The trip to New York threw me off. I've been fighting to regain my footing ever since returning home and can't seem to get my head on straight. Jerry. I loathe Jerry now. I feel creeped out when I think of how cold he was following our first night together in his apartment. It was exactly what I wanted, though. Our time in Santa Monica had been too perfect; his consistent, near-daily communication via text for the ensuing month had been too exciting; and none of it had been substantial. I wanted to race across the finish line and end the suspense.
So I ran. I felt the panic in my chest, the sense of urgency to escape. I obeyed the fear, bent over backwards for the thrill of my own doom. A plane ticket, a secret, a nausea, a red flag, a gut instinct, a dread, a knowing. It was the knowing that makes me ill after the fact, the knowing deep down that it was all wrong but fleeing towards it nonetheless. Who does that? Who ignores reality to one's own demise? I do.
I presented a photoshopped version of the picture, airbrushed and denoised and tinted in golden, sepia tones for all to look upon and admire and praise. I hid the blemishes and dark circles and poor lighting so well that I even fooled myself, forgetting that anything lesser existed. I may or may not be a pathological liar to the teensiest extent. Sometimes the complete and utter truth dawns on me after weeks, months, years of perpetuating bullshit. And then I remember. Quickly, though, ever so quickly, I switch the settings back to present the facade most flattering to my persona. Only those closest to me ever call me out, and even then, I'm pretty good at fooling them, too.
Jerry. He'd been so attentive that day in Santa Monica. We'd gotten to "know" each other for three short days while working as models in fancy underwear. "Oh, you like Sour Patch Kids? You like drinking chocolate milk while smoking cigarettes? Meeee toooo..." After the gig was over, we ate bar food at Yankee Doodles, drinking at eleven in the morning. He slung his arm around my chair, kissed me nonchalantly in mid-sentence as the whiskey pulled me under a pleasant haze. We played pool and made out in between shots. We smoked outside on a bus stop bench, asking each other questions and allowing time to gently unfold before us. The weather was perfect. We sat in the park overlooking the ocean. We strolled down the boardwalk. We lay in the grass, napping and kissing and talking and enjoying. How beautiful we must have been to the tourists and transients, two young lovers, tall and pretty, one blonde one brunette, both thin and so very genetically blessed.
He held my hand as though we were a couple, and it felt intimate and serious. We made out fervently in the parking garage, standing next to my filthy car. I wasn't nuts about the way he kissed, like a tongue-happy teenager oblivious to proper conduct in public...but I loved the attention, the way this gorgeous guy desired me so unabashedly. And then it was time for him to leave, to catch his flight back to New York City, to work for the marketing company that had enlisted both of us as underwear models. To my surprise, Jerry proceeded to text me morning and night in the days and weeks to follow, lavishing me with compliments and attention and inquiries as to how I was doing. He wanted to see me soon, he wrote. We video-chatted once, spoke on the phone twice. Most girls would have simply enjoyed the flirtation and left it at that, writing the experience off as a fun fling incapable of picking up momentum due to the small detail of, oh, three thousand miles worth of distance. I, however, became hellbent on earning enough money for a plane ticket.
The pressure in my chest killed my appetite and drove me onward. I worked and hustled for more work and had trouble sleeping. Jerry seemed as excited as I did at the prospect of my visit. And then there I was, boarding a plane to JFK. I took a shuttle to Jerry's midtown apartment. Upon seeing him step off the elevator, the reality hit: I barely knew him. What the hell was I doing there?
We fucked twice that night, without condoms, and it was empty. He seemed to enjoy the experience initially, but I was immediately mortified, uncharacteristically self-conscious as my instincts stepped in and warned me to protect my heart. The next few days grew progressively worse, with Jerry acting cold, distant, almost angry at my presence in his quarters. I attempted to speak with him about it to no avail. He alluded to some sort of awful "thing" that had happened a month earlier, saying he didn't want to go into detail, but that he was still sorting through it. Okay. What did that have to do with me? Why hadn't he discouraged me from visiting?
The final straw was when I awoke to him fucking me from behind, sans condom, coming inside me, then wordlessly getting up to go shower. No kisses, no touching, no pretense of care. It was humiliating. I was sick inside a Starbucks bathroom, puking as sweat poured from my clammy skin and drenched my clothing. Texts and phone calls from Joseph came through all the while, with him desperately professing love while still refusing to claim me as his own.
Operation Self-Preservation was invented by Necessity in the wake of my foolhardy actions. I called my closest girl friends. I went out with a Brooklyn pal. I stayed with my best guy friend from high school for the remainder of my trip. He'd moved to the Upper West Side from SoCal a few years earlier, was a huge success story as a self-made entrepreneur. He treated me like a queen, we had amazing conversations and food and drinks and took walks in the park...everything I'd wanted from Jerry. I was hired to model in my underwear in a 5th Avenue storefront window, dancing half-naked for five hours as passerby gaped and photographed my lithe body. I took taxis and subways and roamed the streets, feeling empowered and emboldened while simultaneously loathing my own existence.
I returned to Los Angeles, to Joseph's coexisting love and fear that went nowhere and caused nothing but confusion and heartache. It's been two weeks since I returned and I miss the daily texts from Jerry, wishing I could go back to the excitement of the unknown. I wish Joseph would man up and make me his woman already. I'm getting tired of this freedom, this independence, this wilderness. It's exhausting, navigating the various pitfalls of being attractive and talented and running scared throughout. I want to be taken care of, to take care of someone else. I want Joseph. Until then, I await the next young, arrogant bastard, the next distraction, the next destruction. Until then...
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
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