I threw the anal beads at his head and told him to stuff them up his own ass and pull them out one at a time while leaving.
He stomped out, but not without threatening, “You’ll never hear from or see me again in your life.”
Yeah, I assumed that after he read my diary and chucked a bottle at me.
The apartment was suddenly very still. I looked around at the wreckage littering my floor: torn photos, destroyed love notes, broken glass, plastic bits from the camera, and the sex toys. Without giving it too much thought, I grabbed a garbage bag and began furiously cleaning up, tossing it all in, until I got to the jewel vibrator “in tasteful silver.”
Those sex toys were expensive and practically brand-new. I’d never be able to use them again or even look at them the same way. The butt plug was dead to me. Could I just boil them and give them away? Can you donate sex toys to Goodwill? Maybe I could run them through the dishwasher and give them to my neighbor? He was always loitering in the hallways wearing a smirk and a bathrobe. But then I’d have to talk to him. Ew.
I wanted to clear everything out of my life that had been even remotely connected to Mickey, literally and figuratively. So I sifted through my belongings and also tossed out Geek Love, all our remaining photos, and a bunch of CDs. I dragged the bag down to the back of the apartment building and hoisted it into the dumpster, savoring the image in my mind of the sanitation truck emptying that dumpster into a landfill, and amongst the rotting food, dirt, and debris, a big pink sparkly dildo proudly tumbling out.
I couldn’t sleep that night. My mind raced through our fight, and my body wouldn’t relax. I hated that we’d let things escalate to the point where we’d really never be able to talk again. I was pissed off at Mickey for ruining so many things. Going forward, not only would I never keep a journal again, but at bachelorette parties, if the bride whipped out a rabbit vibrator from a gift box, I would instinctively duck. I’d moved from fetish to phobia.
But at least I had someone to move on with.
A few weeks later I went to bed with the handsome improviser. It was a total relief that when he asked for a suggestion this time, he didn’t ask for an object.
CHAPTER 13
RENT A WRECK
It was the dawn of a new millennium, and everyone was freaking out that after January 1 their computers wouldn’t be able to keep time. I was living in a two-bedroom apartment above a secondhand bookstore in Little Italy, the coolest part of town. My roommate was a jazz musician dating a bassist, our upstairs neighbor was a makeup artist, and I was a struggling stand-up comedian in love with an improviser. We were all very impressed with ourselves.
Even though I lived there for four years, much of my Toronto Era was a blur. It was a particularly debaucherous time in my life, which is saying something. One of the city’s many nicknames is Hogtown, as it used to be a livestock-processing center. I made sure I lived up to that moniker.
Sadly, the improviser and I weren’t meant to be. We simply had different values. He wanted stability, companionship, and success in his career, and I wanted to PAR-TAY.
Now, even the word party makes me feel tired. I rebounded with anyone who showed a flicker of interest. He went on to date a taller, prettier, more successful version of me, a comedic actress named Olivia Rosenbaum. It was like he created her in his shed.
The epitome of the struggling artist, I worked ten different temporary jobs to make rent, and spent half the night at the comedy club hoping to get on, and the other half at the bar hoping to get off. Seeing as stage time was hard to come by, in the end, I’d built up a bigger reputation at my neighborhood bar than at Yuk Yuk’s. This bar was called Ted’s Wrecking Yard and had the atmosphere of an alcoholic’s garage with a pool table in the back and a small stage for the occasional indie band. The combination of the pent-up energy from not getting on stage enough and the grungy atmosphere of Ted’s transformed me into a different, more confident version of myself. My audience was the bartender and fellow patrons. The bartender even nicknamed me “the troublemaker,” as I tried to impress him once by saying something ridiculous like “trouble relaxes me.” Evidently, I watched too many episodes of Knots Landing as a kid. It was at this dark drinking establishment that I perfected the power of suggestion. I wasn’t so much a tease as I was a taunt. Or a good improviser.
