Drinking and Dating: P.S. Social Media Is Ruining Romance Page 8
“You have to pull over,” I said with heavy breath, my hand making its way over to his lap.
He found a side street and pulled onto it, but we couldn’t find a dark spot to park. The streetlights lit up the entire road. When the car was finally in park, I tried to get on top of him, but it was not working in this tiny car. If anyone were actually watching, I’m sure it would have looked hysterical. We were these two huge people trying to sex-wrestle in the front seat of a Porsche.
“This isn’t happening,” he said. He opened the car door and we both got out. He easily lifted me up and threw me on the hood of his car, and we went for it. My dress was hiked up around my waist before I could even blink, and he was already inside me. A few seconds later, he flipped me over, and now the front of my body was pressed onto the hood of his car. We were already so turned on that it couldn’t have been longer than a few minutes before we were back in the Porsche and headed to his house for round two.
I felt like I was reliving my gymnast days. He flipped me up, tossed me over, and turned me around like I was a doll. I’ve said it before, but there’s really nothing hotter than a man who can make you feel small. And at five feet ten, it’s been a rarity for me. He was also shattering my “fancy car, terrible in bed” theory. Good for him, I thought.
The sex was pretty fucking amazing, but there were a few casualties of the evening. My new dress was destroyed. Between all the stretching, pulling, and car hooding, it was totally trashed. Oh well, I thought. I could always buy a new dress; I couldn’t always have sex like that. Apparently, his car was a little worse for the wear as well. He texted me the following day that we put a pretty sizable dent on the hood of his $80,000 Porsche. He let me know it was worth it.
We continued seeing each other for the next few weeks, but I knew it would never develop into anything serious. He started to get a little douche-y, and maybe I’m jaded, but I knew the infidelity stigma associated with professional athletes (especially NBA players). I never wanted to go down that road again. Men who were as sexually ferocious as he was were never going to be monogamous. He proved my point for me when we went out on a group date with some of my girlfriends and a handful of his buddies. The NBA Player spent the entire night flirting with one of my best girlfriends. Strike one.
Perhaps I was too vocal about how amazing the sex was or perhaps his best friend’s rising celebrity was getting the better of him, because his messages became increasingly condescending. It is a common epidemic in Hollywood: people think that if they are surrounded by “celebrity,” that they too are actually famous. No one cares who you’re friends with, dude! Your friend’s yacht in the south of France isn’t doing shit for me (unless you’re invited and can bring a guest, in which case, color me impressed!). In this case, however, it was his friend’s fiancée—not even his friend—with all the power. I wanted to say, “That doesn’t make you cool. It just makes you part of the entourage.” And didn’t you watch that show? No one wanted to fuck Turtle. (Although the actor who played him is looking pretty great these days.)
“Want to get lucky tonight?” he texted one afternoon after our group date disaster. Really, dude? You’re going to “allow” me to have sex with you? I didn’t respond. He sent another text a few hours later that read, “This is your last chance.”
Should I be grateful that I get to go down on a guy whose best friend is marrying someone rich and famous? He needed to get the fuck over himself. I wonder if he ever stopped to think that maybe I had something to do with how fucking good the sex was. I happen to know a thing or two.
That was strike two. He was out. (I know it’s typically a three-strike rule, but I prefer to play by my own rules.) I stopped responding—the orgasms weren’t worth dealing with his inflated ego, and I had moved on to the next guy.
His best friend’s “celebrity” marriage lasted for seventy-two whole days—and became the laughingstock of the gossip world. Slowly his friend started to fade from the spotlight, and surprise, surprise, the NBA Player started to reach out to me again. Recently, I ran into him while he was lying out at a hotel pool in West Hollywood. He was there trying to pick up girls. I guess that whole “pseudofamous best friend” thing wasn’t working out for him much anymore.
“I’d love to see you,” he said a little sheepishly. “You want to grab dinner?”
