by Deanna Kizis
“What about him?” I said to Kiki, with a discreet nod in his direction.
“Gay,” she said.
Damn, I was just thinking that.
We did another lap, but it was hopeless. I saw one guy who looked good—hair, with product, vintage-rock T-shirt …
“Him?” I said.
Her eyes narrowed. “Not the guy for you.”
“Why?”
“He’s wearing tapered jeans.”
“Right.” She was right.
Everyone else was either too buff (I hate buff guys), looked like an actor (never, ever date an actor), or had another girl on his arm. The guy with the lips was still in the corner, lighting a cigarette.
“I’m going for the gay guy,” I told Kiki.
“Dude! You can’t go for a gay guy. That’s totally not the point.”
But I had a feeling.
I started to sidle. Like I’d said in my article, this must look like a chance encounter. I mean, any guy who sees a girl walking purposefully toward him at a party will probably think she’s either desperate or a crazy person. When I got in his immediate vicinity, I tried to look lost. Little girl lost, that’s what I was going for. I’m no actress, so I probably looked ridiculous. But it worked. He noticed me, started watching me a little. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him scan the crowd. I was surprised, but it looked like he was actually wondering who I was looking for. I took a deep breath and moved in for the kill. I looked in his general direction, let him catch my eye, and said …
“I think I lost my friends.”
He frowned like he wasn’t really sure I was talking to him. Like I was some insane maniac walking around the party looking lost and muttering to myself, which was basically the case. I started to panic. Abort! Abort! my brain screamed. This was a dumb scheme!
When suddenly I was saved.
“Well,” he said, cocking his head to the side and giving me a little smile. “What do your friends look like?”
Now, I could have started lying my ass off, giving fake descriptions and seeing if he offered to help me find them. Or I could have said something vague like, “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe they left,” and tried to keep the conversation going. Or I could have tried the full-on flirt. Very risky.
But then I thought to myself, You know what? I can do this.
“Actually, they look a lot like you,” I said, and grimaced in something I hoped looked like a captivating smile. Now, I know They look a lot like you is a total line. But I was improvising. And I could see Kiki just over his shoulder, watching everything, which was putting me off my game.
“Really?” he said. “Then I guess you and I were meant to be friends.”
Success! Success! Success!
The conversation grew from there. He said his name was Max. That he owned a T-shirt company, Super Very Good, thus the crispness of the clothes he was wearing, which were from the new line. (He didn’t have a close, personal relationship with the ironing board, as Kiki and I had feared.) He said he traveled a lot between L.A., New York, Paris, Hong Kong, and London. He designed the graphics himself. I was impressed, although, you know, I tried not to act like I was. Still, I had to ask him if he knew Radiohead, because they wear Super Very Good clothes. Max shrugged and said, “Oh yeah, we hang out all the time.”
“Really?” I said.
“No. Not really. But one time Heather Graham came in to try on samples for a photo shoot and I got to see her breasts.”
Okay. I’m what people call proportional when they’re trying to think of something nice to say, so this stumped me. But then he leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “They weren’t that great.”
“Really.” I tried to sound all sad for poor bad-breasted Heather Graham. This was thrilling information.
“No.” He started laughing again. “Not really.”
He’s gorgeous, I thought. He’s confident. He’s making fun of me. I’m in love with him.
Kiki finally joined us, saying, “Oh, there you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” (Love Kiki.) She did what she could to help me along, laughing at my jokes, acting like we were the most carefree, fun girls in the world even though inside she was aching for that loser Edward. We asked him where he lived. (Silver Lake.) He asked me where I lived. (Silver Lake. Aha!) He asked me what I did. (“I’m a writer. Uh, journalist.”) I asked him what he did for fun. (“Nothing. Collect vinyl, I guess.”) He asked me what I did for fun. (“Hang out with Kiki.”) I asked him why he was at this party. (“No idea.”) He asked me what I’d written recently and Kiki flipped open an issue of Filly and pointed to one of my stories. Unfortunately, it was “How to Meet Cute Boys.” (Hate Kiki.)
