Screw Everyone: Sleeping My Way to Monogamy (17 page)

The inadequacy of my entire plan suddenly dawned on me. Was I really moving to New York with no comedy connections and no status, starting from scratch, with only enough money to last me a couple of months? Who did that clichéd move-to-The-Big-Apple-bags-in-hand thing anymore? I didn’t even know how to tap dance! Was I running away, or was I honing in on what I wanted? The anxiety from the barrage of all these unanswered questions caused a panel in my brain to overheat, and I sank into a meditative state numbly watching the moving landscape. If everything went as planned, I would have years to second-guess myself. One thing I did have was a friend who offered to put me up in her apartment for “as long as it takes,” which elevated her to the “yes, I will help you move a dead body” category of friendship.

I found out that “as long as it takes” translated to “until my boyfriend moves in,” a measure of time that equaled two months (lowering her down a notch into the “yes, I will travel for your wedding” category of friendship). Still, it was an incredibly generous gesture from someone who lived in a tiny, windowless basement covered in a blanket of cat hair with a hot plate for a stove.

Not only was I one of a million so-called stand-up comics who were trying to “make it,” but it took a while for my Canadian accent to fade, and I unintentionally gained most of my laughs from saying words like “garburator,” “chesterfield,” and “washroom.” “Aboot” was my big closer. It wasn’t funny; it was cute.

I glommed on to a group of my girlfriend’s girlfriends, whom I referred to as the “clickity-clack gals” on account of how their heels sounded on the pavement. These women were effortlessly stylish. They knew how to accessorize and seemed to come from impressive pedigrees. They weren’t my soul mates, but I was happy to hang around them, even if we had nothing in common besides our gender. I felt bucktoothed and small town in their company. Even my shoes looked square and clunky next to theirs. But listening to them talk about how they dealt with guys was an exercise in restraint. I wanted to shake each of them and scream, “Just fucking call him already, for god’s sake!”

Why were these beautiful, successful, smart women squandering their time analyzing why some art director didn’t call them back? Was there something in those blood-orange margaritas that made them question their worth? It took me a long time to understand that I’d been playing the demo version of the dating game for all those years. This was the advanced edition.
Sex and the City
wasn’t a parody. It was a documentary.

The clickity-clack gals warned me that New York men were demanding and fickle. For example, they said, no man within the five boroughs would sleep with me unless I got a Brazilian wax. Really? Even Staten Islanders? I’d never heard of guys with grooming
preferences. As a matter of fact, I was under the impression that not only would they take what they could get, but they wouldn’t so much as blink an eye if you were
covered
in fur, as long as it didn’t get in the way of them sticking it in. Were the rules so vastly different three hundred miles south of the border? But the girls stuck by their assessments, so I made an appointment with the Korean waxer who worked in the back of a salon called E-Nail. When she saw what she’d be dealing with she yelped, “You’re like monkey-girl!” loud enough to echo throughout the rest of the salon. Did I seriously have to tip this woman?

I learned an interesting fact: I had a very small window of time to make the best of that expensive bikini wax. Being half Israeli, it was about forty minutes.

The clickity-clack gals invited me out to a trendy SoHo bar with a gaggle of guys with whom they had ambiguous relationships. As last call approached, everyone circled around one another like some sort of intoxicated square dance, trying to find a final partner. Worried that it was going to be junior high dodgeball all over again, I excused myself to stand by the bar, hoping to avoid the shame of being picked last. While holding a twenty-dollar bill in my hand, jammed in a sea of cute people, it struck me that being self-conscious about my scar was the least of my problems; I wasn’t sure I even had the genetic gifts to get the attention of the bartender.

One of the guys from the group wound up standing beside me. He sported a surfer-boy style with messy hair and a braided rope bracelet that seemed totally out of place in Gotham’s gloominess.
Without any direction from me, he caught the bartender’s eye and ordered us both double vodkas on the rocks. Either he was trying to get me into bed or he had a drinking problem. Either way, I was in. With my eye on my Blue Crush prize, I laughed too hard at everything he said and subtly let it slip out that my apartment was only a few blocks away and I had a six-pack chilling in the fridge. Oh, and my roommate was out of town.

