Screw Everyone: Sleeping My Way to Monogamy (16 page)

I wasn’t opposed to the idea. My general philosophy was that it was hard enough to find someone you liked, let alone care what their gender was. I’d kissed a few girls along the way, but not much more, and never in public. The problem was, I didn’t really want to. I’ve never been into blondes, and she was too short. I felt like a brute next to her. Then again, she did offer me an invitation to do something highly spontaneous and potentially entertaining. I gave Kerri the thumbs-up and grabbed her little head. I took special delight in the fact that the bartender saw me leave with Ethan a few hours earlier. As a matter of
fact, his saliva was still fresh on my lips. I thought I was really pulling one over on life, playing a bigger game than everyone else. Of course, the bartender and other guys witnessing our display went nuts. They weren’t frat boys as much as they were film students, so it was less hooting and hollering, and more encouraging catcalls, with a “Yay!” and a “Well done!” and a “Beautiful!” as if we were at an arty photoshoot. Drinks and shots piled up at the bar to encourage more action, the equivalent of putting quarters in the mechanical pony at the mall. The attention was far more exciting than the actual kissing; because of her size, I felt as if I were kissing a child or a miniature person. She had no real technique, and was clearly used to someone else doing all the work. Trashy blondes get away with everything.

Within the span of an hour, the making-out-and-pausing-to-do-shots show became a little repetitious, even for the spectators. Kerri asked if I wanted to go smoke a joint. It was absolutely the last thing I wanted to do, but my mouth was so unfamiliar with flexing the muscles needed to form the word
no
, that I agreed. I told her I lived a few steps away, and we could safely smoke it in the confines of my apartment. I couldn’t decide if it was more or less dangerous to invite a strange woman versus a strange guy back to my place. Thanks to her size, I was pretty sure that if it came down to it, I could take her.

My roommate was practicing piano in the living room, so we snuck into my bedroom and smoked on my futon. As I was putting out the roach in the soil of my plant, Kerri began to disrobe. I exhaled. I didn’t have the energy for this. But I couldn’t ignore that I’d built up the expectation by inviting her up to my room. I’d mistakenly handed
over the reins to her, happy to see where she would take me. Now she was offering another VIP ticket to a new experience if I wanted it.

I took off my shirt.

We rolled around on my mattress. She didn’t know what she was doing, nor did I per se, so we fumbled around with zero finesse or expertise. Actual “getting off” was definitely out of the question, as it’d require dialogue, direction, sobriety, and time we didn’t have.

A nauseous feeling started brewing in my stomach from the mixture of booze and general sensory overload, and I excused myself to the bathroom where I puked. I hung over the toilet for a moment, holding my hair with one hand, spit rolling off my lips onto the floor. My head was buzzing like it was full of cicadas, backed up by my roommate’s frenetic jazz piano solo in the next room. Splashing water on my face and lapping it up from my cupped hands, I tried to talk myself back.
It’s okay, it’s okay. You’re in a little over your head and turns out you can’t handle everything. But it’s okay, you just need to go to sleep. You’re not going to die, you just need to sleep
.

I walked back into my bedroom to find Kerri waiting for me, draped seductively over my futon. I noticed that she’d refreshed her makeup, retouched her eyeliner, and added a bit of gloss. I found it was comical as I’d done the same thing many times before but had no idea how obvious it was. She smiled and ran her hands up and down her own body, which stirred my troubled stomach again. Her face turned to serious.

“You should know something,” she said

Oh fuck. Was she about to tell me she had some sort of STD? I knew I should have at least grabbed some Saran Wrap from the kitchen.

She continued, “I’m married.”

“Oh, thank god!” I said unintentionally out loud. I didn’t care that she was cheating on her husband; as far as I was concerned I was cheating death. I had no desire to process what we’d done or bond over tea tomorrow morning. I needed to gargle with Listerine and get on a plane.

“I mean, it’s okay. I’m with someone too. Listen, I have to go to New York in like four hours, so we should wrap this up for now and you should probably go home to your husband.”

“What?” she said tersely. “You’re kicking me out?”

I was definitely too tired for a brawl. I explained that I hadn’t packed and the night got away from me. She angrily snatched her clothes off the floor and laced up her boots while muttering under her breath. It was the first time in my life I’d wanted to ask,
Why are you mad at me?
Whatever was going on in the minds of the guys at the bar was a thousand times better than what was actually happening here. I walked her to the door, and at the last minute she went in for a final kiss. I recoiled, mostly out of embarrassment that I smelled like vomit. She left in a huff, and I locked the deadbolt behind her.

