by Amy Dresner
“Seriously, Xander… Go. Fuck. Yourself.”
I block him on my phone and Facebook and retreat back to Tinder to lick my wounds. Xander was all tenderness and sensuality without the sex. Tinder is all sex without the tenderness. It’s an abrupt change.
A younger guy, early thirties like Xander, hits me up. Joe is cute in a sort of “I’m Italian and used to be a boxer and somebody fucked up my face” kind of way. He’s also sober—almost seven years. I hope—in vain—that this means he won’t be a total asshole.
There’s a thing I’ve noticed about a lot of sober guys. They’ll have integrity in every area of their life—except for love/sex/romance. They’ll spout magical wise words from the podium at meetings but treat women like absolute trash. I get that it’s AA and not SLAA or SAA, but we’re supposed to apply these principles in all of our affairs—including the ones that involve pussy. Maybe sex and love is the one area of their life where they can still be degenerate douchebags without losing their precious sobriety. But it still sickens me. I tell myself that when I have a good chunk of recovery, I won’t still be on Tinder, sport-fucking and having soulless connections with strangers.
Some of Joe’s early messages on Tinder set off red flags so I unmatch him. Twenty minutes later, I get a Facebook message from him. Despite not knowing my last name, he was able to find me thanks to our nine hundred mutual friends in AA.
“You could’ve had the decency to tell me why you were going to unmatch me. That isn’t very sober behavior. You don’t know me.”
His persistence to find me is intriguing. I choose to think of it as borne of interest in me, not just his rage at my rejecting him. I give him my phone number, and we began texting. It gets weird, fast. Too weird, even for me.
Joe will not talk to me on the phone. He will only text. I was to be obedient and text back, “yes sir” or “yes daddy.” I get that this is just a role-play thing, but honestly, I think that stuff is super stupid. However, wanting to fuck, I think, I can do this for a bit. Surely, this is not his only mode of communication or connection.
He gives me the plan. He’ll meet me outside my sober living, on the corner, ten thirty p.m. He’ll be in the backseat of a silver Porsche SUV. I am not to speak. I am not to wear underwear. I am not to wear any makeup. When it is over, I am to get out of the vehicle, and only then am I allowed to speak, and only to say “Thank you” and “Good night.” My heart is pounding furiously. Am I turned on? Terrified? I can’t tell.
I slide into the backseat of his car. He is very aggressive. He pulls off my sweatpants. He doesn’t kiss me. He finger bangs me pretty violently and then makes me do things to him. It feels super impersonal and objectifying, but I tell myself not to be a pussy. When it is over he says, “You can speak now.”
“Oh, okay. Oh, my God, I’m so thirsty,” I say, reaching for a water bottle on the floor of his backseat.
“Holy shit, your voice is deep. You sure you’re a woman?”
“Really? You basically just lost your class ring inside my vagina, so if you can’t tell…”
“I know. I’m just kidding.”
Hilarious.
Mariana, the house manager, has a baby: a perfect towheaded daughter named Lily. With a full-time job, an asshole of a baby daddy, and a house full of junkies, caring for her new kid is overwhelming for her, to say the least. Luckily, she has a house full of quasi-qualified women (some who are moms) to lean on, right?
One night, after one a.m., I hear her waking up the various mothers in the sober living.
“I’m so tired, and Lily won’t stop crying,” I hear her say.
The various and sundry sober mommies try their well-worn tricks. But Lily still will not stop wailing.
At the end of her tether, Mariana walks into my room.
“You’re up!” she says in her clipped British accent.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I’m not very maternal, and I’ve never had a baby. And I don’t want one.”
“Just try something… anything. I’m exhausted, and nothing is working.”
“I really think—” and with that, Mariana thrusts two-month-old Lily into my arms.
Fuck. I hold her up by the armpits at arm’s length. This thing is wriggling like crazy, tiny knit-bootied feet windmilling in the air.
