Private Magazine

Month: March, 2014

Finding True Love At Sex Addicts Anonymous


Disclaimer- Sex Addicts Anonymous, Alcoholics Anonymous, Narcotics Anonymous,  etc. ask that addicts keep fellow addicts anonymous, hence the name; therefore, all names and verbatim sentences are fabricated to protect those involved. Also, members of the SAA program depicted in this article, as stated in their booklet, “are not [SAA] representatives or claim to be spokespersons for the press, radio, TV, films , or the Internet.


One month ago, I briefly dated a sex addict. It’s hard to be sure, because I’m fairly certain that he’s also a pathological liar. Then again, from what I know, many addicts are also liars.

I only went out with him because he wouldn’t leave me alone. He kept showing up at my job.

“So, when are we going out to dinner?”


It went on like that for a couple of weeks, until finally, I relented. We went to Taste of Siam. Over dinner, he opened up about his wife who suddenly died of cancer four months ago. I realized he was still wearing a wedding band.

“Isn’t that a little quick to be dating?” I asked my 81-year-old friend Annette, afterwards.

“No, you’d be surprised how quick men are able to move on.”

I figured Annette knew what she was talking about, being 81 and all. But only a week into our frenzied fling, my stalker opened up to me at Spot Coffee.

“I’m a sex addict,” he said, looking over his thick black frames. “It’s how I’ve been grieving. It’s hard. I’m dating multiple cougars…” He began to scour the Spot scene with frantic eyes. “You’re the only non-cougar I am seeing.”

He then called over a random woman and  invited her  into a threesome with us.  Not many  situations embarrass me, but that did. I never spoke to him again.

He still stalks me at my job.



That confession of his has never left my mind. I don’t think about it daily, but sometimes I wonder if he was truly sincere. Probably not. But that isn’t stopping me from investigating the reality of being a sex addict by attending a local chapter meeting of Sex Addicts Anonymous.

I called a phone number I found on the Sex Addicts Anonymous database two days ago; apparently there’s a suburban Christian fellowship that hosts many AA and SA meetings. I pull up outside; a few women are smoking cigarettes in their cars. Armed with a venti Starbucks, I attempt to project a seen-it-all, done-it-all demeanor. In reality, I have no idea what to expect.

I’m worried that my all-black outfit is too sexy for Sex Addicts Anonymous. I mean, vintage leather mini skirt? Hugo Boss blazer? Motorcycle boots? Stockings?

Upon entering the building, I’m greeted with inspirational Christian banners. A few women are heading into an alcove at the left side of a roomy foyer. I follow them. A pot of coffee is steaming on its burner, but it appears to be decaf. Fuck! They start talking about “back when they were drinking.”

“Um, I think I have the wrong meeting,” I meekly express.

“This is a womens-only AA meeting,” says a 30-something with a pleasant face. “What group are you looking for?”

“Well…. well, I must have the wrong place…Maybe it got rescheduled?” I say, walking into the carpeted foyer.

“What group are you looking for?” she asks again, following me.

I swivel around once we arrive in a shadowy corner.

“The sex addicts!”

“Oh, they meet in the basement pretty much every day.”


I go down a few steps into an olive green annex. A guy in an olive green dress shirt, cuffed loose-fitting slacks, and orthopedic shoes beckons me into an adjacent room.

“Is this – Sex Addicts Anonymous? I called Tuesday – are you Bruce?”

The guy in olive green confirms that he is Bruce. He facilitates the meetings. I look around; only one other person besides Bruce is present. He’s well into his 70’s and wears sweatpants.  There are a few mismatched recliners and armchairs to choose from, but I opt for the folding chair by the window.


I’m surprised there are only three of us here. That is, if you include me, and I’m not even an addict. Or am I? Why the hell am I here? Why do I have a compulsion to do these things? My thoughts aren’t that different from the others in this building. I’m given a blue pamphlet which lays out today’s meeting, two green books about beating sex addiction (which Bruce wrote, impressively), and the monthly group newsletter. We begin with the Feelings Check.