Women.

I MISSED MY
morning flight to JFK and resorted to paying extra to get a later one, a fee I accepted as a much-deserved irresponsibility tax. However, when I unzipped my bag in New York to get ready for the party, I discovered that I’d only packed one boot. With no time or
money left to fix the problem, I wore a red cocktail dress with light-blue slip-on Vans to a fashion designer’s party. I tried to laugh it off, admitting that this was the result of packing on the heels of a crazy night of corruption, but the New Yorkers were not impressed. It was one thing to fuck up your life; it was another thing to fuck up your footwear. At least I could run away quickly.

When I landed back in Toronto, exhausted and ashamed, I accepted that I’d reached my tipping point. Trouble wasn’t relaxing me; it was ruining me. I promptly checked myself into a gym. As I ran on the treadmill facing a wall of mirrors, I wondered how long I could sit at Ted’s Wrecking Yard before I became a broken-down pick-up truck that nobody wanted. And then I ran a little faster.

A few weeks later I was out for dinner with a friend, splurging on martinis. While I blathered on about my breakup with the improviser and recent wild escapades, I watched one of the waiters do a double take as he brushed by.

It took me a minute, but then I remembered him as the guy who waited on Mickey and me on our one good night in Toronto. He stuck in my memory because he had a serious Don Draper meets rockabilly look going on, with slicked-back hair and black-framed glasses. I had no explanation as to why he remembered me. Dear god, what had I done?

“Hey—how are you?” he asked warmly.

“I’m doing okay—surviving after a breakup!”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said smiling.

A week later, that waiter showed up at one of my shows and sent
a handwritten note backstage, asking me out. I was very flattered and accepted. The first thing I noticed on our date was that Henry wasn’t a boy. He was a man, eight years older than me at that. The guys I’d manipulated at Ted’s were like breadsticks taken out of the oven too soon. Henry was a fully formed, baked-to-perfection human with impeccable manners. He didn’t claim to be a writer; he’d already been published numerous times. We dated for two and a half years.

Henry straightened me out and provided some much-needed stability, hypocritically the same sort of structure that I’d pooh-poohed while with the improviser. It was as if he installed a safety switch on me. I must have boosted his morale as well because during our time together both of our careers soared. I landed a half-hour comedy special for the Comedy Channel, and he quit his restaurant job to work full time as a movie critic and writer. I never had to pay to see a shitty movie again. He loved coming to my gigs, and if I bombed, he knew exactly what to say to reassure me that I was still on the right track. We talked until 4:00
AM
every night, and I knew that kind of rapport was rare. My friends liked him—a lot more than they liked me—so we were regularly invited to dinner parties, events, and celebrations.

All in all, it was almost perfect. I’ve never gotten along with a boyfriend better than I did with Henry. Our relationship was cozy and intellectually stimulating, but as it progressed, a major problem surfaced: We didn’t have a lot of sex. I thought of it as mind-body separation, or that we didn’t match physically or chemically, but in my more vulnerable states I’d ask myself what was so wrong with me that he didn’t want to jump me all the time? Or was this simply the way it
was with long-term relationships? My mother claimed that she needed a team of eight men to cover her needs, as one to travel with, another to go dancing with . . . Could I have only one or the other—a guy to sleep with or a guy to be with? Henry and I made model partners and roommates, but I feared that sooner or later, in frustration, he’d hire a hooker and I’d blow our neighbor.

Toronto started to pale, like a favorite dress that didn’t fit anymore. Anytime I asked people if they’d ever thought about leaving, they’d respond with an emphatic “No! Are you kidding? Why would you leave this place? It’s got everything New York has minus the grit, crowds, and crime.” I hated the Toronto/New York comparison. It illuminated how much of a self-esteem issue Toronto had. If I argued and said something like, “Well, it doesn’t have Broadway or the Empire State Building,” they’d shoot back, “Actually, Toronto has the third largest English-speaking theater scene in the world, and don’t tell me you’ve never been to the CN Tower?!” It reminded me of being a kid and griping to my mother, “Tracy’s mom let us eat cookies for dinner,” to which she would respond, “Well then, why don’t you go live at Tracy’s?” Now that I was all grown up, I wanted to see if I could hack it at Tracy’s.

When I mentioned moving to New York to my sister, she recommended that I do it quickly because the older you get, the less you can put up with ANYTHING, let alone moving to a foreign country and living like a college student. She implied there was only a sliver of time between finding a sublet in Brooklyn and settling into assisted living in Boynton Beach.

