All the dapper boys in coffee shops with their double-glance smiles sipping Americanos and typing on Macbooks were more than hot-melting eye-candy  but ideal distractions from the press release I needed to finish while working remotely, dipping my spicy chocolate chip cookie in my coffee, reminding me that I would be back in my office in San Francisco too soon enough.  When all I wanted to do was to sit at a bar and sip on Brooklyn Lager and shamelessly flirt with stylish Jewish boys in glasses and Mr. Rogers sweaters, I was realizing how unhappy I would be, now, without you. And as the only boy back home texted me about his emotional baggage and unrelenting desire to be my bestfriend with benefits instead of anything else, I told him I wasn’t interested in anything he had to offer anymore, anyway.

And as the sunset behind Lady Liberty, I thought about Alcatraz. My world back home felt like a prison, 4 lackluster walls filled with routines and familiar faces as familiar as the back of my hand. And I didn’t want to leave you.  I could have easily spent the whole afternoon drinking with an old friend at the Softspot on Bedford chatting with the only bartender I’ve ever met who reminds me of Miranda July.

And while 21 year-old-me was pathetically jealous of 26 year-old-me the night Ed Westwick wrapped his arm around my waist as we sipped on whiskey, he called me charming and pretty as I giggled and blushed glowing with anticipation of the imminent bragging rights of my celebrity encounter. And when I said goodbye to Ed, and ended up in the Lower East Side cutting in line with two boys down a flight of marble-white stairs into a chandeliered white cave filled with gregarious attractive gay men  and a Grey Goose open bar, I lost faith in the Castro.

Starring up into the massive ginkgo biloba trees in SoHo, with their aerodynamic Jurassic Autumn leaves glowing in the street lights, I felt my heart flutter knowing it was our last night together as we sang New York, New York on our subway ride back to Brooklyn. And when everyone  followed my lead and shushed the obnoxiously talkative chick at the comedy show after I told her to “shutup,” I patted my back with affirmation.  It seemed that there were appropriate times for being a jerk and stealing someone’s cab, and I was really good at getting us home.

At 4 PM and 4 AM while eating either a lox bagel or pizza, I realized I never really liked burritos all that much. After 2 AM was when our real adventures would ensue. Dancing in 5 inch platforms until 8:30 AM, I tried to turn every moment into a  waking minute so that my time with you wouldn’t end. I took a picture as the sun set into a million shades of fuchsia and violet behind the L-line on my way to JFK Airport, and as I charged my phone while waiting at Gate 21, I stared at the photo with cliche regrets of leaving you.

When I come back from San Francisco, I’m never leaving you. When the winter snow melts, I’ll pack my bags and join you by springtime. I want you to meet my cat.

Love,

P.

Today I received the following FB message from her…

Hi,
I am sorry that N. is being an utter asshole. I had a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach yesterday. We were going apple picking then he was supposed to come over to his parents and I nor his mom could get a hold of him as he said his phone was dead. Now I can see that he was hanging around the house fucking about with other girls online.
You are correct in what you said to him that his actions speak much about his character. I am completely devastated after reading his messages to you. You are smart to call him on his bullshit because he is full of it. We haven’t had an open relationship since April 2010 per his request. We live together, he doesn’t have a job and I pretty much take care of everything. He never mentioned to me that he was going to California to see anyone.
You are also correct in assuming that I would be very hurt. I’m hurt that he wants kids with you. I’m hurt that he speaks so sweetly to you. In hurt that he loves you.

You seem particularly intelligent and I am glad that you are not falling for his bullshit
The reason I decided to tell you was to save you the pain of dealing with him later because he is a habitual liar. He did this to his ex as well from what I’ve found out.

I can assure you that I’m not a horrible bitch and I don’t harbor any ill feelings towards you. I’m just very hurt by N.’s actions.

-A.

