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.

"Six Flags" the Barback and His Amazing Abs!

Another older annecdote I forgot to share...
Several times a year, all the abs in Los Angeles gather for their semi-annual Ab Fest.

Kinda like these I guess.

This abdominal caucus convenes on one man's midsection, and that man's name is (for the purposes of this blog,) XXXX.
(bahhh gotta look out for the guy's privacy an all. Dammit. It's SUCH a stupid name, too. I wish I could say it.)
He's bronze, he's blonde, he's beautiful, and his So-Cal Valley drawl is hotter than a sizzling fajita platter at the Saddle Ranch he works at.

Reader's note: this concludes the nice things I have to say about XXXX.

I met XXXX at that very same Saddle Ranch, on Sunset, when I made the classic mistake of showing up on time for a co-worker's birthday party. The invite said 10:30, so naturally, the punishment for my ignorance was to sit at the bar, alone, for about 45 minutes.

At this place...

Did I mention my coworker was turning 21? Sigh.

During that time, I joked around with the hot chatty barback, who, I assumed, considered it a job requirement to flirt with me. His name is XXXX.
Let me say that again, and allow it to really sink in:
His name is XXXX. That is his actual name, and he seems oblivious to how stupid that is.
That is a name for a caveman, or maybe Kristin Bell's husband. But really? XXXX?" Come on. I stifle a grin and focus on my drink.
XXXX asks me what I do, and I tell him I'm a writer. His eyes light up.

"Really?" he asks. "I'm looking for a writer!"

"Really." I'm skeptical, but then he launches into a pitch he's got - he wants to create a new spin on Alice in Wonderland, where Alice is a hitman. Apparently he's got a whole story bible mapped out, and knows exactly how he wants the plot to go, he just needs someone who can crank it out in the proper format for him. He's got a list of characters, and descriptions of each scene. I'm actually impressed - the idea is cool, and it's a job I wouldn't mind taking on, provided the price was right.

He asks if he can get my number so we can discuss it a little further.

"Cool," I say, and hand him my card, nonchalantly. I get up to go pee, and he swears he'll text me. He's absolutely never, ever going to text me.

He texts me. While I'm peeing. "Careful in there," XXXX writes. "We had to clean up some nasty things after last night's bathroom orgy."

I smile. How can I not.

"Way to keep it classy," I fire back.

I'm busy with my friends for the rest of the night. (The FINALLY showed up.) But XXXX texts me again the next morning.
"Good morning beautiful."
Wait, what? Weren't we talking about a script job? Like, work stuff?

Confused, I agree to meet him when he asks me out to coffee. Is it a date? I have no idea. I wear writer clothes, just in case.
He talks with me a little bit about his script idea over lattes, and it still sounds pretty good, albeit slightly less organized than he'd made it out to be at the bar. There was no actual "bible," per se, but he had a list of characters. And he knew how he wanted it to begin.
I arch a brow at him. This is starting to seem like more work than I'd thought, but still, a gig's a gig.
He was a barback at one of the most lucrative bars on Sunset Boulevard. He could probably afford to make it worth my time.

I had to go, but as I'm standing up, he takes my hand suddenly.
"Hey, thanks, for just chilling with me, too," he says. "I don't get to talk to girls like you a lot."
That eyebrow shoots back up.
"And what kind of girl am I, XXXX?" I somehow manage to pronounce his name without it sounding comical.
"You know." He looks bashfully at the remains of his muffin. "Smart."
Oh! A compliment! ...wait, or was it?
Was he calling me fat?
I wasn't sure. But I knew it was NOT a date.
"I'll email you my consultation rates," I tell him as I get in my car.
He smiles and waves from the curbside table.

What just happened?

That night he sends me a text thanking me for my time that afternoon and letting me know he was thinking about me. A lot. Winky face.
Dear lord. What have I gotten myself into?
He texts me again the next morning, "good morning beautiful," and I begin to assume I'm on some sort of mass-text roster.
I mean, a guy this gorgeous, with access to scattered ass left and right at "Straddle Ranch," surely has better options than me.

