Emily's Reasons Why Not (15 page)

“We’re having dinner with my mother tonight. I got up early for golf. Let’s just have a nap.” He says this ignoring that I am silently screaming out for sex. Sliding his body down on the sofa, he proceeds to cuddle me and fall asleep.

I see the problem, feel it deeply, but somewhere inside I want to go to dinner with his family. I want to have a handsome boyfriend who comes over at 3:00 P.M. on a Sunday after golfing and naps with me on the sofa. I just want the nap following vigorous lovemaking. I want this to work. I close my eyes to sleep and something bigger than anger or frustration hits me.

Rejection.

I am lying in the arms of my new boyfriend and he won’t
do me. I feel shitty, so I get up and call Josh. He’ll know what to do.

I explain every sordid detail, of which there aren’t any, of my potentially gay-straight boyfriend. Josh listens carefully before saying, “Kitten, speaking strictly from a guy who posed as a straight boy all through high school and two dreadfully wasted years of college, it sounds like you have a lot of signs, but gay or straight, it doesn’t matter. You’re not getting what you need.”

Josh and I hang up and I stand over Stan while he sleeps. I want to whack him with the phone, hard, right in the middle of his forehead.

Reason #5:
Rejection from your partner is unacceptable
.

I lay back down with Stan, wrap his arm around my waist, and spoon into him. I study his sexy forearm and think to myself, Why can’t I listen to my friends about shitty men? Josh told me everything I need to know, yet here I lay, trying to make my fluffy poodle into a macho German shepherd.

Sam nuzzles his muzzle into my leg on the couch and I give him some love. He’s been sick. I thought it was Stan-induced diarrhea, but I know it’s more. I search beneath his thick coat of fur, rubbing his frail body, and find more lumps. I hug him for a good long second and he gives me a little howl. Damn, he puts on a great façade for a sick ole boy

Sam lies back down next to the couch and I think to myself while lying motionless with my sleeping gay/straight boyfriend. I always ask my friends for their opinions only to
discard any good advice that they may throw out. Why? These are the people who only have my best interest at heart, and I ignore them. Why is it that we never listen to the people who love us?

I decide at that moment that I will have a party, a dinner party, a judge-n-jury party. I will invite my entire gay circle of friends, Josh, Gary, Bill, my lovely lesbian couple friends, Dena and Natalie. I will pepper them throughout a crowd of about ten or so straight friends along with a few of Stan’s friends and let them determine what I am afraid I already know but refuse to accept as I will not be dateless, loveless, and futureless when my best friend walks down the aisle. It will be like group therapy, only with an insular friend posse. No matter what happens, I will listen to their advice and act accordingly. I have a plan, a good plan.

The plan rattles around in my brain all through my Sunday nap. I am STILL lying awake looking at the clock as I scoot my hips and butt into him, coy, literally pivoting into his package. Oh my God, something stirred. I feel stiffening. Wow. He is kissing the back of my neck. He has my hips, his towel is open, and voilà. We have consummation!

As soon as he is done and I am barely started, and not a second later, he gets up as if disgusted by himself and leaves my house in a huff. “What about dinner with your mom?” I shout after him as he gets to the door.

“I’m not feeling well, I gotta go,” he shoots back.

I immediately call Grace and Reilly. “He’s not gay. My man’s not gay. He’s a frickin’ weirdo, but he’s not gay. Or is
he? I am conflicted as we did it, but he ran away. It was okay, quick, sorta good for about forty-five seconds, so why do I feel bad?”

“The only reason you gave him a boner is ‘cause your ass was up against his unit,” Reilly reminds me. “Try to see the visual.”

OH GOD!

I hang up with my girls, take a long bath, and then log onto the e-mail. I see mail from Callahan26, Reese, the ultimate temptation. I click on, open it, and begin to read.

Dear Em,

I’m in Pittsburg at the William Penn hotel, exactly one year since I watched you dump hot coffee all down your white sweater. I couldn’t help but laugh in Starbucks. There are a new round of college kids behind the bar. I couldn’t get you out of my mind during the game against the Pirates. One thought seemed to be clear. You were not at the hotel waiting for me and it made me sad. Just wanted to let you know I was thinking about you. Hope you’re well, your friend, Reese.

I reply …

Dear RC, hmmmm … friend. Are we friends now?