The article clearly laid out my whole game plan, complete with subject headings in bold, large font—The Lap, The Sidle, The Full-On Flirt, The Pickup. I was busted. But I made a vain attempt at sounding casual. Like I wasn’t some hussy who trolled parties and picked up guys for a living. So I said, “Look, I’m not some hussy who trolls parties and picks up guys for a living.” I stammered about how, well, Kiki was my editor and she’d assigned it to me so, heh heh, I couldn’t really say no and …
“Everybody, time to go home! Make your way to the nearest exit! Now, people!”
Of course. This awkward moment had to be when the fire department would arrive to bust up the party. It wasn’t an entirely bad thing—for Filly, that is. If the fire department’s called, the party is over capacity, which means the event is a success. But it was woefully ill timed. A helicopter appeared overhead, shining its spotlight down on people. My new crush and I were suddenly smack in the middle of an Oliver Stone movie, and in the blinding glare I became convinced I had a seriously bad lighting situation going. We stood there, frozen, gawking at one another, while I glanced around looking for a friendly shadow, wondering if my mascara was raccooning around my eyes. Men in uniforms with bullhorns were screaming, “Party’s over! Go home!” while hipsters scrambled for their cell phones to call people who were only five feet away so they could plan where they were going next.
I didn’t know what to do. According to my own article, I was supposed to close. Get his number. Seal the deal. But it was harder in real life than it was when I was telling other people to do it from the safety of my laptop. “Well, can I …” I started to say.
“I’d really like to …” he started to say.
“Oh, I interrupted you,” I said. “Go ahead.”
“No, you go.”
“Um. You first.”
“Well, you’re the one who tried to pull off the I’m-looking-for-my-friends strategy,” he said. “Very inventive by the way, so I guess it’s my turn.”
He leaned toward me, and for a split second I thought he was going to kiss me. The really crazy part is I was going to let him. I raised my chin slightly, my lips quivered forward, and then he said, “Ben, can I have your phone number?”
But I didn’t lose my cool.
“Of course!” I said, scrambling in my purse for a pen. I couldn’t find one. “Kiki—do you have a pen?”
He had one.
“Oh. Thanks.” I took it, and I scribbled “Did it work?” with my number on his courtesy copy of the “How to Meet Cute Boys” article. Before we could say anything else, a cop grabbed me by the arm and escorted Kiki and me out the door, past a riot of people fighting for their free Puma gift bags. Steph was standing behind the gift table throwing bags out to the crowd and screaming at the top of her lungs, “IF YOU DON’T FORM A FUCKING LINE YOU DON’T GET A FUCKING GIFT BAG YOU FUCKING CHEAP BASTARDS!”
I kind of wanted a bag, too, but I knew from experience that it would just be filled with a few shampoo samples, a cheesy CD compilation from one of the record companies, and a free Filly T-shirt, so I decided to let it go. I craned my head around to see if I could at least wave good-bye to Max, but he was gone. Not that it mattered. I got what I came for.
“See,” I said to Kiki while the cop shoved us out onto the str
eet, where I almost got sideswiped by a departing limousine. I did a little Cabbage Patch victory dance, thumbs up, shoulders swinging back and forth, and yelled, “Meeting cute boys is easy!”
CHAPTER
2
I woke up expecting my haze of happiness to clear like perfume left over from a wish-fulfilling dream. But then I realized, instead of another failed attempt at meeting someone, I actually had something to be excited about. I said his name aloud to my empty bedroom: “Max.” It sounded good.
“Max,” I sighed to myself as I brushed my teeth. “Max,” as I washed my face. “Max Max Max Max Max,” as I fought off Freak, who was clawing himself up my pajama leg.
The week I moved in, Freak was conducting World War III in the alley behind my place—trash cans banging, screeching fights, feline yowling that sounded like howler monkeys. A neighbor threatened to call Animal Control, so I tempted the feral beast inside with a plate of chopped-up turkey hot dog. I figured Freak, with his bitten ears, scratchy whiskers, and bowlegged stance, lent a certain flair of authenticity—if you’re going to be a single girl living alone in a one-bedroom apartment, you gotta have a cat.