Like this "Take-Home-To-Mom" beauty...

But then he asks if I want to hang out with him that afternoon, in the park.
I actually had to get a stilt workout in, since some stiltwalking auditions were coming up, so I agree.
Shit. Wait. Is THIS a date?
UGHHHH I NEVER KNOW.
I wear workout clothes. It's not a date.

And yet he meets me at the park, opens my car door for me, compliments my ass while I stretch (he clearly knows the way to my heart) and seems genuinely impresseed as I strut around on my drywalls, practicing my turns and skips. We chat a little, and, true to his form, most of it is about him. There's a little more commentary about my ass, but mainly him.

Then he took his shirt off for no reason. LADIES AVERT YOUR EYES because dear god. Dear. GOD. I just... really? On a real person?
The semiannual Los Angeles Ab-Fest, 2013. And there is was. Every ab in the world. Like, all the abs, ever. I think somehow he'd planned to remove his shirt where a sunbeam would fall, because at that exact moment a ray of light shot from the heavens and dazzled the very air around his glistening 19-or-20 pack.
I'm pretty sure a choir started singing.

Yep. More like these.

He starts his workout, and I feel like a perv just hanging around like the beads of sweat rolling down his body, towards his GAHHH FOCUS WOMAN. I avert my gaze as much as possible and WHERE IS THAT SINGING COMING FROM.
He tells me that basically, rather than a bad-ass female Alice, HE wants to be Alice.
Oh.
He wants this to be a vehicle for his acting and stunt career.
Ah, of course.
Oh, and that "character list" he has? It's in his head. He rattles off a few ideas, but really everything sounds pretty half-baked and weak, in the clear light of day. But damn that light's reflecting off his golden, tawny-sorry. It was so weird trying to talk shop with this guy.
I pin him down (only verbally, sorry ladies) and get him to confirm: really, he just wants me to make up a story where he's a hitman and there's an evil queen and there's chess and drug references and stuff. But make it gritty and cool.
Pretty sure this is how the script for "The Unsual Suspects" was created. In between pull-up reps.

I took my confusion and drove home to consult my roommate for advice.

"Sounds like some serious abs," she says, when I tell her.
"Oh yes."

We then make a verbal list of how he's blowing hot one minute, then treating me like a business partner the next. I honestly can't tell if he's flirting or he's just naturally that flirty with everyone, even writers he'd like to hire.
Eager to eliminate him as a potential suitor, so I don't create any unnecessary confusion, I begin to list the serious red flags which had come up during our brief chat in the park:

Red Flag #1: He has yet to respond to the consultation rates I sent him, or mention money at all.
Red Flag #2: He doesn't have a car. Shallow, I know, but how could he come to my rescue if I'm ever a damsel in distress?
Red Flag #3: He lives with roommates. FOUR roommates. He doesn't have his own room, he's the guy on the couch. Ick.
Red Flag #4: Those abs tho. Anyone who spends that much time on themselves is probably a narcissist.
Red Flag #5: He's into pot. Like, a lot. No wonder he can't seem to finish (or start) a script, he's stoned, like, 24/7.
Red Flag #6: His name is XXXXX. COME THE FUCK ON.

Thus, Six Flags: Fun for a ride or two maybe, but not somewhere I wanna spend a lot of time. Plus, dirty, dirty, dirty.
The man works at STRADDLE RANCH. He's beautiful, but probabbly riddled with the herp. At the least. With a heavy sigh, I know what I must do.
I gotta cut those abs loose.

The next day, I send XXXX an email suggesting he's got enough material (maybe) for a short film, which would be between 15 to 30 pages. I send him my page rate, my day rate, and what my hourly consultation rate would be for any future story development meetings.

