Life on the Other Side of Sex, Drugs, and Rock and Roll
I haven’t blogged in a while. I want to appear cheery and well-adjusted, and I’ve been irritated, annoyed, disgruntled and exasperated. Until today, the only thing I’d written since July was a big fat cranky headline: It’s Not Me, it’s You, and You, and You.
My indignation wasn’t related to anything significant; I was pissed off almost exclusively by trivialities. On Facebook, I unfriended people for infractions such as using the word “methinks,” and last week I fired a client because she referred to her boss only by his initials and it was driving me batshit crazy. I was glaring at people with such ferocity that my eyes had permanently narrowed, and even Kenny and Walter were getting on my nerves.
I knew that I wasn’t well-served by my bad humor, and I knew that, unlike the existence of Donald Trump, my attitude was something I could change. I embarked on a mission of self-improvement, and among other therapuetic undertakings, I meditated, journaled, and upped my attendance at meetings. None of it helped. When I meditated, I thought about how much I hate the people who won’t get the fuck off the phone at the gym, and my journal entries were tirades about shit like how a barrista asked me if my parents named me July because it was the month I was born. Meetings were of little help: the floaty God nonsense of 12 step cliches like “Let Go and Let God” bugged the shit out of me. I would let go and let God only if I thought God would see fit to strike down every guy in a man bun. My efforts to be less cranky were making me more cranky, and I finally decided to get over it and embrace my discontent.
Of course, that’s when everything changed. Not because I was no longer fighting myself, but because on Friday, one of the very few men who turns me on showed up in LA. In the past, I’ve declined his booty call invitations — I wasn’t up for it — but this time I said yes, and the very thought of it put the spring back in my step. It’s been a long time, and it had never occurred to me that my problem was that (ooh baby) I was hot like an oven and needed some lovin’.
I did the mandatory prep work — I waxed my toes — and I googled for sex tips in case there had been any developments I’d missed. I went to Trashy Lingerie to get trampwear, and oblivious to the imminence of Halloween, when the saleswoman asked what I wanted to be I proudly answered “a person who has sex.” I was happy, and I was completely into it.
On Sunday night I put on skintight jeans, an immodest sweater, and thigh high leather boots with 5″ heels. At 11:30, I ubered to meet the guy at a bar in Hollywood we’d been to before. “Just starting work?” the driver asked when I got in the car. I found this both oddly flattering and funny, and I cracked up about it until she dropped me off. Then I stopped laughing, because a) the bar was closed; b)I’d left my phone at home; and c) I was on Selma and Cahuenga at nearly midnight, and I was dressed like a hooker.
I remained fairly calm until I realized that Uber doesn’t work without a cell phone, ride-sharing apps have put the cabs who once cruised for fares in late night Hollywood out of business, and pay phones no longer exist. I asked all three of the people who appeared sane on my eight walk block if I could use their phone, and predictably, all three of them pretended not to hear me. Finally, I went to the 24-hour Walgreens, where a cashier took pity on me and dialed up a taxi. It took me an hour to get home, but it wasn’t all bad: over the course of a mere 60 minutes, six men soothed my insecurities by asking me if I was interested in a date, my footwear was repeatedy complimented, and I made a new friend called Princess on the corner of Sunset and Vine.
I knew there’d be messages from the guy when I got home, but I wasn’t going back out again; I was going to summon up some self-respect and adhere to ladylike behavior. Then I remembered I was a lady who once did it with a Megadeth roadie in a walk-in freezer at the Rat, and eight minutes after he offered to send a car, I was on my way to the guy’s hotel. I had a great morning (and a great afternoon). My crappy outlook was replaced by a giddy appreciation of all that is right in the world.
The guy is gone, but that’s ok. He’s hot, but this is all about me. I’ve been afraid to be with anyone for a long time; I’ve been unable to work up the courage required to be vulnerable. Over the last day, I’ve panicked — I’ve questioned every move I made when we were together, and worried about how I looked, what I did, and what I said. I’m convinced that I did something wrong or bad or uncool, and I’m incredibly uncomfortable.
I knew that I would feel this way, but I did it anyway, and I’ve had a revelation without meditating, journaling, or letting go and letting god. I think maybe I’ve been irritated, annoyed, disgruntled and exasperated because I’ve been refusing to open myself up to any kind of hurt; I think my petty problems got big because I wasn’t taking any risks, and that meant my life got small.
I’m tortured but I’m happy. This may be a turning point. Even if it’s not, I’m still better than I was. At the very least, I got up, got up, got up, got up and I got down that night.