Oh, how the mighty have fallen, I thought. We haven’t slept together since before the reality-wedding debacle, but he still reaches out every few weeks to see if I’m free to grab dinner . . . and then dessert. Maybe he finally realized that he wasn’t actually God’s gift to women and he should have been a little more concerned with Keeping Up with Brandi. I haven’t decided whether or not I’ll go out with him again. Maybe I will, but first he needs to get an SUV—and some dignity.
THE FALLEN STAR
He was one of the most attractive men I’d ever laid eyes on. Honestly, he looked a lot like my ex-husband—complete with delicious dimples—but he had sparkly aqua-colored eyes, more tousled brown hair, and large chiseled arms covered in tattoos. We first met at a mutual friend’s BBQ in Calabasas while I was still married, and I remember thinking he was going to make some lucky girl very happy—and very insecure.
Like I said, Valley housewives like to talk, so I quickly learned he was just your typical Hollywood bad boy trying to make a name for himself producing big-budget action movies. After a string of box-office successes, he began getting caught up in L.A.’s party scene and developed some pretty nasty demons. Over the years, I heard stories about his severe drug addiction and was sad to learn he spent most of his time bouncing in and out of rehab facilities. As you can imagine, it pretty much ruined his career. Hollywood loves to celebrate a person on the rise, but the town virtually disappears when he or she begins to fall—which apparently led to one relapse after the other for the Fallen Star. Once again, enter Facebook.
A photo popped up in my news feed of this dark, handsome producer with our mutual friend. It took me a second to register who it was. He looked great—and most importantly, clean. I clicked on his profile and saw many of the AA mantras I’ve heard over the years, but I didn’t notice any kind of strong female presence on the page. #JustSayin. The Fallen Star finally got his shit together, I thought—and, wow, he looked hotter than I remembered. After a glass of liquid courage, I decided to message him and ask if he remembered me (but not before updating my profile picture to my favorite beach bikini photo).
Even though I was married when we first met, I could tell he was definitely interested. Haven’t you all learned by now? Just because you’re married doesn’t necessarily mean you go unnoticed—especially in L.A. Sadly, many guys agree that it’s the safest kind of one-night stand imaginable. The married woman’s already got someone to cuddle with her, take her to dinner, and provide for her. You know her sexual partners are limited . . . usually. And, most of the time, she’s just as invested in keeping your little tryst a secret as you are. Unfortunately for him, when we first met I was a one-guy kind of girl.
Either way, I thought a flirty little message couldn’t hurt—and if he didn’t get back to me, I’d just convince myself that he never checks his Facebook. Right?
I didn’t have to worry long, because the Fallen Star responded almost immediately:
“Of course I remember you. How are things?”
We began filling each other in on the past few years. I revealed that I was currently single, and he confided in me his struggles but that he was currently sober. As far as he knew, I had no clue about his drug addiction, so I was impressed that he was so forthcoming. Within hours of my Facebook message, we had plans to see each other when he got back from New York a few days later.
After that first week, we became a daily “thing.” Even though we decided to take things slow, we talked every night on the phone for the first week. The Fallen Star seemed sweet, kind, and funny—he also had the sexiest voice of all time. I felt like I was finally dating someone “normal.” After mo
nths and months of dodging bullets left and right, I met someone who liked and respected me the way I deserve.
We did all the boring things couples do that I had been missing: we went to casual dinners at cheesy chain restaurants (#OliveGarden), we saw matinee movies at the mall, and we even went for sunset hikes on warm days. After a couple of weeks of dating, we slept together. The sex wasn’t off the hook, but that was okay because it was good . . . and easy. It didn’t need to be all Fifty Shades of Grey because it felt more like making love. #HopelessRomantic. I really cared about this man. (At this point you’re probably wondering what’s douche-y about this guy. He doesn’t deserve to be in this chapter, but I’m getting to the point.)
One afternoon we were at his high-rise apartment in Santa Monica, which had sweeping views of the ocean. Sure, he was a middle-aged guy with a roommate, but that was probably a good thing considering the Fallen Star was still recovering.
