I'm wearing grey today and shielding my sullen eyes from the too-fucking-bright Culver City sunshine in mourning of a dear frie– hmm wait, what do I call him? He's definitely not a friend. Not a foe, either…and though it might fit by definition, I'd rather leave the term “fuck buddy” to the Bratz-in-training on the playground. (Crazy how fast they grow up these days.)
This gentleman – let's call him Dick – penetrated (duh) my life 1 year and 1 month ago and literally turned my sex life upside down. (It's a lot more comfortable than you'd think.) Words weren't required; instructions remained in the box; lube never left my toy chest. We knew exactly what to do, when and how hard.
And let's just say just the simple act of conversation caused enough action to require an umbrella and a costume change.
As he/time went down/on, our innate bond evolved into strictly sex. No more afternoon pre-coital rides to Urth Cafe, no trips to late-night music acts at The Hotel Cafe, and though we spent chunks of time talking and catching up, if we were sitting face to face, we'd soon be horizontal. Or standing, maybe crouching… but definitely fucking.
And I was a-OK with that.
Sadly, I knew we had reached our peak one night when we spent 4 hours making our way around the first floor (and sound-proof basement theater) of a Hollywood Hills home. Someone famous lived there; I don't remember/care who, but we fucked on his stairwell, against his plate-glass picture window, and on top of antique Spanish kitchen tile that likely cost as much as I owe in credit card debt.
There was no way we'd top that. I'm pretty sure I blew his mind, because any sexually neutral email/text correspondence I sent following that night received a left-field response better fit for phone sex.
Dick took a turn for the worse when a mass email sent to rally Haiti Relief volunteers received, “You like that, don't you,” in response. Dick's head was nothing what it used to be and deteriorating fast. Recovery unlikely.
Most recently, a basic “Hope all is well!” text message sparked a response detailing how much he's been “healing,” and that's when I realized there was no ICU, IUD or PVC that could bring him back.
So I signed the waivers and pulled the plug. Hardest thing I had to do in my life.
(That's what she said.)
Image: Maggie Smith.
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