I then text him that I was looking forward to getting started on his project.
XXXX texts me back asking if that's ALL I'm eager to start doing.
I do not respond.
He texts me a winky, tongue out face.

I show my roommate.
We're fairly certain that a herpetic dick-pic is in our immediate future if I do not clarify, so I let him know that I accept paypal and cashier's checks.
There is a long pause, and a series of three dots. For a long, long time.
Then, XXXX texts me:
"I was hoping we could work something ELSE out, if u no what I mean."
I do not respond.

He sends me another goddamn winky face.
"Like i give u pleasure n u write."
Ugh. Subtle.
I mean wow really??? I can write for this guy, NOT get paid, AND contract several STDs? WHERE DO I SIGN UP???

...What happened to the gentleman who'd texted me so eloquently in the bathroom? Sigh. At least my confusion had totally cleared up.
Unlike whatever rash I suspect Six Flags struggles with daily.

"Thanks for the offer but I'm really only looking for paid professional writing work," I finally reply.

He texts back:
"I wanna go down on u so bad."

"Bye XXXX."

I only saw him one other time, when he texted me to let me know he was at Universal, and wanted a photo with me on my stilts. (The practice had paid off; I got the stilt job.) We snapped an awkward photo together, and he sent me a copy of the photo.

I really don't recognize him with his shirt on, so I deleted it.

The Stunt Man

Like the quintessential Little Black Dress, every gal in the dating pool surely has one: a psychotic ex. Mine is no exception- a sterling example of his species, complete with restraining orders and 5150's. Stunning.

I met this prize in LA when my dear friend Rob asked me to help him out with one of his video projects. There would be swords and stuntfighting, so how could I resist? When I arrived and we started shooting, I noticed one of the stunt guys looking at me. Like, really LOOKING at me- the sort of piqued fascination which pierced through my shield of cynicism and got me LOOKING right back at him.
I thought, wow, that sparkle in his eye- is this indicative of some internal blazing fire of passion?

Negative.

It was the pilot light of insanity.

But he was sweet and he laughed at my jokes, and, regrettably, stretched that day in such a way that his shirt lifted up to reveal the most gorgeous set of abs I've ever seen. These abs essentially located and hit some sort of "power down" button in my brain.
Can I just, in my own defense, point out that I was in a really shallow mindset at this time?

If I could've just dated his abs, I would've- it didn't seem like we had a whole lot in common. I'm a writer. He gets lit on fire a lot. Hm. He was different from other guys I'd dated in two major ways- one, he was the first person I've dated who is shorter than me. Two, he actually wanted a relationship. He didn't want to "date," or "see each other," he wanted me to be his girlfriend. "He was done dicking around, and he knew what he wanted," he said.

Flattered, I still asked him to remove my photo from the homescreen wallpaper on his cell phone.
I mean, I didn't really KNOW this guy, and it made this sick hollow feeling leak through my gut every time he referred to me as "his girl." I was so confused- here was someone who was telling me everything I wanted to hear, but I had a physical reaction in my stomach every time he talked about how much he liked me.

Foolishly, I blew it off. Maybe it was because I was gunshy about getting hurt again. Maybe I was being shallow because he was short. I didn't know. I didn't know, and since I couldn't figure it out, I wanted to take things slow until I got to know him better. I told him I didn't want to have sex with someone unless I was in a committed, monogamous relationship. He assured me he had eyes only for me, and had stopped dating anyone else after we started seeing each other. He was fine taking things slow, he was fine waiting.
Then he told me he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me.
RINGDINGDINGDINGDINGADINGDING went every siren and red flag and warning alarm in my brain.