“Russell, would you like to start, since we have a newcomer?”

Russell begins by choosing two adjectives to sum up his feelings of the day.

“I feel appreciated -”

“Yes you are!” Bruce reinforces, winking at me.

“And, um, hopeful.”

“Yes you do!” I chime in this time. For some reason this makes me blush. Then it’s my turn. I start to sweat, and roll up the sleeves of my blazer. This exposes the burn from my stove on my wrist and armful of bracelets. Great, I probably look like a cutter.

“Hi, I’m —-, and  I am a recovering sex addict.  Today I feel calm, because well, this is a pretty laid back setting – and inspired, because I like meeting new people.”

“Yes you are!”

We then recite the Serenity Prayer (“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change…”) together. However, the group maintains a casual, open, accepting, non-religiously affiliated vibe. I actually learn a lot from Bruce. For example, AA meetings (12 Step programs) originated in the 1930’s, when people asked God to fix problems instead of seeking medical explanations. Bruce finds error in the fact these methods are still used today to mend complex addictions. The man who developed AA in the 30’s apparently got sober from alcohol, but remained a smoker, compulsive spender, and sex addict until his death.

Right in the middle of our Validations – “I am acceptable, competent, and focused; I trust my own thoughts and emotions; I have positive expectations for today and for tomorrow, etc” another man walks into the room. He’s clutching a liter of Coke and filling the room with the aroma of a Marb.

“Are you here for the meeting?” asks Bruce.

“Yeah, uh, SA?”

“Yes, are you Patrick? Weren’t you here last week?”

“Yes I was.”

He takes a seat, and I catch him looking at me many times. He probably wants to bone, I think to myself. But what’s so erroneous about that?

We continue the meeting, reading through a chapter in the green book about the basis of sex addiction. According to Bruce, his group uses the most up to date, medically sound information regarding the nature of addiction. While medical knowledge 25 years ago relied on pegging addiction as a “disease,” that isn’t entirely true. Also, the only addiction relying heavily on genetics is alcoholism.


Rather, addictions which are “learned behaviors,” like sex, shopping, eating disorders, and gambling,  can also be un-learned. It all goes back to conditioning and feeling abandoned as a child. This “trauma” increases the likelihood you will develop the Addict Personality.


I wasn’t abandoned as a child, but I have an Addict Personality. Bruce says some people with Addict Personalities weren’t traumatized as children. Addiction can just form from faulty wiring in the brain, dopamine and seratonin receptors. He tells me you can work hard and re-wire the brain, if you work at it every day for three years.

Staring down at my sex addict literature, I’m forgetting that I’m not really a sex addict. Or am I? No, I’m not. Our generation just has a problem with intimacy as a whole. I’m sure  some will wind up in SAA when they’re a sweatpants-wearing age 70.  But while I’m not a full-blown addict of any sort, I know that I chemically possess the Addict Personality.  Sex addiction was never my problem, not at all. I’ve already marked a nearby wine store, so I can buy a bottle of pinot grigio after this meeting. Am I an alcoholic?  There have been downward spirals and self-destructive benders, over the years. But I think I manage to toe the line before I hit full blown addict rock bottom. I have too much to lose; I always have to keep myself in check.


The meeting draws to a close, and I thank Bruce. I might return, because I don’t want Bruce to feel Sad during the Feelings Check, sad that I never showed up again. Sad that I gave up my recovery and returned to an addiction that I never really had.  

This thought almost makes me burst into tears, as I walk to my car, smelling a clove cigarette in the night air.

But I need to stop with always putting others’ needs/wants before my own…I need to affirm my own needs/wants…Maybe I will check out the womens-only AA…

I am competent and capable.

Movie Date at the Video Liquidators Theatre


My estranged friend and former colleague, Rory from Manitoba, has come for a visit.   We’re trying to decide what to do with our Saturday night. He has crossed the border with grace and elegance, so the least I can do is show him a proper Buffalo Night Out.

“Listen, I had an idea yesterday, for my new blog. It’s kind of sick. Twisted, even.”