“We should go there right after we have one more, right?” he suggested. I stood corrected: It wasn’t
or
he had a drinking problem—it was
and
he had a drinking problem.

“Nothing fruity,” I requested.

I felt so superior leaving with his arm around my neck in front of my new friends who’d warned me that the men in this city were impossible. Really? Because it appeared that I’d mastered the situation in a matter of weeks. This place was just like Toronto.

Back at my apartment, I was all aflutter, contemplating how to create the perfect surfer’s paradise. I handed him his as-advertised-in-the-brochure bottle of Heineken and finally settled on a stunt I’d never tried before. Without warning, while sitting on the couch, I unzipped his jeans and pushed my own head down. It was the perfect mixture of spontaneity, confidence, and filth. I reemerged after a few minutes to receive my “job well done” gratitude and reciprocation. He grazed the side of my cheek with the back of his hand and said, “You’re amazing. Thank you for the freebie.” I giggled along at his little joke and waited for him to walk me to the bedroom. Instead, he used the momentum to grin his way right out my front door.

As the door shut behind him, I stood there frozen, feeling the smile fade from my face. Did I get taken advantage of? Did that poor man’s Kelly Slater drink my beer, take my blow job, and say aloha without even asking for my number? Not only was it bad manners, but who walks away from a simple one-night stand? Was I so undesirable that he didn’t even want to entertain having casual sex with me? I cracked the remaining Heineken and paced around my apartment like a detective working on The Case of the Missing Orgasm. Maybe this was a misunderstanding and I should forget about it. Or maybe my drunken blow job was a little toothy? In hindsight, I hoped so. Still, I felt silly about my whorish display.

I should have never doubted the clickity-clack gals. Like prehistoric fish crawling out of the ocean, they’d adapted and evolved to deal with the cruel world they were presented with. There had to be another way. When I relayed the perturbing tale to one of them the next day, she was totally unphased. “Yeah, I think something similar happened with Elicia and that guy.”

Wait, so this guy had struck before but no one warned me? Or marked him with a red
X?
Was this part of my initiation? No. I refused. I would not join their ranks. Like the famous girl-surfer whose arm was bitten off by a shark, I too had to dive back in.

ONE OF THE
advantages of being a female stand-up comic was that I ran in a circle of mostly single men—damaged, childish, social weirdos, but still identifiable as men. A few months after my blown
blow job experience, I met a comic who I thought was an exception to the introvert/freak rule. Niche shows were the new hook, and after performing on
Chicks and Giggles
and
Yids in the Hood
, I landed a spot on a dating-themed show called
Singularly Hilarious
. Since the major requirement of the show was that you were unattached, the green room was like a cramped, awkward, singles mixer. This comic was by far the cutest in the room, although that wasn’t saying much. He dressed a little too preppy for my taste, as if he’d rushed there from his day job on Wall Street, and he wasn’t particularly warm or expressive. In the place of a smile, he raised the right corner of his mouth. At least he’d never get wrinkles. His idea of flirting was asking me, “Why haven’t I met you yet?” which could have easily translated to, “Did I already have sex with you and you’ve changed your hair, or are you a different girl?” I replied, “I guess because I have a better booking agent.” He took the insult with a lopsided smirk and asked if I would like to go on a date some time. An actual date. I was impressed.

We met at a loud and crowded bar, where we drank whiskey, and then I dragged him down a hallway and through a door marked
STAFF
ONLY
to frenetically make out. He didn’t ask questions along the way, just followed. It was like old times. After getting kicked out by a screaming busboy, we staggered down the streets and he flashed me a look that said, “You’re not like the other girls, are you?” I totally basked in it. That’s right, I was different. We walked in the direction of his apartment, a loft that he shared with a graffiti artist. I was about to say, “Isn’t that the same as saying you live with a criminal?” but he asked a better question first.

“Have you ever spray-painted public property before?”

“Of course not!” I laughed. I liked this guy. He was seeing my bet and raising me.

“It’s a great way to let off some steam, you know?”

No. But I was about to.

