Writer For Hire: At Your Cervix

Ladies, ladies, ladies!
If you are the proud owner/operator of a vagina, I highly recommend you read this. It can save your life.
If you're simply a vagina aficionado, or have friends with vaginas, I ALSO recommend you read this. Because, vaginas, guys.
...Vaginas.

*************

I spent 16 years with the same guy, and when it started to fall apart, I spent a lot of time alone in bed, depressed.
When it finally did fall apart, I spent a lot of time also in bed, cheering myself up. But this time I wasn't alone.
(Shameless Winky Emoticon.)
My "number" is still in the single digits, but clearly I had some lost time I needed to make up for.
I got laid, got some great stories, and unfortunately, got something else:
...HPV.

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I don't have HPV anymore. I am healthy, clear of the disease, and Planned Parenthood has stated that my vagina is "so clean you could eat off it." So, hooray for me! I was lucky, but not everyone is - and HPV can be pretty dangerous. I was shocked at how little I knew about it, so here's what I didn't know and what you should be aware of, you hornball sexkittens...

"Page-ing the owner operator of the pink vagina parked illegally in the chair..."

HPV is something people don't talk about. It's not a glamorous or humorous STI, so it doesn't get much limelight, but it really should and here's why: IT CAN KILL YOU DEAD, LADIES.
-80% of sexually active adults in major cities have some version of it.
-Most of us don't know we even have it.
-There is no test to determine whether or not a guy has it - they can be carriers and never know. Totes unfair, right?
-There is, however, a test to determine whether or not girls have it - but it's not fun.
-Guys can carry it with no symptoms.
-Girls can carry it with no symptoms. I had it and didn't even know I had it - everything looked and felt perfectly normal.
-You can get it even if you and your partner are using condoms. (Suuuuper unfair!)
-HPV stands for Human Papilloma Virus. The booksmart part of me who aced all her sex-ed classes knew that it meant genital warts. But that's totally not it. There are dozens of different strains of HPV, all with different calling cards. Most of them have zero physical symptoms except for one, and it's a kicker: HPV can give you cervical cancer.
If you have a cervix, cervical cancer can kill you.

There is one silver lining - if you stay healthy, your body can "clear" the disease. It takes, on average, 2 years but it is very possible.
However, if you have an aggressive type of HPV, or you let it go unchecked because you didn't know to go get an annual pap test, you can die. Dead. And then you can't have sex anymore.

I'm a catastrophizer, so naturally, I was at defcon 1 upon hearing that I had HPV.
Everything I'd learned in school (condoms, condoms, condoms) about protecting myself had let me down, and here I was, newly divorced and scared shitless that I was going to die from snatch cancer.
I was terrified, because I didn't know the facts.

Guess who else didn't know the facts: the guy I was seeing at the time. Whom I foolishly called for comfort.

Let's call this gentleman "A."
Could stand for "A-hole," could stand for "Andrew." But to keep his identity (and callousness) a secret, we'll stick with "A."
I didn't have insurance, and this was before ObamaCare, so I went though a Christian Clinic to get an annual woman's health exam.
I had no reason to assume anything was wrong.
As soon as the clinic called me with abnormal pap results from what I assumed would be a perfectly routine pap smear, I thunderstruck to find out I had a stealth STI I didn't even know I had. I was extremely upset and the clinic did little to assuage my fears, telling me that I should come in for further testing but that if they determined that I had an STI they had to "report it."
WAT.
TO WHOM DOES MY VAGINA REPORT TO EXACTLY?
"Bullshit," I say.
Then they told me about the additional cancer risk. Ughhh. Gutpunch.
I felt like I'd been poisoned.

I called "A." for support and to tell him I probably had HPV, which most likely meant he had it too and would be a symptom-less carrier.
At which point he promptly freaked out and asked me where I got it. Because there's, like, no way it could've been him.
He's CATHOLIC, for fuck's sake. They don't get diseases!