And this was my response…

Hi A.,

Thank you for reaching out! I’m really sorry you’re hurting… from one girl to another, I REALLY appreciate your candidness. I’m sorry you’re heartbroken by a guy that doesn’t deserve you. The world is full of selfish men, so the only thing us ladies can do is keep an eye out for each other.

Everything N. was saying was just incredibly bizarre, dumbfounded, hasty, and not to mention sketchy. I don’t think he’s in love with me, but probably just likes the idea of a girl far away from everything he’s every known. It’s easy to romanticize something if they’re not your reality. Bottom line is, boys don’t change, only their needs do.

This isn’t about you, and what you’re not bringing into his life and your relationship and home with him. Or what his ex didn’t bring into his life. Or however he thinks that coming to California will be an exciting new change with a new girl in a new world. It’s about him being an unhappy human being, and sucking the devotion out of women like you.

How could he so passively say you’re okay with him coming out here to see me? Ridiculous. What ever happened to chivalry?

I’m really glad you found out who he really is.

All the best,
P.

“I doubt it. There’s only 10 people in my company.”
“Oh, I thought you looked familiar.”
“What start-up do you work at?”
“Google.”
“Google isn’t a start-up. Everyone knows that.”
“What’s your name?”
“P_____.”
“That’s a lovely name. Nice to meet you, I’m S__. What are you up to?”
“Besides buying sushi? I guess walking back to my office and sitting in front of my desk and eating it.”
“Cool, me too. We have something in common.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“Sushi.”

I should have guessed.
“I’ve never seen you getting sushi here before.”
He scratched his head and grabbed a pair of chopsticks and tapped them on the back of his hand and said, “Yeah, I don’t really need to go out for lunch.”
I rolled my eyes and said, “Oh right, you work at that really awesome start-up that gives you lunches. I didn’t know you guys had an office in this part of the city.”
“Oh yeah, I work downtown. I Just had a meeting out here today. So you want to get lunch sometime?”
“Yeah, sure. I do it almost everyday.”
He took out his iPhone and asked me for my digits.

He sent me a text around 6:30… “Hope you had a lovely day! How’s Saturday sound for lunch?”

P: i’ve been through your pain, and i understand how much it hurts, and how lonely you must feel. but you can save your sorries, because you are the cruelest, vainest, most selfish person i have ever known, and if you continue to treat people the way you do, you’re going to die alone.

X: my brother just killed himself and you tell me i’m going to die alone if dot dot dot. there is no need to kick me why i’m down or to address our your issues with my failures. I contacted you because of your experience in this process and my general affection for your person. if you want the truth of the matter i don’t feel guilty for the way i acted and with this letter of yours the way i treated you becomes retroactively valid. there is a small gradient of people with experiences similar to my own now. of this gradient there is a small portion who are my friends but alas there is only one who i’ve loved and that is you. the thing about hindsight is that you only see what has happened but you forgo the future and how it makes the purely contingent necessary. i would like to speak with you . here is my number 239-233 -7288 call or don’t call but know i’m not the same person not after today.

prank calls highly encouraged. 

P: i don’t care what you would like. you’re affection means nothing to me. you treated me like shit, and i have no sympathy for you. so fuck you. and fuck your pain. you’re a shit human being. and you can deal with your pain alone.

X: is this b/c you flew across the country to see me & when you got back home i couldn’t be bothered to, ummm like, call & talk to you? that wasn’t halal , i guess? : P

my bad P dawg that must of hurt & cost a lot of monies.

PS
it’s okay P___ I forgive you for what you’ve said

A month later, came the talk: I’m struggling. I feel like you like me more than I like you. I’m not comfortable with being boyfriend/girlfriend. The sexting stopped. The sweet nothings stopped. I gave him the benefit of the doubt. I assumed he was busy with work and the honeymoon phase was over and it was just his emotional baggage of being in a relationship for 4 years speaking.