“Oh?” Rory replies, with a raised eyebrow.

“There’s a porn store down the street called Video Liquidators. It has a 24-hour porn screening room. What kind of people go there? I need to know.”

Froth from Rory’s Southern Tier has foamed around his beard.

“But! We need to blend in and not draw attention,” I say authoritatively. “We need to be one of them. This is a journalistic expedition.”

“I’ll be discreet!” Rory declares, lacing up his steel-toe boot.

We drive the miniscule distance to Video Liquidators’ Elmwood Ave. location. It can’t really be detected from the street, save for a bland black and white sign. Once you turn into the parking lot, “Video Liquidators” glows lasciviously  in red letters. The building itself is yellow brick. Red and yellow supposedly increase one’s appetite; that’s why McDonald’s employs these colors. It must make those with perv-y predilections salivate for miles around.

“It’s packed in here tonight!” I shriek, eyeing the half dozen cars in the lot.

It’s dark, cold, and silent in the city tonight. My watch reads 9:30 pm. The fluorescent bulbs inside the store snap me awake. I’m half baked. Some guys scurry around the store’s periphery like bugs; they hide in the corners once we strut in.

I lead the way through aisles of sex toys and suggestive polyester “lingerie” vacuum-sealed in plastic. Navigating around racks of nudie mags, we make our way to the theatre door at the very back. There’s not a big to-do with this theatre; the door could be a closet. A neon sign flickers above. I look around helplessly.

“Hey! You need to pay to go in there!” exclaims a blonde, tie-dye clad woman behind the cash register.

“Oh, how much is it?” I say, walking over to her.

“Well, since you’re a couple, you’re free,” she says to me. “For him, it’s $10 to choose either the Couples Theatre or the Singles Theatre. It’s $15 if you want to switch between both.”

“$15 for both of us, for both rooms?” I’m already taking a twenty from my wallet.

“BUT!” The cashier leans into me, eyes wide. “If he leaves the room, you HAVE to go with him. You CANNOT be left alone, under ANY condition.”

“We’ll stick together.”

Rory and I creep down a concrete hallway. We pass a few empty rooms, each with a TV proclaiming “No Signal,” a bench and a mop bucket. This is it? Then, we see the door marked Theatre #2. We go inside.

It’s pitch black. I tip-toe, inch by terrified inch, leading the way. It’s impossible to know what is inside this room. I could be walking into a closet full of violent offenders, with venomous snakes slithering across the floor. Grabbing Rory’s sweaty palm, finally, a dim glow from the movie screen vaguely lights our way.

The theatre is vacant except for a faceless couple in the last row. I can’t tell anything about them, just that they aren’t naked and aren’t engaged in any, um, activities. I’m relieved. We sit down and start to watch the film. It looks like it’s from the 90’s; a blonde is walking around a house in a modest French maid outfit. In the background she speaks a monologue – “He always was an ass man…So I’d be sure to bend over in my maid outfit…” We watch a fuzzy montage of her walking through a house. The man behind us coughs and groans and sucks down an iced fountain beverage.

“This is a boring movie, let’s hit the singles theatre. There might be more action there.”

We go to Theatre #1. Upon entering, it’s easier to see, there’s graphic sexual acts on the screen, and a room of ten guys. The movie screen is much smaller than your standard theatre variety, but it does the job. Two guys in front of us are having a conversation like this is Kelly’s Korner or something.

“Yeah man, the scene down in Cleveland is really something. There was this Canadian couple that would always be there…”

They must be a part of the Public Porn Scene. I realize that now I can finally cross Watching Porn With a Room Full of Strangers off of my bucket list.

The next movie starts. The actress is very beautiful. Both films fit the theme of POV, or Point of View, porn. The point is to be a professionally-directed porn, made to look like a really well-shot amateur movie. The director is also an actor, a participant. I find it to be artsy and Post Modern.

My eyeballs are starting to water profusely. I realize it’s because I haven’t blinked in about five minutes. This is really riveting stuff. I feel something poke me in the arm. It must be Rory’s hand. But was it? I’ll never be sure.

