The Pisces
Page 11
“Are they all poly? Is David poly too?”
“No, he’s, like, I don’t know what. A computer programmer. Might be on the spectrum. Does yoga, though. Huge cock.”
“So fun,” I said. “I’m jealous.”
“You should really be doing Tinder,” she said. “Or come with me to these poly things.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “I’m worried about getting obsessed with someone else. And Dr. Jude said—”
“Rubbish,” she said. “How else do you think you are going to get over him? You think you are going to just heal? Nobody heals. You need to replace! That’ll be the thing that makes him come back in the end, but by then you won’t want him. Men can smell it when we’ve moved on. Especially to a bigger cock. Bald Brad texted me.”
“Don’t text him back!”
“Oh, I won’t,” she said. “I have no need.”
“Well, that’s interesting,” I said. “I’m glad you found a way to balance it all and not get attached.”
“For women like us? I’m convinced this is the only way. The only way you’re going to get over him is by having a lot of sex and seeing what else is out there. You might even surprise yourself. You might see that you can do it, you can just fuck and not get attached. I guarantee I will not be getting attached to Trent.”
“Ponytail man?”
“Yes.” She laughed. “Also, you need to see how hot you are. To feel it.”
“I am so not hot,” I laughed. “I’m gross.”
“Oh, bugger off. You have the disheveled waif ingénue thing going. Like that bitch from Les Misérables.”
She looked at her watch.
“Fuck, I have to go pick up my kids. Never have children. They’ll ruin your life.”
“Not planning on it,” I said.
“You should just try Tinder,” she said. “Just try it.”
11.
That night I thought about going to the rocks to see if Theo the swimmer was there again. It made me feel stupid. What was I doing chasing down some boy? Instead I made a fake Facebook profile (I’d shut mine down since I saw Jamie and Rochelle toasting over flan) and created a Tinder account, using old photos: some from five or ten years ago. I was not consciously thinking I will kill the old me and in her place will grow an electronic me, but that is what I was doing. I wanted to negate myself somehow, as if you could just sign up to vanish. As if you could sign up to really be alive, but as someone else. Well, I was going to be somebody who didn’t care. I was going to be free about sex, my body. I wanted to be the one to no longer give a fuck. Could you sculpt yourself into one who does not give a fuck? Could I remove the giving a fuck from the time in my life before I met Jamie, where I had sex with a lot of people, but always seemed to care whether they loved me after? I had to go into it with a professed mission of not giving a fuck. So I wrote my bio:
Let’s make out in a dark alley.
There were a lot of disgusting dudes, particularly actor-type bros. I hated actors. With my levels of social anxiety, I couldn’t be with anyone who was faking being relaxed. We all already wore enough masks. I didn’t need someone whose profession was putting on extra ones. My propensity was to strip off masks as quickly as possible, lay everything out, so as to relieve the discomfort of having to wear one in the first place. I was almost compulsively confessional. But with actors there seemed to be an unlimited supply of masks, just layers upon layers.
The first person I messaged with was a designer named Garrett. Garrett’s bio said he owned his own graphic design firm, with clients like JetBlue, Apple, and MTV, yet somehow he was only twenty-nine. These fucking kids. He was hot though, and I couldn’t believe he would be interested in me. I lied and said I had a boyfriend, but we were in an open relationship. I don’t know why I said that: maybe so he knew I was wanted elsewhere, maybe to appear less desperate and more preoccupied. Or maybe to point out that if he tried to kill me, there would be someone who noticed I was missing. He said that was funny, because he had a girlfriend and they were also in an open relationship. He was originally from Toronto, now lived in Silver Lake. He said he was in Venice tonight for drinks with a client.
making out in the street, eh? he wrote.
yes, I typed.
what about doing anything else? anywhere else? want to fuck?
I got nervous.
Then I began messaging with Adam, twenty-seven, who kind of looked like a monkey, but in a sexy way. He had one of those man buns. Adam told me straight up that I was hot. I liked this. He said he would love to make out with me in the street, any street. He said he lived right near Venice, in Marina del Rey, and was a waiter at Whiskey Red’s, but he was trying to become a writer. This was my man.
I told Garrett no thanks and he seemed disappointed. He asked if I was sure I didn’t want to fuck. Could he ask why I was declining? I told him I had met someone who I thought would be a better fit. He said he understood but if I changed my mind to let him know.
