Single State of Mind

by Andi Dorfman

  There we were, that wedding party, the kind you talk shit about for being in a bar in their gowns but at the same time also kind of admire because you see what a raging good time they’re having. We were dancing and drinking and taking shots. I vowed not to ride the mechanical bull, even though I really, really wanted to. The party was in full swing, and Hot Rob was looking better than ever. The sexual tension had reached an all-time high between us when out of nowhere, he wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me into him. And finally, he kissed me.

  It was as if he knew when the perfect moment to kiss me would be, and he nailed it. With the seal officially broken, the only things my lips did the rest of the night were sip and kiss. Sip and kiss. I was in such a make-out zone that I hardly noticed when someone stepped on the bottom of my dress and ripped off the outer layer of tulle. I’d later use it as a boa to seductively pull Hot Rob toward me every time I wanted another kiss.

  At three in the morning, the bar closed, and we all headed to the exit. My flight was leaving in exactly three hours, which meant I had to get back to my hotel. But there was no way in hell I had enough self-discipline to do that, and I knew it.

  “How far is your place? ” I asked Hot Rob.

  “Five minutes.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “Seriously? ”

  “Don’t make me change my mind,” I said with a seductive-ish slur.

  “Taxi!” he shouted.

  The cab pulled up to a restored tall building.

  He used his key fob to open the door as he said, “This used to be a hotel, ya know.”

  “No, I didn’t.” Nor did I care.

  He opened the door to a sprawling foyer, complete with a look-at-me-I’m-expensive-as-fuck crystal chandelier. There was a gourmet kitchen to the right, which opened to a spacious, dimly lit living room that had a library feel to it. Every detail had been thought of, down to the rustic ladder that slid along the wall. It was sophisticated, classy, manly, and chic. Just like Hot Rob. We started making out on the couch, and it wasn’t long before my dress was being pulled down. Hot Rob went from kissing my lips to kissing my neck to shouting, “What the fuck are these? ”

  I looked down. Shit! My nipple covers were still on. I was mortified.

  “Do those things come off? ”

  “Of course, they come off. Actually, watch this!”

  I stood up in the center of the living room, wearing nothing but my nude Spanx and two nipple covers, while a shirtless Hot Rob sat back on the couch in anticipation. I took one hand and gently peeled off a nipple cover and placed it sticky side up in the palm of my right hand.

  “Ready? ”

  He covered his eyes. “Oh, God!”

  I raised my hand above my shoulder, reached back, and tossed the nipple cover at the living-room window, where it stuck like glue. I turned to look at an awestruck Hot Rob before taking a few bows and mumbling, “Thank you, thank you very much.”

  “That might be the single most incredible thing I’ve ever seen.”

  I didn’t dare try to repeat it with the other nipple cover. Instead, I flung it onto the ground before jumping on top of him and picking up where we’d left off. I was completely naked by the time he carried me into his bedroom, which was just as stylish as the rest of the pad. His hands had made their way through my hair, down my neck and chest, and onto my waist. The time had come to decide what happened next. I didn’t want to have sex with him, because I didn’t want to be that woman. In twenty-nine years on this planet, I had never had a one-night stand. But God, did I want to be that woman.

  “Do you have a condom? ” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Go get it before I change my mind.”

  After an hour of the most sensual and passionate sex I’d ever had, I was lying naked with my head pressed against his bare chest. Hot Rob was cradling my head and stroking my hair. I could hear his heartbeat slowing as he just kind of tenderly petted me. I couldn’t help but wonder when was the last time a man touched me like this. I wanted to stay like this forever. I closed my eyes. The alarm on my phone went off, sending me into a panic.

  “Shit! My flight leaves in an hour!”

  “Staaayyyyy.”

  I looked at him, debating. Not only could I not remember the last time a guy touched me so sweetly, but I couldn’t remember the last time a guy kind of, sort of begged/asked/suggested I stay.

  I called Delta in hysterics. “Hi! I’m booked on a flight that leaves Kansas City for New York in about an hour. Are there any later flights? ” I asked.

