by Deanna Kizis
“Let go of my hand!” I yelled over the music.
They didn’t hear me.
“LET GO OF MY HAND!”
Still nothing.
So I twisted my wrist quickly just before we hit a turn and broke free. I went careening toward the carpet, which, when the wheels hit it, stopped me cold and I tripped and crashed face-first into the Space Invaders video game.
“Fuuuuck!” I crumpled to the ground, clutching my knee. David and Jamie saw the whole thing.
“Ben, God, are you okay?” Jamie rushed over with this annoying grin on his face. “Lemme help …”
“I’m fine! Thank you! Just …”
“No, come on. You just fell. It’s no big—”
“Go away please.” I gave him the hand. As in, Talk to the hand. Where I picked up this ridiculous gesture, and why it appeared now, I had no idea. Jamie gave me a look that said What’s up your ass? and skated off. Great.
I limped over to an empty bench and sat down, trying not to cry.
“Ben? Is that you?” David Factor, standing right in front of me.
“Oh HI!” I said, like this was the best ever. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.” (Sounded like a lie, even though it was true.)
“I moved back after graduation.” (Math in head: That would be last June. It’s October. He’s owed me a call for almost two years.) “I was thinking about moving to New York, actually, but”—he gave me this phony, self-deprecating smile—“I’m starring in a play now with Tim Robbins’s theater company, so …”
“Oh yeah?” I thought, If I could take his skates, tie them together, and push him down a flight of stairs right now, I’d do it.
“Yeah, and Spielberg came to one of my shows and word on the street is he wants to discuss some projects he has.”
Word on the street.
“Oh. So I …” I racked my brain for what to say next. It came: Say it was great seeing you, say it was great seeing you, say it was great seeing you and walk—no, skate—away. Except I said, “You never called me.” Shit.
“Well, I …” His eyes were darting here and there, looking for an escape. And I got this impulse. Fuck this guy, I thought. I’m fully realized, and I have a new cute almost-boyfriend—he’s not here, but still. Why not take control of this situation and laugh in David’s face?
“Why didn’t you call?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“You don’t want to hear that.”
“I do.”
“Trust me, you don’t.”
“You’re an actor. Act like an adult.” I smiled like, I imagined, a cat with a squirming mouse in its teeth.
David was holding his breath. He let it out in this big huuhhhh sound and smiled. “You know what? You’re right. Okay … Well, I was going to call you, but then … Something kind of creeped me out.”
Maybe I didn’t want to hear this.
“The jacket.” He let the words hang between us, waiting for me to grasp the thread.
“The jacket I borrowed?”
“Yeah. We were having a good time. But then you had to ‘borrow’ my jacket”—he made a quote, unquote gesture here—“like you were cold so I would have to leave it there, and then I’d have to see you again to get it back. If we’re being honest, then, it turned me off.”
I explained about the tiny cocktail dress and San Francisco’s winter weather patterns.
“Oh come on!” he said. “Are you telling me that you didn’t have anything like a jacket or a sweater that you could have run up the little stairs and put on?”
Little stairs? This guy was condescending to me and I was starting to suspect he was some kind of crazy misogynist. I was suddenly painfully aware that I was wearing a shirt emblazoned ALWAYS A BRIDESMAID … I looked for Kiki, who would have easily cut this guy to pieces, but I couldn’t see her. So I said, “I. Was. Cold. Okay? That’s all. I was just a little cold.”
“If you say so.” David Factor laid a hand on my shoulder and the touch burned. Then he said, “It was great seeing you.” And he skated away.
I tried to fake it for another half an hour, with a cherry Icee my mom brought over to put on my now very swollen knee. (“What’s bothering
you now?” she said, handing it to me. I ignored the question and gave her a big, fake smile. She looked scared and left.) But eventually I got so cold, thanks to the mini skirt and the Icee and my self-immolation, I made excuses and went home. I obviously wasn’t going to borrow one of Jamie’s friends’ jackets. Whatever happened to chivalry? I wondered, limping around my kitchen, making myself a frozen pizza, and trying not to hit my knee. And how perilous is dating anyway? How can anyone possibly negotiate so many land mines without making a mistake? If I’d blown it with David Factor so innocently, how could I not be blowing it with Max the same way? I’d mistakenly left a tube of lip gloss on Max’s nightstand the last time I slept over. Was he sitting at home looking at it and thinking about what a loser I was? Did I call Max too frequently? Hold his hand too often in public? Stand too close to him when we were picking out videos at Blockbuster? I thought, Do I seem, just because of the way I am, desperate? Was I desperate?