My method was as follows: I’d find a free bar stool and order a drink. If a guy sat down beside me, I’d say something like, “You can’t sit here unless you buy me a drink, and I’m stealing one of your cigarettes.” Then I’d order two Maker’s Marks, turn back, and ask accusingly, “You do drink bourbon, don’t you?” and lift my glass for a toast. Boldness goes a long way, and I had a pretty good return rate with this bulldozing technique. It was pre-foreplay role-playing. Most of the guys were caught off guard by my brash behavior and found it amusing. They’d usually pony up for a couple of drinks, engage in a little banter, and then sometimes we’d make out. I wouldn’t leave with them, nor would we exchange info. It was a game I kept within the confines of the Wrecking Yard, which became my parlor, my acting workshop, my chemistry lab all rolled into one. It was shocking how easily these guys handed over the reins, completely content to sit back and see where I would take them. People love being told what to do.
One night I was even daring enough to approach this guy after watching his girlfriend storm out. Like a vulture, I swooped in with two shots of tequila, handed him one, and with a smile said, “Women. Can’t live with them, can’t stuff ’em in a bag.” Like I said, I was a struggling comic. We clicked glasses, sucked on lemons, and followed up with a citrus-infused make out before last call. What I was doing was half harmless and half unhinged, but back then I had boundless energy for this sort of thing.
My fashion designer friend invited me to a party in New York, a trip I would remember for years because of how long it took to pay off that MasterCard bill. My flight left Friday morning at nine. The night before, I victoriously secured a date with Ethan from my new acting class. I developed a crush on Ethan even though the other actresses warned me, “He’s the kind of guy who won’t cushion your head as it’s slamming into the headboard.” That sounded less like a metaphor and more like something that had literally happened. Regardless, it was why I was attracted to him; I admired how he didn’t seem to give a shit. He was who I pretended to be. And then there was the challenge aspect: What if I could make him protect my head?
We met for dinner at Ted’s Wrecking Yard. Does Ted’s serve food, you ask? No. Dinner was three rounds of beers.
“So are you seeing someone?” I asked him between rounds.
“Why? Do you have a suggestion?” he challenged.
“Yeah. How about the redhead over there?”
What did he think? I was an amateur?
“Already been with her,” he volleyed back, and took another swig.
In a way, we were playing the same instant gratification game, both gatherers, not hunters. We weren’t looking for one triumphant kill to drag home and feel proud of; we were content with racking up smaller scores.
Before we left, he insisted that “we needed” one round of shots, which would have made sense if they were vitamin B12 shots.
That’s when I knew I’d broken through. Moments later, we kissed in my stairwell because I didn’t want to disturb my roommate, who was studying for her jazz theory exam. Following a vigorous necking session that could only be classified as hot, he broke the action to look at his watch.
“Hey. I gotta go. I have tickets to this play,” he said abruptly, putting on his leather jacket. He didn’t invite me to join him. I acted unfazed.
“See you after New York,” I said and waved, alluding that he might be missing his one chance, as the trip might change me. Some of those acting techniques we learned were proving useful.
I still had twelve hours until my flight—I could pack sixty-two times over! Since I was way ahead of schedule, I went back to Ted’s Wrecking Yard in an effort to
give the evening some resolve. This is what happens when you don’t own a TV. The place was packed with mostly couples and people I already knew, so I ordered a draft and chatted with the bartender. A petite girl with translucent skin and short curly blonde hair wandered in and sat down beside me. She was dressed in a trashy tight polyester dress and heavily made up, but not enough to hide the dark-blue circles under her eyes. She looked like a tarted-up cherub on a bender. After drinking silently side by side for a while, I asked out of pure curiosity, “Are you waiting for someone?” She snort-laughed. “No, I’m trying to get away from someone.” I liked that answer. “Well, let me know if I can be of help.” She introduced herself as Kerri, and we engaged in girl talk: sizing up and rating the different men in the bar. The alcohol started to hit me hard, and I remembered that I still had to pack. As I leaned down to grab my purse, I felt a small hand on my back. It was Kerri’s. With bloodshot eyes she said, “I’ll buy you a drink if you kiss me.”
