“Thank you, my darling,” she blew him a kiss that made my stomach turn with jealousy.
That night, the three of us had a bit too much to drink as we bar hopped in the Chueca district, a neighborhood that caters to mostly gay and lesbian crowds. Jonah was a hit with the boys, being constantly hit on and asked to dance. The upside to that scenario was that we got free drinks and shots everywhere we went. After drinking half a bottle of Patron at a dingy bar playing trance music, I decided it’d be a good idea to get up on the stage and boogie with an adorable gay specimen that told me my dress was pretty. I was in the middle of getting down and dirty with the cutie when I slipped on some water and fell off the stage. I was too tipsy to get up so I just laughed as I sat there, knees scraped and waving my rainbow rescue flag.
Jonah and Olivia were by my side soon after, grabbing me like a rag doll and pulling me up to a standing position.
“Are you alright?” Olivia shouted over the drums, barely able to contain her laughter.
“Oh my God, what was that?” I was too drunk for embarrassment, but my knees were definitely throbbing.
“Think it’s time to call it a night,” Jonah motioned toward the exit.
We grabbed three bottles of water and were back to our room like good boys and girls by 2:00 a.m. When we arrived, I noticed the two beds were positioned side by side, making a larger-than-life king bed. Olivia saw my confused look and said, “Jonah and I put the beds together to make it more comfortable while you were showering. They’re super small and since you haven’t been sleeping here, Jonah’s been using your bed. Hope you don’t mind,” she sauntered over to the liter of water we had bought days earlier and took a sip.
Of course I mind!
“No big deal,” I fibbed.
“Awesome,” she turned off all the lights and stripped down to her bra and underwear, getting under the covers. Jonah went into the bathroom and put on some shorts, prancing out shirtless as I cursed him inwardly for the hundredth time that day. After kicking off my shoes, I took a sip from the water bottle and plopped down on my side of the bed. Olivia didn’t want to move from her side, so Jonah ended up lying between us. I was so tired I didn’t even bother to get under the covers, laying on top of them as a sudden heat wave washed over me.
“Goodnight,” I said to no one in particular and shut my eyes, wondering if I should turn the air down or if it was the alcohol that was causing me to sweat. A few minutes later I heard Olivia snoring and I turned the other way in search of a more comfortable position, only to find Jonah’s face a few inches from mine. He was wide awake.
“Can’t sleep?” he whispered, our bodies facing each other.
“Just trying to get comfy over here.”
“You’ll probably be more comfortable if you take off that dress and get in your sweatpants or something,” he chuckled. “This thing must be choking you,” he reached around me and untied the back of my dress, his hand caressing my neck and jaw line briefly as he pulled it away, igniting an uncontrollable fire inside me. “Go change,” he whispered. “You’ll sleep better in PJs.”
I got up and picked out my pajamas from the closet, stumbling to the bathroom and changing there, leaving my clothes right where they landed on the bathroom floor. When I returned, he was still lying in the same position, his eyes wide open.
“Is that better?” he asked as I slid under the covers.
“Much,” I admitted. “You were right.”
“I usually am,” an arrogant smile spread across his face.
We lay there quietly, looking at each other as our faces practically touched in the faint light. The current of emotions flowing through me made it hard to think, the excessive amount of Patron shots even harder.
“I’m going to miss you,” the words came out before I could stop myself. He inched his face closer to mine and traced my cheek softly with his hand as I closed my eyes and inhaled. There was no point in pretending I wasn’t crazy about him, certain he was aware of it as much as I was. The fact that Olivia lay next to him on the other side evaded me at that very moment, as did every other rational thought I should’ve been pondering.
“I’m going to miss you too,” he paused, continuing to trace his fingertips down my neck, stopping, and then suddenly pulling away. “This won’t be the last time we’ll see each other though. I’m sure of it.” I felt his breath on my face and realized how dangerous his closeness was. I wanted nothing more than to be able to kiss him, to hold him in the intimate way couples hold each other. Yet, life is all about timing and, in this case, time wasn’t on our side.