Then it hit me.
Oh God. Oh God. Oh no.
The mix tape.
FOR FUN, FREEDOM, AND IN THE NAME OF RESEARCH, TURN THEM OFF!
BENJAMINA FRANKLIN goes into the field to see if she can get guys to hate her.
Why do some men run hot, then suddenly turn cold? Not long ago a seemingly interested party asked for my number but never called. This got me thinking—what turns guys off the most? My mission is to find out. I will not rest until every man I meet finds me incredibly unattractive, just so you can read, learn, and do the opposite.
CHANNELING GLENN CLOSE
After a canvassing of my male friends, I found they pretty much all think women are too needy. But surely there are guys who would do anything for a damsel in distress …
Setting: As Needy Girl, I take myself for drinks poolside at Hollywood’s Mondrian Hotel.
Cute Boy #1:[A blond, with a good body but disappointing sunburns, approaches.] Need a light?
Me: Thanks. [I try to look sexy in Marlene Dietrich fashion.] Wanna sit?
CB 1: Sure! So … what do you do?
Me:[Looking stricken.] Actually, I was an assistant, but my boss fired me because I said I wouldn’t get him lattes on my way to work.
CB 1: That’s bullshit! Jesus, what are you going to do now?
Me: I don’t know … [Choking back a sob.] Oh, God, you don’t know anybody who needs an assistant, do you?
CB 1: Not really. [Looking a little uncomfortable, but still game.] So, are you here with anyone?
Me: I’m not here with a guy, if that’s what you’re asking. I haven’t had a date in … oh … [Reaching into purse for a Kleenex, blowing nose.] You like me, don’t you?
CB 1: You seem nice enough.
Me: Are you single? Can I stay over?
CB 1: Um, actually … [Cute boy is weighing his options; should he persevere, or am I a psycho?] You know what? I think my friends are leaving.
Me: Can I come?
CB 1: We’re just going home. [He gets up to leave. I grab his arm.]
Me: Don’t go! Please! Can you give me a ride home?
CB 1: I’m seeing somebody, okay? [I hold on like my life depends on it.] Let go of my arm. Seriously. [Starting to freak out as I sob onto his wrist, finally wrenching his arm free.] Okay then, ’bye. Take care of yourself …
He starts to back away slowly, as if from a wild animal. Walks to his friend and I overhear him say, “Dude, that chick’s, like, a total bunny boiler.”
HIS EYES SAID NO BUT HIS BODY SAID … MAYBE
“I think some girls come on too strong,” says my friend Dan Shapiro, a writer for Details, over lunch one day. “Sometimes I feel like they just want to use me for my schvantz.”
I laugh so hard that the pizza I’m eating comes out my nose and tell him most guys would kill for guilt
-free sex. He disagrees. We put a ten-spot on it.
Setting: In the role of Total ’Ho, I cruise the sandwich counter at Wild Oats, a chic health food market, during lunch hour.
Cute Boy #2:[Wearing a suit with tie undone, talking to the guy behind the counter.] I’ll take a tuna sandwich. What kind of bread do you have? [Rye, sourdough, or wheat.] Sourdough. Can you toast that? [They can.] Cool.
Me: I just love a hot tuna sandwich, don’t you?
CB 2: Excuse me?
Me: I said, I just love a hot tuna sandwich, don’t you?
CB 2: Um, yeah. Do you come here often? [Suddenly aware this sounds like a cheesy pickup line …] I mean, do you work nearby?
Me: I live nearby—just around the corner.
CB 2:[Looking confused.] You work at home?
Me: Where you going to eat that sandwich?
CB 2: At my desk. I’m a lawyer, actually, and I have a pretty heavy caseload …
Me: Maybe I could help you release some of the tension. [I reach up to massage his shoulders.]
CB 2: Wait a sec … [Shifts away so I’ll stop touching him.] Are you making fun of me?