I didn't feel the right feels for him. I was attracted to his body, but everything about the rest of him made me really uncomfortable.
But he WANTED me, right? Unlike most of the guys I dated who just wanted to hook up, this was (seemingly) the one heterosexual male on the planet who was actually looking for a relationship.
But he was shorter than me. So surely that was the problem. I stuffed the anxiety and acid down and convinced myself it was just me being shallow. I'd get to know him better, then make an informed decision.
Besides, I liked how he let me treat him. He let me cook for him and take him to do outdoorsy things. Like a love-starved puppy, he was over-the-top enthusiastic about every little thing I'd do. Like thanking me profusely for texting him.
RINGDINGDINGDINGDINGADINGDING

New Year's Eve rolls around and I'm going to a party. He has to work, so I go alone, which suits me just fine. I was experiencing the very first pangs of growth as an individual and actually looking forward to some pensive reflection on the dock at the party.
I told The Stuntman this, and he agreed he'd give me some space.
I ignored my phone as he called 19 times after midnight and left 5 voicemails.
DINGDINGDINGDING goes the alarm, but I'm not paying attention as I enjoy the fireworks reflecting across the lake's black waters.
I make my New Year's Resolutions. None of them include the Stunt Man, but I was flexing my fledgeling wings and tried not to feel guilty.

We spent a lot of time together and after a few weeks, I invited him to spend the night at my place.
He took his shirt off (nnnnnooooooooo!!!) and climbed into bed, promising to be a gentleman.

...Anyone who's read any of these blogs knows exactly what happens next.
This was during my Ambien days, also known as The Days Of Bad Decisions.
I tell him explicitly that I do NOT want to have sex with him, that I just wanted him to sleep NEXT TO ME, nothing else.
The sex was amazing.
Or, I think it was. Stupid Ambien.
Really, what I remember, was this weird half-hallucination of him naked except for a Robin (as in, Batman And) mask. Urg.
I'd been on a big Batman kick at the time, and even my subconscious saw him as a lowly sidekick, but nevertheless, the sun came up and we had to have a chat.
He admitted he had perhaps taken advantage of the situation, and there I was having had sex with someone who was not my boyfriend.
My brilliant solution to deal with the consequences of my actions in an adult manner?
"Walp, I guess we're in a relationship!"

He was over the moon ecstatic. I felt positively sick and immediately regretted my decision.
After he left I went to go use my bathroom, and discovered that he'd left his toothbrush there.
I was instantly filled with revulsion. I wasn't charmed, I was angry- and I knew that wasn't the right reaction.
Was I turning into the kind of person who didn't want a relationship?
Was I (gasp) one of THOSE people who would have sex with someone they didn't care for, just for the sake of sex?
No. No, that wasn't me. I was a relationship person. It's how I'm wired- but as much as it was something I wanted, I knew it was wrong to be in a relationship with a guy just because I wanted to get laid.
Within an hour of agreeing to "be his girl" I began contemplating the best way to break up with him. The problem was, he hadn't done anything overtly breakup-worthy, and I couldn't really give him a solid reason... I felt lost.

Alternating between self-loathing and guilt, I told him we weren't going to be having sex for a while until I "got comfortable" in the relationship, and, ever eager to please, he and his abs agreed. We'd spend our time getting to know each other better. I mean, I hadn't even been to his house yet! How could I possibly have sex with someone when I don't know what their house looks like, right?
(facepalm)

I really, really wish I'd actually stuck to this rule, because there was a good reason I hadn't been invited over. His House is where his Crazy came out, and it came out swinging.

After telling me for weeks that he knows how "clean I am," and how he didn't want me to be grossed out by his bachelor pad, he finally invited me over. He insisted on staying on the phone with me to give me turn-by-turn directions over each and every speedbump, I arrive at his house. He owns a home, right? Bonus points, right?
Spoiler Alert: WRONG.

I see his car for the first time in the light of day, and I see an NRA sticker on one side and a Bush sticker on the other. I feel nauseous.
DINGDINGDINGDING

He takes me in, holding my hand as he shows me around while his frenzied dogs (who he's kissing on their doggy mouths) claw and scratch blood from my bare legs as they leap repeatedly. Their incessant barking gets maddening, so he ushers them into another room and closes the door on them as echoes of Son of Sam rampage on a shooting spree through my brain.

