51/50: The Magical Adventures of a Single Life

by Kristen McGuiness

  “So are you going with 51/50 as a title because you’ve fucked 51 men?” Ben asks.

  “No.” I am irritated by Ben’s tendency towards the sexual until I realize something: “Wait! I have.”

  “I guess you’ve been pretty busy.”

  “Well, not all of us got sober when we were ten, Ben.”

  “That’s true,” Ben agrees. If I were being strategic, which I am not in love, ever, I would have probably thought better than to tell the sex-obsessed, slightly misogynistic writer how many men with whom I have slept. I might have been wiser to hold on to that card for a bit. But I don’t because for all my shaman and program and deep breaths, when I get going, my mouth just speaks for itself.

  We continue talking about love and romance and recovery. Ben has been single even longer than I have (seven years) and admittedly hasn’t introduced a girlfriend to his family in forever. Ben is very single, but won’t really tell me why. Maybe he doesn’t know, but I think he does. He just isn’t into showing his cards as easily as I am. We hang up the phone, and I wonder what the rest of this game is going to look like.

  42

  Date Forty-Two: Beautiful People

  I shock myself sometimes. Really, I do. Because I should know better by now. I know that to do the same thing over and over and expect different results is the definition of insanity. I know this like I know my own name, or the serenity prayer, or the many other things we say in the meetings I go to not just to stay sober, but to stay sane. And then I go and do something completely fucking crazy, and I shock myself. I do.

  I met Eli over a year ago in those said meetings, and though he wore an eye patch and was covered in tattoos, I still found him incredibly, naughtily sexy. We became friends if only for the reason that we are both very affectionate people. And so we would hug and squeeze each other and confuse all the other hipster girls, who once again would cock their heads to the side and think, “The yuppie?”

  But then Eli relapsed, and I stopped seeing him around, and I stopped fantasizing about him when I had no one else to think about.

  And then Eli reappears. And here is the dangerous part: Eli might wear an eye patch, he might be covered in tattoos, his hair might hang in greasy strings around his face, but Eli is beautiful. As in supermodel beautiful, and it isn’t hard to see that he knows that, and he does everything he can to hide it. Or at least to make women like me think he is hiding it. Because that is the danger of beautiful people. It’s like the rich. It always seems like they have it all, like they shouldn’t have problems, but there is a laundry list of issues inherent to having money. And the one thing it does is always make you question why people want to be with you, what you are getting used for, whether people really love you, or if they just love your cash. And beauty is no different.

  Traditionally, the most beautiful people I know are the most fucked up. They grew up with adults always looking at them funny. Either cooing in their direction, or for those who weren’t well enough protected, often far, far worse. And then they become adults, and it is the source of their power as much as it is the source of their insanity.

  And I know better. I know that I will not be dating Eli. I know that the affections we share, though sweet, are not the beginnings of any sort of romance. But he is so pretty that when he comes back into the meetings and starts turning his attentions on me, I forget the dangers of the beautiful people. I forget that there are finely drawn lines between physical classes and that you will normally be disappointed if you cross them. And I forget that to do the same thing over and over again and expect different results is insanity.

  I can’t even say it starts innocently enough because it doesn’t. By the end of the first night of texting, I am suggesting that I come over with my riding crop and half chaps. And just as I did for the better part of my drinking, I find myself pretending to be someone much tougher and rougher than I actually am. Because as the texting exchange gets dirtier, as the ante keeps going up, and my bravado with it, I have promised things I don’t know even know how to do. By 4:00 p.m. the following day I realize that I am no longer a woman who can go over to a strange man’s apartment and do things with a riding crop without paying a heavy price.

  What I could once get away with while drunk doesn’t work quite as well sober. There’s no boozy brain to fall back into and that is why I call Eli and tell him that I cannot come over. I can already tell what I am going to feel like the day after—the guilt, the remorse, the shame.

  And then I get the text message, “Why don’t you come over and watch a movie with me. If I give you an Eskimo kiss, it will feel organic and not something weird and planned. No riding crops allowed.” And I destroy the good decision in the space of one text. Because I don’t read, “it (meaning sex) will feel organic.” I read, “watch a movie with me... I give you an Eskimo kiss,” and I get excited. I want so desperately to curl up on a couch with some lovely man and watch a movie and eat popcorn and be sweet and adoring to each other. And so, I respond, “Perfect.”

  I go over, and he gives me the tour of the ramshackle guest house where he lives. Eli builds bicycles when he isn’t working at a psychiatric ward. He makes us popcorn in a frying pan. He shows me the plant that he has nearly killed a thousand times. And when I tell him about my obsession to learn how to build furniture, he pulls out books that he has on woodworking and joinery, and we look at pictures of different types of wood and benches and chairs.

  We watch an old Czech film with no real plot or dialogue or even narrative for that matter. We eat our popcorn, and I think, as we watch the lead actress stare dolefully at the camera, that this is probably the type of woman who interests Eli. Quiet and mysterious and incredibly beautiful, but in a creepy way. Or maybe that’s just what I think about Eli. Either way we are leaning against each other, and I like it. He makes fun of me for dropping popcorn on myself, and it’s odd, but for someone who smells like he hasn’t showered in a while, I can tell Eli likes things in an oddly ordered fashion.