So he squeezed me into his life when he could, not as often as before, the signs were all there. I just failed to see them because I only felt them when we weren’t together. Perhaps I was too doting, the challenge was gone, the guard was down. Perhaps it was too much that I got him a birthday present that he totally loved. He’d won the game, so what’s the fun in being the winner. He just wasn’t smitten anymore. I’d fallen for his bait and he was ready to throw me back in the water but I was sweet enough, nice enough, cute enough to hold on for a little longer.

When I invited him to come camping with my bestest friends and I, it was with immediate reservation. I was worried that what would happen is what happened. We had an amazing time. We hiked, and swam, and tripped for hours. We took ecstasy and had tent sex. He bonded with my friends, and they all thought he was swell. But that was the last time we were together. I hadn’t seen him in the last 3 weeks; he was gone on business for most of it, but he made no efforts. I didn’t hear much from him. And then I didn’t hear anything from him. He wouldn’t pick up my calls or respond to my texts, and I knew it was over, but I just wasn’t going to let him blow me off after 4 months. So I pulled some crazy-girl moves.

What happened was almost serendipitous, but not quite. I walked the 9 blocks south and 3 blocks east from my apartment to his nostalgically aching over all the places that would now be placeholders of things we’d done together. When I got to his apartment, he wasn’t home, his roommate let me in, I was going to write a note. I did write a note. Hey, I came over to see what you’re up to. Anyway, let me know what’s up. And I grabbed a necklace that I had left in his room. And then I noticed his laptop was on. So I read his gchat with his co-worker. Something about a girl name N___ whose skirt he was trying to chase but wasn’t giving him the time of day. So he had suggested they go to the Latin American Club so he could “creep” on her (since she works at the bar down the street).

So I headed in that direction. I didn’t know what I was going to say. I felt my heart pounding in my chest and my hands felt clammy and I didn’t know if I should walk fast or slow. On my way there, I ran into my friend Leslie serendipitously. She was standing outside of the Make Out Room waiting for friends who were late. I told her what happened. So she came with me, so I could pretend it was all an accident. And there he was.

“Hey how’s it going?”
“Oh hey, good to see you. How have you been?”
“Why have you been ignoring me?”
“I’m sorry, I’ve just been really busy and I’m leaving again tomorrow at 6 am. And I just don’t feel any chemistry with you.”
“Can we talk for a minute?”
“No, I’m here with my co-worker having a drink. She’s leaving soon. We can talk after.”

So I stood with Leslie at a table, had 2 beers while he finished his 1 drink, slowly. And then his co-worked left and he beckoned me over. We went outside and walked around the corner.

“I’m just not good with confrontation. I just don’t feel chemistry with you anymore. I’m sorry. I think you’re really great, and sweet, and nice, but I just don’t feel the same.”
“So you’re not attracted to me anymore. I was just supposed to pick-up on the cues that you were ignoring me.”
“Chemistry is more complicated than that. It’s not just attraction. There’s a lot of emotions involved. It’s just how dating works. You date someone for  while, and then it’s over.”
“But all the things you said in the beginning, you sucked me in. I fell for it. You just met someone else.”
“No, I’ve only been in town for 5 days. How could I have met someone else?”
“Why did you come on that trip then if you weren’t feeling chemistry with me? Now I have to be burdened with those memories, that I had so much fun with you, but it was all a lie. That trip was really important to me. I invited you into my circle of friends I’ve known for 7 years because you were important to me. You shouldn’t have came.”
“Look, I think you’re really great. And your friends are really great. I had a fun time. What’s the big deal, it was just a weekend.”
“If you like someone else, just tell me. Why can’t you just be honest.”
“No, I haven’t met anyone else. 2 months ago we had that talk, and I thought I would give it another chance. And I just don’t feel like we have chemistry. You’re really great and sweet, and I’m really sorry, I just don’t feel the same way. And I’m going to be gone for all of September. I just can’t be in a relationship anyway. I thought I would give a try, but I’m sorry. The chemistry is just not there.”

I don’t think I know what chemistry means anymore, just another copout excuse for nothing or anything, but he used the word repeatedly.