“It must be so peaceful waking up to this every morning,” I said.
“It really has been,” he said. “Unfortunately, we have to move out.”
This caught me totally off guard. Apparently, he and his roommate had been late on the rent for months and were getting evicted from their beachside condo. We were talking every day, and he failed to mention that he would soon be homeless. That didn’t seem to me like something that just slips your mind. Nevertheless, he seemed in pretty good spirits. Clearly it was something he wasn’t too interested in elaborating on, so I dropped it. He was an adult, so it wasn’t my place to pry.
A few days later, he invited me to join him at a friend’s birthday party. We arrived at a West Hollywood bar, where I was happy to be this handsome man’s arm candy in white skinny jeans, a black silk top, and sky-high heels. After a round of introductions, I excused myself to the ladies’ room to check my look in the mirror. When I returned, I was shocked to see the Fallen Star with a beer in his hand. Are you fucking kidding me? I think most people would agree that “sober” has a pretty fucking strict definition.
“What are you doing?” I whispered heatedly, abruptly pulling him away from his conversation.
“It’s just a beer,” he said, batting those killer aqua eyes at me. I wasn’t budging, so he relented: “Look, in these settings it’s easier for me to just have a beer or two, maybe smoke a little pot, but that’s it. Nothing more.”
There were so many things wrong with this, it’s not even funny. But he said it so calmly and matter-of-factly, I indulged him for that one evening. I’ve known a few people close to me who struggle with addiction, and although I had never heard this “just the tip” method with drugs and alcohol, I didn’t want to make a scene at this party. Plus, he was getting kicked out of his place. The Fallen Star wasn’t showing it, but he had to be under a lot of pressure, right? I knew that he had been scratching and clawing to get back into the moviemaking business, but the rejection of Hollywood was taking its toll on him. Maybe I’d have a talk with him later and encourage him to speak to someone. Either way, I didn’t want to seem supportive of these habits, so after the party I told him I wasn’t feeling well and wanted to sleep at my house. He seemed surprised but didn’t appear to give it too much thought.
I didn’t hear from the Fallen Star the following day—or the next, or the next. We had been in constant communication since my Facebook message weeks and weeks earlier, so I was concerned when he went radio silent. I figured he must be upset with me for reprimanding him, so I waited for him to resurface. On the third day, I reached out.
The Fallen Star didn’t go home that night after the West Hollywood party. Quite the opposite, actually. He went on a three-day coke-fueled bender with a bunch of his old friends—which included completely destroying a Hollywood hotel room (talk about a cliché!). He hadn’t just dipped his toes out of the wagon; he fucking threw himself from it—nose first.
The guilt immediately set in. Was this somehow my fault for not going home with him? Maybe the Fallen Star would have had better luck as an actor than a producer, because apparently his sobriety had been compromised for a while. This was my cue to exit. I didn’t want to leave him while at his lowest, but it’s common knowledge that people trying to get clean shouldn’t be in intimate relationships for the first year of their sobriety. More importantly, I knew he was a good, good man, but he was still on an uphill battle and I wasn’t capable of being that kind of support for him. My priorities were my children, and I couldn’t split my time.
Not long after, the Fallen Star went back to rehab again. We stayed in touch in the months that followed; I didn’t want to totally disappear on him, but I also knew that we could never again be anything more than friends. I wasn’t equipped to be anything more than that for him. Recently, I heard from a mutual friend that he had gotten married. It seemed that this latest attempt at sobriety really was working. She even shared a photo with me of the Fallen Star kissing his wife’s big, beautiful, pregnant belly. I’m definitely known to be the jealous type, but not this time. It was wonderful to see those sparkly aqua eyes, because I knew he had made it. He was going to be okay.
• 6 •
The Booty Call
WALK OF SHAME (NOUN)
The act of leaving an apartment or home (other than your own) the morning after an unplanned sleepover and too much alcohol, wearing the same clothing as the night before, i.e., a cocktail dress.