I sling her over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes and start pacing the hallway of the house. I remember my mom used to say she would lull me to sleep with what in Spanish is called a ru ru, a loop of “ch-ch-chuh, ch-ch-chuh.” Having no clue of what else to do, I give it a shot. “Ch-ch-chuh, ch-ch-chuh. Ch-ch-chuh, ch-ch-chuh.” This is totally dumb, I think to myself. But I keep going. “Ch-ch-chuh, ch-ch-chuh. Ch-ch-chuh, ch-ch-chuh.” And within three minutes, Lily passes out, drooling on my shoulder. I can’t help but smile. It feels nice.
Mariana is shocked, and all the “professional” moms are clearly annoyed. That’s right, bitches—I am the baby whisperer!
Before long, I am Lily’s nanny, rocking her to sleep on the porch swing or walking around the neighborhood in a ripped-up Van Halen tee with her strapped to my chest like a suicide bomber. It is evident to everybody that, despite my lack of previous baby experience, Lily and I have a special connection. Soon I am pushing her in a carriage and then in a toy car. I spend a lot of time with Lily that first year, singing Elvis Costello to her, changing her diapers, reading to her. I also watch a fuck-ton of Sesame Street.
One day, Lily and I are in the living room playing and Lily begins hysterically laughing. Mariana comes gliding in on her long gazelle legs.
“What is so funny?”
“We’re playing bar. Watch.” Then in my best redneck voice, I say to Lily, “What can I get you, little lady?… Oh, a scotch on the rocks? Comin’ right up!” And with that, I take a smooth stone out of the coffee table pit and slap it on the top. Lily lets out a yelp of pleasure and delight.
“Oh, my God,” Mariana says.
“You want some nachos with that? No problem!” I slap another stone on the table.
Another peal of laughter from Lily.
“You are too much,” she says, shaking her head. “So you’re preparing my kid to be an alcoholic?”
“I was thinking more barfly, but hey, she does have the genetics…”
“I know, right?” Mariana grimaces.
Mariana looks over and sees Lily trying to get my attention. “Looks like your customer is… uh… thirsty again,” she says to me.
“Oh, I’m sorry, little lady! Another drink?”
Mariana’s trust shows me that I can be reliable, responsible, trustworthy. And Lily’s love for me shows me that I do have a maternal side. I can be nurturing, a caretaker, and—dare I say—selfless. Hey, maybe the stuff I stuck on that vision board wasn’t as delusional as I thought.
Elizabeth, my new Glamazon roommate at the sober living, spends her days working out, getting her face injected, and having long lunches with Arab men at the Beverly Hills Hotel.
She’s dating a new Persian guy. He’s completely out of his mind. He sends her videos of himself telling her how much he loves her—multiple times a day. It’s more stalkerish than romantic. He drives a yellow Lamborghini, so I call him Bananamobile. He bought her a silver ring from Tiffany, but she is unimpressed.
“I looked it up online, and it was only a hundred and twenty-five dollars,” she says, doing her best at making a pouty face, which is hard with all her Botox.
“Oh, my God, that is horrible,” I say. “Are you okay?”
She laughs. “You think I’m a terrible person, don’t you?”
“Not terrible, just shallow. You’re still young. I was married, and I got lots of super-expensive presents and spoiler alert! They did not make me feel loved. Not to put it too poetically, but you’re searching for something that doesn’t come in a small gift box.”
“You’re really smart, huh?”
“Obviously not, because I’m in sober living at forty-three.”
“You’re fo
rty-three?! OMG! You look so much younger.”
“It’s the acne.”
“You’re funny.”
“Speaking of age, Elizabeth… you’re too young to shoot all that shit into your face. You don’t need it yet. And it makes you look…”
“What?”
“I hate to say it, but… unnatural.”
“Good. Who wants to be natural? Gross.”
“You wanna look like a doll?” I ask.
“Totally.”
“Okay then… carry on,” I say with a wave of my hand.
I have an appointment to get a Pap smear. MediCal has sent me to a new clinic in downtown, but I can’t find the building. I keep driving by the address, but I don’t see anything vaguely medical. I decide to park nearby and walk.
Number 6212. This is it. But all I see is a “Swap Meet Mall.” I peer inside. It’s a long corridor off the sidewalk with different stalls: El Salvadorean food, Hello Kitty leggings, cheap iPhone accessories, four-packs of socks. I walk back outside and look up. There is a small hand-painted sign, “Clinica Medica,” with an arrow pointing to the second floor. Are you fucking serious?
