Drinking and Dating (9 page)

“Of course I remember you. How are things?”

We began filling each other in on the past few years. I revealed that I was currently single, and he confided in me his struggles but that he was currently sober. As far as he knew, I had no clue about his drug addiction, so I was impressed that he was so forthcoming. Within hours of my Facebook message, we had plans to see each other when he got back from New York a few days later.

After that first week, we became a daily “thing.” Even though we decided to take things slow, we talked every night on the phone for the first week. The Fallen Star seemed sweet, kind, and funny—he also had the sexiest voice of all time. I felt like I was
finally
dating someone “normal.” After months and months of dodging bullets left and right, I met someone who liked and respected me the way I deserve.

We did all the boring things couples do that I had been missing: we went to casual dinners at cheesy chain restaurants (#OliveGarden), we saw matinee movies at the mall, and we even went for sunset hikes on warm days. After a couple of weeks of dating, we slept together. The sex wasn’t off the hook, but that was okay because it was good . . . and easy. It didn’t need to be all
Fifty Shades of Grey
because it felt more like making love. #HopelessRomantic. I really cared about this man. (At this point you’re probably wondering what’s douche-y about this guy. He doesn’t deserve to be in this chapter, but I’m getting to the point.)

One afternoon we were at his high-rise apartment in Santa Monica, which had sweeping views of the ocean. Sure, he was a middle-aged guy with a roommate, but that was probably a good thing considering the Fallen Star was still recovering.

“It must be so peaceful waking up to this every morning,” I said.

“It really has been,” he said. “Unfortunately, we have to move out.”

This caught me totally off guard. Apparently, he and his roommate had been late on the rent for months and were getting evicted from their beachside condo. We were talking every day, and he failed to mention that he would soon be homeless. That didn’t seem to me like something that just slips your mind. Nevertheless, he seemed in pretty good spirits. Clearly it was something he wasn’t too interested in elaborating on, so I dropped it. He was an adult, so it wasn’t my place to pry.

A few days later, he invited me to join him at a friend’s birthday party. We arrived at a West Hollywood bar, where I was happy to be this handsome man’s arm candy in white skinny jeans, a black silk top, and sky-high heels. After a round of introductions, I excused myself to the ladies’ room to check my look in the mirror. When I returned, I was shocked to see the Fallen Star with a beer in his hand. Are you fucking kidding me? I think most people would agree that “sober” has a pretty fucking strict definition.

“What are you doing?” I whispered heatedly, abruptly pulling him away from his conversation.

“It’s just a beer,” he said, batting those killer aqua eyes at me. I wasn’t budging, so he relented: “Look, in these settings it’s easier for me to just have a beer or two, maybe smoke a little pot, but that’s it. Nothing more.”

There were so many things wrong with this, it’s not even funny. But he said it so calmly and matter-of-factly, I indulged him for that one evening. I’ve known a few people close to me who struggle with addiction, and although I had never heard this “just the tip” method with drugs and alcohol, I didn’t want to make a scene at this party. Plus, he was getting kicked out of his place. The Fallen Star wasn’t showing it, but he had to be under a lot of pressure, right? I knew that he had been scratching and clawing to get back into the moviemaking business, but the rejection of Hollywood was taking its toll on him. Maybe I’d have a talk with him later and encourage him to speak to someone. Either way, I didn’t want to seem supportive of these habits, so after the party I told him I wasn’t feeling well and wanted to sleep at my house. He seemed surprised but didn’t appear to give it too much thought.

I didn’t hear from the Fallen Star the following day—or the next, or the next. We had been in constant communication since my Facebook message weeks and weeks earlier, so I was concerned when he went radio silent. I figured he must be upset with me for reprimanding him, so I waited for him to resurface. On the third day, I reached out.

The Fallen Star didn’t go home that night after the West Hollywood party. Quite the opposite, actually. He went on a three-day coke-fueled bender with a bunch of his old friends—which included completely destroying a Hollywood hotel room (talk about a cliché!). He hadn’t just dipped his toes out of the wagon; he fucking threw himself from it—nose first.

The guilt immediately set in. Was this somehow my fault for not going home with him? Maybe the Fallen Star would have had better luck as an actor than a producer, because apparently his sobriety had been compromised for a while. This was my cue to exit. I didn’t want to leave him while at his lowest, but it’s common knowledge that people trying to get clean shouldn’t be in intimate relationships for the first year of their sobriety. More importantly, I knew he was a good, good man, but he was still on an uphill battle and I wasn’t capable of being that kind of support for him. My priorities were my children, and I couldn’t split my time.