He suddenly takes both my hands- he's literally trembling.
"I'm sorry," he says. "It's just that I've never had any girls over here other than my mom."
RINGDINGDING
"I want you to be happy here- this is your home."
DINGDINGDINGDINGDING
He shows me the bedroom, wiping tears out of his eyes and proudly proclaiming that the only other girl in his bed had been his mother.

"Wait- what?"
He tells me that "he'd had a rough time" and his mother had come to sleep with him.
I immediately leaf through my mental calendar to pick an appropriate expiration date for our relationship. Sooner the better.
The only problem is his birthday is coming up and he's been so vocal about how his ex had dumped him right before his birthday one year. He actually makes me promise to not do that. Maybe he's kidding, but at this point I'm a little scared of him and how fragile he is, so I can't risk it. I mean Christ- he wants me to meet his parents. I start to hate myself for being with him and being too chickenshit to hurt him.

I don't spend the night that night (or any other night) because that day he tells me about his childhood. How he'd grown up training for athletic events and never had any real friends. How his parents are hoarders, and how he slept on the floor next to his dad for most of his life because there was never any room on the bed. How he'd been pushed, driven to physical perfection, to the point of multiple breakdowns. How college had been his only escape. And then drinking.

He tells me he's been in Alcoholics Anonymous, which is news to me because we've had plenty of wine with the dinners I'd cook and he never mentioned it. He tells me he's in the NRA. He tells me he voted for Bush.

This is how I felt hearing that.

It's over- I just have to let him down easy, after his birthday. It's in a week. I can do this.

He begs to spend the night at my place, and I agree but make damn certain I don't take anything that night. No more Ambien around him- I no longer trust him. But he's literally whining, and I'm exhausted and emotionally drained. Sure, why not- sleep here, because he has to work early in the morning and I don't want him driving home so far so late.

He tries to sleep next to me. "Sleep" is the best way I can describe it, but it's more like some sort of tortured wrestling match with himself.
Since I'm not drugging myself, I can witness him as he's literally writhing and twisting in my bed, growling like a wounded animal. At one point he flails an arm out and his knuckle makes contact with my head. I am annoyed but not injured. Later in the night, he makes a sudden roll towards me and his hand wraps around my throat. I am terrified.

The next morning I tell him we're not going to be sharing a bed any more, period.
He immediately grows agitated, wild-eyed and red.
He tells me he'll do anything. He offers to take some of my Ambien. He offers to let me tie him down.
I decline.
Then he gets really upset and starts tearing up. Ugh. I HATE it when guys cry.
He gets desperate, begging me, telling me he'll get some rope so I can tie him down and his night terrors won't affect me.
Citing "potential fire hazard" as an excuse for not imprisoning a man in my bed, I am officially completely turned off.
By now, all the abs in the world can't save him. He looks about this sexy to me:

A couple days later I find out he's a smoker. I would never knowingly be in a relationship with someone so willing to hurt themselves like that. The Stunt Man has been hiding this fact from me because he knows how much I hate it. He swears he'll quit smoking for me. I tell him not to, that it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter, because I am not planning on keeping him around. (I'm a dick.) I told him he should quit for himself and not for me.


I reach out to a friend I used to work with. She dated him for almost a year, and might have some advice about how to break up with him. However, I can't get ahold of her and her number is no longer working...
DINGADINGDINGDINGDING

I have to wait to break up with him until after his birthday because he's turning 30, and wants to commemorate the occasion by setting himself on fire and jumping on a pogo stick long enough to make it into the Guinness World Records. I'd hate him to get hurt because he was in some sort of funk on my account. After all, he'll be engulfed in flames.
DINGDINGDING
But it's kinda cool, right? Fire stunts and extreme sports?
Nope. DINGDINGDINGDINGDING
Ughhhhhhhh.
Like I said, this is mostly a story about how dumb I was.