“Goodnight, Jonah,” I said while finally coming to my senses. I abruptly turned around and tried my hardest to keep myself under control. I could feel him tossing and turning for a few hours thereafter as I lay motionless counting sheep and praying for the sleep that never came.
A Sex Tape Would’ve Been so Much Easier
Disclaimer: This chapter contains two pantless pictures. My sincere apologies if you’re easily offended by mild nudity or a bit of cellulite scares you. Feel free to skip, but I guarantee you’ll be missing out on half the story.
By the time I reached 26, I’d dabbled in just about everything within the working-girl realm. I know that makes it sound like prostitution and drug pushing were things I took part in, but I assure you if that was the case, this book would be different (and probably not as weird).
I was working as the manager of a predominantly African-American church and seriously-don’t-ask-me-how-the-hell-that-happened-because-we-don’t-have-that-kind-of-time when I decided to write a book. I often feel there’s a determining factor to every meaningful life decision we make, and mine was basically forced on me on a Monday as I tried to explain to a friend how I’d spilled a drink on Roberto Cavalli’s feet the previous night. If you don’t know who Roberto Cavalli is you should a) kill yourself or b) look him up on Google.
“How does that even happen?” Chris said to me over instant message that fateful afternoon. “Seriously, write a book already.”
“Um,” I replied with a smiley face. “That’s a little farfetched, my friend. That and I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
One week later, Chris opened up a blog for me, which she aptly titled, Red Means Go. She sent me the link in an email with a note that read, “This is where you begin. Now write.”
And so I did.
When the whole thing started, I had no idea what the hell I was doing. What exactly is “blogging?” How do you rule at it? What does it take to go from blogger to successful published author? These are questions I’d still like to know the answer to, and if you do, please inbox me immediately ([email protected]). In an attempt to not disappoint, I did as instructed and began my writing quest. Convinced everyone’s lives were just as weird my own, I surveyed other blogs and followed their lead. I shared some recipes and love songs and other stupid shit people do on blogs while gaining 12 followers (mostly friends who didn’t have a choice and my mom, who doesn’t speak English nor owns a computer).
As soon as I unleashed my inner weirdo, the little blog that could surprisingly gained momentum. Google decided I was interesting enough to bestow the “Blog of Note” crown upon me a few months into it (which I thought was awesome but really means you’re Internet famous for like a day). I figured it was only a matter of time until a literary agent stumbled upon my blog and Bam! Famosity, bitches.
One uneventful Miami night I was having a conversation via text with a friend who lives in California.
Me: Dude, I’ve had two bags of garbage sitting by my front door for over a day. It’s starting to smell.
Dustin: So throw it away, douchebag.
Me: I don’t have any pants on.
Dustin: Who the hell wears pants to throw away garbage? It’s almost midnight over there. Not like anyone will know.
Me: Okay.
Sometime later . . .
Me: I did it. Hope my gay neighbor didn’t catch me or he’ll
call the board on me. Yet again.
Dustin: Wait. You do this on a regular basis? What kind of a freak *are* you?
Me: No . . . they called the board on me last time because I enjoy 2:00 a.m. cookie runs to my fridge. Naked.
Dustin: Is your fridge in the middle of the street?
Me: Very funny. My apartment has those stupid floor-to-ceiling sliding doors and you can see into my place. Anyhow, I’m just abstaining from pissing him off, but I had to throw away the garbage and, dude, I wasn’t going to put on pants just for that.
Dustin: No way! Garbage is definitely not worthy of pants. I take my pants off before taking out the trash all the time.
Me: Is all I’m sayin’.
Dustin: In fact, I have trash to dispose of now and I’m gonna take off my pants, just so you know I’m not lying.
Me: How in the world would I know?
Dustin: Wait.
After two minutes:
Me: Are you kidding me?
Dustin: Do I look like I’m joking?
Me: You’re not wearing pants, hell if I know.
