Drinking and Dating (14 page)

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, clearly annoyed, but attempting to understand. “I’ll take care of it.” The creases in his ear lobes were really starting to bother me. I know how insane that must sound, but I couldn’t stop staring at them as he pouted over the sink. So I did what any girl would do: I faked a phone call from my mom and pretended to cry.

The cab had arrived, and the Latino grabbed my empty suitcase to carry to the car.

“This is really light,” he said.

“I’m only going for a night,” I quickly snapped, praying to God that he didn’t think to open it. I really was planning to be back by morning. I jumped in the cab; I was almost there. I yelled at the driver, “Yo, homes, to Bel Air.” #FreshPrinceRules.

I pulled up to a ridiculous mansion about ten minutes later and hid my bag to the side of the front steps; I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing I made an excuse to see him. I rang the bell, and his friend answered the door. Apparently, this was going to be a double date.

By the time we got to the theater, I was starved. I hadn’t eaten all day, and I had planned to be eating beef Stroganoff by now. My Latino had already texted me that he locked up the house and wished me a safe flight. #ImGoingToHell.

“I’m going to get a hot dog,” I announced. He seemed totally annoyed that I was ordering food. Was I not allowed to eat? I dressed my hot dog with ketchup, mustard, and tons of relish.

“Who puts relish on a hot dog?” he asked, looking totally disgusted. Apparently, unicorns don’t eat relish.

“I do,” I responded, taking a big bite of my kosher dog. Despite his feigned repulsion, I thought that it wouldn’t be my only wiener that night.

I had no idea what we were even seeing, but when the opening credits rolled, the headlining name was a familiar one—to both of us. I was totally confused. Why would he take me to see a movie starring his friend who I had hooked up with?

I realized that he wanted to get jealous. Knowing that I hooked up with the guy on the big movie screen was turning him on. He spent the entire movie playing high school grab ass with me—rubbing my leg and holding my hand. I was just waiting for the fake yawn when he would put his arm around me. And yes, in some twisted way I was really into it.

After the movie, I had no less than ten text messages from the Latino asking if I landed safely. “Yes,” I quickly typed. “At hospital. Can’t talk.” (I realize that if he’s reading this now, he’s probably pretty pissed. So let me say it here: #ImSoSorry.)

When we got back to the Bel Air house, my Unicorn Chaser and I went immediately to the bedroom. I was ready for an evening filled with crazy, hot sex, but we ended up snuggling the entire night. It felt intimate and sweet. Or maybe it was that my breath still smelled like relish. Either way, I was okay with it.

The next morning, I grabbed my empty suitcase and went home, thoroughly confused.

My Unicorn Chaser was back in Los Angeles during
the holidays, but I hadn’t seen him yet. We kept up our regular phone calls and e-mails but never talked about what happened on the kitchen floor or the movie theater. I knew he was dating other people and he knew I was as well, but neither of us brought it up. When you ask that question, everyone loses. Plus, we weren’t in a relationship, but clearly
something
was going on, I just had no clue what. I knew he was attracted to me, but at the end of the day, I was just too old to be his unicorn. And I liked relish.

I was spending Christmas Eve with my L.A. family: Yolanda and David Foster. They were gracious enough to invite me to dinner at Yolanda’s ex-husband’s mansion in Beverly Hills. While I don’t ever anticipate having a blended holiday dinner with my ex-husband anytime soon, I definitely respect the relationship Yolanda was able to maintain with her ex for the sake of their children. We had finished up a gorgeous meal, and people were starting to trickle out. The Unicorn Chaser had already called me earlier in the day, and I told him that I would let him know if my dinner ended early. I was already in a champagne haze, so I decided to see if he wanted to meet for a drink at the Beverly Hills Hotel.

This goes against everything I stand for, but I was alone, and the idea of going home to an empty house on Christmas Eve depressed the shit out of me.

By the time he got to the Polo Lounge, I was pretty tipsy. He had, of course, brought a friend but climbed into the booth next to me. We ordered a round of drinks, and without much hesitation, my hand made its way into his lap. I started feeling him under the table, while he was struggling to pay attention to a story his friend was telling. I kept one elbow perched on the table, with my head in my hand, laughing at all the right moments, while I got him hard underneath the table. #Vulgar. #ButHot.

After a few minutes, I looked at him innocently and said, “Should we go?”

He drove us to the Bel Air palace, and I don’t remember much after that, except that I woke up a few hours later with just my pants off. He had already called a cab, which was waiting outside for me. I took the ten-minute cab ride back to my house alone. I paid. #FullCircle.

The next time I fucked the Unicorn Chaser, it wasn’t
much more memorable.