Not long after, the Fallen Star went back to rehab again. We stayed in touch in the months that followed; I didn’t want to totally disappear on him, but I also knew that we could never again be anything more than friends. I wasn’t equipped to be anything more than that for him. Recently, I heard from a mutual friend that he had gotten married. It seemed that this latest attempt at sobriety really was working. She even shared a photo with me of the Fallen Star kissing his wife’s big, beautiful, pregnant belly. I’m definitely known to be the jealous type, but not this time. It was wonderful to see those sparkly aqua eyes, because I knew he had made it. He was going to be okay.

•
6
•

The Booty Call

I’m pretty sure Shakespeare said it best: “Once a booty
call; always a booty call.” Or maybe that was just my little gem. Either way, once you become someone’s “fuck buddy,” it’s the point of no return for any other sort of relationship. Let’s be honest. Who respects the guy or girl who shows up on your doorstep at eleven
P.M
. on a weeknight with less than an hour’s notice? No one.

If you choose to either employ or become the booty call, here are my suggestions for doing it properly. And yes, there is a “proper” way to have a convenient and purely sexual relationship. I was divorced; I wasn’t dead. And even though I am open to loving again, that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to have a hot one-night stand. No one has
ever
accused me of being a prude.

1.
We’ve all seen
Pretty Woman
, so this one should be pretty obvious: absolutely no kissing! It’s far too intimate to be doing with someone who is merely there for sex. Women tend to mistake lust for emotion, so do yourself a favor and compartmentalize. This is not about making love. It’s about both of you getting off—otherwise, what’s the fucking point? That’s not to say you can’t enjoy other types of oral pleasure during your booty call, but keep your tongue away from his or her mouth at all costs.

2.
Wrap that shit up! Regardless of whether you’re the booty caller or the booty callee, it’s safe to assume that you are not in a monogamous relationship—you’re both probably seeing others or, in my case, seeking the perfect man. So I don’t care if you’re on the pill or he’s had a vasectomy—use a condom! I can’t stress this enough. Maybe if my ex-husband had employed this rule, I wouldn’t be an HPV statistic. Yes, I know condoms suck, but I recommend investing in some super-thin ribbed latex ones with flavored lubricant (strawberry’s my favorite).

3.
Know when to leave. Know when to walk—or rather run—to the door. There is never a reason to sleep over after a booty call. Trust me, people. Maybe you’re thinking of the possible morning sex the next day, but do yourself a favor and get the hell out of there. When the sun rises and the booze wears off, your concealer has disappeared, revealing a bright red pimple, and you’re suddenly forced into awkward conversation—in the daylight. And no one looks as good in the morning as they did the night before. Is he supposed to suggest breakfast? Or worse, do you enter into the “now what” conversation where you talk about your nonexistent relationship? Hell fucking no. All the other person is probably thinking is: Walk to my front door and see yourself out! Let it be noted that your sexy little outfit seems more appropriate exiting under the dark of night versus at ten o’clock the next morning when you have mascara smeared across your eyes. Talk about a walk of shame.

4.
Choose your booty calls wisely. If it’s someone you’ve had an emotional relationship with recently or have newly broken up with, having sex again is a terrible idea. All it does is stir up old shit that you’re both trying to move the hell on from. I suggest calling someone or accepting the invitation of someone you’ve had a casual, no-strings-attached relationship with in the past or who has already been placed neatly in your friend box (see
chapter 7
).

5.
Booty calls are like tennis. You want to be the one serving. You want control of the ball in your court. And when you say “love,” it should only be in reference to the scoreboard.

I’d like to spend just another moment revisiting number four. Now, I’m not trying to get preachy, but I don’t understand the need for the hookup apps. Can anyone explain to me why this is a good idea? Grinder has been around for the gay community for quite some time, but Tinder has recently exploded (pun intended) around the straight world. I know that guys are somehow more capable of having nonemotional sex, but most women have a pretty difficult time cutting off the heartstrings. If you choose to engage in a one-night stand, shouldn’t you do it with someone you trust or have been with before? These apps are like a virtual meat market for men to pick and choose. Wake up, ladies. It’s 2014. Don’t you have any self-respect? If you’re looking for love, go to a bar in a provocative little black dress like a normal woman. If you’re looking to get laid, call someone you know!