Now, there were really only two sources it could've been: either my ex-husband had tracked it in off the streets, or it was "A."

"A." insisted it wasn't him. Since I couldn't exactly vent my frustration on my ex, and most guys never even know they're carriers, I told "A" to check his facts and get back with me. "A." is convinced Planned Parenthood is the devil, and gets all of his sciencey information from trusted Catholic sources.
"A." then has his roommate call me to be the voice of reason. "A's" roomie is a smooth-talking Englishman with a penchant for one night stands. As a self-diagnosed sex addict, the roomie is well-versed in matters of the genitalia, and called me back to console me with his adorable accent and inconceivable misogyny...

"You probably picked it up from a public toilet seat, love," he croons.
"THAT'S NOT EVEN POSSIBLE ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS" I screeched back.

If only...

Yes, he was serious. He swore I couldn't possibly have picked up an STI from "A.," his Catholic condom-hatin' roomie, who, unbeknownst to me at the time, had a girlfriend back home when he and I first started dating. Clearly he could do no wrong. Clearly I picked it up from a toilet seat. Because, science and stuff.
(This man is also an actual part-time Life Coach. Ladies beware.)

Eventually "A." got checked, and proudly told me it came back negative.
Of COURSE it came back negative. It never shows up in tests for guys, so unless he had visible symptoms, he'd never know if he was a carrier (or Patient 0.) At my urging, he told his (now) ex-girlfriend, who may have wound up sharing this with both of us at some point. I'm sure that was an awkward conversation.
She was tested and it came back negative. I told "A." that it can take several months to show up in tests, that it wasn't an instant-results kind of thing.
"A." grew really cold at that point, and although we'd ended our romantic relationship months before, this was the spectacular end to our friendship.

I felt violated. I felt maligned. I felt misunderstood. I felt tainted. I felt dirty and I felt stupid. Like I didn't deserve to enjoy my body anymore. I felt a deep sense of shame and worst of all, a pervasive sense of dread and fear haunted my love life.
I'm pretty sure that film "It Follows" is about HPV.
Never a single symptom. Never any warts, bumps, never any pain.
Just an all-consuming terror that my vagina would grow cancer cells and kill me. Probably overnight, in my sleep.

I told another boyfriend about it. I'm convinced this man could not have been a "donor" because of the nigh-virginal state he'd been in when he met me. He hadn't been sexually active for years, so even if he'd been a carrier it would've passed long before he had a chance to pass it on to me.
However, since there was a chance I passed it on to him, I had to call him up.
At which point HE freaks out and calls every girl he's ever hugged or cuddled. He looks up HPV, but he looks it up on WebMD and chooses to focus on the worst case scenario.
Sure enough, one of his ex-girlfriends (with whom he'd had a walk down memory lane after he and I parted ways) has cancer. But it's THROAT CANCER. And she's been a heavy smoker for years.
Tragic? Yes.
My fault? Fuck no.
But naturally, he blames me. Awkwardness ensues and I feel like a monster.

Cut to a year later and it's time to call upon the good people of Planned Parenthood Los Angeles to test me and see what stage I'm at...

They tell me this...
There are three kinds of "danger levels" from HPV:
1) slow-growing, non-agressive HPV THAT COULD CHANGE AT ANY TIME AND KILL YOU AT ANY TIME YOU WHORE
2) Medium-speed, Holy Shit Keep An Eye On This It Could Turn Into Cancer Any Minute YOU WHORE, and
3) Cancer, you're dead. Or if you're not, they have to cut out pieces of your cervix with a small chain-saw so you'll WISH you were dead.
Guac is extra.

Fortunately, there are ways to test what kind you have.
First, you get a pap smear (a simple swab-rubbed-against-your-cervix-test) to determine whether or not you have cancery cells.
It's not fun, but it's not too painful. You'll just feel crampy the rest of the day, no big.
Then you wait 2 weeks, and if they call and tell you that you have cancery pre-cancerous cells, they'll need to perform a culposcopy.