I was in New York for work about two months after our Christmas Eve encounter, and he invited me out to dinner.

“If it’s going to be a group date, I’m not really interested,” I said, thinking I was playing it cool. He assured me it wasn’t but told me his friend was having dinner at a nearby restaurant and he promised to stop by. Once again, I should have known better but agreed nonetheless.

Cipriani is something of a New York institution. It’s an upscale Italian restaurant that’s been around for eons with an impressive list of celebrity clientele and Manhattan power players, including Jay-Z, naturally. Basically, you go for the scene, not for the food. When we arrived at the table, there were three beautiful women and one older man and, of course, two empty chairs for the Unicorn Chaser and me. We weren’t going to be making our dinner reservation.

I immediately recognized another woman at the table—the ex-girlfriend of a guy I had dated. She recognized me too, but we both played dumb. I settled into my seat and thought,
So much for stopping by
. Not long into my group date dinner, the Unicorn Chaser actually had the balls to start flirting with this other woman right in front of me. After dinner, we made our way to the rooftop nightclub, and I started wondering if he was getting a fucking appearance fee for bringing me there. What the fuck did I sign up for here? #Loser.

I started drinking, dancing, and posing for pictures with other guests when they asked, which he scolded me about later. (Gee, thanks, Dad.) By this point, I wasn’t even paying much attention to him and he knew I was annoyed, which, of course, turned him on. He finally asked me if he could take me home.

Now, this applies to most people—as soon as you don’t want them, they are suddenly desperate to have you. The Unicorn Chaser was no different.

I crawled into the backseat of a cab and directed the driver to my ultra-sleek downtown hotel in the Meatpacking District. It’s basically a “come fuck me” hotel. I wasn’t going to let him take me to his Upper East Side apartment; this was going to be on my terms—or so I thought. He slid in next to me and put on his motherfucking beanie. Seriously, dude?

But before I could think too much about it, he grabbed my face and started kissing me. He’s not a bad kisser, but he’s not the best. By the time we arrived at the hotel, we had found our groove and I was getting into it.

“I’m coming up,” he said. It wasn’t a question and I didn’t appear to have a say in the matter, which totally turned me on. By New York standards, my room was enormous: I had a sitting room, kitchen, and full bedroom. Without invitation, he plopped himself on the couch and turned on SportsCenter. #SuperSexy. I announced that I was going to change into something more comfortable, which meant ripping off my dress and strutting into the living room in my Agent Provocateur lingerie with super-sexy panties. I placed myself on the couch next to him and said, “So?”

Without saying a word, he pulled me on top of him and pushed my G-string to the side. We started kissing and I went for the belt on his jeans. I already had such a strong emotional connection that while the sex wasn’t amazing, I was crazy turned on. I was on top of him on the couch for maybe six minutes before he pushed me off to the side so he could finish himself inside his own jeans. Did I mention that his pants didn’t even make their way off his ass? He got up, tucked it in, and left.

I don’t have enough space to dissect everything wrong with this picture. For starters, I didn’t even get off. The only reason I even entertained the idea was because I figured it would be mutually beneficial. As a woman in her forties, if I’m not getting an orgasm out of the deal, what’s the point? This isn’t a bullshit twenty-something drunken hookup. We’re adults and we all have needs. Let’s face it, a girl’s got to orgasm. #Right? Okay, fine. For the sake of argument, let’s just say the sex was so amazing for him that he couldn’t hold out any longer. I won’t fault him for that, not totally. But come on, you’re a grown-ass man who talks a big fucking game. You should really know how to find a woman’s G-spot—or at least make a solid attempt trying to. But at the end of the day, I should at the very least get a little oral action. Fair is fair. Apparently, pussy isn’t kosher. #JewishGuys.

So, you can imagine my total shock when he got up to fucking leave. I was stuck horny as fuck in a hotel, thinking,
Well, this sucks.
I may not have had a unicorn horn, but I sure was a thoroughbred. Listen up, boys. Girls need to get off too.

This guy apparently gets twenty-three-year-old hot model pussy and is terrible in bed. How does that work? I was utterly confused as I sat alone in my oversized hotel room in lacy lingerie. But then it hit me—how much did I know about my body, sex, and needs at twenty-three? Not much. That’s the kind of wisdom that comes with age and confidence—two things his frequent partners didn’t have much of. Plus, I spent more than a decade with the same man exploring our sexuality. For the Unicorn Chaser, his girlfriends were satisfied with a fancy dinner and six minutes of underwhelming sex. Sometimes I’m grateful I’m not twenty-three anymore.