  “The only other flight is at six fifty-nine p.m., which has you arriving at LaGuardia at ten forty-eight p.m.”

  “Hmmmm. Nothing in between? ”

  “No, ma’am, unfortunately not.”

  Dammit. I didn’t want to leave, but I didn’t really want to stay until seven and have to worry about whether or not I was lingering around too long, and if he really did want me to stay or was just being polite, and what I’d look like come daylight—oh, hell no. I couldn’t stay.

  “Okay. I’ll stay on my original flight. Thank you.”

  It was now five fifteen, which meant my flight left in forty-five minutes.

  “How far is the airport? ”

  “Only about twenty minutes.”

  “And my hotel? ”

  “Twenty minutes. The opposite way.”

  “Fuuuuuuuuuccck!”

  “Looks like it’s either the flight or the suitcase.”

  Shit, shit, shit. I can’t miss this flight. I can’t stay here until 6:59 p.m. I had my wallet, my phone, and the keys to my apartment. I was cradling both my breasts in one hand as I rummaged through the apartment looking for the rest of my belongings. I didn’t know why I was covering myself up, considering I’d just had sex with the guy.

  “Get dressed. You’re taking me to the airport!”

  “Nooooooo. Stay!”

  “No time to debate. Let’s go!” I snapped my fingers.

  “Okay, how about I call an Uber, and I’ll ride with you? ”

  I agreed.

  “What about your stuff? ”

  “I don’t know, I guess I’ll have the hotel send it.”

  “Gimme your hotel key. I’ll deal with your stuff.”

  “Yoooooouuuu,” I said as I grabbed his cheeks and pecked his lips, “are a godsend.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, a godsend you’re leaving.”

  I gathered the few belongings I had—and by five forty was next to Hot Rob in the backseat as the Uber pulled up to the terminal. I had exactly ten minutes to make it through security and to my gate before the agent would close the doors and I’d be stuck in Kansas City forever (or at least until 6:59 p.m.).

  I quickly kissed Hot Rob before running through the double doors and into the mother of all security lines. What the hell was going on? It was five forty in the morning! Who the hell flies out of Kansas City at five forty in the morning? I ran up to a TSA agent checking tickets and began pleading with him to let me through.

  “We’ve all got flights to catch!” shouted a passenger behind me.

  I channeled my best inner New Yorker and completely ignored him as I continued to plead with the agent, telling him all I had was a purse and no liquids. He let me through. I was running through the terminal, bridesmaid dress hanging out of my tote, when I heard “Final boarding call.”

  “Wait! One D! Wait!” I shouted at the agent, thinking maybe if she knew I was in first class (thanks to my complimentary upgrade) she’d hold the door for me. It was a total asshole move, but I had to make this flight. “I’m here!”

  “Just in time,” she said as I placed my phone on the electronic scanner.

  I was completely out of breath as I headed down the jetway and onto the plane, where every other passenger was already securely fastened and ready for takeoff. Yup, I was that girl. I plunged into my seat. Holy shit! I made it! The plane began to push back, and the flight attendant wa
s standing in the aisle doing her best demonstration of how to properly fasten a seat belt.

  Seconds before takeoff, I get a text from Hot Rob. Swoon!

  Hot Rob: “Did you make it? ”

  Me: “Yes, barely!”

  Hot Rob: “I think you left some high heels here.”

  Me: “Shit.”

  Hot Rob: “I’ll send them with your suitcase.”

  Me: “Thank you!”

  Hot Rob: “Also, did you happen to lose a fingernail? ”

  I looked down at my hands. I was missing the press-on nail that once upon a time had covered my disgustingly short middle fingernail.

  Me: “Oh, dear God.”

  Hot Rob: “Ha ha ha. Epic.”

  hunting season

  Fresh off losing my one-night-stand card, I’m hit with two realizations, the first being that life is unfair. The other day, I was casually scrolling through my Twitter feed, which other than the Daily Mail is my only source of news, when my thumb got stopped in its tracks. It was an article from ESPN. The headline read that Mr. Seattle had just agreed on a contract extension worth millions of dollars. I wanted to vomit. That prick! That rich prick. Where is that bitch karma when you need her?