Me:[Looking longingly into his eyes.] Let’s go have hot, meaningless sex.
CB 2: Wow. Uh, maybe some other time. I’m really flattered, though. [Taking his sandwich.] I have to go back to work now. But … can I get your number? [I scribble it down on a napkin under the words “Anastasia. Anytime. Anywhere” and he puts it in his pocket.] Okay, well, nice meeting you, Anika.
He calls “Anika” the next day, leaving directions to the Beauty Bar, where he’ll be at 12:30 A.M. on Saturday night, in case she wants to meet for a drink. Dan owes me ten bucks.
“AFTER A CANVASSING OF MY MALE FRIENDS, I FOUND THEY PRETTY MUCH ALL THINK WOMEN ARE TOO NEEDY.”
I WANT MONEY THAT’S WHAT I WANT
In L.A. you see a gazillion girls at trendy clubs talking to wealthy-looking guys who buy them free drinks and appear to dig their crass attitude. Meanwhile, when I go out on a date I’m usually worried if he pays too often he’ll think I’m only after his dough. What gives? Does being a money-grubbing bi-atch turn them away, or turn them on?
Setting: Les Deux Cafes, where I act like a Money-Grubbing Bi-atch on a date with the guy I’m actually seeing. Because I want him to keep dating me, we’ll ID him as Cute Boy #3.
Cute Boy #3:[Upon reading the menu, which prices salads at $14; the chicken, the cheapest dish, is over $30.] This is a nice restaurant.
Me: Isn’t it? I was thinking that we should go to nice dinners more often.
CB 3: Yeah, if it’s a special occasion … Is this a special occasion?
Me: Just another night out.
He asks me if I want to split a salad, I tell him I’m getting the foie gras, then the steak.
Me: So, I was thinking. You should take me to Hawaii. There’s a hotel I want to check out that’s supposed to be fabulous. [I smile fetchingly.]
CB 3:[Laughing.] What do you mean “take you”?
Me: You don’t want to take me on vacation? [I do my best imitation of a pout.]
CB 3: You don’t want to take me on vacation?
Me: You’re the guy. I would think that you would want to pay. You’re buying me dinner, right?
CB 3: Didn’t you say you wanted to take me to dinner? [Lighting a cigarette, looking disturbed.]
Me:[Smiling sweetly and shrugging the way I suspect money-grubbing girls do.] I forgot my wallet.
CB 3: Are you mad at me or something?
Terrified that if I go one step farther he’ll never talk to me again, I apologize profusely, telling CB 3 I’m doing research for an article and can expense the check. I ask him if my money-grubbing made him feel like more of a man. He assures me it didn’t. I then ask if he would continue to date me if I always acted like this, and he says, “I adore you, B, but I don’t think I could afford it.”
DO I LOOK FAT? NO, SERIOUSLY, DO I LOOK LIKE A COW?
“I hate how gorgeous girls are always asking me how they look,” confides Art Ablang, a marketing exec for a shoe company. “They complain about their appearance but really they’re fishing for compliments.” This is a tough one—what girl doesn’t worry that her ass looks too big in her new pants? And self-deprecation can be charming …
The Setting: As Self-Conscious Suzie, I stroll Melrose Boulevard on a Saturday afternoon wearing a T-shirt that reads DOES THIS SHIRT MAKE ME LOOK FAT?
Me:[Approaching Cute Boy #4, who’s window-shopping and looks like Johnny Depp.] Does this shirt make me look fat?
Cute Boy #4:[Giving an accusatory stare.] Why?
Me: I’m just wondering if you like it.
CB 4:[Extremely hostile.] Go away! I don’t want to have this conversation!
Humiliated, I proceed to the nearby Starbucks and Cute Boy #5, who’s drinking an iced coffee and reading the paper.
Me: Does this shirt make me look fat?
Cute Boy #5: Oh. I don’t think so.
Me: Do you like it?
CB 5: It’s kind of ironic. I think it’s funny.
Me: Does my ass look fat in these pants?
CB 5: Not really. [Laughing.] You sound like my ex-girlfriend.
Me: Did she annoy you?
CB 5: Well, we broke up. [Goes back to reading paper.]
