CHAPTER THIRTY - THE DATING GAME

I promised you I'd finish this story, and now I can safely say, it will have been worth the wait.

Dearest Nurse,

I would say the past six months have been a whirlwind, but that would be an understatement. A tropical storm followed by a shit tornado that inexplicably triggered a volcanic eruption of fuck-my-life is probably a more apt description. And that is because, dear Nurse, I officially reentered the dating scene.

In many ways, that is why this final chapter(s?) has taken so long to write. What I wanted was to wrap this whole thing up in a pretty bow for you, Nurse. I wanted to regale you with hilarious stories of my adorable misadventures that culminated in the finding of a new love interest - someone with potential to maybe, kinda, sorta be someone I could settle in with, and get on the road to finding my happy. That was the movie version of this anyway, and if you’ve learned anything about me, it’s that I love to try and script my life. Thing is, at some point, every rational adult - writer or no - must come to the conclusion that real life is a bitch with a lot of notes, and if you don’t take them, she’s just gonna rewrite that fucking script for you. So, with that in mind, I’m going to attempt to fill you in and wrap this up with the finesse any decent late coming-of-age story deserves.

So, Plays Scrabble. Seems like an apt place to start. Let’s just say, he wasn’t as good at Scrabble as he let on. (I murdered him with the quickness.) Let’s also say that I’ve never seen a full grown man more terrified in my life, and I’m not even referring to the evening we spent at Universal Studio’s Halloween Horror Nights.

“You’re moving so fast!” He shrieked one night, his eyes wide and bloodshot behind crooked glasses.

Now, it’s worth stating that I’m almost one-hundred percent certain Plays Scrabble is on the autism spectrum. I have zero issues with this. In fact, I am pretty sure I’ve dated someone with autism before, I just didn’t know it. I’m attracted to smart, quirky people. But for the first dating situation I entered into in after a crappy ten-year marriage to be with someone who not only has trouble identifying other’s emotions, but responding to them, was not ideal. For either of us.

The way things with Plays Scrabble fell out still embarrasses me. Autism or no, he wasn’t wrong. I was distantly attracted to him, I suppose. The sex was fine, and he was nice enough… but my ass was all in. I texted him every day, sent him links to songs I thought he’d like, snuggled relentlessly like some deranged Koala, and thought to myself, “Great. I did it. I won the dating thing, and now life is going to be perfect.”

But that wasn’t how I sold myself to Plays Scrabble. If you remember, I sat across from this poor man and told him I never wanted to be monogamous again, and all I wanted was catch up on a decade of sex. Now, after less than two weeks, he found himself with some clingy, almost-40-year-old, wanna-be girlfriend who was - yes, I’m going to say it - not as emotionally stable as I thought I was.

And I shouldn’t have been. The Romeo debacle aside, I was still less than two-months separated. My life had barely settled into anything resembling normalcy, and - though I didn’t want to admit it - I was still very broken. But rather than looking at myself anymore than I had and trying to heal that break, I spun out. Checking my texts, questioning my attractiveness, crying at random intervals, and allowing myself to be almost constantly distracted. Even though I had no idea what I was going through or what I was doing, I did know that new romances weren’t supposed to feel like this. Plays Scrabble was and is a very kind man, but I wasn’t what he signed up for, and he was doing his best to let me know without destroying me. He needn’t have worried. I was doing a find job of that myself. And so, as things fizzled with Plays Scrabble, I went back to the ol’ dating apps.

“I don’t see why you can only date people with herpes.” Lady Capulet said, she and I chatting on the phone while I did my best to clean up the apartment before the girls arrived for the evening.

“It just makes things easier.” I said, feeling the weight yet again. After the discovery of Positive Singles, I had convinced myself that the whole oh-wait-I-have-herpes-okay-that’s-cool-see-ya-later conversations were behind me. That as long as this magical interface existed I would never have to subject myself to that particular humiliation ever again. Unfortunately - as I mentioned previously - Positive Singles isn’t exactly swimming in eligible bachelors. Wait, hang on, I guess I shouldn’t say that. If you’re into prison tattoos, missing teeth, and dudes with seriously questionable sources of income, you will be very happy on America’s number one STD dating site. Hell, if that’s your thing, whether you have an STD or not, you need to get yourself on there, stat. I mean, what’s a few genital warts if you get to bag HORNYLICKER85 from Redondo? Think about it, that’s all I’m saying.

But even though I didn’t cop to it, my mother’s words encouraged me. And she wasn’t the only one. Benvolio was also of the mind that I needn’t restrict myself to card-carrying viral contenders. As long as I was honest - and I’m always honest - I should feel free to dive into whatever dating pool I wish.

And with that, I sucked in a deep breath, thumbed my way to the app store, and downloaded… Tinder. And omigosh, Dear Nurse, did that open up an entire world. Some of these guys were legitimately hot! And the cutest one I found in a brief swiping session - during which I accidentally liked a dude with not one, but five cat pics - actually wrote me back.

Hey! Where are you from originally?

New York City. You?

No way. Me too!

Get the fuck out.

