDs.
She was afraid that they wouldn’t have anything to talk about, that three dates had exhausted all they had to say to one another. She was relieved to look at the DVD player and realize that hours had passed, and the curry was cooling in front of them. The movie, carefully selected to be both arty and accessible, sat unopened in the Netflix envelope. They’d started watching Twin Peaks after he’d admitted he’d never seen it. Their knees touched. She was brave as she pushed aside her empty wine glass and said, with a disarming candor she’d trained to sound natural, “I have to admit, I’m not really a wine person. I just bought these glasses yesterday.”
“Why’d you ask me to bring it?”
“Well, I’m more of a whiskey kind of girl. You can’t just ask someone to bring a bottle of Jack Daniels on a date.”
“You could ask me. I like girls who like whiskey.”
“Well now I know for next time.” She could feel herself blushing, and turned slightly away, fiddling busily with her napkin. “I suppose this is my way of asking if you want a real drink.”
“I would love a real drink.”
As she poured the familiar portions of whiskey and coke into battered tumblers she told herself Don’t get drunk. Don’t be handsy. Don’t be too much.
“I’ve been told,” she observed some time later, the bottle now on the table after they’d both decided on a second drink, “that I can be a little . . . much.”
“Hm?”
“That I, I guess I exhaust people.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah. So you know. Fair warning.”
“Well, I’m not exhausted. I like . . . I don’t think you’re too much.”
“Yeah?”
“It takes a lot to exhaust me.”
He’s going to kiss me, she thought. He’s going to kiss me and I’m going to kiss him back.
“Don’t drink any more” she reminded herself as his hands slid from where they cupped her face to her breasts.
“Don’t go too far” as he pulled her leg over his hip.
“Don’t be too much” as she straddled his lap and arched against him.
“Baby” he groaned, pushing her shirt up.
“Please,” she breathed against his lips, “please.”
He knelt between her legs and fumbled with the condom as she stroked his arm. “You're - this is okay?” he whispered into her mouth, bracing himself over her. She put as much certainty as she could into her gaze. “Please,” she said again. “Please.”
He pulled her leg over his hip and gasped as he pressed his lips to hers. “Okay? Are you okay?”
“Yeah . . . yeah”
She tightened her legs around his back.
“Oh god . . . oh god”
He pushed inside her again and she tightened around him. His mouth found the pulse at the base of her neck.
“Oh,” he groaned. “Oh.”
She pulled his face to hers and moaned into his mouth.
He pulled back and she braced herself, spreading her legs slightly, his lips resting on hers.
“. . . honey?” she asked, after a moment. “Is . . . is everything -- ?”
“I . . .” he rasped, “I”
“Is . . . did you . . . “
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and she felt air gust against her lips as he stuttered.
“I, it’s okay, just”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t-“
“I don’t love you. I can’t do this.”
He pushed away and stood up, a stranger in the darkness.
The sound of the bathroom door closing was loud in the apartment. She knew, after a moment, that he would not open the door until she left. The room was bright with lights from outside. She pulled on her tank top and panties, then wrapped herself in a blanket. It was unthinkable that he see her skin.
She blinked at the harsh light of the living room. The house was still, an artificial calm she remembered after childhood fights. She was afraid of it. Somewhere she heard the bathroom door open, footsteps in the bedroom. She drained the dregs of whiskey from a tumbler. She did not know the taste at the back of her mouth. The blanket slid as she knelt and fumbled with the takeout boxes and wine glasses.
He stood in the doorway. She felt his desire to speak against the terrible quiet.
She stared at the base of the wineglass, at her fingers against the stem. I bought these, she thought. She saw the words printed on a blank screen stretched in front of something she did not want to see. I own wineglasses, she thought desperately against whatever was behind it. I was not too much.
Whatever was behind the screen grew louder and louder. She could barely hear the front door closing over the roar.
Monday, April 19, 2010
The Mission: Everything breaks. Everything burns.
. . . the Mission District, also commonly called "The Mission", is a neighborhood in San Francisco, California, named afterMission San Francisco de Asis . . . due to the existing cultural attractions, less expensive housing and commercial space, and the high density of restaurants and drinking establishments, the Mission is a magnet for young people . . .
I knew even before I saw him in the doorway that it had been a bad idea to come to the bar. We’d met there the month before, at my friend’s birthday. I noticed him as soon as I came in – he was exactly my type, perfectly The Mission, tall and lanky in a plaid shirt. “Damn I want to fuck that guy at the door,” I slurred as I brought drinks to the table where my friends were sitting.