To make matters worse, we didn’t use a condom. All ended up fine at my next gynecologist appointment, but I still cringe whenever I think about it. But rest assured, ladies and gays, he had at least one of his heads covered, because he never even took off his fucking beanie.

Much like a snowflake, no two unicorn chasers are the
same. Men all have different ideas of their perfect unicorn. However, I have devised this foolproof guide to spotting a potential unicorn chaser in the wild:

1.
He lives in a full-service condo or luxury hotel. The unicorn chaser needs to be waited on hand and foot.

2.
He never waits in line. The unicorn chaser is the most popular guy in town.

3.
He has an impressive list of ex-girlfriends, but his relationships never last longer than a few months.

4.
He’s an only child. For the unicorn chaser, it’s all about me, me, me.

5.
He doesn’t want children. Once again: me, me, me.

6.
He has performance problems in the bedroom. The unicorn chaser doesn’t have to fuck like a rock star. He thinks you should feel lucky that he’s fucking you at all.

7.
He invites you on a date with twenty other people. The unicorn chaser can never have too many options.

8.
He brags about all the famous people he knows. If you don’t already know how cool the unicorn chaser is, he’s going to tell you.

9.
He isn’t the most attractive guy. Typically, the unicorn chaser spent his adolescence being picked on by the kinds of women he now uses and discards. He’s making up for some troubling high school years.

10.
He has a house with a water bed. #NuffSaid.

I no longer see the Unicorn Chaser. We still talk on occasion, but I won’t ever be his unicorn. I can’t make myself ten years younger, and I can’t help that I like relish. I’ll probably never go to college, I’ll always want orgasms, and I can’t un-give birth to my two beautiful sons (although my vagina did). I’ll never be perfect, and I don’t think I ever want to be. My imperfections are what make me, me. I have realized that I don’t any longer want to chase an unattainable man, because I’ll never win. He was my first true heartbreak since putting myself out there again. I’m not sure if I loved him, or if I just told myself that I did, but surviving it was important. It showed me just how strong I had become—something I sometimes fail to see.

Heartbreak, failure, and loss are the times I learn the most about myself. It’s true that sometimes you need to get up to get down, but occasionally you need to get down to get up.

•
12
•

My “In Case of Emergency” Contact

Every time I’m at a doctor’s appointment, I struggle
with the question: “Who should we contact in case of emergency?” For a few years after my divorce, I named my ex-husband’s parents. My mom and dad still live in northern California, so I would most likely bleed out before they could make the six-hour drive to Los Angeles. My former in-laws were nearby, and I knew they would be there for me if shit ever
truly
hit the fan. They told me as much. Sadly, though, regardless of their offer, they’re not my family anymore, and it doesn’t feel appropriate to list them as the people I would depend on if something catastrophic were to occur. My former in-laws will always have a special place in my heart, but no longer a place in my life.

Truthfully, I didn’t really know who would show up for me in case of an emergency. I’m sure the doctors’ offices didn’t intend to send me into a philosophical free fall, but they did—every time. I’m a single mother who does everything for herself. Thankfully, I was forced into becoming this independent woman, and I was proud not having to ask for help, but this silly little question made me feel like absolute shit. Truth be told, I
did
want someone to be responsible for me. But I just hadn’t had any luck finding him yet.

I had a few names in my “ICE” rotation: my gaygent Michael, my best friend Trina, and my fake ex-husband Darin. Of course, I know that my friends love me, but they are all busy living their own lives and raising their own families. A lot of times, I would just leave it blank. Seriously, I don’t foresee any “emergencies” happening during my facial appointment, unless you count a ridiculous acne breakout or a needle-happy aesthetician (nothing a muscle relaxer or a cold glass of pinot grigio couldn’t fix). Ultimately, I worked so hard to create this independent life that I decided I was my own “in case of emergency” contact . . . right? #TotallyRational.

The Latino and I have been dating off and on for
more than a year. We broke up and got back together more often than hormonal high school kids. To say our relationship is “complicated” would be generous—it’s royally fucked up, six ways from Sunday.

He didn’t meet most of my criteria for what I was looking for in a man (see
chapter 2
)—but he was tall, dark, and handsome . . . and damn near perfect in bed, which always kept me “coming” back for more. But the sex wasn’t the only reason I stuck around. I could never put my finger on it, but there was something about him—and us—that excited me. I couldn’t walk away. And above all, he was in love with me. It took him more than a year to confess, but I knew it right away.

I’ve had a long-standing theory that the most successful relationships are those in which the guy loves the woman just a little bit more. It’s a widely accepted theory that men cheat more than women because of some innate biological need to “spread their seed.” (#Gross. Personally, I think it’s their need to spread some whore’s legs, but whatever.) However, if a man is in a committed relationship with someone whom he feels is a constant challenge or he considers out of his league, his interest will be held longer and more firmly. #TWSS.