As usual, I’m the only white person in the waiting room. A young black kid bounces a ball against the peeling wall. A girl who can’t be more than seventeen waddles in, pregnant, bursting at the seams. Another young Hispanic girl is rocking a screaming baby in her arms. I feel thin, snobby, and barren.
“DRESNER!” I’m called in after a relatively short forty-five minutes. The nurse weighs me and gives me a paper gown. Eventually, the doctor comes in. She has what looks to be the remnants of a black eye. I pretend not to notice.
“Are you sexually active?”
“Yes.”
“Are you in a relationship?”
“What’s that?”
“Do you have multiple partners?”
“Yes.”
“Do you use birth control?”
“No.”
“You’re not worried about getting pregnant?”
“I’m old.”
“What about STDs?”
“So far so good.”
“I’m going to test you for all STDs.”
“Knock yourself out.”
A nurse comes in to take my blood. I have huge veins. I’m very vascular. I wasn’t a good junkie, but I was an easy junkie.
“Oh good; you have nice veins,” she says.
“Yeah. Even Ray Charles could be my phlebotomist.”
I’m told to call in two weeks for my results.
I call back a few weeks later. I’m terrified that I have some virulent form of something as I’ve been fucking a lot of people I know very little, all unprotected.
“Last name?” the nurse says in a light Hispanic accent.
“Dresner.”
“Date of birth?”
“Eleven six, sixty-nine.”
“You’re clean. Negative for everything.”
“Are you sure? Can you check again? Last name is Dresner. D… R… E…”
“Amy, right?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah, I’m looking at your chart right here, miss. Nothing.”
“Wow… awesome.” What I wanted to tell her is: “That, right there, is a water-into-wine-style miracle, lady! I mean, talk about beating the odds.”
I wish I could tell you that this clean bill of health made me start using condoms or be more discerning or less slutty. But that would be bullshit. It only served to reinforce my belief that I was special and that I would keep dodging any real physical repercussions of my sexual addiction. Think about it: you don’t stop speeding because you don’t get a ticket.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Mariana, the house manager, is going to the south of France to visit her sick mother, and she’s putting me in charge of the sober living. I’m the oldest, and I’ve been there the longest. She’ll throw me a few hundred dollars. How hard can it be, right?
I’m allowed to stay in Mariana’s room while she’s away. It has a huge bed, a new AC system, and its own adjoining bathroom. I’m also to take care of her plants.
“It’s easy. You just water them every few days.”
“Got it,” I lie.
“And the door camera is broken… but the girls don’t know that.”
“Right.”
“So make sure they all sign out and are home by curfew.”
The girls in the house are sweet. Most are young and new in sobriety. But running a women’s sober living is not easy. It’s like herding cats… if the cats were on heroin.
One night, I’m wedged on a bed between two of them, both in their twenties, as we binge-watch Mr. Robot. They both text incessantly—when they aren’t laughing about how their moms freaked out when they turned forty.
“My dad put tombstones in the front yard,” one young junkie girl says, laughing. Oh, isn’t that hilaaaarious, I think.
Within the first four days, it looks like I’ve definitely killed Mariana’s plants. They don’t seem to like my chronic vaping. I quickly hatch a plan to replace the plants if they commit suicide before she gets back.
It’s nice—and dare I say shocking—to be considered trustworthy and responsible enough to be handling somebody else’s money, credit cards, mail, and home. But it’s strange when, just the week before, you were one of the girls in the house that the other girls confided in, making pacts of “Don’t tell the manager” with. And then suddenly, you are the fucking manager.
They think that because I crash early (with an eight thirty a.m. start time moonlighting for an advice columnist) that I won’t know if they blow curfew. But I do. When one girl is a bit late, I just pull her aside and say, “Listen. I’ve been a wildcat since I lived here, and I have never blown curfew. Not once. So you have no excuse not to be back on time. Don’t make me police you. I’m too old for this shit, and so are you.”