A culposcopy is when they take what feels like a serrated jack-o-lantern scooping tool and rake-scrape it along your cervix while peering up your cooch with a microscope. It's grand.

So grand, the first time I had one, I got up from the table, threw up on the clinic floor and passed out from pain.
I woke up in the chair I'm pretty sure they place girls in after they have abortions. A heated massage chair, pulsing with soothing electric waves. I struggled to keep my eyes from tunnel-visioning out again as I heard my roommate's name being called in the waiting room.
My roommate, an officer and a gentleman, came to the back of the clinic and scooped me out of the chair and carried me Whitney-Houston-Kevin-Costner-style to his car and drove me home.
(Fun fact: my roommate is not tall in stature, but incredibly strong. When he carried me, I had a bizarre vision of those mighty leafcutter ants or whatever hoisting dead bird carcasses home for food.)
My insides hurt like hell and I cursed "A." with every pothole we hit on the way home.
In keeping with the theme of unspeakable pain, I laid in a fetal position on the couch and stared at "Birdemic" on Netflix. I'm loaded up on Ibuprofen while my other roomie fed me coconut soup from my favorite Thai place.
My roomies were pretty freakin' awesome.
I felt better in a few days, but had serious cramps and spotty bleeding. Plus the blood and other goodies that came out were stained with iodine dye, so it looked like a load of coffee grounds were seeping from my vagina directly into my panties.
So not sexy. But better than not knowing if I was precancerous, cancerous, or just plain fucked.

Planned Parenthood called me in a week with the results, and I guess I won the HPV lottery: I had the slow, only marginally scary kind of precancerous cells. Unlike the Christian Clinic, Planned Parenthood took the time to actually talk with me about HPV, and assured me that lots of women have it. I was pretty emotional still and told the nurse that I didn't know anyone else who had it. There was a long pause, and then she said "I had it. And I cleared it, and I'm healthy. So don't worry."
She told me tons of people have it and just never know, but I still felt awful. Like I was being punished for something.

So, cut to another year later. Things are great and I'm totally in love. I met an amazing guy who I can see a future with, and oh crap we're having The Sex Talk. And here's the part where I have to tell him I have This Thing, and he'll think I'm a whore and leave.
He'll tell me to avoid toilet seats.
...But he doesn't. Instead, he does his research and finds out that oh hey, a LOT of this is going around. And he understands that even if we use condoms, he may become a carrier and never have any way of being tested for it.
He responds by immediately making a visit to Planned Parenthood himself, and getting tested for everything.
(Just ask for "The Works." It's on the Secret Menu.)
He's clean as a whistle. And I'm about to ruin that, because he really wants to put it in me.

Cut to ANOTHER FREAKIN' YEAR LATER...
I'm still in love! Same Guy! We're still doin' it!
I go to my annual Planned Parenthood appointment and get my pap. It's abnormal and I have to come in for another culposcopy.
Fuuuuuck.
I cry a little. I'm so tired and over it - I just want to feel clean again.
Boo. But I'm a big girl now, and this is the price I pay for having The Sex. I have to be responsible, it's just... why is no one else talking about this? Why am I the only person I know getting tested for this stuff? I know I'm not the only one who has The Sex, so why do I feel so alone in this? My boyfriend is amazing and supportive, but then, it's not his cervix about to face the melon-baller.

I suck it up and borrow some xanax from a friend and endure my second culposcopy with significantly less pain.
No vomiting or fainting. (I'm a pro by now.)
I'm making jokes about how if I get 10 culposcopies, my 11th should be free. That they should punch my culposcopy card with the same punch they just used to take a nip out of my cervix. I am loopy and delightful.
Then the receptionist who checks me out tells me not to worry, that she had HPV too and recovered 100% from it.
I am relieved to know that I am among at least 3 sexually active adults in Los Angeles.
Later, they call with the news. I still have it. I still have slow, slightly-less-terrifying HPV. They tell me I probably won't die from cancer in the next 12 months, and to come back in a year. I feel dirty and ashamed. God dammit.