His birthday comes and goes, and he survives the stunt despite Guiness assuring him they want no part of this particular category. He has a great night. The next night I take him out to dinner. He tells me he loves me. I thank him politely as I'm scripting The Talk.

Driving home from dinner, night-time construction began on the street we'd been driving on, and retracing my route home meant a strange left turn amidst dozens of cones which had not been there earlier.

"Is this the right way?" I ask.
"Yes," he says.
"But look at the cones- we're going the wrong way- this looks like a one-way street" I insist.
"No, it's fine" he assures me.
In the distance I see oncoming headlights and have to quickly reverse into an alley to save us from getting into a head-on collision.
He was dead certain we were fine, but my instincts were right and we were totally in danger.
Point made, Universe. I'd break it off tomorrow.

So I do, gently, telling him I'm not ready for a relationship after all. He takes it surprisingly well and says he'll wait for me. I strongly encourage him not to. He posts dramatic vows of staunch patience on facebook, accompanied by links of Jason Mraz's "I won't give up on you," until I beg him to stop. I promise we're still friends, and to prove it, I'd take him to a party the next week. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

This particular party is a gathering of artists who're seeking models to be photographed for some artwork as part of a book about mythical creatures. The Stuntman is game, so he arrives at my house for me to drive us to the party. Before we go, I hand him a bag with his toothbrush in it. Some sort of shadow passes through his eyes as he takes the bag from me. He does not speak on the way to the party, and sits brooding in silence behind dark sunglasses at dusk.

He immediately hits the bar at the party, downing a double rum and coke. They paint The Stuntman up like some boggy monster, a legendary creature famous for dragging unsuspecting swimmers to watery graves. He's greenish and wearing whited-out contacts, and seems to be having a good time until he begins stumbling. Soon he can barely stand and the photographer calls me over to collect him. He's mumbling incoherently and I lead him to the bathroom to get cleaned up and get dressed.

Half-speaking, half-growling, I can barely understand him through the bathroom door, but I get the impression he's trying to get dressed without washing off any bodypaint. I try to tell him to take his time, get cleaned up, take those contacts out because I know he can't see very well, but I'm interrupted by the crashing sound of glass smashing as he stumbles into the sliding glass door of the shower he's not using.

"Are you OK?!?"
"Just come in, come in," ...shit. He's crying again. God I'm an asshole.
I reluctantly step in and he grabs my arms, pulling me into him. He's smaller than me but stronger by far and green.
Staring at me with painted yellow teeth and white eyes, he's trying to tell me something but he can't speak clearly and I'm scared.
"Let go of me," I said, and he squeezes me harder.
I use a simple martial-arts twist to free my arms and jet out of the bathroom, telling him to get dressed, we're leaving.
Jesus, he'd only had the equivalent of two drinks, right? Fuck.

He gets in my car, green paint everywhere, still growling like some mini-hulk. It'd be comical if it wasn't tragic. Like this, but way way sadder:

I tell him he needs to take the lenses out before he drives home- that he can't see very well since they don't let enough light in.
Proving my point, he asks me where we are, tells me we're lost and he has no idea where we are.
We're a half-mile from my house, on a street he takes every day to work.
I don't want him coming inside. He's weird tonight. Weirder than usual.

He stumbles out of my car. I don't understand how he's acting so drunk- it's been 4 hours since he had that double. I ask him if he's taking any kinds of medications that might have interacted with the alcohol. He can't answer me clearly and now he's begging to come up and use my bathroom before his long drive home.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck DINGDINGDINGDINGDING Oh nowwww I hear it.

