by Andi Dorfman
I awkwardly slipped into the passenger seat. The fifteen-minute car ride to his place was filled with one excited front-seat passenger and one still-pissed-off Canadian driver. He can’t still be fucking mad, can he? I thought to myself. Maybe it’s just nerves. We’d been talking for weeks now, and not once had I seen this side of him. It had to be nerves. Plus, it had only been one car ride, and though our conversation might not be hot, at least he was.
We arrived at his condo, which was modern, sleek, and undeniably expensive. Hell, the entry hallway was twice as long as my entire apartment. But it wasn’t nearly as cozy. It was more like one of those apartments that look like they came straight out of a furniture showroom. Zero warmth, kind of like him actually. He led me through the long hallway that opened up to a spacious kitchen. Pristine, it looked as though it had never been touched. He opened a door to the right, which led to a bedroom, and placed my suitcase at the foot of the bed. I scanned the room. It was quite bare. There was a dresser, one nightstand, one queen bed, one framed photograph of a city skyline, and absolutely zero charm. Attempting to dissolve the discomfort between us, I asked him to show me around the place.
“Hmmmm. Okay. Well, there’s the kitchen, living room.” He started walking down another hallway. “And over here is the master bedroom.”
Holy fuck, he’s got me staying in the guest bedroom. On one hand, I saw this as a gentlemanly gesture, but when combined with his salty attitude, I couldn’t help but see it as a possible case of buyer’s remorse. Maybe it wasn’t just nerves.
We made our way back to the kitchen, where he opened a bottle of wine and I took a seat on a barstool. With every gulp we took, the mood lightened. Two glasses in, I found myself having moved from the barstool to sitting on top of the counter. An hour or so and another glass later, we began vigorously making out. Within seconds, my top was off, revealing the La Perla lace bra I’d bought months ago at the outlets in Woodbury. It was ridiculously uncomfortable to wear on the plane, but the moment I revealed it and saw his eyes light up made it so worth it. I pulled off his shirt and stroked my hands down his washboard abs. Wow, even better than I’d imagined. I want to violate this man. Soon enough, he was carrying me into the master bedroom and I was flat on my back, down to my bra and the black lace Forever 21 panties (which I cut the tag out of).
An hour later and I was still flat on my back, only this time naked and looking up at the ceiling with a feeling of pure satisfaction. Actually, I was beyond satisfied. In fact, I was thinking I might have just had the best sex of my life. There was something so sophisticated about his touch. It was as if I were an instrument and he was a soloist, every stroke sending a trembling sensation down my body. He was a blend of authoritative and sensual. Something magical had just happened to me. So magical that for a moment, it made me forget about the previous weird hours. I waited for him to start snuggling with me like I was sure he would. And waited and waited. Seconds felt like minutes as our breathing slowed. And then he rolled out of the bed, stood up, rummaged through his dresser drawer, and put on a pair of sweatpants.
“I’m hungry,” he muttered as he walked out of the bedroom, leaving me alone in the bed.
What the fuck? Is he back to being mad? Wait a second. What the fuck just happened? Oh. My. God. Did I just get hate-fucked? At that point, I’m just waiting, dreading the moment when he would undoubtedly walk back in and escort me into the guest bedroom. But I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t bear the humiliation of sleeping in the guest bedroom owned by the guy I think had just hate-fucked me. So I did what any normal woman who’d just been hate-fucked would do: I pretended to fall asleep in his bed.
The following morning, I awoke to the sound of a blender. Realizing that all my clothes were in my suitcase in the guest bedroom, I rummaged through his drawer and found a hooded sweatshirt to throw on before meandering my way into the kitchen.
“Want a protein shake? ” he said in between pulsing the blender.
I took a seat on the barstool. “No, thanks.” The Canadian is a fucking meathead. “What are your plans for the day? ” he asked.
“Ummm, I’m not really sure. What are yours? ”
Why would I have made plans? I’m visiting you in a foreign country. I knew nothing about this place, nor did I know anyone here. Was I supposed to make an itinerary?
“Well, I told one of my teammates I’d stop by his place. He’s having a bunch of wives and girlfriends and people over for a barbeque.”
“Nice.”