Over the next calendar year, I open up to 3 girls about my HPV. One has it, one HAD had it. But we all shared this amazing AHA! moment where there's this wave of relief that someone else is going though a hell we thought we faced alone.
The third gal is kind of a slut and should probably go get tested, bless her heart.
I feel better. I feel... better.

And better, and better, and better.
I take care of my immune system, get rest, and load up on healthy foods and exercise, per the instructions from my doctor.

CUT TO PRESENT DAY:
I have my annual pap, courtesy of Planned Parenthood.
I bite my nails for a week, and then, they call with the results:
(dramatic drumroll, please)
I am 100% healthy and fine. My body has cleared it, I no longer have HPV. Clean, pure, healthy happy vagina. So clean you can eat off it!
And I am elated. I feel exonerated in some way. Like I completed some sort of punishment.
The last vestigial souvenir of my single days is gone and finally, it's just me and my guy.
The one who trusted me and never made me feel dirty. The one who stood by my side and loves me unconditionally.
The one who can put it in me.

Ladies, (and dudes who read this,) I can't even begin to tell you how amazing it feels to have this hanging axe over my head removed. This dark Spectre is vanished, gone for good. I feel foolish that I didn't know about it, and I feel lucky I had the "good" kind. I feel even luckier that it cleared my system and, if I stay healthy and monogamous, I'll never have to deal with it again.

But if I'd let shame or "A." or guilt stop me from being diligent about my own health, it could've gotten ugly fast. It terrifies me how little I knew about HPV - and I consider myself pretty educated. Walp, now I'm even MORE educated, and if this inspires even one of my readers to go get checked, I'm happy to share.
Yeah, it's kinda embarrassing. But so are half my blogs, so, whatevs. It's never been about maintaining some perfect appearance. Sometimes it's about sharing what we know for the greater good. I waited to share this story, not because I was ashamed, but because I really wanted to have a happy ending to it.
And I finally do.
And you will too, if you take care of your health and GO. GET. CHECKED. (you whores.)

Ahh I'm just kidding. You know I love you.

********************************

I got this amazing, exonerating, Governor's-reprieve phone call from Planned Parenthood the same day Will (my boyfriend) and I'd decided to go for a hike, letting me know I was healthy and fine. We'd chosen a hike with a specific purpose - I had a book to drop off. I'd long since burned the wedding promises my ex had vowed, then broke. I'd burned mine too. There were no words left to keep once my ex left. But we'd written them in this beautiful red journal, a leather-bound book our Officiant would hold and read from at our wedding.
I'd exorcised the offending pages from the book years ago, but still couldn't bring myself to destroy such a beautiful blank journal with so many clean, empty pages left to offer. I also didn't want to ever use it again.

Here I was, stuck with this gorgeous journal that I could neither keep nor destroy.
I lamented the situation to my boyfriend, and he suggested we leave it up on the top of a mountain overlooking Burbank - the home of the Magic Tree, which has become a popular spot for meditation and reflection for those able to make the strenuous hike, and the journals left and donated up there would become communal records of joy, life-lessons, heartbreak, triumph, despair and ultimately, love.
I was absolutely all for this idea. I loved the chance to turn a loss into a gift.
The call came as we were in the car on the way to the hike, so we stopped at a coffee shop and the very first entry in the journal is now my own story of triumph and recovery.
In 100-degree heat on one of the hottest days of the year, we climbed together.
The air was hot and the book kept slipping in my sweaty hands but we climbed on, sometimes only a few feet at a time.

Eventually, (one legitimately strenuous mile later) we get to the top and I add the book to the box of journals at the summit, at the base of a tree which serves as a living symbol of love and dedication.
I left the book there. I let it go.
When we arrived home, I hopped in our pool.
I was still in my hiking clothes and as the grit and grime from the heat left my body, dissolving invisibly within the crisp cool water, I felt clean for the first time in a very long time.