“What do you mean ‘no chemistry.’ Was it something I did or said? Are you just not attracted to me anymore?”
“No, it’s not that. Emotions are really complicated. It’s not something you did. I’m sorry. I’m really glad we were able to do this in person.”

…because I pulled some James-Bond-stalker-move, that’s the only reason we did this in person.

“When were you planning on doing this in person since you’ve been ignoring me and you have a 6 am flight?”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“You were just going to keep me hanging?”
“You’re a very sweet girl and you deserve a really awesome guy, and if you hate me, I understand. And I’m really sorry.”
“You just like someone else now. It’s fine I get it.”
“No, there is no other girl. I’ve hardly ben in town, how could I have met someone else?”

He apologized again. I told him it wasn’t good enough. I walked back into the bar and told Leslie what happened. He’s a coward. He was glad he could do it in person, but I never go to that bar, and the coincidence is too much for him to not know the truth. The irony is that he was stressing about a girl who was ignoring him, and he was too chicken-shit to admit it.

Perhaps it’s easier to woo a girl by telling her things about eloping to Vegas and moving in together while wining and dining her at the start of your relationship. It’s enough to not be serious, but enough to make you so smitten that you think he’s someone you could really imagine being with. Perhaps its just a fickle way to suck the devotion out of someone until the chemistry is all wrong and you’re ready to trade her in for the new model.

Ten days before, I had arrived in Baja California for the wedding of my English exboyfriend to his lovely Mexican bride whom he had met shortly after I had departed from London during my semester abroad. She had walked into the pub he worked at looking for a job, and she just so happened to be  hot enough to get one.  When the time came for her to return to Mexico, he followed her. It didn’t matter that they had nothing in common, that she liked Shakira, and he liked Jarvis Cocker, that their means of communication was limited by their inability to speak each others native tongues fluently. I’m sure they didn’t have philosophical, theological, or analytical conversations about the meaning of life or anything else;  maybe that made it easier to be in love.

Two years later, I received an invitation for their wedding. Being the only American invited, of course I had to be a part of all this. But little did I suspect that the best-man would be everything included in my fetish-checklist for English boys.  It didn’t matter that he he had a girlfriend back home in England; it didn’t matter that he was going back to her. There was a lot of tequila. And we were the main characters in a two-star romantic comedy staring Zooey Deschanel (the quirky alternative sexually-liberated American chick in onesys (or what the English like to call–playsuits) and  Matt Smith (the cocky cynical chain-smoking Englishman in suspenders). (And perhaps Michael Showalter would play the groom (provided that he could fake an ample English accent) and Penelope Cruz would play the bride.) This wasn’t a movie with a great storyline: we were just wedding guests in a tropical resort, it was meant for us to say witty things and turn it into a steamy love affair, until our return tickets started ticking, reminding us it was time to go home.  Our last day together was like you would expect it– a sex marathon punctuated with a bittersweetly sarcastic reminder that we would always have Baja. And like a flash. The bomb went off and I was back home. Back to this routine perfunctory fuck of a time. But even this was coming to an end. My utilitarian once-a-week-night stand was leaving for 6 months. Whatever. I kind of just wanted to get it over with.

…

So I would sit on his couch and we would sip on water and placidly discuss things like ABC sitcoms, Obama’s healtcare  reform plan, and oil-eating bacteria. I would then casually remove my dress and toss it across his room,  walk into his bedroom, and remove my bra. He would be walking right behind me two steps away. Three seconds later, I would be lying on his bed, propped up on my elbows, waiting for him to take my panties off with his teeth. I would pull on his hair, and we would roll around his plaid sheets for the next four hours.  Four hours, every seven days, for the previous five months, I had consistently been getting laid. And then I went to Mexico and had sex with an Englishman. When I came back, nothing was the same.

…..