  We finish the popcorn, and before I can even say, “That was good,” he puts the bowl down on the coffee table and is all over me. The kissing is pretty darn nice, but I don’t want this to go further.

  I pull away. “Eli, look, I want to keep this G-rated.”

  “What does that mean?” he asks.

  And with all my little heart, I say, “Pants on.”

  “Okay.” And then he is on top of me again.

  Someone once told me that the minute you sit on a guy’s bed, you might as well just take your clothes off right there. Because basically, you’re screwed. Which is why when Eli stands up, takes my hand, and leads me into his bedroom, I know better. I know what the results are going to be here, and I don’t want them. I don’t want to have sex with this man. I don’t want to add another number to my notch. I just want him to hold me and tell me that I am beautiful and fall asleep to him kissing my back.

  “I have herpes,” I blurt. I don’t know why I think this will help, but it does. Because though Eli’s bed is adorned with a set of five-point restraints, apparently herpes is far more terrifying.

  “That’s okay,” he tells me. “We can do other things.”

  But I don’t want to do other things. I want to go home. There is something in me that doesn’t trust Eli anymore, and I get up to use the restroom and try to figure out what I am going to do. I stand in Eli’s dirty bathroom. It reeks of cat piss and a dirty litter box that I am tempted to scoop. There are urine stains around the toilet and tooth paste is caked all over the mirror in which I am staring, trying to figure out what kind of woman I am. Because I want desperately to be able to go into Eli’s bedroom, give him a kiss on the forehead, put my shoes on, and go home. I just wanted to watch a movie. I didn’t want this.

  I take a deep, slow breath. I walk out of the bathroom and into Eli’s bedroom. The lights are now out, and Eli sits on the edge of the bed.

  “Come here,” he tells me. I want to leave, but my legs are walking towar
d him, and my lips are against his, and then as he softly pushes my shoulders down, I am on my knees, and all I can think is, “I want to go home now. I want to go home.”

  But I don’t. In fact, I don’t even remember the next few minutes. I feel nothing but darkness, and though I can hear him moaning in the distance, I know that what is happening in this moment is very, very wrong.

  Eli falls back on the bed. And I slump down like a rag doll. It takes him a moment to realize that something might be wrong with me. I am not crying out loud, but somewhere deep inside I am sobbing.

  “Come here,” he says again. And I get on the bed. I hope that he will hold me, that he will pay me in compliments, but he doesn’t. I lie down next to him, and instantly he is asleep. And I feel like I did so many years before, lying in that bed with Oliver. Lying there, wanting so much more than this and knowing that I have once again given away a part of me for very little in return.

  Nearly four years before, I turned twenty-seven. I was in the midst of my affair with Oliver and had decided that I would turn over a new leaf. I would quit smoking. I would quit cocaine. I would quit drinking during the week. And I would become the woman that I thought Oliver wanted me to be, and maybe I would get to keep him. But then my birthday party arrived, as did the cocaine and the cigarettes and the booze, and my new leaf failed to turn.

  The day after my party, I woke up with a stuffed nose and bloodshot eyes and a broken heart. I was in Oliver’s bed; he was already awake, reading for work in his living room, and I knew he was slowly but surely backing out. Though he had joined my party for the last several months, he was merely on a vacation on the island that had become my life. And it was time for him to go back to work. That morning at breakfast as we sat across from each other at a crowded Hollywood restaurant like any other couple, he asked between a bite of my omelet and a request for salt, “You wanna go to a hotel tonight?”

  And just as casually I said, “Sure, why not?”

  But I knew then what I could not admit. Oliver wasn’t looking for a romantic night for two. Sure, we might have had some in the beginning before my addictions became so apparent, and the nights became increasingly tawdry. Nights where we lay in bed, drinking wine and listening to Bob Dylan, where his lips slipped around mine, and I could always see his eyes in the dark. That was there too. Even as we sat at that restaurant on that crowded Saturday morning. But more often we got an eight ball of cocaine, we partied with friends, and we tried desperately to hold on to each other through it all.

  We got to the Rock ’n’ Roll Hyatt in the afternoon, and the coke dealer made his first drop off right before sundown. By the end of the night, I lay there in our bed, watching as the sun crept through our tightly drawn curtains. I looked down at Oliver as he slept, and I knew there was no going back. Here was the one thing that I wanted, that I loved more than anything else, and I kept behaving in ways that only pushed him away, that only made me dangerous in his eyes, and not the safe harbor I had wanted to be for him ever since I was seven, and he came asking for my help. I looked at him, and I saw the boy he once was, the man he had become, and ultimately the father he would one day be. And I knew I would lose him. I knew that he would be okay. That he would stop this endless party, and mine would just continue. I looked at him, and I knew I had to change.