LA Stories: Gold-digging and Other STDs

Everyone has a price, and friends, mine's pretty bargain bin- the things I've done for money would shock and amaze you. I've been a phone book, a clown (an EQUITY clown though, dammit!) a flamingo, a pearl diver and a fluid mopper on a porn set. Hi mom!
Still, all things considered, my conscience is clear- because no matter how low I've set the bar for my pride and comfort level, no one can buy out my dreams. They're not for sale.
This is how I know, in Two Parts.

PART ONE:

Twice, I was challenged by men who tried to buy me.
The first was in Los Angeles, during the Starving Days. A good friend had let me take over her job as a receptionist at an architect firm while she went on vacation, and during my 2 weeks at her desk, I became chummy with the head of the firm.
Now, perhaps I should clarify- this wasn't "an" architect firm.
It was "THE" architect firm.

And "THE" Architect in question was going through a rough divorce.
Coincidentally, so was I. So you can see where this might go...

The Architect, a handsome older man in his mid-sixties, learned that I was a personal assistant to other fancy people, and asked me to invoke my super powers to find him a house to stay in while the divorce was going through.
Something low key, understated. Kind of a bachelor pad.
He gave me an $800,000 ballpark figure to work with.

While he was drafting and cruising around on his new Harley, I house-hunted online for him, chose my top favorite options, and showed them to him.
He loved what I found, and sent me to visit the ones he liked best. He paid me a very generous office rate for my time, and was thrilled when I came back armed with photos, videos, and a lengthy list of pros and cons for each option.

I liked this man. He was warm, funny, generous. Reminded me of my dad. And like my father, we bonded over motorcycles, and I showed him photos of my old bike back in Florida. He supplies the entire office with catered bagels and lox every friday.
I wanted to make him happy, and he was really nice to me. He selected a home, bought it (cash) and moved in right away.

After my last day working for him, he asked if I could meet him for "celebration drinks" downtown.
I like drinks, and celebrating. I was single. Why the fuck not, sure. One drink. I hadn't been "out" in a while and I was looking forward to not sitting at home worrying where my next paycheck would come from.

He gave me an address and I drove in circles downtown looking for the restaurant, finally pulling into a hotel to ask for directions. There were no street numbers to be seen on these schmancy high rises.
The valet very kindly informed me that I was already AT the address I was looking for, and that they were expecting me.
Uh oh...

They took my car, it'd already been paid for, and sent me to the elevators with instructions to go to the top floor.
And so I watched Los Angeles expand beneath my feet as I was whisked straight to the top of the tallest building in the city: The Four Seasons.

I emerge from the elevator bay and there's The Architect, waiting at a table in the gorgeous bar area outside of Wolfgang Puck's.

Yep! This guy!

We have the drink. A (singular) drink, and nothing more, and I high five him on his new home and rise to leave when he asks if I'd like dinner- no, no, I say, I couldn't possibly...
But he waves his arm and a waiter arrives. Yes, yes, his table is ready, would he like to be seated?

My stomach roars as it clamshells in on itself. My paycheck was already spent on rent, so I didn't eat that day. Sigh. Yes, let's get seated.
I lie and tell him I'm not that hungry, but he assures me that not only is he insisting on picking up the check, but I simply MUST have some chilean sea bass.
Oh. Well if I have to. My stomach, hell-bent on devouring itself, agrees.

The sea bass is amazing. And the korean tacos. And the springrolls. And the duck.
Yep, yep, all amazing. I try to enjoy it, knowing it's my last good meal for a while.

The Architect touches my hand and runs some fingers down my arm as I reach for yet another dinner roll. The food is to die for, but I'm distracted by my father's voice echoing in my head (possibly resonating up from the ever-narrowing hollows in my sea-bass-stuffed gut) telling me "there's no such thing as a free meal."
This meal was certainly not free- the check came and I tried to snag it from him to cover the tip (which would mean bouncing a check but better than this sickening feeling of indebtedness.)

I saw the bill: $425.
Holy shit.