To my far right, in the aisle across from me, a pudgy guy in a dress shirt and tie is casually whacking it. That’s somebody’s dad, I think to myself. Shit.

After the second film comes to a close, I turn  to Rory and we decide to leave. I need a whiskey, neat, and some ice cream. We go back to my car, and check the time. 11 o’clock. Damn, time really does fly. We decide that it was pretty fun.

When we get back to my apartment, I Google “Video Liquidators cinema.” I want to see if anyone has already written about it. Nothing really comes up. The only item of interest is a message board/forum called CityXGuide, which apparently never got off the ground, but should have. On the site, there’s a public forum called Streetwalker Reports, where Buffalo’s gentleman can tip each other off as to where to find a hooker.

“Oh. My. God. This shit is great,” I say. My face is practically pressed to my laptop screen and my contacts are super dry.

I spot a post from three years ago by “Dariusz” that reads “Best BBBJ I ever had was in Bflo. In the Video Liquidators on Elmwood. They have couples nights on Saturdays and one time this hot 40s girl was there with her
husband. Give me a great BJ.”

BTW, the site is a great place to pick up obscure acronyms. Type in “BBBJCIMNQNS.” It’s a real thing.

There’s no excuse to be bored. Who needs cable at home with the Video Liquidator’s theatre a stone’s throw away?

Rave Scenes and Roadside Assistance


I’m in my apartment, waiting for my date James to arrive. We met a few days ago, after being isolated together at the LL Cool J concert. We had both been day drinking with my downstairs neighbors beforehand. I guess we must have lost track of the rest of them, because we ended up in the beer tent together. I guess at some point, James became slightly smitten.

He called me up. Turns out, we had both been invited to the Aphrodite show at Broadway Joe’s. I suggested that we go together.

“Oh, like, a date?” he asks.

“Um…Sure, maybe?”

“I don’t really have a ton of money to blow, er, I don’t think it should be a wild night.”

“No, definitely not,” I conclude. “I have to work early the next day.”

So here I am, getting myself primped and ready for a drum n’ bass rave party. I’m not typically in the glow stick crowd – but then again, I don’t roll with any crowd. I decide to wear a black and white minidress and some boots. Suddenly, there’s a rapping on my third floor door.

“Who is it?” I call out. My little loft is practically impossible for a stranger to access.

I open the door. James is standing there drinking a Four Loco.

“How’d you get up here?”

“I went through Mike and Jack’s downstairs,” James replies. This means he walked through their outside door, passed absentmindedly through their second floor apartment, up another flight of back stairs, and up to my unassuming, unmarked door.

“Oh – I didn’t know you knew where I live. Ok, let’s go.”

James drives the two of us in his car to Broadway Joe’s, everyone’s favorite Main Flaskand Minnesota destination. We get a pitcher of Rolling Rock to sustain us. Glow sticks illuminate the dance floor; ravers with hula hoops shimmy around; EDM beats boom out of giant speakers. I apparently missed the fashion memo; every other woman is wearing scrawled-on bell bottoms, bikini tops, fur leg warmers, glow-in-the-dark tiaras, feather boas, poppin’ molly and sweatin’.

I run into three long lost coworkers. We hug each other and go out to the back patio. Clouds of marijuana mushroom into the starry sky. I launch into a photo shoot of James in front of a graffiti-tagged garage. The night is turning out to be really fun.

AphroditeJames and I go back inside, and I can’t say I’m feeling him romantically but this night doesn’t totally suck. This show, this Aphrodite show, is totally random actually. Aphrodite, the drum n’ bass/jungle DJ, is actually quite a big deal in the UK. How he came to be performing for a small crowd at Broadway Joe’s is beyond me. I lean into the bar, squinting through the neon inferno.

A skinny guy runs up to James. “Hey, man, they towed a bunch of cars out of the parking lot next door! You better hope you didn’t park there, man. Because…if you did…your car is most likely gone. Gone, dude.”

“What? WHAT?! Fuck! No!”