Now I’m walking down the street, and I come across Cute Boy #6, who has a crew cut and is walking in the opposite direction. He reads my shirt from a distance, staring as I get closer. Before I can say anything, he points at my chest and says: “Yes.”
It seems one guy’s nightmare is another’s potential scam. When I was Needy Girl, Cute Boy #1 didn’t give up until I started to act like the psycho from hell, and Cute Boy #2 did call Total ’Ho and ask her out for a drink. Then again, the guy I’m currently dating would probably have stopped returning my calls if I didn’t have a really good explanation for why I was being a Money-Grubbing Bi-atch. And as for all the guys who saw my FAT T-shirt, I think we can safely say asking them how I looked antagonized them beyond all reason. Just the same, I spend so much time trying to hide all the annoying and embarrassing things about myself, it was liberating to let my inner craziness out. So why not put all your faults front and center and stick like Krazy Glue to the one guy who can still stand you? Because honestly, we all have a little bit of Needy Girl, Total ’Ho, Money-Grubbing Bi-atch, and Self-Conscious Suzie in each and every one of us. I say, ladies, let your inner bitches and ’hos roar.
CHAPTER
6
When I woke up I was still obsessing about the tape. I stood in my dining room and stared with deep resentment at the CDs I’d recorded, still coverless and stacked (probably getting scratched) on my dining room table. There were five serious trouble spots:
1.“Venus as a Boy,” Bjork. Mellifluous, romantic meditation on how the guy she’s in love with is so beautiful he could be compared to da Vinci’s Venus de Milo. Shit.
2.“Gigantic,” The Pixies. Some say it was Kim Deal rhapsodizing about the size of her boyfriend’s penis; others claim she was singing about her immense feelings for him. Big problem either way …
3.“There Is a Light That Never Goes Out,” The Smiths. Sample lyric: “To die by your side, is such a heavenly way to die.” A particularly bad choice.
4.“God Only Knows,” The Beach Boys. Maybe I’d squeak by on this one since I’d spied a Brian Wilson autobiography on his nightstand the last time I’d slept over.
5.Last, but certainly not least, “Answering Machine,” The Replacements. Sample lyric: “How do you say I love you to an answering machine?” Better question: What was I, fucking nuts?
I may as well have stood up on his Eames coffee table, bared my chest, beat it like a mad gorilla, and screamed “I LOVE YOU, MAX!” five times. I may as well have hired a plane to fly over his house to sky-write it at five thousand feet. I may as well have gotten Casey Kasem himself to show up at Max’s damn office to do an in-person “I love you” dedication. Unwitti
ngly, I broke my own rule. My own damn rule. Never say I love you! Never!
Next possible steps … I could casually ask Max how he liked the mix tape and gauge his reaction. I could be counterintuitive and start using the L-word in Max’s presence constantly (I love this song on the radio, I love pizza, I love Q-tips) so as to demystify and disempower it. Or I could pretend the mix tape didn’t exist.
I called Kiki at the office but she was MIA. Where could she be? In a panic, I called Nina on her cell. She said she had just enough time between classes for coffee, so I met her on the patio outside Starbucks near UCLA. Surrounded by students with interesting facial hair who were somberly poking at their laptop computers, Nina listened as I ranted.
“The Pixies song is going to just fuck me,” I said, head in hand. “It fucks me.”
“I don’t know that group,” Nina said, taking a sip of iced chai. “But I think you’re dodging the main issue here.”
“What main issue?”
“The fact that you’ve made a declaration of love and now you are uncertain of how it will be received.” She removed her straw and absently chewed the end. She was still not smoking, which made me murderous.
“So what do I do?”
“I would advise you to address this problem head-on. Tell Max that while you do have feelings for him, you hope that he doesn’t read more into the tape than what was intended, as you were thinking about it and realized that he might.”
“But, if I do that, then isn’t it like I’m saying, Oh, in case you’re wondering whether or not I’m in love with you I’m really not, in which case I’m going to sound like I really am?”
“I’m not following you, Ben.” Nina leaned in. Her voice took on a soothing cadence that grated on my nerves. “Talk about how this conversation is making you feel.”
I took a deep breath. “What about my idea that I should pretend the mix tape doesn’t exist? What’s wrong with that?”