Within two days (may God and my mother forgive me) I would, in the course of a 36 hour first date during which I met two of his ex girlfriends, got two traffic citations, and my car got towed. Perhaps I should have taken the tow as a portent of things to come. After two alcohol, sex, and drug filled weeks we imploded spectacularly in a screaming fight during which he moaned “Everything breaks. Everything burns” with a melodramatic flourish I was already beginning to despise.
That had been two weeks of sporadic texting and awkward meetups ago. And now here he was, slouching in the doorway and working a shift he usually didn’t, ruining my plans for a night devoid of awkward anxiety.
He’d shaved his beard, revealing a weaker chin than I would have expected, and a nascent double chin. Everything, I reminded myself, breaks.
“Hi.”
“Hey.”
It was as silent as The Mission gets on a Saturday night. A girl staggered past yelling something about empanadas. Young Jeezy blared from a nearby car.
“What brings you to the Mission?” he asked.
“Er, well. I was going to meet up with a friend but it didn’t work out and it’s late too late for BART so I’m trying to figure out – I’m babbling, aren’t I?”
“Little bit. Want a drink? On me.”
In retrospect, of course, this was my second mistake, my first being coming to the Mission. After sleeping with the hot door guy. Okay, so my third mistake. After going home with the hot door guy at all.
My fourth. It was my fourth mistake.
“Whaddya mean, your fourth?” he mumbled into my neck as the cab turned off Mission and pulled up in front of his apartment.
“Fourth nothing,” I slurred back, regretting already the last tequila shot.
“Forth something. Fourth down? Sally Forth?”
“God, you’re a dork,” I sighed, pushing past him into the dark apartment. “Where’s your bathroom again?”
“You have a hundred episodes of MST2 – MS3 – of the fucking Golden Girls on tape, so shut up. It’s on the left.”
Goddamn it, I thought, splashing water on my face and trying to get my hair off my neck. Goddamn it I forgot that he makes me laugh. Not good. Not good at all.
The evening progressed according to the appointed Hipster Date timeline. We easily passed through the Drinking Beer and Flirtatiously Mocking TV stage (“All the new Adult Swim shows make me feel like an old person.” “You are an old person.” “Well and lucky for me, we all know how much you like old people.” “Shut up.””You shut up”), the Making Out on the Sofa stage, and the Stumbling Down the Hall Kissing stage. It was at the Pulling Off Clothing and Turning Off Lights stage, usually one of my favorites, that things began to fall apart.
“Mmmm.”
“Oh . . . please . .. ”
I’m so sick and tired of all these pictures of me
“. . . wait . . . hang on . .. “
“Don’t wanna.”
“No, I is that – mm”
I’m not surprised at all really, why should I be?
“It is, that’s – Elliot Smith?”
“Yeah . . . yeah”
“Are you, oh, are we really going to listen to Elliot Smith while we fuck?”
“Looks . . . ah . . . looks like it.”
You’ve got a pretty vision in your head
“It’s a little – oh – it’s weird, though”
“Mmm, move your – yeah”
“At least it’s mmm it’s not Tom Waits”
Some time later
Though you’d rather see me gone
“Stop, um, you have to – stop”
“What? What is it?”
“I just . . . the music. I can’t, oh. I can’t help it.”
“S-seriously?”
“I’m, I keep thinking of Ben Affleck and suicide. It’s taking me out of the moment.”
“I’ll put you back in the moment.”
“Well, now I’m thinking about what a terrible line that – oh.”
The Awkward Pillow Talk stage had been problematic for us since the day, two weeks ago, when he announced, minutes after finishing, that we needed to “take a break.” I was nervous.
He rolled over, gasping, and lay staring at the ceiling, then groped for my hand. I turned to face him. I tried to tamp down the waves of unexpected tenderness I was feeling. I had lost track of the numbers on my list of mistakes by now, but I knew getting attached would be on there. Way up near the top.
“So,” he sighed.
“So.”
“This was good.”
“Yeah. Yeah it was.”
He reached out and tenderly stroked the side of my face.
“I’m so glad you came into the bar.”
“Yeah? I’m – I’m glad too.”
“I just . . . it’s.” His voice broke slightly, and I was charmed despite myself.
“Oh honey, I –“
“I just, I needed sex to keep from thinking about things. Normally I’d just go home and jerk off.”