As for the guys, most of the men I know are currently using the app just on the off chance that they have some free time during the day and need to find the closest, hottest girl who’s down for a quick, no-strings-attached bang.

It really is a whole new level of grossness.

Are you guys so fucking lazy that you need an app to help you choose between a collection of “casual” women within your current three-mile radius to screw? I just don’t get it. Half the fun of sex—and dating, for that matter—is the chase and the challenge. So I don’t see the fun in a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am. I’d rather stick with a drawer full of kitty toys and ask one of my guy friends to take me to dinner.

Truth be told, I’m no longer interested in just booty calls. Spending a few hours banging someone who I see no future with is taking me off the market. Maybe I’m maturing or evolving, but casual sex isn’t that appealing to me anymore. The new Brandi wants to focus on staying open to having a committed and long-lasting relationship. I’m ready to forever forgo the concept of the booty call. #NewWoman.

But ask me about it again tomorrow.

•
7
•

The Friend Box

My journey toward “happily ever after” was not
going
as well as I had hoped—and there were only so many days I could casually hang around the Beverly Hills Whole Foods looking for single, attractive men. Were there options I wasn’t already exploring? Besides leaving the city entirely, I wasn’t sure what else to do to ramp up my search.

A close girlfriend pointed out the fact that I already had a wonderful group of men in my life and suggested that maybe I was overlooking some of the prospects in my own backyard.

Let’s not fool ourselves; men and women can very rarely be friends without at least one party imagining what it would be like to fuck the other—or at least have one awkward drunken moment at a pool party where there’s a bit of wishful thinking. . . . It’s completely normal. #Right? When you get along so well, you can’t help but consider the what-ifs. And like many other women before me, I too had dabbled in my friend box.

MY OTHER EX-HUSBAND

I married my best friend New Year’s Day in Las Vegas. I was proving a point, so it sounded like a really great idea at the time. Like I always say, I am known for offering the best relationship advice. #DoAsISayNotAsIDo.

Honestly, it was a joke. We didn’t get a marriage license and never planned to; we were just being single and silly. Darin had joined my three girlfriends and me in Vegas for the holiday. During a boozy dinner at Nobu inside the Hard Rock Hotel, we joked about all the different insane things we could do to ring in 2012—my first New Year’s Eve as an officially single lady (translation: divorce finalized!). Skydiving? Fuck no. I have trouble even getting
on
an airplane; you will never catch me jumping out of one. Tattoo? Never! This MILF doesn’t do body ink. Steal Mike Tyson’s tiger? Already been done.

“How hilarious would it be if we got married?” Darin suggested. Everyone laughed, but the conversation continued snowballing.

“You never follow through with shit, Darin,” I said. That put an end to the conversation for the night, and I rang in the new year as a single lady and kissed my girlfriends as the clock struck midnight.

The next day, we were nursing our mutual hangovers and decided to catch a showing of the newest
Mission: Impossible.
I was popping Junior Mints in my mouth, chilling in my comfy workout clothes, and waiting for the previews to start when Darin brought it up again.

“We should totally get married,” he said, smirking.

“Okay,” I deadpanned, looking straight at him.

Two hours later, we were pulling up in a cab outside the Wedding Chapel on Las Vegas Boulevard, and I married my best friend in black stretch pants, a white long-sleeved Izod shirt, no makeup, and a pair of Puma tennis shoes. I never could have imagined what a big deal it would become. At the time, I was still navigating the world of social media and was still relatively new to the public eye, so I thought it was a hilarious idea to tweet out a picture of our “wedding” to all my “tweeples.” Honestly, who spends their wedding night in the VIP room of the Spearmint Rhino strip club? The next morning, we woke up in our “marital” bed—still fully dressed, mind you—to hundreds of texts, e-mails, and phone calls. Our fake wedding had become one of 2012’s first big news stories. My friends told me that it was the number one trending story on the Internet. (I still don’t know what the fuck that means, but apparently it was a big deal.) We immediately started damage control, but I can tell you this, even with all the media attention, my second divorce was much easier than my first.

