The Love Chronicles, Part 2- In Which the Author Introduces the Story of the Two People and How She Completely Fucked Up a Nice RelationshipBy Zoe Brock
January 23, 2007
His name was Cole and beside him I looked like a midget.
At six feet tall this is no mean feat.
We met at The Chateau Marmont late on a Spring evening. I wore red leather fuck-me boots and eyes of smoky green, he wore a vintage tuxedo with the word GUCCI embossed all over it.
I looked hot and he looked ridiculous, but in a most intentional way.
We started talking by accident, somehow drawn to each other from across the room, snug in the cushions of a beaten-up chaise. It wasn’t a long conversation, but it was an electric one. We recognized each other but knew we’d never met. He made me laugh, he drew me in, and five minutes later I left him to catch a flight to Australia with no idea when I’d return. I scribbled my email for him in his raggedy journal, downed the remnants of my vodka with regret and stood to go.
Cole stood too, bound by his southern gentlemanly impulses.
“Jesus!” I laughed as he unfurled. “Are you wearing heels?”
My memory of his reply is hazy, but I know it was filthy. I cocked my head, smiled and disappeared, tipsy on white spirits, out into the night. And, in an instant, the vision of that scruffy, lean and towering creature vanished from my mind.
The jet lag was, as usual, revolting and Melbourne had already begun to turn cold. My suitcases remained unpacked despite my being back a day or two, and my sadness at having to leave America was compounded by the last vestiges of a deep depression and a fear of the unknown. I was lost, confused, without direction and had returned to live, by necessity, with my mother, an adventure neither she nor I were much enthused about embarking upon.
Still, I was alive…
… but then I received an email.
Excellent meeting you at the Chateau… As we talked about good passages I thought you might appreciate this one:
Smoker paused, He was, this night, experiencing a familiar buoyancy — rather to the detriment of his diplomatic skills. In the inside of his big boxy black suit there nested an enticing email from his cyberpal “k”. In response to Smoker’s query “what kind of a role do you think sex plays in a healthy relationship? She’d e’d: ” a minor 1. have we all gone stark raving mad? let’s keep a sense of proportion, 4 god’s sake it should only happen last thing @nite, as a [email protected] prelude 2 sleep. none of these dreadful sessions. I find a few stiff drinks usually helps– don’t u?” Reading this, Smoker became belatedly aware that his most durable and fulfilling relationships had been with dipsomaniacs. To put it another way, he liked having sex with drunk women.
There seemed to be three reasons for this.
One: they go all stupid.
Two: they sometimes black out (and you can have a real laugh with them).
Three: they usually don’t remember if you fail. Takes the pressure off. Common sense.
I hope you are well and that Australia is more rewarding than LA, which at the moment — for reasons that have nothing to do with the weather or surf or anything of the like– seems a bit like Bakersfield without the glitz.
I wasn’t sure how to respond, but respond I did.
Fortunately I am not one of those of those overly analytical and earnest types who sit around trying to discern why exactly an almost total stranger would send me such a daring passage, or what his intentions were behind it.
Considering that I was several vodkas down, and at least a bottle of sake, when I threw myself shamelessly at you on that chaise, then I’m surprised as hell that your face springs immediately to mind. It’s a nice face. Look after it.
I’m stagnating in Melbourne and doing such un-Zoë things as meditating and taking time to smell the pretty flowers. This is unlike me, for I am normally thinking up bitter diatribes and sarcastic remarks about such Californian past-times.
See you, Smoker.
There could be numerous explanations for such an email but the ones that matter boil down to three:
1) I am a dipsomaniac and, not so subtly, I am suggesting a good dipsomaniac romp — if in fact dipsomaniacs have good romps which, and here perhaps I reveal too much, I am not sure is possible…
2) I am not a dipsomaniac sex addict and therefore this would eliminate #1 but spawn two separate possibilities as to why I led with such a daring passage which a) and b) are meant to identify:
a) I wanted to see if whether or not you were one of those overly analytical and earnest types who sit around trying to discern why an almost total stranger would send such a daring passage which, if you were, could elicit two responses from you which are examined in the names of sub category (Y) and (Z) and one response from me in the name of (X): because, (Y) You would never write back for you could just not figure out what to say; or, because (Z) you would write back but it would be something like: “Please never contact me again and I am calling the cops “; and, a response in the form of (Y) would have resulted in (X) my utter lack of interest or, in the case of (Z), jail time, which could be considered (X—). So a chart of this response would look something like this:
Y=X=utter lack of interest
Y+Z=X—=utter lack of interest and jail time (worst option)
b) irreverence unearths irreverence, even in the cloud of a haze of a sake/vodka, and such an email might be designed to confirm such a theorem and in the process identify an admirable quality that the two people on the chaise might have had in common.
3) Similar to #2– I am not a dipsomaniac — but sending such an email is a way of trying to get laid — admittedly, an odd, and possibly piss poor one, but men are men and we will try anything for sex and you can’t trust us for a minute.
Not to worry: smelling flowers and meditating are quite good things, particularly when they are done outside of LA where the world still views them as counter-cultural; moreover, such activities usually inspire particularly brutal diatribes and sarcastic remarks when you return and find those people doing them in LA who still think they are counter-cultural in LA and therefore are not sincere, which means you can unload both barrels of what I guess — when you want it to be – is a high caliber mouth…and if I am wrong about the high caliber part, then I am certainly not wrong about the beauty of it or the fact that you are really fucking tall…. do you date short guys? I was wearing stilts underneath my tuxedo and that is why I want to know.
Because you so suavely managed to avoid answering any of the questions you yourself posed, I feel obliged to use my own expertise as a semi-retired dipsomaniac (but still a general maniac) to help you out.
Yes, dipsomaniacs DO have good romps. They just have problems remembering with whom, where, why and even IF they took place. This syndrome is generally accompanied with a vaguely sore feeling in the nether regions and confused yet (hopefully) satisfied expression.
No I definitely am not the earnest type. In fact, earnestness is my one of my least favorite character traits. This is why I have scorned the ‘acting track‘ – shudder – for the last year and resigned myself to a complete and utter nervous breakdown in Australia. My aversion to all things earnest has earned me numerous detentions in high school, some rather unflattering nicknames around the globe, and gives me the opportunity to have fun at a funeral, something I did very recently.
I am allergic to charts and math. In response to them I suffer from the following –
Y= meltdown and
Z= facial tic
so X+Y+Z= the need to resort to dipsomania and have a bloody good romp as a consequence.
OHHH…. I see where you were leading….. nice!
The cops are weary of me and wouldn’t help me out if I begged them too, so you are safe for the moment.
Your (2)(b) earns you the most Brownie points and makes me wonder how many frequent flier points you have accumulated. Australia must be about 70,000.
Men are not the only horny creatures, Australian women can scare the crap out of their native counterparts.
Yes. I am tall, but I’m worth the climb. There are 6 feet of me all up, and I wear 6″ heels to intimidate people, because I fucking well can, you shortarse.
For weeks we wrote to each other without ever speaking. It was a game, an intrigue. Neither of us could sleep. The things we wrote to each other were exciting, crude, weird, fantastic. We were elevated above the mundane by our refusal to even touch on the most obvious of questions. There was no talk of birth dates, star signs, schools and personal history, there was only imagination. We skipped the details and got straight down to the mentality of each other.
One day I asked him why he’d never called me, considering my phone number was part of the automatically generated signature at the bottom of every email.
Instantly the phone rang.
My heart skipped, stopped and raced as I reached for the receiver.
“Because you never asked me to.” Voiced a slow drawl from across the ocean.
To be continued…