She wished he had never come back into her life, and now she was gripping onto him with her sharp nails, some kind of piercing predatorial hawk clinch. She thought maybe if he bled a little bit, he’d spill all his secrets. He’d tell her why he left her, never looking back, steel eyes piercing through his periphery, walking away with satisfied contentment ready to explore other women’s bodies. He was terse, succinct, bleak, unmoved by her broken pieces that he had once so tenderly manipulated into loving him. He was someone else. Someone that didn’t love her anymore. Someone that may have quietly collected all her flaws, short-comings, hang-ups, bad-habits, and vulnerable qualms to paint a portrait of Dorian Gray he didn’t want to be with. The rest of her was left naked and cold.

This was the guy that had listened to her cry about the things that hurt the most,  that listened to her bitch about the stupidest shit, the one that occupied all her unoccupied thoughts, that made things bright, shiny, new, wonderful, worth it, that made anything feel possible, attainable, achievable, defeatable. He liked all her favorite movies, poets, artists, music, hobbies, and random things. The repartee was effortless, poignant banter. Sometimes he would tear her panties off with his teeth.  Sometimes he would hog the bed. Sometimes she would hog the sheets. Sometimes they would argue about a Robert Frost poem or take a day trip to the beach, or other things that couples do that make single people feel sick.

Then he dumped her on Facebook.

She cried and felt like a duped, pathetic, miserable little shit for a little bit.

6 months later…

She felt vindicated because he was grovelling at her feet across a telephone line 3,000 miles away professing his love for her. He must have had an epiphany or an emptiness that reminded him of something she used to mean to him when they walked together hand in hand interrupted by little old ladies complimenting them on how cute they looked together. It seemed so easy for him to walk away from her when he wanted to, and to come back to her the same way, to ignore her when he didn’t want to tell her his reasons, to indulge her in his sexual fantasies, to make her laugh, scream, and cry when he wanted to. Whatever it was he wanted, it all seemed like a game, no questions asked, no explanations, just a simple, raw, minimalist declaration of his love for her, because maybe love has nothing to do with logic; it is just something poetically chaotic or whatever it is famous poems about love talk about. Maybe life could be a romantic comedy, and he would show up at her front door, sweep her off her feet, and they would live happily after. But that probably won’t happen.

Feeling restless and impulsive, I just got in my car one morning at 8 AM, texted everyone I knew in Los Angeles–’I'll be in LA in 6 hrs,’ and just hit the rode making only 1 stop for french fries, gas, and to pee.  It had been years since I’d seen Jessica. Last time we were together we were riding bikes together in Germany picking up boys, eating croissants, and drinking copious amounts of beer. Once again, we were together–full force. We got to a warehouse with dim lighting and a gated cramped porch of chain smokers.   We worked our way past the stage area where a seemingly queer-enthusiastic noise-pop-punk band was playing. It was not danceable. The place was sparsely packed. Jessica knew everyone. She introduced me to a few people.  I felt like the ‘new girl.’ I was asked where I was from, what I was doing ‘there’, how long I was staying, that sort of thing.

We worked our way back outside to the cramped porch, lit up, drank Tecate, and made small talk. One of the boys Jess had introduced me to was trying to get cheeky-friendly and stepped on my white shoe laces…
“Are you trying to get my laces dirty?”
“Yes.”
“It’s like pigtails and inkwells…”
“…what?”
“A little old lady once told me that that’s what a naughty school boy does when he likes a pretty school girl: he dips her pigtails in his inkwell.”

Next, was the part where we talked about where we grew up, what we were doing with our lives, our political preferences, important global issues, a little bit of this, and a little bit of that, mostly the same things. We grew up in the same suburban neighborhoods in the same small town. We were the same graduating class. He said he’d always wanted to hook-up with one of the mini-pleated-plaid skirted Catholic girls from my high school. I admitted I had made out with a boy or two from his co-ed catholic high school I had met at speech and debate tournaments. He asked me if I knew that our hometown has the youngest mayor in the country.
I said, “Yeah, and he’s gaysian. I’m ‘a fan’ of his on Facebook.”
“Someday I’m going to be the mayor of our hometown.”
“You know that means you have to live there?”
“Yeah, I’m okay with that.”
“That’s cool.”
We guessed that the odds might have always been there for us to meet. As one party ended and/or got boring Jessica and I hopped over to the next bopping place, and he decided every time he would come with us. We talked all nite as people entered and exited our conversation.