I wasn’t opposed to the idea. My general philosophy was that it was hard enough to find someone you liked, let alone care what their gender was. I’d kissed a few girls along the way, but not much more, and never in public. The problem was, I didn’t really want to. I’ve never been into blondes, and she was too short. I felt like a brute next to her. Then again, she did offer me an invitation to do something highly spontaneous and potentially entertaining. I gave Kerri the thumbs-up and grabbed her little head. I took special delight in the fact that the bartender saw me leave with Ethan a few hours earlier. As a matter of fact, his saliva was still fresh on my lips. I thought I was really pulling one over on life, playing a bigger game than everyone else. Of course, the bartender and other guys witnessing our display went nuts. They weren’t frat boys as much as they were film students, so it was less hooting and hollering, and more encouraging catcalls, with a “Yay!” and a “Well done!” and a “Beautiful!” as if we were at an arty photoshoot. Drinks and shots piled up at the bar to encourage more action, the equivalent of putting quarters in the mechanical pony at the mall. The attention was far more exciting than the actual kissing; because of her size, I felt as if I were kissing a child or a miniature person. She had no real technique, and was clearly used to someone else doing all the work. Trashy blondes get away with everything.
Within the span of an hour, the making-out-and-pausing-to-do-shots show became a little repetitious, even for the spectators. Kerri asked if I wanted to go smoke a joint. It was absolutely the last thing I wanted to do, but my mouth was so unfamiliar with flexing the muscles needed to form the word no, that I agreed. I told her I lived a few steps away, and we could safely smoke it in the confines of my apartment. I couldn’t decide if it was more or less dangerous to invite a strange woman versus a strange guy back to my place. Thanks to her size, I was pretty sure that if it came down to it, I could take her.
My roommate was practicing piano in the living room, so we snuck into my bedroom and smoked on my futon. As I was putting out the roach in the soil of my plant, Kerri began to disrobe. I exhaled. I didn’t have the energy for this. But I couldn’t ignore that I’d built up the expectation by inviting her up to my room. I’d mistakenly handed over the reins to her, happy to see where she would take me. Now she was offering another VIP ticket to a new experience if I wanted it.
I took off my shirt.
We rolled around on my mattress. She didn’t know what she was doing, nor did I per se, so we fumbled around with zero finesse or expertise. Actual “getting off” was definitely out of the question, as it’d require dialogue, direction, sobriety, and time we didn’t have.
A nauseous feeling started brewing in my stomach from the mixture of booze and general sensory overload, and I excused myself to the bathroom where I puked. I hung over the toilet for a moment, holding my hair with one hand, spit rolling off my lips onto the floor. My head was buzzing like it was full of cicadas, backed up by my roommate’s frenetic jazz piano solo in the next room. Splashing water on my face and lapping it up from my cupped hands, I tried to talk myself back. It’s okay, it’s okay. You’re in a little over your head and turns out you can’t handle everything. But it’s okay, you just need to go to sleep. You’re not going to die, you just need to sleep.
I walked back into my bedroom to find Kerri waiting for me, draped seductively over my futon. I noticed that she’d refreshed her makeup, retouched her eyeliner, and added a bit of gloss. I found it was comical as I’d done the same thing many times before but had no idea how obvious it was. She smiled and ran her hands up and down her own body, which stirred my troubled stomach again. Her face turned to serious.
“You should know something,” she said
Oh fuck. Was she about to tell me she had some sort of STD? I knew I should have at least grabbed some Saran Wrap from the kitchen.
She continued, “I’m married.”
“Oh, thank god!” I said unintentionally out loud. I didn’t care that she was cheating on her husband; as far as I was concerned I was cheating death. I had no desire to process what we’d done or bond over tea tomorrow morning. I needed to gargle with Listerine and get on a plane.
“I mean, it’s okay. I’m with someone too. Listen, I have to go to New York in like four hours, so we should wrap this up for now and you should probably go home to your husband.”