Freak was like every guy I’d ever known. Aggressive when he couldn’t get your attention, disdainful if you appeared even the slightest bit needy. But surely Max will not be this way, I mused as I went to pet Freak and he slinked off into the living room with his mangled tail in the air. Surely Max would be a non-commitment-phobic male with no skeletons in his proverbial closet, no girlfriend he was cheating on, no past relationship that had scarred him for life.
Max … Max … Max … I sipped my morning diet Coke and spaced out with the Sunday paper spread out on the coffee table in front of me. In my reverie I was off in an imaginary gold Mercedes convertible, cruising the PCH in Malibu wearing oversize sunglasses in a sort of seventies Julie Christie homage. Max was sitting next to me in his zip-up nylon jacket, and I was grinning at something he’d just said. Cut to, me running down a hallway in a T-shirt and his blue boxer shorts, laughing uproariously, with Max chasing me with a bottle of Mrs. Butterworth’s syrup because I was being a grump at breakfast. Cut to, me crying. Just breaking down on a rainy street corner in some totally justified paroxysm of pain and frustration and anger with the world, and, for once in my life, the guy I wanted to be with putting his arms around me and saying the perfect thing while he stroked my hair.
Of course, I used to visualize montages like this about Jack, of all people. Before I got too caught up, I decided I needed more information. It’s the age of the Internet, I thought. The only responsible thing to do is look up my crush in cyberspace. So I did a search and found a link to the Super Very Good Web site, where Max (Max!) hawked his clothing. It was very cool—hyperstylized and heavy on the Japanese pop-culture references. By ten-thirty, I’d ordered two pairs of pajamas that they offered to monogram with my initials, a navy hoodie, five pairs of sweat socks with the Super Very Good logo on them (no idea where I was going to wear them since I hate the gym), a pair of hot pink fishnet stockings (endlessly more practical) and three tiny T-shirts. Then I decided the insanity must stop and logged off.
Oh no, what if Max was trying to call? I checked my voicemail, but no. Well, no, of course not. No self-respecting guy would call the next morning. No self-respecting girl would, either. Not that I had his phone number. All I had was his name, $250 worth of merchandise being FedEx’d my way, and a serious jones. I wondered if that afternoon I should drive around Silver Lake, see if we ran into one another. Maybe, I thought, I’ll do some shopping on Vermont, or get coffee on Hillhurst … Wait, I was starting to act a little creepy. And while I’m being honest, I thought, it might do me good to ponder another cold, hard truth: I was pretty smooth picking up Max at that party the other night. But I’m woefully unlucky in love.
1. The Actor: Ready for his close-up
5 DATES FROM HELL
Men who are two-timing, cheap, and utterly revolting—what’s not to love? A special report from L.A.’s dating battlefield.
BY BENJAMINA FRANKLIN
Here’s the deal: Since my boyfriend and I broke up, I can’t seem to find a decent guy. Maybe I’m a loser magnet with low standards. Maybe I’m too picky. Or maybe it’s that I live in Los Angeles, where single women outnumber single guys by 127,000. We at Filly decided to get to the root of the problem. My assignment is to go on five dates with five eligible guys, and strip these men—and myself—bare.
DATE ONE: KENNETH BREEZE, THE ACTOR
How We Meet: I approach Breeze in front of the guacamole dip at a party and tell him to drop the chalupa. He asks me out.
Stats: Was the guy in the AmPm commercial who says, “There better be a jumbo chili dog in it for me!” On a good day looks like Jared Leto.
The Date: Breeze arrives at my house wearing a cream-colored sweater and jeans. I hand him a glass of Merlot, and he insists on taking my new computer for a test drive. But he’s a PC person, whereas I’m a Mac person, and this sends Breeze into brand-identity posturing. He peppers me with questions about my G3, and in an attempt to defend my computer choice, I start gesticulating wildly and, yes, that’s when I spill red wine all over his shirt.
Breeze rips off his sweater and starts scrubbing it in the kitchen sink. “How is it?” I ask from the doorway.
“Probably ruined,” he says. “And it’s Armani.”
Ugh.