With various tweaked-out exclamations, a bunch of guys vacate the bar with urgency. I’m a little buzzed, and watch scantily-clad background dancers gyrate on stage. Do they get paid? Maybe in drugs… Suddenly, James is back.

“My car is there, but it’s…” He looks side to side with growing suspicion. “Moved.”

“Moved?” I say.

He looks extremely confused. Dazed. He turns and nervously walks outside. I continue drinking. Five minutes later, James is back.

“I tried to drive my car, and it’s…fucked up!!”

 “What do you mean, fucked up?”

“I tried to drive it, and something is wrong with the back end. I think he tried to tow it, fucked it up, and left!”

The two of us go outside. Sure enough, his car is sitting at the other end of the lot. James is pacing around, back and forth. It’s after three in the morning. I have to work at nine. James continues to pace.

“Look, I have AAA. We can call them.”

“But – but – my car! What are they going to do?”

“I don’t know…maybe they can tow it somewhere until the morning?”

“Yeah..yeah, ok.” He breathes a heavy sigh. “I’m really sorry this turned out to be such a wild night.”

“It’s ok.”

I get on the phone with AAA, and end up taking a cab home to my bungalow alone. I guess James was OK.

From Drunken Makeout to True Love


We are at DBGB’s, Jennifer and I, posted up at the bar. Suddenly, a kid who looks like a 21-year-old version of Drake, in a red t-shirt, wobbles up to us.

“Isn’t that red dress a little excessive?!” he says to me, bobbing to and fro slowly, like a pendulum.

“…It’s a Christmas party.”

Then, he leans in close to me and his breath absolutely reeks of like, pure mildew.

“Go away!”

I turn to my right. There sits a seemingly-normal gent in a New Era cap, with a mellow demeanor.  He tells me his name is Chris. Apparently Chris is a waiter downtown. He tells me his goofy, Drake-esque accomplice is Justin. Justin wanders over to his bar during the day regularly. He also works downtown. Today, the two hatched a plan to partake in the free buffet at the DBGB Christmas party.

Twenty minutes pass. It seems like Chris and I are hitting it off… although, I am rather tipsy.

“Can I get you something from the free buffet?”


I see Chris get accosted by an untidy hobo in the buffet line. So I wander over there and begin gnawing on a mouthwatering wing. The hobo leaves. Chris turns to me…and I notice that both of his front teeth are chipped. Like, bad. I think to myself that he must be a hockey player or UFC fighter, even though he already told me that he’s a waiter. But maybe he’s undercover…  Daiquiris

All of a sudden, Chris kisses me right in front of the buffet table. I am completely taken aback. When I pull away, Chris takes hold of my bottom lip with his partial two front teeth and kind of bites me. Like, it feels weird because not all of his front teeth are present.

Now that I have been Bit in the Buffet line, I scamper off and break up Jennifer and Justin. Then, Jennifer and I go back to my apartment to make an oven pizza, take a bleary-eyed scroll through the Newsfeed, and tipsily discuss the evening’s events.


Two nights later, I receive a text from Chris while at work.

“I’m going to a show at Nietzsche’s and it would be cool if you came with me.”

I accept the invitation, then text Jennifer.

“Should I give him a chance? Even though he seems like a dope/doesn’t have all his teeth?”

“No” is her reply.
Wondering and skeptical of how this night will go, we make plans to meet up at Providence Social, because Chris doesn’t have a car. Providence Social is within walking distance of his house, evidently. What is up with that? Men… If they got a car, they live with their mama. If they got their own place, they have no ride. Maybe they even have no job.



I walk into Providence Social and am immediately welcomed by a warm, candlelit aura. However, Chris is nowhere to be found. I glance around and suddenly he appears, swilling a half-full pint.

“Oh, hey…” I look at his glass. “How long have you been here?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Five minutes? I ordered some soup.”

A waiter seats us in a cozy booth in the back and leaves. I have no drink. What the hell is he doing ordering everything without me? The waiter comes back.

“And what would you like to eat?” the waiter asks.

“Those Sriracha wings,” Chris says.

