"Hey Ray. How's it going?" I said into the phone.
"Great. So, I was wondering if you wanted to have dinner with me tonight." Being asked out by two girls in ten years seemed pretty righteous to me. First, Molly Ringwald (In the book, come on, I can't give it all away here.) and now Ray. Women don't understand the fucking global exhaustion men feel always having to be the pursuers. I'm telling you, for the average guy like me, I'm sure it's different for gorgeous model guys and famous or rich guys but guys like me, having a girl ask you out once a decade is the oasis you need to replenish your strength for the other 9 years, 11 months, and 29 days when you have to do EVERYTHING to even have a shot at a date. But alas, I had to turn her down.
"I had an awesome time with you yesterday Ray and I think you're smart and funny and hot and I love that you do the job you do... but I just don't think I could handle going out with a girl who had that as her job."
"That's such a double standard."
"No, it's not at all. Again, I love that the job exists. I love that you do it. I have absolutely no judgments against the job itself or the people who do the job. Thank God for it all because clearly I like to partake and if you and it didn't exist, I couldn't. I just don't think I'm the kind of guy who could deal with having a girlfriend who did the job and I want a girlfriend so if I go on a date and I like you and have fun I'm gonna want to see you again and have it progress so I feel like why start if I know I can't ultimately live with it if we become boyfriend-girlfriend. Does that make sense?"
"No. I do massage. I'm not having sex with my clients. I'm not a prostitute. It's just massage. You couldn't have a serious relationship with a masseuse?"
"Okay, Ray, will all due respect, call it whatever you want but to me, it's sex."
"No. Sex is intercourse. I don't even give oral sex or kiss or anything. I just do massage. I don't see the big deal."
"Ray. I can't have my girlfriend jack off ten guys' dicks in between her tits with her fingers up their asses and have them come on her face during the day and feel okay about that because it's called massage. Just the kind of hat pin I am. [Ironically I got that expression from Molly who used to use it. It seemed appropriate to break it out here with the only other girl in my life to ask me out. Although in my relationship with Molly the roles were kind of reversed. I was more the whore, sorry, "special masseuse" in that one.] I'm sorry. Maybe I'm a square, but that's how I feel."
"Well, it's your loss."
"I have no doubt. I'm sorry."
"Me, too."
I hung up and finished folding my warm clothes. I wanted a girlfriend for an hour or a girlfriend for a lifetime, but not both in the same girl.
I didn't get any more massage girls while finishing the show that month. When I returned to New York, still single and with no dates in sight, profound loneliness struck again. It was the awful anti-climax of having finished shooting the show (while you're working, it's always very exciting and filled with hope) along with waiting for it to air and the building stress of how it would do. A hideous combination. I needed some love.
I went on Craigslist and hunted for New York massage girls. I also perused Eros.Com where I found a place on Lexington and 57th Street that had really sexy girls. I had a couple good experiences there, but then ended up accidentally sitting next to one of the women who did me, Lexi, while waiting for my dinner at my favorite vegan restaurant in the city, Caravan Of Dreams on 6th Street and 1st Avenue. She sat right next to me but either didn't recognize me or pretended not to. I didn't want to possibly embarrass her and it was clear she was waiting for a date. I was fascinated to know who would show up so I just ate my salad and waited in silence. About ten minutes later a very yuppie looking Wall Street man joined her. Although they kissed on the lips their level of comfort was that of a third date at best. He was Polish like she was, he had her accent. She was in the film business and had told me post orgasm of the indie films she had worked on, but she didn't know who I was. Her ignorance was reflected in her tip. I'm just kidding. I worked for tips for eight years in the cab, someone has to really piss me off not to get 20% at least. Usually 30% plus. Especially if their job entails doing anything to my penis.
Again, the co-mingling of girlfriend for hire and real life felt a bit uncomfortable, so I stopped going to the Lexington joint and got a girl off Craigslist. A Suicide Girl named Roxy. She had tats head to toe and piercings on her nose, nipples and clit. She was a sweet Scorpio with a mean streak. (Like all of them). I had no idea that she would create a monster of a sub in me. She had a bleached blond page boy haircut, was tiny, but packed a punch. She had a mischievous laugh and was always a little stoned, which I somehow didn't mind on her. She also had a nurturing, gentle, and very accomplished side. A musician, she did "massage" to augment her salary. At first she was tender with me, but then sensing the sub in me, got a little rough one day, and jammed more than one finger in my ass as she brought me to orgasm. Unsuspectingly I had been turned out. Though strictly heterosexual, ass play had always felt good, and dirty and wrong, so, really good. Although a couple skilled gals' fingers had found their way up my bum a few times over the years, this one particular dream I had in my late twenties really was the thing that raised the stakes. That story next, after Thanksgiving. Have a great holiday! Be grateful!
Posted by Eric Schaeffer at 7:00 AM