Life on the Other Side of Sex, Drugs, and Rock and Roll, Redacted
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 therapeutic undertakings, I meditated, journaled, and upped my attendance at meetings. Nothing helped; my efforts to be less cranky made me more cranky, so I decided to embrace my discontent.
And that’s when everything changed. Not because I was no longer fighting myself, but because this guy I know suddenly turned up in LA. In the past, I’ve declined his booty call invitations, but this time I said yes. And as if by magic the spring returned to my step. It’s been a long time, and it had never occurred to me that my problem was (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 are hard to come by. By the time I found a phone and called a cab, it was after 2:00 AM.
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 his hotel. By noon, my crappy outlook was replaced by a giddy appreciation for life’s great riches, And I had a revelation.
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 slept with him anyway. 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 happy. This may be a turning point. Even if it’s not, I’m better off than I was: I got up, got up, got up, got up and I got down that night.