“What?” she said tersely. “You’re kicking me out?”
I was definitely too tired for a brawl. I explained that I hadn’t packed and the night got away from me. She angrily snatched her clothes off the floor and laced up her boots while muttering under her breath. It was the first time in my life I’d wanted to ask, Why are you mad at me? Whatever was going on in the minds of the guys at the bar was a thousand times better than what was actually happening here. I walked her to the door, and at the last minute she went in for a final kiss. I recoiled, mostly out of embarrassment that I smelled like vomit. She left in a huff, and I locked the deadbolt behind her.
Women.
I MISSED MY morning flight to JFK and resorted to paying extra to get a later one, a fee I accepted as a much-deserved irresponsibility tax. However, when I unzipped my bag in New York to get ready for the party, I discovered that I’d only packed one boot. With no time or money left to fix the problem, I wore a red cocktail dress with light-blue slip-on Vans to a fashion designer’s party. I tried to laugh it off, admitting that this was the result of packing on the heels of a crazy night of corruption, but the New Yorkers were not impressed. It was one thing to fuck up your life; it was another thing to fuck up your footwear. At least I could run away quickly.
When I landed back in Toronto, exhausted and ashamed, I accepted that I’d reached my tipping point. Trouble wasn’t relaxing me; it was ruining me. I promptly checked myself into a gym. As I ran on the treadmill facing a wall of mirrors, I wondered how long I could sit at Ted’s Wrecking Yard before I became a broken-down pick-up truck that nobody wanted. And then I ran a little faster.
A few weeks later I was out for dinner with a friend, splurging on martinis. While I blathered on about my breakup with the improviser and recent wild escapades, I watched one of the waiters do a double take as he brushed by.
It took me a minute, but then I remembered him as the guy who waited on Mickey and me on our one good night in Toronto. He stuck in my memory because he had a serious Don Draper meets rockabilly look going on, with slicked-back hair and black-framed glasses. I had no explanation as to why he remembered me. Dear god, what had I done?
“Hey—how are you?” he asked warmly.
“I’m doing okay—surviving after a breakup!”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said smiling.
A week later, that waiter showed up at one of my shows and sent a handwritten note backstage, asking me out. I was very flattered and accepted. The first thing I noticed on our date was that Henry wasn’t a boy. He was a man, eight years older than me at that. The guys I’d manipulated at Ted’s were like breadsticks taken out of the oven too s
oon. Henry was a fully formed, baked-to-perfection human with impeccable manners. He didn’t claim to be a writer; he’d already been published numerous times. We dated for two and a half years.
Henry straightened me out and provided some much-needed stability, hypocritically the same sort of structure that I’d pooh-poohed while with the improviser. It was as if he installed a safety switch on me. I must have boosted his morale as well because during our time together both of our careers soared. I landed a half-hour comedy special for the Comedy Channel, and he quit his restaurant job to work full time as a movie critic and writer. I never had to pay to see a shitty movie again. He loved coming to my gigs, and if I bombed, he knew exactly what to say to reassure me that I was still on the right track. We talked until 4:00 AM every night, and I knew that kind of rapport was rare. My friends liked him—a lot more than they liked me—so we were regularly invited to dinner parties, events, and celebrations.
All in all, it was almost perfect. I’ve never gotten along with a boyfriend better than I did with Henry. Our relationship was cozy and intellectually stimulating, but as it progressed, a major problem surfaced: We didn’t have a lot of sex. I thought of it as mind-body separation, or that we didn’t match physically or chemically, but in my more vulnerable states I’d ask myself what was so wrong with me that he didn’t want to jump me all the time? Or was this simply the way it was with long-term relationships? My mother claimed that she needed a team of eight men to cover her needs, as one to travel with, another to go dancing with . . . Could I have only one or the other—a guy to sleep with or a guy to be with? Henry and I made model partners and roommates, but I feared that sooner or later, in frustration, he’d hire a hooker and I’d blow our neighbor.
Screw Everyone Page 12