I knew even before I saw him in the doorway that it had been a bad idea to come to the bar. We’d met there the month before, at my friend’s birthday. I noticed him as soon as I came in – he was exactly my type, perfectly The Mission, tall and lanky in a plaid shirt. “Damn I want to fuck that guy at the door,” I slurred as I brought drinks to the table where my friends were sitting.
Within two days (may God and my mother forgive me) I would, in the course of a 36 hour first date during which I met two of his ex girlfriends, got two traffic citations, and my car got towed. Perhaps I should have taken the tow as a portent of things to come. After two alcohol, sex, and drug filled weeks we imploded spectacularly in a screaming fight during which he moaned “Everything breaks. Everything burns” with a melodramatic flourish I was already beginning to despise.
That had been two weeks of sporadic texting and awkward meetups ago. And now here he was, slouching in the doorway and working a shift he usually didn’t, ruining my plans for a night devoid of awkward anxiety.
He’d shaved his beard, revealing a weaker chin than I would have expected, and a nascent double chin. Everything, I reminded myself, breaks.
“Hi.”
“Hey.”
It was as silent as The Mission gets on a Saturday night. A girl staggered past yelling something about empanadas. Young Jeezy blared from a nearby car.
“What brings you to the Mission?” he asked.
“Er, well. I was going to meet up with a friend but it didn’t work out and it’s late too late for BART so I’m trying to figure out – I’m babbling, aren’t I?”
“Little bit. Want a drink? On me.”
In retrospect, of course, this was my second mistake, my first being coming to the Mission. After sleeping with the hot door guy. Okay, so my third mistake. After going home with the hot door guy at all.
My fourth. It was my fourth mistake.
“Whaddya mean, your fourth?” he mumbled into my neck as the cab turned off Mission and pulled up in front of his apartment.
“Fourth nothing,” I slurred back, regretting already the last tequila shot.
“Forth something. Fourth down? Sally Forth?”
“God, you’re a dork,” I sighed, pushing past him into the dark apartment. “Where’s your bathroom again?”
“You have a hundred episodes of MST2 – MS3 – of the fucking Golden Girls on tape, so shut up. It’s on the left.”
Goddamn it, I thought, splashing water on my face and trying to get my hair off my neck. Goddamn it I forgot that he makes me laugh. Not good. Not good at all.
The evening progressed according to the appointed Hipster Date timeline. We easily passed through the Drinking Beer and Flirtatiously Mocking TV stage (“All the new Adult Swim shows make me feel like an old person.” “You are an old person.” “Well and lucky for me, we all know how much you like old people.” “Shut up.””You shut up”), the Making Out on the Sofa stage, and the Stumbling Down the Hall Kissing stage. It was at the Pulling Off Clothing and Turning Off Lights stage, usually one of my favorites, that things began to fall apart.
“Mmmm.”
“Oh . . . please . .. ”
I’m so sick and tired of all these pictures of me
“. . . wait . . . hang on . .. “
“Don’t wanna.”
“No, I is that – mm”
I’m not surprised at all really, why should I be?
“It is, that’s – Elliot Smith?”
“Yeah . . . yeah”
“Are you, oh, are we really going to listen to Elliot Smith while we fuck?”
“Looks . . . ah . . . looks like it.”
You’ve got a pretty vision in your head
“It’s a little – oh – it’s weird, though”
“Mmm, move your – yeah”
“At least it’s mmm it’s not Tom Waits”
Some time later
Though you’d rather see me gone
“Stop, um, you have to – stop”
“What? What is it?”
“I just . . . the music. I can’t, oh. I can’t help it.”
“S-seriously?”
“I’m, I keep thinking of Ben Affleck and suicide. It’s taking me out of the moment.”
“I’ll put you back in the moment.”
“Well, now I’m thinking about what a terrible line that – oh.”
The Awkward Pillow Talk stage had been problematic for us since the day, two weeks ago, when he announced, minutes after finishing, that we needed to “take a break.” I was nervous.
He rolled over, gasping, and lay staring at the ceiling, then groped for my hand. I turned to face him. I tried to tamp down the waves of unexpected tenderness I was feeling. I had lost track of the numbers on my list of mistakes by now, but I knew getting attached would be on there. Way up near the top.
“So,” he sighed.
“So.”
“This was good.”
“Yeah. Yeah it was.”
He reached out and tenderly stroked the side of my face.
“I’m so glad you came into the bar.”
“Yeah? I’m – I’m glad too.”
“I just . . . it’s.” His voice broke slightly, and I was charmed despite myself.
“Oh honey, I –“
“I just, I needed sex to keep from thinking about things. Normally I’d just go home and jerk off.”
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