“You can come if you want.”
“Ummm, I don’t want to intrude.”
“I’ll just be there a few hours, then. I’ll make it quick.”
“Okay. I’ll just do my thing, maybe walk around and shop.”
“There’s good shopping about three blocks from here.”
“Perfect.”
Not perfect. What a fucking ass! First of all, I was not going to any teammate’s house with a half-assed invite from a protein-shake-drinking hate-fucker like him. And secondly, my own mother didn’t even know I was here, so the last thing I wanted or needed was to be seen in public with this fucking meathead. Hell, at this point, I didn’t think I even wanted to be in private with him.
Shopping it was. I went to the guest room, aka “my room,” hopped into the shower, and got dressed. I’d googled the closest shopping, and he was right, it was only three blocks away. As I headed out the door, he was sitting on the couch on his phone.
“Do you have an extra key I can take? ”
He told me there was one in the basket by the door.
“Great. Thanks! So we’ll just meet up later? ”
“Sounds good.”
Asshole. As I was walking down the street, I couldn’t help but wonder what the fuck went wrong. I mean, where was the sweet guy I’d been texting and FaceTiming with all these weeks? Did I do something wrong? All this animosity couldn’t possibly be due to the minor detail that I’d missed my flight, could it? It took the sight of a lululemon sign to make me stop wondering about what was going wrong and start wondering what I was going to buy. After I’d racked up on yoga pants, I found a Tim Horton’s and indulged in a hot chocolate. It was about one o’clock when I got a text from the Canadian meathead telling me he was leaving the barbeque and headed back to the apartment. I’d barely gotten to take advantage of the weak Canadian dollar, and already he was done? Part of me contemplated ignoring his text and carrying on shopping. Hell, part of me contemplated abandoning my suitcase in his apartment and carrying my ass to the airport and home on the next flight out. But I was too much of a wuss to do either. So I headed back to his place.
We went for a late lunch at some empty Mexican restaurant, the kind you take someone to when you don’t want to be seen with them, which at this point didn’t really bother me because the feeling was mutual. What did bother me, however, was the fact that he spent the majority of the time on his phone. His unease had now turned to complete disengagement.
And just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, he looked up from his phone and, with a chuckle, said, “I told my teammates you were here, and they don’t believe me. Can we send them a Snapchat? ”
“Huh? ”
“Here.” He scooted next to me. “Let’s send them a snap.”
I pushed away. “Ummm. No.”
“Whoa. What’s your problem? ”
What’s my fucking problem? Where do I start? You’ve barely said five words to me, hate-fucked me, left me alone for hours, and now you want to brag to your friends that I’m here. “I just don’t want to send a snap to a stranger.”
“Geeeez. Sorry for even asking.”
When lunch was over, he asked what I wanted to do next. I wanted to say, Anything that doesn’t involve talking to you, but instead I submissively replied, “I don’t know. Anything, really.”
“We could go see a movie,” he suggested.
That would get me out of both having to talk to him and ha
ving to be seen in public with him. “Sure,” I responded.
“Hmmm, what’s playing? Can you look up the AMC 34? ”
From the passenger seat, I began listing various movies until I was interrupted.
“Fuck, yes! Creed!”
“Creed? ”
“Yeah, the Rocky movie. It’s supposed to be sick.”
Fuck my life and this fucking meathead I’m with right now. “Ehhh, let’s see what else is playing.”
“Nothing sounds good. C’mon, let’s see Creed. You’ll love it. Plus, you owe me for missing that flight yesterday.” His smile nauseates me.
“Owe you? ”
“Oh, yeah.”
And here was where I lost it. “Okay, time out. I’ll go see Creed, but playing that whole missing-flight card is officially done. I got on the next flight, which involved a two-hour layover. So if you’re still pissed about it, then just get it out now, because it’s ridiculous, and it’s ruining the entire weekend. I’ve traveled from a different country to be here. I’m happy to be here, so let’s just both be happy.”
“Geez. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were on your period.”
“Well, fortunately, after last night, you do know better.”
“Whoa.”
Dear Lord, please get me the fuck out of here. Actually, please get me to Creed so I can have two hours of not having to talk to this asshole.