I knew I would dig him. Like I told you, I’m a New Yorker. And when it comes to New Yorkers, if we don’t drop an “F” bomb within a few minutes of meeting you, it means we don’t like you. This guy, who I would come to know as Little Italy, definitely liked me. So, why “Little Italy”, you ask?

“Isn’t he so fucking cute?” I said to CB while sitting by her pool in Beverly Hills, showing her Little Italy’s Tinder profile.

“So cute.” She said, and then leaned in a but closer. “But is he…?”

“Short?” I finished. “Yeah. I had the same thought.”

His height wasn’t listed, which was suspect in and of itself. But there were also a few pictures that - while not obvious - seemed to suggest he wouldn’t exactly be an NBA draft pick. But hey, Paris was my height. Wasn’t my first choice of physical attributes, but I could do it again… for the right person anyway.

“What is this, fuckin’ Disneyland?” He said in a thick Bronx Italian accent, sauntering up to the entryway of The Huntington Library Gardens where he agreed to meet me.

“Yep. And I’m fuckin’ Mickey Mouse.” I stood from the bench where I had been sitting, and wouldn’t you know it, he was eye level with my chin. God damn it.

But I had to hand it to the guy. As rabidly blue collar as he sounded when he opened his mouth, he was fucking smart, and an amazing storyteller. Plus, he’s as enamored with the entertainment industry as I am - having worked in development for the past five years - and we spent the entire afternoon lounging around the gardens in the mid-October sun, talking about movies, comic books, ideas, you name it. At one point, he side-eyed me.

“I wonder if we could work together…”

I had been thinking the same thing. It’s rare to find someone who lights up your imagination, particularly when you spend every single day knee deep in creative exploits. I thought then that’s probably where Little Italy belonged in my life, but like I said, I’m stubborn. I made out with him right there at the 1919 Cafe, and again in the parking lot in the open hatchback of my Rav4.

And it was fun for a while, casually seeing a fellow New Yorker who looked at me with total adoration.

“You have the hands of an artist.” He said to me once, and I think that’s when I knew we’d always be friends. Because anything serious with Little Italy - though we never acknowledged this - was off the table. First off, he’s thirty-two. Yes, an adult, but one who still wants “to get hitched, pop out a few kids, and leave a good-looking corpse.” As fun as it might be to live out a Married to the Mob fantasy, I’m too old for that shit. Secondly, as sweet as he is, he has sex like a B-list porn star with an axe to grind. Gritting his teeth, spitting expletives, and going for the whole asphyxiation thing. I put up with it because I was hardly physically intimidated, but I did not like it. I batted him away enough times that he eventually got the message on the don’t-fucking-choke-me front, but then there was another issue:

“There a reason you haven’t gone down on me?”

“What? I have.”

“Pretty sure I would remember if you had.”

“Oh, come on. Yes I have.”

He hadn’t, and he never got the chance. I told him on our second date about the whole herpes thing, and he was fine with it. Fine enough to sleep with me - protected, of course. But as many times as I went down on him, the favor was never returned. He said it had nothing to do with any viral apprehension, but I knew it did. And truth be told, if my face were as pretty as his, I probably wouldn’t want to risk compromising it with open lip sores either. But it was after an awkward stand-up moment over the Thanksgiving holiday, I knew I had to call it quits. Because the biggest issue with Little Italy had nothing to do with Little Italy at all.

In spite of all the lovely things he had said, the fabulous dates, and more than engaging conversation, the moment I didn’t hear from him, I started to crumble. I was in New York, visiting my parents by myself for the first time since meeting Paris. Little Italy was staying with his family in Connecticut at the time, and before we left L.A., we had made plans to meet in the city for a day. As said day drew nearer, however, his usually direct and responsive text messages started to disintegrate.

Hey, you’re moving a little fast for me. I’m here to see my family, and though it might not make sense to you, that’s something that’s very important for me.

I stared at my phone, dressed to the nines for a night out at a Jazz club with my father and our neighbor, a well-known trumpet player, who was hoping to sit in down at The Eleventh Street Bar. There it was again. The dreaded phrase. You’re moving too fast. How was this happening? I had learned my lesson after Plays Scrabble, hadn’t I? And besides, I didn’t want anything serious from Little Italy. He was a child, and a small one at that. Why were my intentions consistently being misconstrued? This had never happened to me before. Back in my teens and twenties, it always seemed to be the guys who wanted to get serious, not me. I was a free-wheeling butterfly. They were the ones trying to cage me up. But now, it seemed, dudes just wanted to get laid and fly away themselves. Something had changed. Was I too old, now? Childed? Dependent and weird? Lost to the ways of the adult dating scene?

I started to lose it yet again. I was lost, desperate, and in spite of the work I thought I had done on myself the past few months, I was still really insecure. And to top it off, control freak Juliet found herself bounding through an unfamiliar forest with no reins to speak of. I almost ruined the entire trip home, unable to get out of my funk, preoccupied with my phone and not with my parents, who were legitimately excited to see me. I felt horrible, but powerless against a near pathological need for approval. Little did I know, the worst was yet to come.

Sincerely yours,

Juliet