We go to dinner at Mr. Chow, a trendy Beverly Hills restaurant. Breeze gripes about his latest audition, brags about the directors and casting agents he knows. I start feeling better about myself—he’s a consummate name-dropper. But when we leave the restaurant, I commit the ultimate dating faux pas: I slip on my heels, butt hitting the ground, feet flying into the air, right in front of the crowd waiting for the valet. Breeze offers me his hand, saying, “Apparently, coordination isn’t your strong suit.”
Postdate Phone Status: He doesn’t call me, I don’t call him. I consider this a tie. Even though I spilled, and even though, okay, I fell on my ass, how tacky was it of him to tell me the label his sweater?
DATE TWO: EVAN KATZ, THE PRODUCER
How We Meet: At a Fourth of July barbecue in Beachwood Canyon. Katz introduces himself, saying he wants to know everything about my life as a journalist for a script he has in development.
Stats: Produces teen comedies for Universal. Has a fondness for wire spectacles. Owns a cat named Robert Evans.
The Date: Katz takes me to a local Italian restaurant, Ca’Brea, where he’s on a first-name basis with the hostess. Over pap al pomodoro he tells me about his collection of African art and passion for black-and-white photography. I’m thinking: He’s smart, he’s got taste, what’s the catch?
After dinner, we go to a cocktail party. Katz is a perfect gentleman—even goes to the bar to get me a cocktail napkin when I mistakenly splash scotch on his Prada suit. (I’m a klutz. I get that now.) Everything’s going great, until a mutual friend approaches and whispers, “Ooooh, now that you’re Evan’s beard, you’ll get to go to all the great parties!”
Postdate Phone Status: Katz is gay but closeted, so it’s a friend thing. Sometimes he brings me to events as his date, while I help him pick out sweaters at International Male.
DATE THREE: ELLIOT EILERMAN, THE MUSICIAN
How We Meet: A setup. I meet a friend for drinks at Snug Harbor in Koreatown, and Eilerman’s sitting in my seat.
Stats: Not that I’m mad. Looks a little like Sean Lennon, plays guitar in a rock band that gets some radio play on KROQ. Lame band. Cute guy.
The Date: We hit it off. When he asks if I want to check out his temporary digs in the Oakwoods, a Studio City residential hotel (dubbed “the Cokewoods” by actors who get put up there by Warner Brothers), how could I say no?
“HE DOESN’T CALL ME, I DON’T CALL HIM. I CONSIDER THIS A TIE.”
After a few hours, he’s playing guitar for me and I attempt to do the right thing by asking him what time it is, making excuses about
having to work the next day. But Eilerman shakes his head. “I’m not telling you,” he says.
“Because?…”
“Because if I tell you what time it is, you’ll leave.”
Five minutes later we’re rolling around on his Murphy bed. No, we don’t do it; I have a sliver of restraint.
Postdate Phone Status: Did I mention that Eilerman has an ex-girlfriend he’s obsessed with? No? Well, nobody told me either. Imagine my surprise when he told me he “just got out of a serious relationship.”
I did what any self-respecting girl would do: Said I never wanted to see him again, then we went on a few more dates, had sex half a dozen times and, after listening to him rehash their endless arguments (“And I was like, ‘What do you mean I never wash the towels? You’re the one who decided we should each do our own chores!’ ”), I really did never see him again.
DATE FOUR: ETHAN DAVIES, THE WEB DESIGNER
How We Meet: I’m waiting for my car after dinner at Itacho in Hollywood, and he strikes up a conversation. He mentions that he has a pit bull named Dixon whom he takes hiking every weekend in Runyon Canyon.
Stats: Cute. Brown hair, brown eyes. A little dumber than me. (Question from Ethan: “Like, do you follow the news much?” Answer from Ben: “Well, I am a journalist…” Response from Ethan: “Oh, yeah. Cool.”)
The Date: I meet Davies at the base of the hiking trail. The dog is amazing. Doesn’t tug at the leash, does fetch. I basically decide that Ethan is a dog-training genius and fantasize about future brunches with him and Dixon. But then he tells me that his last girlfriend of three months broke up with him after he proposed marriage. He later found out she was seeing another guy the whole time. “Wait,” I say, “why were you asking a girl to marry you when you’d only known her for three months?”