After the shitty movie, we decided to go to the grocery store and cook in for my second and final night in Canada. Thank God. At some point on the way home, he asked if we should pick up some weed cookies.
“Are those legal here? ”
“Yeah, it’s Canada.”
I told him we might as well.
The second we got home and unpacked the groceries, I shoved a cookie into my mouth. I figured it was the only way I could bear the remainder of the night. An hour later, the cookie had kicked in and the two of us were in the kitchen, both trying to cook, both laughing hysterically, and both completely stoned. It was the most fun I’d had with him all weekend, which wasn’t saying much. Hell, it was the only bearable moment outside the bedroom that I’d had with him all weekend. It was as if our animosity vanished along with our sobriety.
But then at some point, the magic of the cookies had us going from laughing to venting. Shit began to get deep as he started telling me about his childhood, how he grew up poor in a broken home. And that was when I had a hazy epiphany. As he was talking, I looked at him and saw him differently from how I had in the past twenty-four hours. Granted, thanks to the cookie, I was seeing four of him. But for the first time all weekend, I didn’t see him as a douchey-asshole-meathead. For the first time, I saw him as a wounded-asshole-meathead. He spoke of life and his career as a rugby player so resentfully, as if he felt guilty for making it out of his small town and into the fancy world he was living in. His vulnerability made me feel less anger toward him and more sadness. Sad enough to have sex with him yet again. I mean, I figured he had hate-fucked me and now I was going to return the favor by pity-fucking him. And that’s exactly what I did. All night long.
I soberly awoke from my high when my phone rang at four the next morning. Fuck, why had I scheduled such an early flight? Oh, right, so if shit went haywire, I’d have an early exit, and if it went well, I could push it back. Though I truly wasn’t planning on needing this early flight, I’d never been so thankful for the backup plan.
I looked over at him; he was fast asleep and snoring. I stealthily got out of bed and walked into the guest bathroom. As I was brushing my teeth, I caught a glimpse of my shameful reflection. Why had I felt so bad for him that I pity-fucked him last night? I mean, sure, he grew up poor and his family life sucked, but so what? The guy was living in a multimillion-dollar apartment, was drinking shakes out of a five-hundred-dollar Vitamix, and just flew a chick in from New York City to bang him for the weekend. Joke. Was. On. Me. I debated whether to wake him up or just call myself an Uber and be done with it all. I couldn’t help myself. I had to poke the bear one last time.
“Hey,” I whispered as I jabbed my finger into his shoulder.
He rolled over and moaned, his eyes shut. “What’s up? ”
“I need to get to the airport.”
“Do you want me to take you, or can I just get you a car? ”
Normally, this response would piss me off, but the thought of spending one more second alone with him had me thankful for his lack of chivalry.
“Uber would be great.”
“Okay,” he said as he grabbed his phone and unlocked it. “It’ll be here in seven minutes.”
“Thanks.”
“Have a safe flight.”
Fuck you.
Seven minutes later, I was in the back of an Uber, bound for freedom . . . I mean New York City.
And now, as I sit on the plane, I can’t help but wonder how the hell this weekend turned into such a disaster. How did I not realize what a meathead he was? How was I so easily fooled? What has happened to my knack for judging the character of a man? I thought my little mishap of getting engaged to a man I only knew for eight weeks was just a fluke, but now I’m starting to wonder if maybe all this time, these douchebags coming into my life are my own fault. Why am I drawn to such losers? I think I have some soul searching to do, don’t I?
Dramatics aside, I guess it could have been worse. I could have fallen deeply in love with the douche and be on a plane sobbing my eyes out right now. But instead, I’m flying home, with no emotional feelings, no regret, and, unfortunately, almost no dignity left. But thanks to this round trip, I have reached Platinum Medallion status. I’d call that a win.
So to answer your question, Ms. Holier-Than-Thou Flight Attendant, I know it’s half past six in the morning and the sun hasn’t risen, and it’s a Sunday, blah, blah, blah, but yes, I would like a drink. I’d like a screwdriver. Better yet, make it a double. Thanks, and have a pleasant flight.
new york slashing week
Just like that, summer has come and gone. Fall is here, and though I haven’t scored in the department of a single woman’s desire for love, I have scored in the department of a single woman’s desire for fashion, which might be even better. This week, I got to experience my very first New York Fashion Week, a week filled with not only pomp attire but pompous designers.
