This morning I had breakfast with a guy who stirred that stupid part of me that I’ve been trying to calm since age 8. I was so overwhelmed by hormones and endorphins that I consciously had to not say “I’ve fallen in love with you” as we got up to settle the check. We’ve been chatting online for a few months now, he’s up from southern California for the weekend. (Yes, another one.) This morning’s breakfast was our first contact without computer screens between us. I’m salivating as I write this, a sudden hunger for his flesh, to lick the nape of his neck… I feel so victimized by evolution, by the years and years of subtle mutations that have resulted in the synaptic and hormonal storm that is raging in my body right now–and just to produce a few involuntary muscular contractions. Did anyone see La Grande Bouffe? It’s a story about several men who get together for a weekend to eat themselves to death. I could imagine our relationship following a similar narrative trajectory, the two of us collapsing from our inability to quell our insatiable hunger for each other. Despite my attempts at restraint I blurted out, “I think you’re just adorable” as I hugged him goodbye. For one second I didn’t feel in my life anymore, but in the big-budget romantic comedy version of it and I was Meg Ryan and the camera was circling around us as we kissed and I had finally arrived in the scene that I’d been preparing for all my life. I didn’t kiss him, the world stopped spinning, he walked off toward his destination without uttering “Coco, I think you’re adorable, too!” and I got in the CocoMobile and sped off into the gray day.
Other than meeting the Man of My Dreams, the weekend has been busy with visiting parents and sisters, my brother’s turducken, chipped dishes, Grace Cathedral, butter, a really good turkey pot pie last night, and Bob’s mom’s visit–all the exes giggling and hunkered down with Bob’s tarte tatin. I’ve had a birthday since my last entry. I’m now 42. Gloeden came to town from Chicago and charmed us with his intelligence and wit–Resse, especially. Reese told me later that he wanted him to move to San Francisco and go to his school and be his best friend. My show closes on Friday. No reviews, no sales. My next show will be in a padded cell with me the only audience.
My soon-to-be 80-year old mom asked the now 14-year old Reese if he had any girlfriends. “It’s complicated,” Reese replied. He went on to tell my mom about a schoolmate who had recently asked if he was interested in being her “friend-with-benefits” which segued into a conversation about how his friend could only be bisexual if she had produced orgasms with another girl. Reese insists on specificity in sexual matters.
Maybe when they release Max Ophüls on dvd will I find true happiness. Or if some money gets dumped in my lap–I know what to buy to make me happy. You’re all wrong and so are all of my therapists: I’m not the only person who can make me happy. It’s that guy from Southern California.