  The second reality is that winter is coming. It’s Marathon Sunday in New York. While some see this as a day to go out and cheer on the runners, locals see it as the final day of fall. Winter is approaching, which means everyone in New York is preparing to go into hibernation. Restaurants will soon be easy to get into on weeknights, the bars will only be stocked with true alcoholics, and the Hamptons will be deserted. Snow will cover the ground, and everyone will bitch and moan that it’s too cold to go anywhere. Those in relationships will relish spending the cold nights snuggled up to their lovers. For those of us who are single, the days are dwindling as we rush to scoop up a last-minute boyfriend for the season. Having been through one lonely winter already, I, too, am on the hunt. Alas, this has led me not into the arms of a solid snuggle buddy but to another round of dating disasters. Despite upping my game and lowering my standards, all I’ve come up with are more names to add to my list of dudes who didn’t work out.

  First there’s the guy I never should have agreed to go out with. I meet him while drinking at 310 Bowery, a casual sports bar known for drawing big Sunday crowds, filled with fratty guys who want to watch the game and hit on chicks. I like this particular bar because, well, I like fratty guys and being hit on. One day, one in particular has his eye on me. He is hot in the most frat-tastic way possible. But he is wearing a hat that says MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN #TRUMP. If he weren’t so hot, I would dismiss him immediately. It’s one thing to be a Republican and vote for Trump, it’s another thing to be wearing that advertisement on a hat in public. I make him remove the hat and decide if he buys me one more Fireball shot, I’ll pretend he never wore it in the first place. He does, and I give him my number. Later that week, he asks me to dinner Friday. I’m coming in from out of town that night, so I ask him if we can do dinner on Saturday instead.

  “Umm, Saturdays are for the boys.”

  “Huh? ”

  “You know, Saturdays. For the boys.”

  I thought Saturdays were for either nursing Friday’s hangover or finishing the shit you didn’t get done during the week. Turns out, according to Google, Saturdays are now “a legit excuse to tell your spouse you would rather hang out with your male friends than engage in trivial activities. Example. Wife: We are having dinner with my coworker and her husband tomorrow. Husband: Can’t. Saturday is for the boys.”

  My brain fills with disgust, and I want to tell him that it’s fine; he can have Saturday for him and his boys; hell, he can have Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, too, for that matter. I am a fucking woman, and I have zero time for a boy who wears a Trump hat to a bar. But instead, I just ghost him.

  Then there is the bartender. He also happens to own the bar, but I like saying bartender instead, because it makes me feel more down-to-earth. After a few visits to his bar, plenty of flirting, and one night of too many drinks, I make out with him in the storage closet. We do this a few times, until he invites me out to dinner for a proper date. I am afraid of what he’ll look like in daylight and wonder if the novelty will wear off if we see each other anywhere but in the storage closet of his bar at three in the morning. I can’t risk finding out. Until I can’t resist not finding out. I am hunting after all. So I agree to meet him for dinner and drinks. He isn’t as hot as he was behind the bar having girls fawn all over him, but I don’t completely rule him out. Until one night I’m at his bar hammered at five in the morning, waiting for him to close up. Even through my drunkenness, I can tell something is on his mind. We are sitting on the staircase in the back room of the bar, among the extra bottles of liquor, when he starts crying. He tells me he really likes me but that he just doesn’t want to be a part of my lifestyle.

  “What does that mean? ”

  “Your life, like, just the public aspect of it. Red carpets, men probably always hitting on you. It’s just not normal.”

  If he only he knew how normal my life really is. I’m a hustler trying to make a living, going to auditions for jobs I have no chance of getting. I live in a one-bedroom apartment that is so small I have to store my sweaters in the oven. I get denied at fashion shows. Hell, I’m here at your dive bar at five in the morning sitting on dirty stairs. How much more normal can one be?