In the morning I tell the girls that Reese e-mailed me and I e-mailed him back.

“What are you thinking?” they ask in unison.

“You’re probably on a mass e-mail list,” Reilly ally-oops.

Grace slam-dunks, “Everybody gets the same ‘I miss you’ form letter.”

“I’m not letting him in, it just feels nice to be thought about. Don’t worry, it’s not like I’m going to call him or anything.”

The girls cast a gloomy doom over my thoughts of Reese.

Like reverse Nike marketing, they urge “Don’t do it!”

After Grace’s bridal shower, the girls and I sit on the couch looking at horrible orange-and-black crepe paper and balloons strung around the room.

Grace says, “It was a nice idea to theme it. There was just something amiss, though.”

“Sort of like Stan.” Reilly yanks down the orange strip of paper.

“Perfect teeth. Impeccably dressed. Hates Sam. Hates slimy dog balls,” I add. “I will not be dateless to your wedding, no matter what’s wrong with him.”

“Uh-huh …” they say in unison, taunting me, like “We’ll see.”

I walk into Dr. D.’s for my next session with five solid reasons not to date Stan even though I know that there are at least seven, but I refuse to give him the rest of them.

“You made it through the shower. How was that for you?” asks Dr. D.

“It was great.”

“It didn’t make you sad at all?”

“No, I am happy for Grace. I love her. I’ll just be glad
when the wedding is over. If I can hold on for two more weeks, I’ve got a date.” Even if it is a fraud.

The night of the dinner party quickly approaches. This is the ultimate test. I don’t know why I’m doing this
before
Grace’s wedding. I should have this party afterward. What was I thinking?

Candles burning, the caterer finishes the last touches to the stuffed mushrooms, salmon, and assorted crudités. I watch Stan fluff the pillows. He stands back and arranges the lilies perfectly in the tall vase. To his credit, he takes as much pride in the small touches as I do. I’m not even surprised.

Reilly stands next to me in the kitchen doorway watching Stan push each lily away from the next so they are not touching in the vase. I hold my martini, subtly scrutinizing his obsession with perfection and think to myself,
No straight guy follows the caterer tasting Brie and saying, “fantastic. ’
He might as well have clicked his heels and said “fab-u!”

Reilly doesn’t say a word. She just watches, then lets out a huge belly laugh, doubles over, and walks back into the kitchen. Stan begins to arrange the magazines alphabetically in the magazine rack.

Throughout the night I witness Stan grow more and more agitated as Josh and Stan’s
friend
Adam are getting along famously. I look from Stan’s stewing anger to Josh. Josh gives an eyebrow raise, followed by an “isn’t this funny” smirk.

Fast-forward to … I blow out the last burning candle as it drips wax all over the white linen tablecloth.

I take a poll from my friends as they leave: sixteen gay, nine
straight, four undecided. Grace is convinced, Reilly just doesn’t like him, and all, ALL of my gay friends kiss me on the cheek while handing me their empty glasses and whispering in my ear things like … Gary: “He likes cock.” Bill: “Honey, he’s not on your team.” And Josh handed me his number to give to my boyfriend, so when he decides to come out of the closet he can call him!

That night, tucked under the covers of my bed, I say to Stan, “Honey, I think we have intimacy problems.”

“Don’t be silly,” he says as he rolls over with his back to me, “just cuddle me.”

Done. I am D-O-N-E. First of all, women shouldn’t spoon men. Women are on the inside of the spoon. Always. No exception. Well, unless your boyfriend has shoulder or back injuries, like Reese, who still would never ask me to cuddle him.

He senses that I will not drop it. He opens his eyes and sees me staring at him. “What?” he defensively barks at me. “Emily, I work very hard to be intimate with you.”

Reason #6:
You don’t need any more reasons when they won’t have sex with you
.

Wow. I hate this. I know what’s coming.

“And it isn’t easy,” he continues as if somehow I am unlovable. “I just can’t believe I’ll ever be myself with you and I think we should take some time,” he finishes.

Wait a damn second! “All right,” I mumble as I whack myself in the head over and over that a gay man, pretending
to be straight, with “wet” issues, just broke up with me. I want to scream, “You’re totally gay-straight and you’re never going to be happy in a relationship unless your partner has a penis!”