Adam and I decided we would meet two nights later and try our street make-out. It was now 1:57 a.m. I realized I had been swiping on profiles and checking messages all night. I forgot to take Dominic out and it had been eight hours. I rubbed his belly and apologized, then walked him all the way to the Venice canals. Adam, Adam, I thought, and imagined wanting him. More so, I imagined him wanting me. Him lusting for me. I fell asleep masturbating to the thought of this person, as of yet still basically imaginary.
I woke up with my hand inside my underwear. My pubic hair felt bristly and bushy, like a steel-wool sponge. Sometimes I used to put conditioner on it but I hadn’t in a while. I wondered what Adam was used to, if any of the girls his age had pubic hair at all. Then I felt my real hair on my head. It was like a bad cloud. I could feel all the gray seeping out, making me nauseated, probably Adam too.
I wanted to be perfect for Adam. I walked Dominic and gave him his breakfast, then went over to Abbot Kinney. There was a salon there called Trim and it looked pretty empty. I spoke with a cute brunette woman with caramel highlights named Allison.
“I have a date,” I blurted.
“Nice,” she said. “So what are you looking to do?”
“I need to color it. Nothing too crazy. Like an auburn is what I usually do.”
I showed her some pictures of myself on my phone, what I looked like prior to falling apart.
“So where are you going on this date?” she said. “Anywhere cool?”
I didn’t want to say I would be slobbering on someone like dogs in the street. Or that it was with someone I had never met and that he was over ten years younger than me. I mean, the age difference in itself was kind of cool, but I still felt weird. So I lied and said that it was an older tech executive who I had been seeing. I said we were going away for a few days to a bed-and-breakfast in Santa Barbara.
“Oh, that should be great,” said Allison enthusiastically.
It felt fun to be having girl talk like this. I never had girl talk—not since Rochelle turned from ally to rat. This felt hopeful, like there was something to be excited about—both for Allison and me. She was probably just pretending to care. But even if it was all a lie, I preferred the lie to real life.
After getting my color I went into some clothing stores, all of them insanely expensive. It was rich hippie shit: silk kimonos for $700, cuff bracelets and bib necklaces that looked like they came from a tent at Woodstock but were upwards of $3,000, fringe vests for $1,900. But then I found one boutique that advertised everything for $20 or less. I tried on a black long-sleeved dress that showed off my slender legs and waist, but was A-line at the hip.
“No, he’s, like, I don’t know what. A computer programmer. Might be on the spectrum. Does yoga, though. Huge cock.”
“So fun,” I said. “I’m jealous.”
“You should really be doing Tinder,” she said. “Or come with me to these poly things.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “I’m worried about getting obsessed with someone else. And Dr. Jude said—”
“Rubbish,” she said. “How else do you think you are going to get over him? You think you are going to just heal? Nobody heals. You need to replace! That’ll be the thing that makes him come back in the end, but by then you won’t want him. Men can smell it when we’ve moved on. Especially to a bigger cock. Bald Brad texted me.”
“Don’t text him back!”
“Oh, I won’t,” she said. “I have no need.”
“Well, that’s interesting,” I said. “I’m glad you found a way to balance it all and not get attached.”
“For women like us? I’m convinced this is the only way. The only way you’re going to get over him is by having a lot of sex and seeing what else is out there. You might even surprise yourself. You might see that you can do it, you can just fuck and not get attached. I guarantee I will not be getting attached to Trent.”
“Ponytail man?”
“Yes.” She laughed. “Also, you need to see how hot you are. To feel it.”
“I am so not hot,” I laughed. “I’m gross.”
“Oh, bugger off. You have the disheveled waif ingénue thing going. Like that bitch from Les Misérables.”
She looked at her watch.
“Fuck, I have to go pick up my kids. Never have children. They’ll ruin your life.”
“Not planning on it,” I said.
“You should just try Tinder,” she said. “Just try it.”
11.
That night I thought about going to the rocks to see if Theo the swimmer was there again. It made me feel stupid. What was I doing chasing down some boy? Instead I made a fake Facebook profile (I’d shut mine down since I saw Jamie and Rochelle toasting over flan) and created a Tinder account, using old photos: some from five or ten years ago. I was not consciously thinking I will kill the old me and in her place will grow an electronic me, but that is what I was doing. I wanted to negate myself somehow, as if you could just sign up to vanish. As if you could sign up to really be alive, but as someone else. Well, I was going to be somebody who didn’t care. I was going to be free about sex, my body. I wanted to be the one to no longer give a fuck. Could you sculpt yourself into one who does not give a fuck? Could I remove the giving a fuck from the time in my life before I met Jamie, where I had sex with a lot of people, but always seemed to care whether they loved me after? I had to go into it with a professed mission of not giving a fuck. So I wrote my bio:
Let’s make out in a dark alley.