  “Neither is late nights at a bar while girls fawn over you.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I don’t, to be honest. I mean, yes, my lifestyle is a little different from that of a woman who works nine to five, but so is a bartender’s. It doesn’t matter; I don’t need clarification. Part of me feels like damaged goods in the same way that Mr. Seattle made me feel, but thanks to my buzz, instead of crying, I just leave.

  Then there was the basketball player. Ugh. I’m mortified to admit this one. First off, he is a basketball player. Second, if that’s not bad enough, I matched with him on my dating app. To be honest, the only reason I even entertained the idea of him was because he lived in Seattle and played professional basketball. I couldn’t help but imagine dating a guy who not only lived in the same town but was more than a foot taller than the man who dumped me. We chat for a few days before I give him my number. He texts me to say he’s coming to New York and invites me to his game at Barclays. He’ll leave me tickets, and I can wait until after and we can officially meet in person. I don’t want to be a groupie, but I can’t get over the idea of what an unbelievable payback this could ultimately be. So, out of bitterness toward Mr. Seattle, I call Jess and drag her to Brooklyn. When we arrive at Barclays, I find the Will Call booth.

  “Name and ID? ” the teller asks.

  I slip my driver’s license through the slot.

  “Which list are you on? ”

  “A visiting player’s list,” I whisper as softly as I can.

  “What? I can’t hear you. Did you say player’s list? ”

  “Yes.”

  Jess is laughing at my mortification.

  “Hang on one second.” The woman stands up and walks to an adjacent wall, which has a bunch of slots and envelopes in it like a mail station.

  Meanwhile, Jess and I are surveying the shitshow that should be called “the line for the groupies.” They are all dressed in tight dresses, head-to-toe Gucci, with high heels and probably low standards. But Jess and I can’t even snub them, because we’re in the same line, doing the same damn thing.

  The lady returns empty-handed. “I don’t see your tickets here. Do you have the number of his agent or assistant, maybe, that you can call? ”

  I pause for a moment before replying, “Nope,” followed by a chuckle.

  She laughs. I can’t even imagine how many times she’s seen this scenario play out. Luckily, she’s nice and offers to call down to someone on the team and sort it all out for me. Five mortifying minutes later, we’re standing a
few feet away from Will Call when she motions me over and hands me two tickets. Jess and I make our way to our seats, where we find ourselves in the same row as every other groupie we just saw in line. Fuck us. We are totally groupies.

  When the game is finally over, we stay seated as the stadium clears out. Everyone in our groupie section stays seated as well. Slowly, players start to come out of the locker room and up into our section, where they greet their families and friends. About four players have come out by now, and yet there is still the same number of groupies left. This isn’t looking good. And then I feel my phone vibrate. It’s a text from the basketball player. I open it, thinking it’ll say something to the effect of “Be out in five.” But instead, it says, “Hey, I left already. Hope you enjoyed the game. Hope to see you soon, sweetie.” Motherfucker! I show the text to Jess. Her jaw drops to the floor.

  “Let’s fucking bounce before anyone sees us,” I say.

  We rush out of Barclays, never to see or hear from him again.

  The next day, I find myself late for brunch with the girls.

  “Hiiiiiiiii,” I squeal as I give Ava, who is alone at the table with two empty chairs, a hug. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “No problem. Jess is on her way.”

  Like me, Jess is always late. It’s gotten so bad that we’ve all begun lying to one another about what time a reservation is. Whoever makes the reservation tells everyone it’s for thirty minutes earlier than it really is, so when we all arrive late, we’re actually on time.

  The waiter has just brought over a bottle of rosé when Jess arrives. I glance at the measly pour and shoot the waiter a look. He promptly fills my glass mere centimeters from the rim, just the way I like it. I take a gulp.

  “Okay, now, spill.”

  “Spill what? ”

  “Ava’s in love.”

  “Who is he? ”

  “It’s that obvious? ”

  “Ugh, it’s written all over your face.” Jess can see it, too.