Dustin: So are you. Send me a picture.
Me: I’m trying to be famous, so if this ever makes it on the Internet, I’ll kill you.
Dustin: How do you think people get famous, Annah, by keeping their pants on?
Such a great point, Dustin.
You would think after posting a semi-nude picture for the general public to see, I’d be the most famous writer in the world or something, but I totally wasn’t. I did continue to write and it seemed people liked me enough to visit the blog and leave nice comments, except for some freak named “Anonymous” who still plagues me to this day with hate mail and little gems such as this initial one:
“Oh my Lord, you such a fucking prostitute. I can’t believe the shit you put up here. You are a DISGRACE. You claim to make fun of stupid slutty chicks, but you are really just one of them yourself. All you care about is getting drunk and seeing how many guys you can tease with your “playful sexuality,” and the fact that you have 2000 followers to try to pretend they’re you’re friends. Classy. You are either a huge whore, or the biggest tease that’s ever set foot on this planet. I don’t like you (REALLY, I HADN’T NOTICED). And I’m sure that a lot of people you know in real life are disgusted by you. Get the fuck out of here, you bitch, or you will be destroyed. FUCK YOU.”
Yikes! I confess that even though I was scared, Anonymous didn’t destroy me, and I continued to tease people with my “playful sexuality” over the Internet. One morning, I woke up to a voicemail from a Liz Tracy, which kind of sounds like Dick Tracey and something exciting is about to happen, so I called her right away. A few weeks later there it was, an article written in the Miami New Times about me, ensuring my impending famosity. Nothing came of that except my friends being really proud they knew someone famous and my parents asking why there was a pantless picture of me online. A few months later, another journalist reached out to me and wrote a piece for Brickell Magazine on my awesomeness; I was in print and positively certain that this time, for sure, I’d be famous.
There’s this scene in Julie & Julia in which they publish an editorial on Julie and her cooking blog for the New York Times, then she gets home and has 42,000 messages from agents just dying to spar gladiator-style for a chance to represent her. No one sparred for me that day. In fact, no one even called. But in my pitiful defense I did get to go to a fancy party thrown in my honor by Brickell Magazine. It was sponsored by my favorite vodka and they had fancy sandwiches without the crust and chicken kabobs plus those little butter cookies with the merengue on top, which in a way is almost as good as being famous.
Almost.
Possibly unnecessary sidenote: After finishing this chapter, I realized I’d lost my phone before saving the picture of me at my fancy famosity party. No need to worry, though, because I did what any normal person would and reenacted the scene for your viewing pleasure. You should totally feel special because I made chicken kabobs at home, went to the hotel where they threw the soiree, and took the above picture. So maybe it was a little awkward when people saw me pull chicken and peppers on a stick from my purse, but that’s just the kind of girl I am, true to her art and all. That and once the novelty of my weirdness wore off and everyone resumed their evening, I turned my back to those fools and went to town on that motherfucking kabob. Some would venture to say it tasted like chicken.
I say, it tasted like famosity.
Unexpected Turbulence
The morning after, I slowly put myself together around eight and absconded into the city alone after sleep eluded me all night. It was our last day in Madrid and though I longed to be near Jonah’s warmth, the safest way to avoid getting burned is to keep away from the sun at all costs. I spent a few hours at a salon doing my nails and killing time. After that, I explored a small market run by gypsies near our hotel for souvenirs and other trinkets. I returned to our room sometime around two, Olivia and Jonah nowhere to be found. There was a note on the door I didn’t bother to read, and when my shoes were off and the curtains closed I went under before my head even touched the pillow. Upon waking, the sun was beginning to wave its impending farewell and I looked at the clock to find it was nearly eight. In a hazy state, I decided to go back to sleep, but the phone rang just as I was setting the alarm for the following morning and reaching for an Ambien.
Two hours later, I’d packed all my belongings in a suitcase and placed it carefully near the door, the hope to avoid rushing on a morning that would surely come with a hangover courtesy of Grey Goose and a broken heart alive. I assessed my reflection in the mirror and slipped out of the hotel to meet Gabriel at the lobby just before my friends returned.