I tell him he can, but he has to promise to take those contact lenses out while he's up there. He agrees, and while the door is shut I text my friend, begging for help. This is Rob, the same friend who introduced us- he kind of owes me.
This amazing friend leaves the party he's at and drives 30 miles as fast as he can.
Sure enough, my Green Goblin is refusing to leave and literally making animal sounds when Rob bursts through the door.
By now the Stunt Man has gone into FULL freak mode, telling me he's had the FBI google me and they know all about me, and how he's also secretly part of the CIA and his dad is so disappointed with me.

Thank god for Rob.

I leave the boys to talk and finally my friend talks the Stunt Man into driving home. Rob follows him home, makes sure he gets inside, and texts me the All's Well at 5:30am.

I take out the knife I've secreted in my pocket, bolt the door and sleep easier that night.

EPILOGUE
...I get multiple texts from the Stunt Man. He tells me he misses me. He tells me he's "working on the set of "Supernatural," and that I should watch episode blahblah of season such-and-such because it proves that he was so right and I was wrong and soooo right." These texts come at 3 and 4 in the morning. "Supernatural" shoots in Canada. There's no way he's there, because his car is parked next to mine the next day when I leave my job.

This parking "coincidence" happens more than a few times and I'm complaining to a coworker when a manager overhears and tells me to take it to the police, just in case.

I send The Stuntman an email, telling him I was blocking any calls, texts or emails from him and that if I saw his car or him near me again I'd go to the cops. I told him not to respond to the email, and he very graciously did not.

About a month later, I run into his Ex- the one who broke up with him right before his birthday. The one I'd tried to call. I told her my story and she laughs, pulling out her phone and sharing a mile-long string of texts from him along the same vein.
The reason I couldn't call her was because she's had to change her number because of him. She'd also had to get a restraining order against him, since he was texting her things like "you and your baby have to leave the house, there's a bomb in it, my CIA team and I will sweep your house, get to a safe place and I'll text you the all-clear."

Jesus. I'd dodged a bigger bullet than I thought.

Then she shows me all the texts he'd been sending her about how he'd bought her an engagement ring, how he was going to propose. Despite her restraining order, these proposal texts had been sent by him during the time he and I had been dating.

Sigh. Ya think you can trust a guy...

I haven't seen or heard from him since, other than word-of-mouth that he's settled down and quite happy in a new relationship.

Phew. My god I was dumb. But here's what I learned:
1) LISTEN TO THE LITTLE VOICE. IT IS NEVER, NEVER WRONG.
2) WHEN IN DOUBT, SEE #1.
3) NO MORE AMBIEN AND BOYS.

It would take approximately two more bad decisions before I started living by those rules, and those two decisions involved the millionaire and the pilot from previous blogs. By then, I'd finally exhausted my capacity for idiocy. I became much smarter, and I stopped needing Ambien because the decisions I made during the day let me sleep just fine at night, alone, in my own bed.
I became comfortable in my own skin. I learned to enjoy being by myself, single, whole within my own skin.

Which, naturally, is when I was finally ready to meet my soul mate.

LA Stories: The Rainmaker

"What was the best sex you ever had?"
...Apparently, this is a terrible question to ask a significant other. Especially if the answer isn't them. In my case, though, I'm a firm believer in honesty being the best policy- especially when that honesty brings such a smile to my face.

They say it never rains in Southern California, but it pours, man, it pours.

This is true.

There's so much smog and desolation in the air- all the shattered dreams and lies hang above the city like a veil of sadness. The longer the valley goes without rain to wash the pollution away, the harder it is to breathe. Things get too tight and too dry- the strangling days. As a Florida girl, I'm used to moisture- rich, wet healthy air in my lungs. The end of October marked a massive drought for the City of Angels- we'd gone months without so much as a cloud, and the radiant new clear sky which follows the briefest of showers was a distant hazed-out memory.