  Eli and I settle into sleeping position, and I try to ignore that I don’t want to be here. Eli begins to rub my back and kisses my shoulder, and I get what I wanted. But it isn’t worth the price. And it never has been. Because at a certain point, I stopped looking for sex in the arms of one-night stands; I was simply looking to be held. And even though Eli’s embrace is comforting, it’s also counterfeit.

  The next morning, Eli gets in the shower. When I realize he is not getting out until after I leave, I say goodbye. He pops his head out and tells me, “Hey, take that woodworking book with you.”

  Somehow the book is supposed to balance things out. And if I were a hooker, which I pretty much feel like, I have just sold myself for The Complete Illustrated Guide to Joinery.

  I get home, shower, and call Mimi. And she meets me at a local meeting because that’s just the type of friend she is. We walk into my meeting, and immediately I see Jimmy Voltage. As the way things go, he is the speaker for that day, and I have never heard him share his story before. As he does, I realize how different and yet how alike we are. I listen to him tell his own tale of bad decisions and regrettable mistakes, and I remember that we are not perfect.

  Afterward, I go and hug Jimmy, and he pulls me in for one of the biggest, tightest, safest hugs ever. And I smile up at my friend, and I say, “I loved your share.”

  And there is nothing counterfeit about it. Just as I did with Jimmy so many months before, I know I need to pick myself up and brush myself off. Jimmy invites me to see the new house he lives in, and though I can tell we will only be friends, I also know that this is how things change. We fuck up. We get hurt. We move on. And we try to do it better the next time around.

  43

  Date Forty-Three: Love Will Tear Us Apart

  Fantasy has never done anything but disappoint me. In fact, I can almost guarantee something will not happen once I have a fantasy about it. But it never stops me. Oh no, the many magical moments, the great Oscar-winning scenes, the music videos of my life are some of my many great distractions, and quite possibly, fantasy is my most unconquered addiction. Lately, I have been driving around, listening to “Love Will Tear Us Apart,” by Joy Division, and I have been envisioning the fabulous way in which this book will end. I was telling Siren recently that I do not know which man will ultimately get to star in the final scene, but I do like scripting it.

  I almost want to ask Ben what he thinks will be my ending, but I don’t. Though I feel unreasonably comfortable with him, I am not sure if that’s in a romantic way or just in a jocular one. We have now been e-mailing for weeks—all of which have been long and funny and filled with literary jags and some serious details.

  One thing becomes clear: we will not be able to continue communicating at this pace without getting a little worn out. I went to a wedding last Saturday, and I wondered as I watched the beautiful couple join a perfect union whether Ben will make the move and at least ask me to coffee. I sat at a table of mostly single girls, and I knew that we were all thinking about when it will be our turn. The night was thick, the weather warm, and the bride and groom happily, giddily in love. I watched them at their table for two, and I wondered if that’s what I want.

  “So, are you looking to get a husband out of the book?” Ben sits across the table from me, stirring his coffee. Two days after the wedding, Ben asks me out. Since Ben is also a writer, he does it under the pretense that we can, “ya know, talk about our books.”

  I shake my head. “I was actually just hoping for a three- to six-month relationship.”

  He laughs. “Isn’t a year of dating an awful lot to go through just to get a three- to six-month relationship?”

  I rethink my offer. “Okay, then, nine months.”

  Because the truth is I don’t see myself with Ben for much longer than that. I could see us breaking down each other’s walls a bit, letting one another in, teaching each other a thing or two about our diverse interests, and ultimately just not seeing eye to eye on enough things to go much further.

  Ben takes me to the cake-filled café where I went for my first date in this little experiment, bringing me full circle. As we navigate the crowded restaurant and shift around the heavy wrought-iron chairs, and Ben gets back up because his coffee isn’t warm enough, and I try to find honey, and my tea cup is shaking because I am nervous, and Ben forgets to get utensils, and I still haven’t found the honey, I am just grateful that we have made it through all the pitfalls of social anxiety to actually make it to our table.

  When we walked to the restaurant from our meeting, the sidewalk got a little narrow, and I found Ben walking at least three feet in front of me, and I couldn’t help but feel
strange. Why would he leave me behind? Even as the sidewalk widens, and there is room for the both of us, Ben moves at a pace that is too fast for me. And I am not about to break into a trot just to keep up.

  “So, did you ever end up finding some honey?” he asks, referring to my tea.

  “No. It was too hard. And I was already holding a cup of steaming water, and I don’t know, I just get nervous,” I admit.

  “Do you want honey?”

  I nod my head. “Yes, please.”

  Ben smiles and gets up to find me some, and for a moment I forget about the fast walking and his sarcasm. I wonder whether Ben’s attitude of being jaded and aloof is really just a front for the kind person struggling to get out. He tells me off the bat, “I feel a little guarded around you.”

  “Why? Because I’m writing a book?” I ask.

  “Yeah.”

  I think he means emotionally, and so I explain, “Really, Ben, it’s not as much about the dates as it is about me, about my own lessons and observations and growth.”

  “Yeah, I get that,” he says. “The thing is, I’m writing a book too. I don’t want you using any of my stories.” God love him for being honest, but really?