I only have a measly two years and change sober now, compared with Mariana, who has over a decade in recovery and a black belt in Al-Anon (the twelve-step program for friends and families of addicts/alcoholics). In addition, she’s a lady and a mother, and, well, let’s just say we have different approaches. Hers is more “Hey, are you coming to the meeting? It’s time,” delivered with a posh British accent and a smile. Mine is more Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: “Let’s go, assholes. Meeting time!” or “Nobody’s getting loaded on my watch!” Mariana is also maternal and concerned: “I’m worried about you. We need to talk.” I’m more “Hey, if you need to talk, I’m here. If not, journal or cut yourself. And Tinder worked wonders for me.” And because I’ve been there so many times, on that terrifying roller coaster of early sobriety, they take to me and weepingly confess their boy dilemmas or thoughts of relapse. No good deed goes unpunished, I guess.
It’s eleven thirty at night, and I hear a soft knock on my door. It’s one of the girls. She’s crying, of course.
“Come in, mama. What’s up?”
“Well, you know I had seven months and relapsed.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, because it was over a dude, my sponsor says I can’t date for at least six months; maybe a year. What the fuck? I mean, that’s so unfair.”
Ahh, yes, sponsors. They’re trying to help, but sometimes it can feel like you’ve unwittingly become a citizen of their own personal police state. One of my most memorable sponsors crossed my path back in 2006, after I fell off the wagon with Ativan, ended up in the psych ward, and then promptly cracked my head open. She was a militant black lesbian with an old-school fade who worked with a lot of the chronic relapsers in AA. This woman was so fucking program that she had changed her name to DAJARIE—an acronym for “Denial Ain’t Just a River in Egypt.” She’d been through it all: molested at a young age only to become a homeless junkie and prostitute. When I met her, she had over two decades of sobriety and thirty sponsees, 98 percent of whom were rich white women. And despite calling each of us “baby,” she was… terrifying.
“Baby, yo
u only going to go to women’s meetings or gay meetings from now on.”
“How am I going to get laid going to women’s meetings or gay meetings?” I whined.
“You not. You gonna concentrate on recovery.”
“Well, that sounds fucking boring.”
Still, I was so desperate that I complied. I was unemployed and a mess and I went wherever she told me. During the week, we attended these rich white women meetings in Brentwood or Beverly Hills. I loathed these meetings. They were filled with “mature” women with overly taut faces and expensive handbags, who complained about their gardeners. I did my best to shock and horrify them, and I was wildly successful. Part of this was due to my concussion. At the best of times, I’m emotionally volatile, but at fifty-something days sober with a brain injury, I was fucking feral. Since whacking my head, I felt different. I’d always been bold and irreverent, but I’d become freer and almost fearless. On the downside, my social cuing seemed to be off. I’d say something, laugh maniacally, and notice that the whole room had gone silent. Or I’d think of something, and before I could filter which part would be appropriate to say aloud, it was out of my mouth. I could feel that I had less impulse control than ever, but there didn’t seem to be much I could do about it. I tried to pretend it was intentional—part of my shtick—and that I didn’t give a shit, but in actuality, I was mortified. I was also experiencing brief bouts of mania that felt like good crack laced with religious fervor. Unfortunately, these were always followed by crushing migraines and paranoid, gut-wrenching lows. And then the inevitable: narcolepsy.
The doctors had assured me that this was all “temporary,” but this particular “temporary” had lasted almost a year, and I’d managed to do some pretty impressive damage during that time. The thing is, nobody cares whether you’re an asshole because you have a concussion. They just care that you’re an asshole.
Dajarie made it mandatory that all her sponsees went to “Women’s Self-Acceptance,” an all-women’s meeting in Crenshaw on Saturdays. It was held in a tiny, shitty house deep in the hood. There was a podium with the word “HOPE” on it and a big bouquet of white flowers. It always felt more funereal than AA to me. This particular meeting was 99 percent black lesbian. All the women looked like men who looked like women. They all had names like Tyler or Jeri and bore a striking resemblance to Ice-T. I felt very intimidated, despite their warm welcomes. I was one of maybe two white girls and definitely the only straight one. I sat in the far back, in the corner, my leg bouncing nervously.