A metal bookshelf of partially used spray-paint cans in a rainbow of colors stood in the front entrance of his apartment. He grabbed a black can, I requested orange, and we headed down the block to a building under construction. Its facade was covered with temporary raw plywood walls that were already tagged, postered, and splattered. He sprayed a zigzag across the wall to show me how it was done, and I added a simple neon orange circle above it. Vandalizing public property was incredible. Not only because of the rush associated with the thought of being caught, but because it was so liberating to mark New York like I owned it. It didn’t control me; I controlled it. Take that! Soon we were running up and down the block, giggling and coating the walls with black and orange shapes. I was overtaken by the moment and thought,
This is how real relationships start. This is the story we’ll tell people
. Or, as it turned out, I’d tell people.

He drew a sad face with heavy black dots for eyes that ran down the wall like mascara tears and signed his initials. I wrote “self-portrait” underneath it. He gave me the lip raise that suggested we head back to his apartment before someone saw us.

Back at his apartment, he introduced me to his loft bed, a space-saving structure specific to small city apartments, basically an upper bunk-bed. Everything in this city was exhausting; even foreplay
involved climbing a ladder. Half-clothed, lying down with our heads four inches from the ceiling, we fooled around until he plainly asked, “Should we have sex?”

“I want to, but I can’t,” I answered definitively.

“C’mon. Why not?”

I couldn’t say,
Because the dude before you ruined it for everyone, okay?

“I can’t right now.” I didn’t care that it probably sounded like I had my period, or that I was between waxes, or that the rash was back.

“But we’re right here.”

I’d used that argument before.

“I’d love to, but it’s a no.” I sounded like a judge on
Star Search
.

He lazily tried to convince me for a few more minutes, but I stuck to my guns and finally we fell asleep. The next morning, on my way out, he asked if I’d like to meet up later in the week for a drink, so I figured I’d made the right choice. Write it down. Don’t ever give it up on the first date.

I spent way too much time getting ready for that next drink. Usually I allotted about forty-five minutes, but this time I gave myself a full ninety to thoroughly shave, pluck, prime, and paint. While adding the finishing touches of long dangly earrings and spraying jasmine-scented perfume on every crease of my body, I thought,
Tonight I will have sex with this man. He deserves it
. My outfit worked every angle: a low-cut blouse and a short skirt, thigh-high stockings with high heels, big red lips, and smoky eyes. Before I clickity-clacked out the door, I threw a toothbrush and a pair of fresh underwear into my purse, like a pro.

I’d chosen this candlelit lounge that always had some atmospheric Portishead-inspired mix playing in the background. He seemed different from the last time: distant and even harder to read. I couldn’t penetrate his dour mood or make that corner of his lip rise. The connection we’d had the first night, however shallow, was gone. I couldn’t hit upon how things had gone awry. He gave me no choice but to begrudgingly ask, “So, is something wrong?”

“I’m going through a bout of depression. I’ll probably go home after this beer.”

One beer? My vision for our evening was slipping from my grips. In an attempt to buy some time to turn things around, I posed that we split one more beer and then I’d release him into the night. He went for it, slammed down his half, and announced he was leaving.

“Can I come with you? I promise to make you feel better. I can be like a huge dose of Prozac!” My last resort was to compare myself to pharmaceuticals.

“No, I really need to go home . . . alone.”

Once again, I was completely baffled.

It started to rain, and we stood outside under my umbrella saying good-bye.

“I guess have a good night!” I said sarcastically.

“I’m sorry, Ophira,” he said. He tried to kiss me, but I moved away.

“No trial prescriptions,” I snapped. It was a dumb comeback, but it was all I could come up with while feeling rejected.

He sort of shrugged as if it were worth a shot and walked away. I knew I couldn’t both run after him and keep my integrity. With a
sigh, I pivoted on my heels and headed back home, sloshing through the puddles and soaking my feet because I couldn’t take large strides in my constrictive skirt.

When I returned to my apartment, I stared at myself in the mirror, dumbfounded. A frosted-up face of heavy makeup with huge gold dangly earrings returned my glare. I looked like a fucking clown. Or a gypsy. Or a gypsy clown, the most hated variety of clown. What was he even apologizing for? For voting me out of his life?