The waiter leaves.  Seriously rude, I think. What if I hated sriracha wings?! I don’t know why Chris is so oblivious. I steer the conversation. He is looking glassy-eyed and buck-toothed.

“So, what’s new?”

“Nothing really,” he says.

Dinner is going in a totally boring direction, because I guess Chris can’t carry on a conversation/has nothing going on in life. It’s going to be a long night.

“So…what are, like, your hopes and dreams?”

“Nothing really.”

We conclude our meal and I drive us to Allentown. Upon entering Nietzche’s, the place is dead. I suggest we go across the street to the Buffablog party. Once there, Chris takes it upon himself to get me a PBR. I’m not a high-maintenance bitch or anything, but I don’t like PBR.

“So, what’s your last name?” I ask.

The place is packed full of people; the band playing is super-loud; I swear that he tells me his last name is “Booby.” Glancing around the room sideways, I’m pleading with the universe that I don’t run into anyone I know.

“Listen, why don’t we just sit in the dark corner over there?”

“All right,” Chris says, kind of spitting on me through his broken teeth.

We sit side-by-side. Chris decides to nurse his PBR and stare off in the distance. I’m barely sipping mine and ready to fall asleep.

“Yeah, sorry I’m not more entertaining,” Chris says.

‘It’s ok,” I reply.

“I”m just tired; I worked three days in a row. Let’s go to Caffe Aroma for tea?”

Tea sounds like a great idea, and I’m joyful inside – the night is drawing to an end.

We drive to the café. It’s closed!

“I have tea at my apartment,” Goofy Tooth suggests.

I have to drop him off anyway, I think to myself. Eh, why not? Definitely not going to see this guy again. Jennifer was right. He is a major dud. It’s crazy how better they look while drunk in front of a dark Christmas buffet.

The night has turned into a frozen downpour. I drive my dull companion to his residence on the Lower West Side. He invites me up for some tea. Opening a rusty razor sharp screen door, Chris ushers me into a dark hallway. “It’s right up the stairs,” he says.

“Um, can you go first? I have no clue how to navigate your stairs in the dark.”

So he ascends the ramshackle steps; I clutch the railing and gradually get vertigo. Then Chris opens his apartment door; a wretched unfurnished garret greets me. Taking a chipped dirty mug from a dusty cupboard, he plops in a putrid chamomile tea bag. “Thanks,” I mutter.

“So – do you want to go in my bed?”

I zero in on the chipped, slimy front teeth inching their way towards me. They are ready for action. Like an overzealous beaver, Chris attempts to grab my face again for a little gnawing action, chewing, spewing chamomile…

“I really have to go. I have to get up early tomorrow. Will you walk me to my car?”

Thunder cracks outside as we walk the dreary avenue. Clouds converge in the gloomy nothingness above.

“Yeah – I had a really nice time, thank you Chris.”

I turn to unlock my Pontiac as Chris swivels on his skate-shoe clad heels and runs – literally runs – away from me.

Names Have Been Changed to Protect the Innocent


A fire burns inside of #54. It’s a soft, welcoming cocoon of holiday cheer. Outside, snowflakes ferociously converge like bumblebees, and I hope Dan will get here soon. He’s my date for the night, to the Pearl Street Grill Christmas Party. I’m hoping that he gets here soon, because I’m ever-so-steadily sipping bourbon from a pint glass with my downstairs neighbor, Michael. If Dan doesn’t get here soon, I’m going to be drunk. Very drunk.

It is mandatory that a true lady remain sober and in control for an entire date. I already fucked it up. Bah! My phone rattles and dings like a goddamn slot machine. Dan has arrived!

I’m clomping down three flights of stairs in precarious and uncomfortable Forever 21 platforms and some outlandish beaded top. Must go and meet Dan in the parking lot with dignity.