The desication was killing me- months with no reprieve. I knew I'd be heading home soon, but distant longing for a breath of fresh air 3,000 miles away wasn't enough. I felt mummified- at the end of a long night of work, I could taste the salt on my own skin. I was practically girl jerky. I wanted- I NEEDED- clean air. I needed to breathe. I needed clouds and frogs and puddles and umbrellas and rubber boots with whales on them. I needed RAIN. I also needed other things, and the gentle-voiced guy behind me in line at Wardrobe seemed like the man for the job.

I'd seen him around- tall, soft-spoken with liquid chocolate eyes and thick wavy dark hair. The kind of hair you wanna wrap in your fingers right before your hand spasms into a fist of ecstasy. But I'm getting ahead of myself... "I'm willing to bet you're into martial arts," I said. "Yeah," he shyly grins a million-watt smile at me. "Kung-fu, for, like, 14 years. Why?" I explain to him that with 14 years of Tae Kwon Do under my (black) belt, I calls 'em as I sees 'em. We chat for a while. Martial Arts, Martial Arts movies, Chuck Norris, horror movies. I wasn't expecting him to have a personality, but by the time we'd turned our costumes in I was pretty impressed. Southern boy, pilot's license, air force dads in common, the same horrible taste in movies I value so highly. He's... how you say... a Good Get.

We exchange info and keep in touch- a few days later I'm cooking him dinner at my place, and the next week we're at his place. Credits roll after a horrible shark-themed horror film concludes. I'm explaining that I'm leaving town soon, that I don't want a relationship, I just want... wow. Yep, that was a kiss. And a really good one, too. He tasted like pure Amazing. Like the first sip of coke in a lifetime of water. I lost any sense of anything other than the sensation of his mouth and his body pressing against mine. My stomach full of butterflies and white noise, I stopped talking at that point. I wanted my mouth free for more important things.

It's a funny thing, being touched by hands so soft you melt away yourself. I'm completely used to being the loudest. The brightest. The funniest. Because I have to be. I'm generally alpha-female in any social setting, so when I was able to shut off the carnival in my head and relinquish control, the silence was stunning. The vacancy left by the cessation of my own nonstop chatter left a calming clarity, and space. And I ached to fill this space with him.

He has a greek god's body, wrapped in velvety smoothness covering taut muscles. Lean, strong, warm and safe. Touching him reminded me of those magic spheres they sold at gift shops- I was amazed tiny purple electrical lightning wasn't visible in the narrowing gaps between our skin. Taking his clothes off was Christmas morning- marble-smooth skin covering a physique carved by Michelangelo. He was the most beautiful of all creatures. And he was naked. And he was mine.

Relinquishing control is usually hard for me- but I surrendered quite willingly to him. For the next however many hours, I wasn't paying attention to hours. I wasn't aware of anything other than sensation, warmth, and being held and loved and moved and touched. I fell asleep after, next to him, after he held me and kissed me goodnight. His bed was the softest white cocoon of infinite thread count, his pillows all-enveloping marshmallows. For a chronic insomniac, I collapsed easily and quickly into the deepest sleep I'd known in a long, long time.

That night, buried beneath his downy gossamer covers, I dreamed of white clouds turning gray. Building, rising, tumbling together, friction, electricity mounting, escalating, creschendoing and BOOM exploding into rumbling, echoing thunder. I dreamed of rain. We were deep within the belly of his apartment complex, sandwiched between multiple levels of concrete and wood- there was no way I could have known, but somehow that night, IT RAINED.

HE F*CKED ME SO HARD IT RAINED.

The skies opened up and pure, clean water fell through- the stratosphere burst and deluged the night air, refreshing, replenishing, cleansing away all the bad dreams and anger. I woke up the next morning to a new day in every way. Kissing him goodbye on my way out, I opened his door prepared for the harsh morning sun and instead was greeted with all the wetness a girl could ask for.

He f*cked me so hard it rained. And for that, I thank him. I walked casually down the sidewalk, all soaked and Gene Kelly with every lamppost and puddle, to my car. I got in and joyfully turned on my windshield wipers for the drive.

I've never been so wet in my life.