He won't hear of me covering the tip and and waves me off when I plead to contribute to the sum. The Architect writes a room number on the bill and sends it off with our waiter, then turns to me.
Here it comes. I brace myself and he says:
"So, I've got the penthouse for the night- it's huge. Would you like to come see it?"
No, no I can't. Early morning. Thanks anyway. I just, you know.
"I had to try, right?" He grins at me as I retreat awkwardly, stumbling backwards in heels.
I wish him congrats again AND I'M GONE.
I kick myself in the elevator- indebted, graceless, and now doomed to breakfastlessness.

But integrity intact.

I sent two thank you notes for that meal. One to The Architect's new address, and one to my Father.

PART TWO:

Back in Orlando, no longer starving and in a much stronger place emotionally, I had sworn off dating actors and was "shopping online" to see what was available. There was a lot to choose from, but I wanted the exact opposite of an actor. Just to see what it was like.

I selected a Lawyer.
Seemed like a good choice at the time- tall, blonde, physically fit, close to his family. Why not. Sure, he's kind of a gym rat and losing his hair, but this is a deliberate effort on my part to refrain from dating people for superficial reasons. I will try my damndest to make it work.

We meet at a wine bar and he's reasonably cute. Sweet, intelligent, the right age, been married and learned from his mistakes, still friends with his ex, all plusses. He's keen to be in a relationship, like, RIGHT AWAY. He wants a wife and a family, and is in a whole hellofa hurry. Aside from that, though, he's definitely 2nd date worthy.

The Lawyer walks me to my car, parked very near his, which is some fancy model or other.
He points out that he's trading it in for a newer model as soon as he can, which makes me wonder what his marriage must've been like- but he kisses me suddenly, like, inappropriately passionately, like he's trying to recreate a scenario in which I'm welcoming him home after a war.
I see the thought bubble over his head- in his mind, he's clearly dressed as a sailor and I'm the nurse.

It dawns on me that perhaps he's a little drunk- then I judge him for having a liver inferior to mine.
Then I chide myself for judging. This whole date is an exercise in not being superficial, right? I need to get over it. Suddenly he says, in all earnesty, "I'm gonna marry you."
Ohhhhkay. So this is what drunk lawyers are like. Still an improvement over actors.
As he hug-smothers me in the parking lot, I'm forced to inhale and I smell this sweet, strange smell on him. Somewhere in my mind a tiny alarm sounds.
Shit. Well, I'd already said yes to the second date. Whoops.

Date #2 is a lunch date- he asks me to meet him downtown at his building.
"Which building is your building?" I ask.
"The one with my name on it."
Ohhhh.

(It's the REALLY phallic one in the middle.)

I meet him and in the clear light of day, he's fine. He's smart, driven, loves his job, and seems really friendly. He was very polite to our server. That's important.
We take a quick walk after sushi and I see some fluffy little baby ducks.
Joking, I wonder aloud how many ducklets might fit in my mouth at once, and he stares at me with a horrified expression.
OK, so maybe we're not on the same page in regards to a sense of humor... But he's kind of redeemed himself in the way he speaks and how lovingly he talks about his family. We talk about karate and how much he loves the gym. Like, LOVES the gym. He rolls up his shirt sleeves to show me some well-defined muscles. I'm used to working around superheroes, so I'm probably not as impressed as he'd like me to be, but there's that smell again- like sweet almonds... It is the smell of something wrong, but I still can't quite place it. Regardless, he's charming and kind, and there's really no good reason to not see him again.
Wait for it.