It’s the same reason that I have zero interest in the random guy hitting on me at a party, but as soon as I see he’s moved on to flirt with some twenty-five-year-old bimbo, I’m eager to get his attention again. It’s all sorts of fucked up, but it’s life. The same thing goes for the guys; if you decide to get married, make sure he loves you just a little bit more. It’s not a surefire way to protect yourself from problems or infidelity, but it can’t fucking hurt.

This is what I told myself about the Latino: he was more committed to making our relationship work than I was. Or so I thought. I definitely cared deeply about him, but it wasn’t love. To quote my life guru, Carrie Bradshaw, “I’m looking for love. Real love. Ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can’t-live-without-each-other love.”

Did that even exist anymore? Could love be different the second time around? Was I expecting too much? I wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

When we first met, he wasn’t interested in me, so naturally, that only made me want him more. Yes, we made out in a children’s bathroom at my friend Kyle Richards’s White Party (#SueMe), but we were torn apart by the hall monitor Lisa Vanderpump before anything good could actually happen—especially if we had a little bit more time and
a lot
more privacy.

Then, poof, the Latino disappeared before we could exchange names, numbers, and clearly any bodily fluids. I knew he worked with Kyle’s husband, Mauricio, in the real estate business, so I did a little digging on the company’s website, found his e-mail address, and shot him a note:

“Hi. I’m the girl from the bathroom, in case you were wondering.”

That was it. #ShortButSweet. I gave Kyle permission to give him my number but
only
if he asked for it. She was
not
allowed to just offer it up! While I was definitely the one pursuing him, I still had to
attempt
to play the game. #KeepItSexy.

The Latino reached out to me a few days later, but it was clear I was some kind of afterthought. He told me he rarely checks the company e-mail, so he gave me his phone number and personal e-mail account. Blah. Blah. Blah.

Like most women, I’m not immune to becoming the “needy girl” (#NotHot), so the more dismissive he was toward me, the more desperate I was for him to pay more attention to me. We started casually spending time together, but it would always be a last-minute invite like “Maybe we can grab dinner later,” which usually meant that I was cooking while he watched TV on my couch. It never felt like there was any forethought involved. I was just filling holes in his schedule (or, rather, he was filling mine). Either way, I always jumped at the opportunity to be around him, thereby breaking one of my own
very
important rules in game play. Okay, I was actually breaking two.

First of all, you should never accept a same-day invitation. It usually means that the inviter had other plans that fell through and that you’re on the B team. Also, it sort of looks pathetic if you’re available on such last-minute notice. Second, don’t ever accept a “maybe” invitation. Clearly he’s waiting to see if he gets a better offer—and if that happens, you’re sitting home alone on your couch while he’s out for a fabulous meal with someone he considers a better use of his time than you.

Meanwhile, whenever I tried to make concrete plans with more than a few days’ notice, it seemed like every day was occupied by some event:

“Oh, I’ve got a wedding this weekend.”

“Oh, my mom and I have dinner plans that night.”

“Oh, I’m going to stay with friends in San Diego.”

Spending time getting to know me wasn’t a priority for him at all—or so it felt. Welcome to Being the Backup Plan. I was so hungry for his attention that I began doting on him, hoping it would ignite some desire in him to be taken care of. #DoAsISay. #NotAsIDo. If he sent me a text saying, “Work is so crazy . . . I haven’t even eaten anything yet,” I would show up an hour later with takeout from his favorite lunch place. After the Latino pointed out a $1,000 John Varvatos sweater in a shop window while we were walking down Robertson, I went back, had it wrapped in a big red bow, and gave it to him for his birthday. #ImACatch.

After dating for a few months, we actually made plans (
gasp!
) to spend Halloween together. He scored an invite to my billionaire ex-boyfriend’s epic annual haunted house party in Beverly Hills. (The real estate business is a small world in L.A.) After four years of being on the guest list, I figured I was grandfathered in to this epic bash. It was
by far
the best and most exclusive invitation in town—we’d be fools not to go. Plus, my costume was already decided: a slutty
cunt
-ry music singer.

A few days before the party, I texted my billionaire ex-boyfriend that I was looking forward to seeing him that Halloween. A few minutes later, he responded with a message explaining that it would be a good idea if I didn’t attend the party this year. Was he fucking kidding me?

“I thought we were friends,” I responded. “Why?”