He took my hand at the fourth and last party we went to; I told him Jess had warned me not to kiss him; he didn’t like the sound of that; I kissed him anyway. And it was the best kind of making out–hair pulling, lip biting, back scratching, ass grabbing, nipple pinching, almost all of my all-time tactile favorites were included. We reached a mutual conclusion that I was going home with him. It was around 4:30 AM. “Sorry Jess, can you pick me up tomorrow? I’m gonna um… go home with…”
“Fine. Call me tomorrow.”

It was dawn as we walked through the hills of Echo Park. Everything was a gray shade of lavender. We talked about Obama. We were the only people on the streets. Not even a single car moved. We made out in his elevator, walked into his apartment, and tore our clothes off hastily like they do in the movies. He said things like, “you have such an amazing body,” but I think maybe all guys say this to all girls they bed. I could see his cat from the corner of my eye watching us. I felt my body sober up, but nothing got awkward. It was the kind of flesh-gripping, chest-heaving toes-curling, legs-twitching sex. The kind that pauses with short mini power naps and begins again waking up in each others’ arms and starting all over again, over and over again. The kind that you can’t stop thinking about for the next few days because it hurts to walk.

Around 10:00 AM, I texted Jess, “Can you pick me up?”
“Can we meet halfway at Starbucks?”
“Okay.”
…
Finding tossed pieces of clothing thrown across the room, I asked him if he wouldn’t mind driving me to a meet-up spot. I wondered how mascara-smeared raccoon eyes would look under the gleaming hot sun. We sat in traffic and he asked me what I thought about the whole thing. “It was the best one-nite stand I’ve had all year.”
Mentally patting his back, he asked, “Really?”
“Uh huh.”
“Me too. I think I’ll be good for sex for a couple weeks.”
“Yeah, you really brought your A-team.”
“Do you wanna hangout if I’m ever up north?”
“Sure.”
Digits were exchanged, one last kiss, a wave goodbye on a Sunday morning in a Starbucks parking lot somewhere in LA.

So A and I were talking, about how ‘hopeless our prospects are,’ because it’s kind of stupid to think about the man of your dreams just waiting for you to message him on a dating site. I know that’s what Match.com promises on their commercials, but I’m not paying for promises. Also, I don’t know anyone in real life who uses Match.com; maybe my friends are all cheap; maybe my friends are not that desperate yet; but I’m sure not going to be the ‘black sheep’ in my circle of friends when it comes to dating sites. Okay, so here is the plan, I will go on 10 dates via Okcupid, 1 each week, for 10 weeks. Every week, I will write a 1,000-word account of the entire date versus my expectations in regards to their profile. (I won’t post (screen)names or anything.) I’m not sure what I’m trying to figure out, but I think it has to do with ‘cyber identities and relationships.’  I know this might not work out for a lot of reasons:
1) Slim-pickings.
2) People don’t like to feel like they are part of an experiment; I guess it seems kind of dehumanizing. But rest assured because…
3) if for example, guy #4 from date #4 is amazing, I might not want to go on date #5 with guy #5. So, I might just call the experiment quits and go on date #2 with guy #4.
4) I might just get weirded out and decide this is too much work and retarded.
5) This could just be a whim.
6) I might get lazy.
7) Based on how this goes, I might modify/alter this experiment as I go.

Also, I invite and encourage my friends to be a part of this experiment. This is a lifetime opportunity to be a ‘guest blogger’ on ‘thisisnotaheart.’ If you’re too lazy to write your own accounts, I would like to interview you.