Apparently, when it comes to New York Fashion Week, and fashion in general, it seems less has to do with fashion and more has to do with popularity. Some designers are cooler than others, and they know it. They make a big fuss about who is and, more important, who isn’t invited to their shows. Many of them thumb their noses at “people like me.” This year, it’s most of the high-end designers, which isn’t surprising, but also the two ready-to-wear chicks known as Alice and Olivia. I had my publicist reach out to them because I love their clothes and thought it would be fun to see their newest collection. As it turns out, whoever was in charge of their guest list informed my publicist that, unfortunately for me, they don’t really do reality television stars at their shows. While this isn’t the first time I’ve heard this, and I know it usually has nothing to do with the designer and everything to do with the PR team, it still has me pissed. Who the fuck are they to look down their noses at reality television? I’m sorry, did I miss the part where Alice and Olivia became Karl Lagerfeld and started making haute couture, because last time I checked, Alice and her fucking friend Olivia made ready-to-wear clothes that I only buy at the end of the season when they are on sale. Also, you don’t do reality television stars, but who do you think is buying your shit? People who watch reality television. But no, reality stars aren’t good enough to wear your clothes. I’m sorry, but people like this, fashion-related or not, piss me off. It’s not like I went out and made a porno or went on some racist Twitter rant and offended the world. I went on a television show. Get the fuck over it. You can bet your ass after I heard that, I rifled through my entire closet and tossed every piece of their clothing I o
wned. Which is sad, because some of it was kind of cute. Maybe next year their team will change their mind.
Anyway, back to the designers who did let me attend their shows. The first was Badgley Mischka. A few outfits were messengered over to my apartment, and I settled on a tweed jacket, something very out of character for me but very in character for Fashion Week.
The day of the show arrives, and I find myself in the back of a car pulling up to a venue on Thirty-Fourth Street. Through the window, I can see lines of women clamoring in the unseasonable heat as they wait behind barricades bearing black tarps and the official NYFW logo. The driver opens the door, and I step out. I’m immediately greeted by two women holding bright orange umbrellas. They aren’t shielding me from the nonexistent rain but rather from the very existent sun. And of course ensuring that the large logos on the umbrellas are visible to the mob of surrounding photographers. I’m walking into one very fashionable lion’s den. At least I’m dressed well. Plus, I can’t deny the exhilaration I feel not only to be at my first New York Fashion Week but also to be getting to sit front row and having paparazzi taking my photo before I even get into the building. Moments like this make me pinch myself and say, Who the fuck am I?
The show is everything I’d imagined, only much shorter. I swear it must be less than three minutes from the time the lights go down and the models begin walking to the time the lights go on and everyone begins sprinting out of the venue and off to the next show. Me, I’m not off to the next show but rather am being ushered backstage by a woman in all black, who tells me, “The designers would love to meet you.” Backstage is less chaotic. The models are changing out of their dresses and into their street clothes. Camera crews are getting interviews from people I don’t recognize.
I’m standing in front of a step-and-repeat taking a photo with the designers, when I suddenly see someone I do recognize. The last man I dumped before getting engaged, the man who called me out on live television for having sex with him, the man known as Number Twenty-Five! What the fuck is he doing at a fashion show? Isn’t this an event reserved only for women and gay men? He’s feet away from me, but I don’t think he’s seen me. I hope he hasn’t. I panic. I can’t see him. I need to avoid him immediately. Not because I dislike him. I mean, yes, this guy told the entire world on live television that we had sex, but I’ve been through so much since then, including the ending of my engagement, that I don’t care about that anymore. I’m really avoiding him because I don’t want to be seen with him. It’s terribly shallow of me, but it’s true. I’m not playing the role of the mean girl in school who doesn’t want to be seen eating lunch with the dork. I’m playing the role of the woman who doesn’t want a random meeting to become a story. And trust me, one photo of the two of us together will most certainly become just that. I can only imagine the headlines the tabloids will use despite there being zero truth to any of it. It’s the last thing I want and need right now.