“And here I thought you had better plans than to see me tonight,” he smiled, wrapping me in a hug that lasted forever.
“What better plans than you?”
He locked his hand with mine and we walked outside, our destination a flamenco show at an old mansion in the outskirts of the city. When we arrived, someone handed me a small glass of dark liquor that smelled of cinnamon. Red and yellow lanterns hung above us from the trees surrounding the patio, a wooden stage erected in the center. The air was crisper outside of the city, and I wrapped a silk shawl embroidered with flowers I’d purchased earlier in the day around me. Gabriel explained the house belonged to his grandfather, who was a flamenco enthusiast, and hosted these shows monthly to his friends and their guests.
We were introduced shortly after, and he regaled me with stories about his trips to Cuba, wrinkles marked with mischief lining his face every time he laughed. A gentle breeze blew away my sorrows for a moment, and the heaviness in my soul lifted as soon as the first guitar began to play, heels filled with nails pounding violently on the stage floor. Gabriel squeezed my hand and asked if I would consider staying in Madrid another week with him. I promised him to think about it and kissed his hand, knowing that staying would only weave another thread of pain to an already fatal story.
Sometime later we got to Joy, grabbing a table already reserved for us and getting ourselves situated. In typical Spanish fashion, the nightclub was almost empty even though it was nearly midnight. I had always found it odd how parties on the other side of the pond rarely became lively until two in the morning, which is typically when normal people are going to sleep after a night of debauchery in the States. We grabbed a bottle of champagne and took to the dance floor by storm; other than a gay couple making out in a corner, we were the only ones on it. After we finished the bottle and subsequently sweated it out, an unknown amount of time had passed and we were back at our table. My date reached for my purse under a seat cushion on the couch and opened it to grab his cell phone.
“Dios santo,” he shouted. “I have 17 missed calls.”
I raised an eyebrow and gave him a dirty look. “How many girlfriends do you have again?”
He winked at me and put a finger to his lips to signal he’d never tell. I grabbed his phone play
fully to check it and recognized Olivia’s number in it, all his missed calls from her European cell. I’d forgotten she had requested his number the first night I’d gone home with him in case he was some psychopath and frowned to myself.
“What is it?” he grabbed the phone from my hand and stated he didn’t know that number as his face turned serious.
I gently kissed his forehead and told him to call Olivia back, explaining she was probably worried and apologizing for her serial stalking. Gabriel stepped out to make the call and asked the waiter for two more bottles on his way out. Much to my disappointment, when he returned 20 minutes later, he’d brought Olivia and Jonah with him.
A couple of hours and many glasses of champagne in, it dawned on me that in order for anything to truly end, we must go back to the start. Across the table, the air was diffused with a tension neither of us would openly recognize, yet its existence was menacing and undeniable beneath all the neon lights. Ignoring Jonah and staying in the moment proved an exercise in futility, and when I could no longer take the awkwardness permeating the air, I announced I was going to the bathroom. Gabriel grabbed my hand and pulled me in for a kiss whose passion sunk nations, my cheeks burning as I tore away from him and sensed all eyes on me as I walked away.
Halfway to the restroom, I felt a hand grab me and turned only to be shoved against Jonah by a waitress rushing with drinks to a table. She apologized over her shoulder and kept walking, leaving me in strong arms wrapped around my waist that prevented me from toppling over. Viable means of escaping without looking crazy seemed unlikely, so I simply stayed there with my head on his chest as he held me, hundreds of people pushing and shoving around us toward the dance floor and bar.
“Europe isn’t exactly known for their great service, is it?” he joked, not loosening his grip on me.
“No,” I smiled to myself and pulled away, but he didn’t budge as he allowed the crowd to move us. “I was headed to the bathroom, you know.”
Heartbreak for Dinner: It's Kind of a Long Story Page 8
