As I write this, my uterus is screaming at me. It is the oddest feeling – like someone is taking an ice cream scoop to my uterus and emptying out its contents on the sidewalk (Rocky Road anyone?).
As my faithful readers know, I have not had the best of luck when it comes to dating, or sex. This last oh, year and a half has been a rough one. The first six months of that I attribute to getting over my ex, the next six months to Daddy Issues, and the last six months to being an idiot. But my luck changed Saturday night.
After the grand failure of The Cleanse, I decided it was really time to work out regularly and eat better. And as one of the unemployed with ample time to spare, I have started doing hot yoga obsessively (I actually signed up for yoga teacher training because I’m a masochist), and for the first time since I was ten years old, I am getting into shape. I grew up doing ballet and gymnastics and I had forgotten how magnificent it is to use my body for things besides sitting down and getting up
I have noticed that being in better shape has made me more appealing to men. I am simply more confident. Men in the past that I wouldn’t dream of attracting have started to notice me, which puts me in a rather perplexing position. While I love the new found attention, the second I go back to my old ways these men will quickly disappear.
But back to Saturday night – I was out for one of my best friend’s birthdays at a rather swanky joint in Beverly Hills (owned by one of the housewives no less) and I knew I had to dress better than I normally do. So I put on a dress I bought last year for my birthday that is a less expensive version of what Gwenyth Paltrow wore this year at the Grammys.
I had to starve myself to get into it last year, but this year, it fit me like a glove. After having a couple cocktails there, we headed to Bar Marmont. Since living in Los Angeles, I have always wanted to go there. Chateau Marmont is Mecca to anyone in the entertainment industry – Jim Morrison, Steven Dorff, and Lindsay Lohan have all frequented its halls over the last century.
My ex used to say that it was one of those places where assistants would pull out their boss’s business cards to get laid. And he was right – it was what I envisioned Los Angeles to look like when I moved here – sparkly, loud, overpriced, and full of people yearning to be seen, heard, manipulated and fucked. Russell Brand was there, and he looked like shit. Katy Perry is lucky to be rid of him.
I ordered a dirty martini and it was so crowded that I crept into a dark corner in order to drink it in peace. We had only been there for five minutes, and I had already lost my friends. On the other side of my corner, there were two handsome gentlemen who struck up a conversation with me. They both were Cornell grads, one, a TV executive (or Young Robert Redford) living in NYC with his girlfriend, and the other, a screenwriter (or Nathan Fillion) based in LA.
I don’t remember how long I talked to them, but when my friends finally found me to tell me they were leaving, I opted to follow suit. But the screenwriter and the birthday girl encouraged me to stay. I was not even drunk at this point, and I would never usually do such a thing (remember Imette St. Guillen?), but I thought to myself, fuck it.
They bought me drinks and we caroused until we closed Bar Marmont down (Jim Morrison would be proud). The other reason I have always wanted to go to Bar Marmont is that it happens to be around the corner from me – meaning that I can have more than two drinks without worrying about driving home (which is what makes drinking in LA really lame). In my newly inebriated state, I thought it would be a great idea to continue the party at my place. We smoked cigarettes by the pool (and got yelled at by my landlord) and blasted Eve in my living room, dancing ridiculously like we were still in college.
Finally, it was time to go to bed. The TV exec slept in my roommate’s room and the screenwriter…
For a moment, I froze as I was undressing and said to myself, “Am I really doing this?” The screenwriter looked at me gravely and whispered, “We don’t need to have sex”. Touched by the reply, I growled with all the force I could muster, “No, I want to have sex.” And that was that.
The second go around, the condom broke. I spent the rest of the night joking about our baby. Meanwhile, the screenwriter thought I was being “too cavalier” about it. In the morning, I had brunch with the screenwriter and his friend, and after I drove the screenwriter back to his apartment (because I was feeling “benevolent”) and we said our awkward goodbyes, I had to smile to myself for finally breaking my downward celibate spiral. We exchanged numbers and he said we should hang out, but if this is where the adventure ends, I am perfectly content.
Later that day, a friend of mine gave me her extra plan b (Planned Parenthood isn’t open on the Lord’s day), and I am still feeling its after effects. But do I regret my one night stand? No ma’am.
I needed sex more than I needed food or sunlight. Sex negative propaganda had convinced me that I was incapable of having sex without getting attached which this experience now proves to be false. Before Saturday, I had never had sex with someone for whom I didn’t have strong feelings. No one will tell you this, but the key to great sex without giving a shit is fucking strangers. I never understood that faction of gay men who cruise endlessly for pleasure but for the first time, I get it – a stranger can’t hurt you: a familiar can.