Date #3 is at my place. I cook for him, and we chat about families.
He wants me to meet his, soon.
Gulp.
"Oh, and would I mind keeping my opinions about women's rights, gay issues and gun control to myself if his father asks?"
Wait, what? Absolutely not- I warn him that I have a penchant for speaking my mind, regardless of who's asking. I arch a brow and fold my arms. Red fucking flags all over the field.
He changes tack and, since we're discussing sensitive issues, inquires how soon I think is too soon to be physical in a relationship.
Um. That kind of depends- I tell him I've had a chance to try a few different methods in terms of rushing things, one-night-things, and things in between.
I tell him I wanna be slow. Like, glacially slow.
No more actors, no more craziness. I wanna be smart about this.
"That's good," he says. "I'm glad to hear that- because I have herpes, and I want to get married soon and since I hate condoms, I expect my wife to share my herpes."
ON DATE #3?!? ...wow.
"Okayyyy," I say, trying to process.
I thank him for his honesty, and wrack my brain trying to recall if that kiss on Date #1 has doomed me to anything.
"What are you thinking? Is everything OK? Is this a dealbreaker?!? Please don't say it's a dealbreaker!"
"Um." (Translation: "It's a dealbreaker.")
We say goodnight shortly afterwards. I thank him for his honesty, and he responds by absolutely pinning me down to Date #4. Uggghhh.

I've already made up my mind Date #4 will have to be the last one- partially because of the herpes and partially because he absolutely reeks of desperation.
OK mostly because of the herpes.
"I expect my wife to share my herpes..."

*shudder*

I stall as long as possible, but the inevitable Date #4 rolls around.
It's at his house. I say "house," but it's a small palace.
He gives me an enthusiastic tour- pointing out there's where the kid's rooms will be. There's where I could have a writing room, or a study. Whatever I wanted, just name it. Gulp.
He starts cooking ME dinner now. It's a fancy dinner.
As he invites me to join him on his airplane for a quick trip to New York City, I'm reminded of another fancy meal that cost me way too much.

Melancholy sets in. I know I have to tell him the truth at some point that evening. He's a nice guy, it's a shame- but I don't want to be his wife. I need a guy who gets my sense of humor. And won't riddle me with disease.

He'd been at the gym shortly before I arrived, and was wearing his gym clothes. I help him prep the chopped veggies, and as he reached a muscular arm across me I'm finally close enough to see it:
His skin is grey-blue in certain areas, and flaking apart. As his arm nears my face I smell the sweet almond smell and it hits me...
I am smelling his decaying skin cells.
The man is literally rotting alive in his empty tomb of a home.
Panic sets in and I start talking, quickly.

I tell him about an email I got that day- an invitation to an audition in Los Angeles. If I get the job I'll have to move out there, and I'm not up for a long-distance relationship.
Words tumble out of my mouth as I try to repress my horror at his skin.
Is this some side effect of herpes? Is it from steroids? Hair loss, skin issues, compulsive sweating, mood issues...
Every Valtrex Advertisement I've ever seen hurricanes through my mind as I process.

I'm spitting words out as fast as my whirling water-wheel mind can spin them. Excuses, explanations, reasons, stuff, things. As I speak, the light, once blazing behind his twinkling eyes, fades until he regards me with a dull, flat expression.
"So, there's nothing I can do to get you to stay here?"
"No."
"And you won't skip this audition?"
I shake my head and look down. "No."
He sets his fork down and takes my head in his sicky-sweet hands.
"I could give you everything you need. You know that, right? You'd never want for anything."
I gulp. "I know."
He breathes. "Everything I have isn't enough for you?"
I kiss him, once. Last time. "I have to write. I have to write in LA."

He picks his fork up and resumes eating. "Well I guess that's that," he says.
He's right. By the time I'm home at my apartment, he's unfriended me on facebook.
A mutual friend reports that he's asking girls out at the gym two days later.

I recently heard he's married- to a gym girl. I hope they're really happy. He's an honest, kind, ridiculously wealthy man, and if she's cool with sharing "what he has," I wish them all the best.

As for me, I'm happy. I don't have an airplane. I don't have sea bass. But I have this laptop and these stories, and I'm typing them out in the city of my dreams next to my wonderful boyfriend as he writes, too.
He smells amazing, he's disease-free, and the answer is 2.5.
He can fit 2.5 hypothetical ducklings in his mouth.
(He gets it.)