He asks if I’d ever want to grab a meal, but I’m more interested in the sex. Depending on what or when I message him, he asks, “Are you drunky?” He’s been sober for years, I know, but I guess he’s used to dealing with train wrecks like me.
When he does come over again, however, I’m stone-cold sober.
During sex, he repeats what I asked him to do last time—he slaps me.
“What the fuck?” I say.
He gives me a look straight out of Curb Your Enthusiasm that says, No good?
Then I remember.
“Oh, right, because I asked you to do that before,” I say. “Sorry, I guess I fuck differently when I’m not wasted.”
We talk about comedy a little bit after, and he says of me, “I think you’re funny when you don’t know it.”
Which makes me feel the opposite of good, but whatever. He’s probably right.
After sex, he peaces out, but I get a knock on the door a few minutes later.
“Yeah?” I ask.
“I think I . . .” he says, and comes into the bedroom and picks something up off the ground.
“Wow,” I say. “You fucked your AA chip out. That’s pretty good.”
After he leaves, I follow up on something I’d mentioned I would do, and I email Lazlow from Grand Theft Auto, introducing him to Marc about podcast tech stuff.
Marc replies, “Thanks, stud. Nice of u. Nauseous in cab now. Great bein with u.”
I don’t feel like a stud at all. Well, maybe when I don’t know it.
ONE THING I am certain of: Nothing is off the table anymore.
Who knows—maybe I’m a lesbian?
After meeting a charismatic psychic named Adi, I spend a long, stoney weekend with her. If anything, she makes me appreciate just how hard it is to make a woman come.
But the next morning when I sober up, I tell Adi the bad news: As much as I enjoyed all the nonbinary fluidity, I just don’t think I’m gay.
This inspires Adi to freestyle a song about me: “You wake up in the morning, and you tell me you’re not gay / But you’re touching and you’re teasing like you really want to play / Experience Girl / Experience Girl / In it for the experience / Experience Girl.”
She has me dead to rights.
Not too long after, I run into an S&M couple, Edward and Elizabeth, I once interviewed for research on a story about kink. They make me an offer I can’t refuse.
“We’re going to pick up some coke,” Edward says. “Wanna join?”
Cocaine is something I’ve never done before, and I know exactly where it leads. But I just don’t care anymore.
Back at my place, Edward unloads a bag filled with $2,000 worth of S&M gear—giant dildos, collars, and sundry sex toys—for a porn shoot they are doing the next day. Then he rolls up a twenty-dollar bill, metes out several lines on my Green Day Dookie CD, and says, “Welcome to hell.”
The first three lines I snort hit me immediately. I want it all. I can’t get enough. It’s like every doubt I’ve ever had about myself is gone. I can do no wrong. I am unstoppable. I fucking love cocaine.
“I should totally write about this night for this HBO show I’m going to do,” I say, talking a mile a minute, grabbing my computer and pulling up my Spinster “concept” document.
Elizabeth reads over my shoulder a little bit and then lashes out at me in disgust.
“What the fuck?” she yells. “What is this Sex and the City bullshit you’re writing? You wouldn’t say this! You would never say this! This needs to be trashy, sexy, in your face! What is this right here . . . a semicolon? You would never use a fucking semicolon!”
My eyes glaze over as I watch this dominatrix really take my punctuation to task.
“Hey . . . so, uh, do you guys want to, like, actually dominate me?” I ask.
I look at my reflection in the mirror, and I see my pupils are the size of Alaska.
“Showtime,” Edward says, standing above me.
To prepare to dominate me, Edward looks around the room and ignores the $2,000 of assorted porn props they have brought, and instead grabs my Sporty Spice neon yellow bike jacket, which I bought during a brief healthy-living phase. He ties it around my eyes. Then Elizabeth pulls off my pink Victoria’s Secret lace panties and stuffs them in my mouth. It’s a nice touch, I must admit.
“Do you think you’re a little starlet?” Elizabeth hisses as she spanks me. “You think you’re a little star, don’t you?”
I find this entire dynamic hilarious. This is pretty much the opposite way to dominate me.
“Yes!” I agree enthusiastically. “Totally!”
But now Edward is trying to get in on the action.
“I’m going to fuck the shit out of you with my huge cock,” he snarls, and then leans into my ear to whisper so only I can hear, “I’ve wanted this for so long.”
That sobers me up—a little. I strip off the blindfold to see him standing there, revealing his sad, flaccid coke-dick. For once, I am so grateful to the gods of impotence. Thank you, Jesus.
“Edward, we have to go,” Elizabeth says, disgusted. “We have the shoot tomorrow.”
It is now 4:30 a.m., and in their rush to leave, some of their porn props are still scattered around my apartment, which is also littered with empty beer cans and cigarettes. When they’re gone, I am pacing the room, ready to jump out my window. I log onto Craigslist and post an ad on Casual Encounters. “Need to get fucked now,” it reads.
A million replies flood my in-box, and I click on one that catches my eye. Ken, an engineer, includes a link to his professional website. I watch a reel that attests to his professionalism and work ethic. Yeah, this is the guy.
Before Ken arrives, I light a red-and-gold