Moral of the story: what happens in Vegas doesn’t always stay in Vegas. #BrandiBlunder. Social media ruined that for everyone. Las Vegas needs to get a new slogan. (Side note: While I’ve always respected the institution of marriage, I realize now that it was an insensitive thing to do, as many of the people I love most in my life were, at the time, still fighting for their right to be married.)

Darin and I have a complicated relationship. He’s been one of the few men in my life who I’ve been able to count on for better or worse, through sickness and health, and I know it will be only death that could tear us apart. We didn’t need to sign any papers or have a fancy party to commit our lives to one another. We just did. He’s even better than a real husband, because he doesn’t have to be there. He wants and chooses to be there.

He’s my best friend—and nothing more (like 95 percent of the time). Our close friends often encourage us to be together romantically, saying that we’re perfect for each other. They’re right. We are perfect for each other, but there are a few pretty big roadblocks on our journey to “happily ever after”: we fight like brother and sister, we have zero sexual attraction, and I think I remind him a little too much of his ex-wife. While I’ve heard many sad, sad stories about sexless marriages, I never intend to be in one.

Let me backtrack just a bit for you. Darin went through his divorce a few years before my ex-husband and I. His divorce was contentious and dirty, so both he and his ex-wife knew what I was up against. Darin and I initially met through his ex-wife, who had been a close friend of mine. She stood by my side during the height of the tabloid scandal—which meant neighboring lounge chairs at a posh Beverly Hills hotel, all courtesy of my ex-husband’s credit card. It was hardly a rough gig. But when I found myself going down a destructive path with her, I realized I needed to purge the negative influences in my life. You can interpret that however you like.

That’s when Darin reentered my life. He and his ex-wife were on friendly terms at the time (and continue to be) and share custody of their son, who just so happens to be Mason’s best friend. Those two lovable knuckleheads are joined at the hip, and since his ex-wife and I no longer could coordinate play dates, Darin and I started spending time together again. We quickly came to rely on each other when it came to the kids, and it was a huge relief.

Regardless of what means you have at your disposal (and Darin has a lot, ladies!), being a single parent is tough. It’s been great having him help with last-minute soccer practice, pick up a sick kid at school, or even take me and the kids to dinner when my license was suspended (no, not for the DUI; I hadn’t mailed in my registration on time, and I was not going to risk driving and get into any more run-ins with the Beverly Hills Police Department). And on the flip side, when Darin had a last-minute hot date or needed to head to Vegas with a client, my home was always open to his son for a sleepover. I was happy to oblige. In a strange way, since we haven’t had much luck coparenting with our ex-spouses, we rely on each other to help. He also fills the “dude” role in my life. When my beloved dog of twelve years Jesse was attacked by coyotes in my backyard (something that still breaks my heart every day and made the loss of Chica so much worse), it was Darin who came over to take care of the situation because I was inconsolable and physically unable to handle it myself. If my electricity shut down in the middle of the night, it was Darin who came over to fix it. Sure, he would complain a little and joke that I owe him a blow job, but don’t all fake husbands? As a single mom, we all need a man sometimes—after all, who else are you going to call when you need help hanging your new flat-screen television? (I used to call him to help me kill spiders, but after a few years of living in the hills I’ve learned how to take them out myself! #Progress!)

He’s a catch. I’ve always known this and have even tried setting him up with every one of my single girlfriends. I’d be lying if I said we never slept together. It happened once after a Memorial Day BBQ and never again. I’m a lot of things, but a liar is not one of them. Sure, it got weird for a day or two, but we managed to move forward. We love each other. In many ways, he’s my soul mate, but we’re just not meant to share our lives together in a romantic way. Plus, when it comes to the sex stuff, we just don’t click. I’ve always been the most attracted to assholes, and Darin just isn’t one. #BrandiProblems.

But most importantly, the risk of it not working out and having to remove him from my life would be like divorce all over again and is simply not worth it—to either of us. When he does finally meet the perfect woman for him, I hope she can understand and appreciate our friendship. When I find my partner, he’ll have to deal with it too.

So while we married in Las Vegas and it was never really legal, my second husband will always be my favorite husband. And I don’t need a piece of paper to know that he’ll always be loyal to me.

THE BOY WONDER

He was like a real-life version of “Eloise at the Plaza.”