Reasons #7, 8, 9, AND 10:
No sex
.

But I say nothing. Instead I just nod, roll over, and go back to sleep. The SLAMMING door was a little unnerving, but not as bad as sharing my bed with someone who wouldn’t kiss me good night. All in all I feel relieved, and then a sudden panic strikes me.

“I am dateless for Grace’s wedding,” I tell Dr. D., “and you are not helping enough!”

“I am teaching you to hone your radar skills so you can see through the wrong men before you waste months only to find they are nothing but a cubic zirconium in a good golf visor with a nice smile, when what you need is the real thing.”

Dr. D. can be so poetic sometimes.

That night I sit at my desk, log on to e-mail, and see Callahan26. I rub Sam’s sore hips as he stands eyeing me with those old yellow wolf eyes. He is on new medicine from the vet to help him ease his aches and pains. I click on to Reese’s reply e-mail to me.

Silly question, Em. Of course we’re friends. The question remains, are we more than friends? How are you? RC

I type and respond to his e-mail …

RC,

I picture you writing your e-mails to me with the same expression on your face that I see when I watch you on TV, playing baseball. The look on your face right before you are about to steal second.

We are sorta friends, with a hint of connection and remembrance of fear.

I am glad you’re well. You’ll be happy to know, another boyfriend bites the dust. But he wasn’t worth keeping. He had “wet” issues and reasons. I’ll leave it at that.

Wish it wasn’t the season, you’d be a potential “friend” date to Grace’s wedding. Hope you’re surviving the Midwest road trip.

Your friend???XO Emily

I delete the XO and press SEND.

Reasons #7, 8, 9, AND 10:
No sex
.

Reason #6:
You don’t need any more reasons when they won’t have sex with you
.

Reason #5:
Rejection from your partner is unacceptable
.

Reason #4:
Tests of any kind set your partner up to fail
.

Reason #3:
Animal haters need not apply
.

Reason #2:
A man/woman relationship without sex is called …“just friends.”

Reason #1:
You should never have to wonder why a man doesn’t want to have sex with you. Because no matter what the answer is … it isn’t good
.

Chapter six

Arm Candy

D
riving to Malibu from L.A. with Grace, I get lost in my thoughts of my life itinerary. It is either stable or out of control. For now I am leaning too far in the direction of loveless and under control, suffering from P.B.W.D., Post Best Friend’s Wedding Disorder. I don’t want to sink any deeper by thinking about it too much, but the petals are wilting. There is no ship on the horizon. It has been 156 days without the touch of a male or even the possibility of interest. It is a major dry spell, a sexless Sahara desert. And the most excited I get is when I log onto my computer hoping to see Callahan26. Even Dr. D. is struggling to stay awake during my therapy sessions.

Speaking of ships and Dr. D., he just pulled up next to me in my brand-new navy blue Land Rover at the stoplight. He’s to the right of me in a mint-condition 1978 Bronco, hunter
green with a tan top, towing a beat-to-hell-and-back sailboat. He notices me at the light, staring out my window at him. I am gawking in full, mouth-gaping awe. He points up at the light, which has now turned green. Cars
HONK
behind me as I pull away.

For a spilt second I almost didn’t recognize him. It’s weird. I don’t think I have ever seen him out of his office building. How can you tell someone your most intimate secrets, then when you see them out of their element, barely recognize them? I didn’t even wave. Come to think of it, neither did he, just a finger pointing at the green light, as if to say, “get going forward, Emily, keep it on the road.”

“That was Dr. D.,” I say to Grace sitting in the passenger seat.

“I hate seeing my patients out of the office. No matter how many times it happens, I never get used to it.” She looks back out the window.

Dr. D. I think to myself,
What must he think of me?
I’m sure I promised to be an engaging patient at first, but I fear I have turned into a weekly appointment with disappointment. I got there ten minutes late this week and left five minutes early after finishing the session off with a bout of silence. I am considering liposuction or a tattoo, considering running through a supermarket naked. I am wearing forties dresses and heels. What is wrong with me? I haven’t had a period in two months. Not to worry, there isn’t any possibility of a bun in my oven, as it’s been around five months with no physical attention. So, is that it? Is that how it all ends up? Maybe I
should ram my Rover into the next hot male I see on the 405 freeway before all my eggs die of loneliness.