Now, I met Dan last month, when I was on a date with his friend John at the casino. Dan was there, too, with some girl named Jamie. It was a double date. But after John won $3,000 and was determined to spend it all, we went to Wine on Third to wet our whistles. And there, amid hazy drunken revelations, Dan and I developed a crush on one

So I invited him as my date to the Pearl Street Grill Christmas Party. Everyone who lives at our apartment, # 54,  is attending – myself, my downstairs neighbor Michael, Jack (a 31-year old dubstep burnout who wears sunglasses backwards on his head), and Kurt. I went to college with both Kurt and Michael. Kurt moved away to California but he’s back now. I hooked up with Kurt on Election Day after he drank a box of merlot and couldn’t ride his bike back to Kenmore. He’s gotten many DUI’s, so he doesn’t drive. Kurt is a hot mess.

Just as I’m settling in with Dan on Michael’s couch, with a background symphony of cacophonous jam-band melodies, Kurt struts through the living room, clad in a dress shirt, tie, and vest. A cigar is sticking straight out of his mouth. My back stiffens. Ugh! Could he get more cocky and conceited?

Kurt continues to walk through the living room and onto the balcony. I turn to Dan.

“Ugh, that’s just Kurt,” I tell him. I really like Dan. He is extremely laid back, with a good head of hair. He’s even put on a dress shirt for this party. Kurt isn’t going to tarnish my mojo. So I toss back some champagne, re apply my lip stain, and pile into a cab with the entire group.

The scene at Pearl Street is intense – wall to wall people, and for some strange reason, I cannot get my footing in these fucking Forever 21 pain in the ass platforms! I can’t control my wobbly, bobbing to and fro body! I feel like the room is circling around me. I need to get some air and have an intimate, passionate moment with Dan.

BourbonAs I pull  him under the stairs, Dan looks at me in confusion.

“What…what is it?”

“I just…I just…wanted to share a passionate moment and get away from it all!”

“Oh, uh..huh? Ok.”

I grab Dan’s fuzzy beard and pull his face into mine.

“Let’s get out of here.”

“But we just got here, oh, uh, ok!”

In my mind’s eye, the two of us are rushing out into the cold, dark night to have passionate sex in my bungalow. What really happens, well…

Dan and I arrive at the foot of the ladder that leads up to my twin size loft bed. I say,

“Go ahead – it’s easy! It’s only nine steps.”

“Don’t you worry that you’ll fall out of there?”

“No, never!”

And the two of us go up to the bungalow.


My dry, bloodshot eyes snap open to the shrill beeping of my phone. Time to go to work! Put me out of my misery. It’s going to be one of those days.

I walk Dan down to his car, and shower away the sinfulness and inebriety of the previous night. I’m combing my hair in front of the bathroom mirror. Suddenly, my apartment door opens with a chilly gust of wind. I’m only wearing a pair of Victoria’s Secret leopard print underwear. My hands snap up to conceal my boobs. What the fuck!

Kurt struts in, still clad in last night’s apparel.

“Good morning!”

“What the fuck, Kurt, leave Kurt! Don’t you know how to knock, Kurt? Can’t you see I’m trying to get ready, Kurt? I have to go to work, asshole! Hey! I’m talking here! WHOAAAA!”

I work myself up into such a frenzy in my tiny bathroom, I fly backwards – arms flailing-  into my little cabinet and tall stack of magazines. A container of cosmetics crashes on top of me, with a cascade of lipsticks falling around me. I’m lying in a heap, on my back, practically in the nude.

“HELP!!!! Somebody! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up! Seriously! HELLO????”

Finally, I muster the strength, wrap myself in a towel,  and charge out into my apartment.

Kurt is standing naked in my kitchen.


“Kurt, get out, you are still drunk from yesterday…BLAHAAHGHHHAH!!”

He decides to pick me up straight off the ground and spin me around pseudo-romantically. It’s not exactly the most chivalrous deed, to barge into someone’s home and strip down naked. But whatever.

“I just thought we could spend some time together.”

“Your timing is off, and I have to go to work.  Now get out!”

He pecks me on the lips suddenly.  I ever-so-politely push him out the door.

When it rains, it pours…I think to myself, leaning against my door with  a sigh. Still have to put some damn clothes on. I wonder if things will work out with Kurt.