At twenty-eight years old, Asher was an accomplished filmmaker who resided in one of the most exclusive and luxurious hotels in Los Angeles. Yes, he actually lived in a hotel. He was a rare breed of native-born Angeleno who was raised alongside the rich and powerful of Beverly Hills—his classmates were the sons and daughters of billionaires, Oscar-winning actors, and media moguls. Growing up, Asher was waited on hand and foot, so when it came time to move out, the idea of fending for himself—albeit in a multimillion-dollar apartment in L.A.’s prestigious Wilshire Corridor with a full-time staff—was still a little unsettling. Instead, he decided to move into a hotel where life would be just a bit more civilized. This didn’t seem like a huge stretch, since he spent many years as a child living at the Beverly Hills Hotel. For Asher, this was a normal kind of lifestyle.

Each morning, his signature breakfast was just a phone call and fifteen minutes away. Upon its arrival, the staff would use the opportunity to whisk away Asher’s laundry from the day before in order to return it each night fluffed and folded during turndown service. As soon as he exited the property for the day, the housekeeping staff would buzz about his suite, restocking fluffy white towels, organizing his bathroom, making the bed, and freshening up the floral arrangements.

All of that aside, he was an exceptionally down-to-earth guy—relatively speaking. Despite the success he had already found, Asher was still a little boy in so many ways. He’d arrive for dinner in a Polo shirt with the oversized Ralph Lauren brand logo, jeans, sneakers, and a mop of messy brown hair on top of his head. He could make conversation with just about anyone and, most importantly, had a heart of gold. I credit that to a fantastic upbringing. Sure, he was spoiled rotten, but he had two loving parents and a really close-knit family.

We were introduced when a mutual friend tried to set us up on a blind date. Apparently, Asher had a “thing for cougars.” After a few weeks of texting back and forth, the conversation began to fizzle. I wasn’t too eager to attempt another blind date—even though I could google him if I wanted to, I was never interested enough to do the work. And, truth be told, he wasn’t too aggressive in pursuing me either. I chalked it up to timing and didn’t think twice about it.

It wasn’t until months later that I
actually
met him at the Polo Lounge (my home away from home).

“I know you,” I joked. “We were supposed to go on a date, and then you went MIA.” He apologized profusely and explained to me that his dog had passed away. Apparently he took it pretty hard, as anyone would, so he had a difficult few months. That’s Asher for you: a sensitive little rich boy with a bleeding heart.

Regardless of the awkward introduction, we hit it off immediately. We spent hours that night just getting to know each other, but there was nothing romantic about it. It felt like I was having an evening on the town with an old friend. I joked that we were like the Golden Girls (I was Blanche, and he was Dorothy), which was a red flag that anything intimate would never really work. If I didn’t want to fuck him from the moment I met him (and I didn’t), I would never develop the kind of passion I was looking for in a partner.

Hollywood loves to make those romantic comedies about two friends who live side by side for years only to discover, after years of heartbreak and disappointment with other partners, that they were soul mates all along.

It just doesn’t work like that in real life. Sure, you could grow to want to fuck someone over time, but if that fire isn’t there from square one, it will eventually fizzle again. Asher was dependable, successful, kind, and generous—all the things that were great on paper—but we had zero sexual chemistry. He was still in his twenties—there’s no way a man in his twenties could fuck me the way I needed it. Plus, his best friend played a dorky, suspender-sporting geek on a popular nineties television show. Literally. How could I ever take a guy seriously who wanted to double-date with that guy?

Even though I still considered him a kid, I came to rely on him for advice and guidance, although I do blame him for missing that “epic” Brendan Fraser party (see
chapter 3
). On that particular evening, I actually went back to Asher’s hotel room and slept next to him in bed, but he never made a move.

Therefore, I immediately concluded that he must be gay. That sounds pretty egotistical, but that’s not how I mean it. When you take a girl back to your hotel room after a night of drinking, it’s almost obligatory that you at least
try
to make a move—as long as she’s reasonably lucid. At two
A.M
. in the dark, everyone sort of looks the same and sex is fun, but he didn’t touch a hair on my head.

It wasn’t until after my dog Chica went missing more than a year after we met that we finally slept together. He had offered to stay with me for a few days after it happened, because supposedly someone had broken into my house and I was terrified to stay there alone until my new, high- tech security system was installed. We spent the evening drinking and gossiping like old women do (#GoldenGirls, #ImStillBlanche)—until something changed in his eyes. He was hungry for me.