Our breakup was a little rough, but nothing out of the ordinary. We remained close and even saw each other on occasion, so this felt completely out of left field. Had I done something to offend him? Something other than dedicate an entire chapter in my first book to what an amazing man he is? All of my friends were going to be at this party, my children were with their father, and I was going to be the odd woman out.

Apparently his girlfriend (and
now
new baby mama) was uncomfortable with our friendship and preferred I not be in attendance. I found this rationale very odd—especially given that at one point or the other he had dated nearly every other woman who was going to the party. I couldn’t help but feel like the little girl in grammar school who was the only one without an invite to the dance. With my ego a bit deflated, I texted the Latino that we would have to find another party, explaining that my ex’s new girlfriend didn’t want me at this party.

“That sucks,” he texted back a few minutes later. “But I sort of already promised my buddy I would take him. Maybe we can meet up after.”

Excuse me? Was he seriously going to go to my ex-boyfriend’s Halloween party without me? I’m not sure what hurt worse: the fact that he would be at my ex-boyfriend’s house surrounded by
every
super-hot chick in Los Angeles strutting around in slutty fucking Halloween costumes, or that he didn’t care that I was going to be alone. Both, I decided, equally. (Side note: He went again this year even though I said if he did it would be over. He did, and it isn’t.)

When his name started popping up in magazines and blogs shortly after, I began questioning his motives. I kept our relationship very private at first and never publicly spoke about him (until after the show aired), but yet his photo began sprouting up in every single celebrity weekly magazine. The Latino denied up and down that he had any interest in being in the spotlight, but I didn’t totally believe it. After all, we did meet while filming
Housewives
. I decided that he was just using me to gain a little bit of attention to help promote his business. But sorry, buddy, this is my life—not an episode of fucking
Million
Dollar Listing
. He had a quick appearance on that show also. I sure as hell didn’t leak his name to the press or the details of one of our recent dates. This guy was one selfish motherfucker. It was time for a break.

Okay, so I didn’t cut him off altogether (did I mention how great he is in bed?), but I began pulling back drastically—and began spending time with other people (enter: the Unicorn Chaser, the Criminal).

Immediately, I felt a change in our dynamic. He began pursuing me. The less interested I seemed, the harder he chased. Maybe he missed the gifts and home-cooked meals . . . or maybe he just missed me. Like my mother says, “Men always remember where they have it best”—especially after you leave their shady fucking asses. I always knew how to play the game, but for some reason I hadn’t been playing it with him. Now, the ball was in
my
court.

That’s when I switched back to Brandi. As soon as I could feel that he wanted me back, I began punishing him for all the times I felt lonely and used. Why couldn’t he just appreciate me from the beginning? But maybe if he did, I wouldn’t have been interested. #WhoKnows? I stopped returning his every text and started declining half of his date-night invitations—which now came days, not hours, in advance—with vague responses like, “Sorry. Already have plans. Bummer!”

Eventually he got tired of my icy text responses or would see a photo of me online with another guy, and he quit trying. That’s when I would start warming up to him again.

And so goes our exhausting game of cat and mouse.(It’s tiring even to write about!) We’re together; we’re not together. We’re fucking; we’re not fucking. He’s interested; he’s not. I’m over it; I’m under him. The smallest remark between us could snowball into World War III at the drop of a dime. I’ve honestly never bickered with anyone the way I do with the Latino. It’s so frequent and erratic that sometimes I even forget where we stand on a given day. Was it passion, or was it just a big old pain in the ass? I’ve always believed that the person you choose to love should make you a better version of yourself, not a nagging, untrusting bitchy version. #BrandiProblems.

During a particular “on” period, we were spending a
lot of time together but
always
ended the night at my house. I knew he had a one-bedroom apartment in Beverly Hills and I didn’t care, but he never invited me over. It couldn’t be that he was ashamed about his home. Could it? On the few occasions I suggested we stay at his place because it was closer than driving up to Mulholland, the Latino pulled out whatever excuse he could think of:

“I have to work early in the morning. I won’t want to wake you.”

“My air-conditioning’s not working, and it’s so hot.”

“My place is such a mess.”

I have two crazy little boys and two poorly house-trained dogs, but
his
place is a mess? Most days, it looked like a fucking tornado blew right through my family room—and I would catch the Latino scanning the room, resting his eyes on an empty Lunchables box on my coffee table or a pile of wet towels by the back door. I knew he was über-uptight: his hair was impeccably groomed, his Prius was impossibly neat, and even his “comfy” clothes meant a James Perse T-shirt and perfectly tailored jeans. It became obvious he was so embarrassed to show me his home that he decided to overlook the dog hair on my couch. Sure, I had my issues with the Latino, but his rental apartment wasn’t one of them.