Of all the things I had done, this seemed the riskiest. What if I
failed? What if someone drugged my drink and tried to steal my lung? At least my scar would confuse them. They’d think someone else on their team had already gotten to me.

One autumn evening, Henry came over for dinner. I loved my kitchen in that apartment. It contained the most expensive furniture I owned, a Formica table with chrome legs and matching pink chairs. There was no overhead light, just three shaded lamps, so it always felt moody. My roommate set up her portable CD player on top of the fridge, and we listened to the song I was addicted to at the time, Wyclef Jean’s “Gone till November.” The song’s probably about drugs, but I interpreted it as being about traveling for your career.

The night took an unexpected turn when Henry started the conversation with, “I’ve been thinking . . .”

I don’t know if he could smell my inner turmoil, but he had been mulling over the idea that perhaps it was time for us to take the next step and get a place together. This was no small decision for him. I’d pushed the issue occasionally, but he always seemed adamant that the timing wasn’t right. Eventually, I’d concluded that either he’d gone through one too many failed relationships and was now stuck in his ways, or he didn’t like me enough. Something must have changed his mind, but I’ll never know what, because instead of a tearful “Yes! I would love that!” what fell out of my mouth instead was “I’m moving to New York.”

We both couldn’t believe what I said. He stared at his plate. I held my breath. Wyclef Jean sang, “See you must understand, I can’t work a nine to five, so I’ll be gone till November, said I’ll be gone till November . . .”

“Well,” he said after a while, “if that’s what you need to do, I’ll help you do it.”

That sounded compassionate and sweet, but for the record it’s different from “I’ll move with you,” or “What the hell are you talking about?” or “Fuck you, we’re breaking up.”

Who says that?
I’ll help you leave?!
After that, why don’t we go on
Match.com
together? Was I being conveniently dismissed?

There’s being supportive and then there’s being overly supportive, which creates the opposite effect.

But I needed a lot of help, so foolishly I accepted his.

Here’s another rule: Never let anyone you’ve slept with in the past year help you move away. Somehow, while you’re slapping a tape gun across a cardboard box, you’ll pack up all the nice feelings you had for each other in those containers. Break up with them fast and dirty, and then put all your prized possessions on the street with a sign that reads
FREE
STUFF
. Trust me, you won’t remember what’s in half those boxes a year down the line.

It was my last night in town—in theory. That is, if I didn’t come back the next month with my tail between my legs. I’d already given away my room and my Formica table to another girl who squealed in delight when she noticed how close the apartment was to Ted’s Wrecking Yard. It was as if I passed her the hussy baton. I stayed at Henry’s that night, and the mood was bittersweet. After all, I was moving to New York without a job or a fragment of an opportunity waiting for me, abandoning four years of my life and one long-term relationship. I was both terrified and guilty, which meant I couldn’t wait to leave.

I’d booked an insanely early bus out. Henry said I looked tired.

“Well then, let me sleep tonight, okay? Don’t try anything,” I said with a wink. He assured me nothing would happen. I gave him that “Really?” look and tried to fall asleep, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t believe nothing was happening! No accidental brush high on my thigh, no goodnight kiss that lingered, no poking in the small of my back. Nothing.

I
n late July of 2001, I stuffed my life savings of $600 into my wallet, strapped on my blue backpack teeming with high heels and hope, and boarded a bus to Toronto’s Pearson Airport. I’d purchased a round-trip ticket to New York, with the intention of never using the flight back. Henry came with me to the bus station, mostly to make sure that I was actually leaving. As the bus peeled out of the parking lot, I waved to him from my mud-stained window. He smiled and waved back. We kept with the upbeat grinning and waving until the bus turned onto the street. He must have thought he was out of view, but I caught one final glimpse as we turned the corner and saw him break down into a fit of tears. I’d seen him cry a little during a sad movie, but I’d never witnessed anything like this. It was heavy, painful sobbing. His face contorted and his mouth hung open in agony. I felt trapped inside of that moving bus, passively watching the drama, like a reality
television cameraman. I had no idea he’d react like that. Maybe if I had, I wouldn’t have packed up so quickly. In a twisted way, he was so pro–me moving to New York that I thought if I backed out, I’d disappoint him. Then again, the fact that I wanted to skip town in the first place probably sent a clear message that I didn’t see us going anywhere, or why else would I leave? Couples therapy could have straightened this whole mess out, and instead of me leaving and him crying, we’d be having brunch.