Example: She wiped the mascara off her face the best she could before quietly sliding back into her tiny bandage dress and doing the walk of shame to the hotel cab line.
I’m pretty sure Shakespeare said it best: “Once a booty call; always a booty call.” Or maybe that was just my little gem. Either way, once you become someone’s “fuck buddy,” it’s the point of no return for any other sort of relationship. Let’s be honest. Who respects the guy or girl who shows up on your doorstep at eleven P.M. on a weeknight with less than an hour’s notice? No one.
If you choose to either employ or become the booty call, here are my suggestions for doing it properly. And yes, there is a “proper” way to have a convenient and purely sexual relationship. I was divorced; I wasn’t dead. And even though I am open to loving again, that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to have a hot one-night stand. No one has ever accused me of being a prude.
1. We’ve all seen Pretty Woman, so this one should be pretty obvious: absolutely no kissing! It’s far too intimate to be doing with someone who is merely there for sex. Women tend to mistake lust for emotion, so do yourself a favor and compartmentalize. This is not about making love. It’s about both of you getting off—otherwise, what’s the fucking point? That’s not to say you can’t enjoy other types of oral pleasure during your booty call, but keep your tongue away from his or her mouth at all costs.
2. Wrap that shit up! Regardless of whether you’re the booty caller or the booty callee, it’s safe to assume that you are not in a monogamous relationship—you’re both probably seeing others or, in my case, seeking the perfect man. So I don’t care if you’re on the pill or he’s had a vasectomy—use a condom! I can’t stress this enough. Maybe if my ex-husband had employed this rule, I wouldn’t be an HPV statistic. Yes, I know condoms suck, but I recommend investing in some super-thin ribbed latex ones with flavored lubricant (strawberry’s my favorite).
3. Know when to leave. Know when to walk—or rather run—to the door. There is never a reason to sleep over after a booty call. Trust me, people. Maybe you’re thinking of the possible morning sex the next day, but do yourself a favor and get the hell out of there. When the sun rises and the booze wears off, your concealer has disappeared, revealing a bright red pimple, and you’re suddenly forced into awkward conversation—in the daylight. And no one looks as good in the morning as they did the night before. Is he supposed to suggest breakfast? Or worse, do you enter into the “now what” conversation where you talk about your nonexistent relationship? Hell fucking no. All the other person is probably thinking is: Walk to my front door and see yourself out!
Let it be noted that your sexy little outfit seems more appropriate exiting under the dark of night versus at ten o’clock the next morning when you have mascara smeared across your eyes. Talk about a walk of shame.
4. Choose your booty calls wisely. If it’s someone you’ve had an emotional relationship with recently or have newly broken up with, having sex again is a terrible idea. All it does is stir up old shit that you’re both trying to move the hell on from. I suggest calling someone or accepting the invitation of someone you’ve had a casual, no-strings-attached relationship with in the past or who has already been placed neatly in your friend box (see chapter 7).
5. Booty calls are like tennis. You want to be the one serving. You want control of the ball in your court. And when you say “love,” it should only be in reference to the scoreboard.
I’d like to spend just another moment revisiting number four. Now, I’m not trying to get preachy, but I don’t understand the need for the hookup apps. Can anyone explain to me why this is a good idea? Grinder has been around for the gay community for quite some time, but Tinder has recently exploded (pun intended) around the straight world. I know that guys are somehow more capable of having nonemotional sex, but most women have a pretty difficult time cutting off the heartstrings. If you choose to engage in a one-night stand, shouldn’t you do it with someone you trust or have been with before? These apps are like a virtual meat market for men to pick and choose. Wake up, ladies. It’s 2014. Don’t you have any self-respect? If you’re looking for love, go to a bar in a provocative little black dress like a normal woman. If you’re looking to get laid, call someone you know!
As for the guys, most of the men I know are currently using the app just on the off chance that they have some free time during the day and need to find the closest, hottest girl who’s down for a quick, no-strings-attached bang.