There were a lot of disgusting dudes, particularly actor-type bros. I hated actors. With my levels of social anxiety, I couldn’t be with anyone who was faking being relaxed. We all already wore enough masks. I didn’t need someone whose profession was putting on extra ones. My propensity was to strip off masks as quickly as possible, lay everything out, so as to relieve the discomfort of having to wear one in the first place. I was almost compulsively confessional. But with actors there seemed to be an unlimited supply of masks, just layers upon layers.
The first person I messaged with was a designer named Garrett. Garrett’s bio said he owned his own graphic design firm, with clients like JetBlue, Apple, and MTV, yet somehow he was only twenty-nine. These fucking kids. He was hot though, and I couldn’t believe he would be interested in me. I lied and said I had a boyfriend, but we were in an open relationship. I don’t know why I said that: maybe so he knew I was wanted elsewhere, maybe to appear less desperate and more preoccupied. Or maybe to point out that if he tried to kill me, there would be someone who noticed I was missing. He said that was funny, because he had a girlfriend and they were also in an open relationship. He was originally from Toronto, now lived in Silver Lake. He said he was in Venice tonight for drinks with a client.
making out in the street, eh? he wrote.
yes, I typed.
what about doing anything else? anywhere else? want to fuck?
I got nervous.
Then I began messaging with Adam, twenty-seven, who kind of looked like a monkey, but in a sexy way. He had one of those man buns. Adam told me straight up that I was hot. I liked this. He said he would love to make out with me in the street, any street. He said he lived right near Venice, in Marina del Rey, and was a waiter at Whiskey Red’s, but he was trying to become a writer. This was my man.
I told Garrett no thanks and he seemed disappointed. He asked if I was sure I didn’t want to fuck. Could he ask why I was declining? I told him I had met someone who I thought would be a better fit. He said he understood but if I changed my mind to let him know.
Adam and I decided we would meet two nights later and try our street make-out. It was now 1:57 a.m. I realized I had been swiping on profiles and checking messages all night. I forgot to take Dominic out and it had been eight hours. I rubbed his belly and apologized, then walked him all the way to the Venice canals. Adam, Adam, I thought, and imagined wanting him. More so, I imagined him wanting me. Him lusting for me. I fell asleep masturbating to the thought of this person, as of yet still basically imaginary.
I woke up with my hand inside my underwear. My pubic hair felt bristly and bushy, like a steel-wool sponge. Sometimes I used to put conditioner on it but I hadn’t in a while. I wondered what Adam was used to, if any of the girls his age had pubic hair at all. Then I felt my real hair on my head. It was like a bad cloud. I could feel all the gray seeping out, making me nauseated, probably Adam too.
I wanted to be perfect for Adam. I walked Dominic and gave him his breakfast, then went over to Abbot Kinney. There was a salon there called Trim and it looked pretty empty. I spoke with a cute brunette woman with caramel highlights named Allison.
“I have a date,” I blurted.
“Nice,” she said. “So what are you looking to do?”
“I need to color it. Nothing too crazy. Like an auburn is what I usually do.”
I showed her some pictures of myself on my phone, what I looked like prior to falling apart.
“So where are you going on this date?” she said. “Anywhere cool?”
I didn’t want to say I would be slobbering on someone like dogs in the street. Or that it was with someone I had never met and that he was over ten years younger than me. I mean, the age difference in itself was kind of cool, but I still felt weird. So I lied and said that it was an older tech executive who I had been seeing. I said we were going away for a few days to a bed-and-breakfast in Santa Barbara.
“Oh, that should be great,” said Allison enthusiastically.
It felt fun to be having girl talk like this. I never had girl talk—not since Rochelle turned from ally to rat. This felt hopeful, like there was something to be excited about—both for Allison and me. She was probably just pretending to care. But even if it was all a lie, I preferred the lie to real life.
After getting my color I went into some clothing stores, all of them insanely expensive. It was rich hippie shit: silk kimonos for $700, cuff bracelets and bib necklaces that looked like they came from a tent at Woodstock but were upwards of $3,000, fringe vests for $1,900. But then I found one boutique that advertised everything for $20 or less. I tried on a black long-sleeved dress that showed off my slender legs and waist, but was A-line at the hip.
