Eating My Feelings (22 page)

“Donut ice cream sundaes?”

“Perfect!” I said. “Jeez, Ron, you’re like my relationship Buddha. Except, while still Asian, you have a much better body and a much filthier mouth.”

I left the restaurant that afternoon feeling a little better. I decided that the next day I would get back on the horse and try harder to look better and date better.

I decided that I would go ahead and skip the cardio and core week because I had sweated so much that I figured that getting rid of that much perspiration in one week was just as good as actually working out. The walk back from the Israeli’s apartment alone was at least a half a P90X workout.

It seemed as though the majority of July would be spent doing a new series of workouts that Tony had planned for me.

The first was the chest, triceps, and shoulders workout. It seemed pretty basic, but Tony had a new crop of fresh-faced backup dancers, one of whom looked like my stepmother, Stacey. She was super skinny, had a huge head like Stacey, and looked about sixty years old. Apparently in every workout Tony felt the need to include someone with that “if I can do it, you can do it” attitude. Stacey’s doppelganger and one-legged Pete did just that. The whole time I did the chest, triceps, and shoulders workout I found myself trying to one-up the Stacey look-alike, which just led to me being more sore and more irritable.

That night I decided to check my Grindr again. I saw that I still had a message from that cute boy Blake.

“Hello, my name is Blake,” the message read.

“Yum. Rhymes with cake!” I replied. You can take the boy out of the fat camp but you can’t take the fat camp out of the boy.

We got to talking on Grindr and before I knew it, we had exchanged telephone numbers, Facebook profiles, and e-mails. I was giving up all of my personal information to this kid. But what was not to like? He was a twenty-three-year-old actor, six
three, half Mexican, had a tattoo, and was gorgeous. I never date men younger than me, men who are half Mexican, actors, or anyone with tattoos (you can’t be buried in a Jewish cemetery with a tattoo and I always like to think ahead), but considering nothing this summer seemed to be working out, and I was determined to find love, I figured I could give this kid a try.

I invited Blake over to dinner the following night. I told him that I was going to make my world-famous fajitas. Not only were they world famous, but I felt fajitas would make Blake feel more at home because a touch of Mexican flavor never killed anyone.

“Can I bring anything?” he asked over the phone.

“Nope. I think I’m all set,” I replied.

“My mother told me never to show up to someone’s house empty-handed,” he said.

“Your momma taught you right. How about dessert?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Ice cream? It’s hot as balls outside.”

“Any particular flavor?” he asked.

“Anything but strawberry. If I’m going to eat the calories, I don’t want to have them be fruit related.”

“You’re so cute.”

Duh.

Blake came over that night and when I answered the door, it was as if someone had smacked me upside the head with a bag of bricks and was about to trade me into white slavery. I was floored: This was what Ron was telling me about. I felt an immediate attraction to Blake. This kid was special, but I didn’t understand why. I was immediately enamored. This couldn’t possibly be love at first sight. That doesn’t happen in real life,
that’s best left to Hollywood and people who have the talent to convey such emotions on the silver screen–like Sandra Bullock. All joking aside, I was immediately invested.

We ate and got to know each other. At this point in my life, I feel like I need to send potential boyfriends a copy of my first book in the mail and have them read it before an actual meeting. It saves so much time for one thing, and for another thing it gives potential beaus a 240-page book that lays out all of the horrible things I have been through in my past and never want to revisit. I gave Blake the CliffsNotes version of the book and we laughed. As we continued getting to know each other, Blake mentioned that we had mutual friends on Facebook, one of whom was an old friend of mine named Jerome who used to perform in shows with my old roommate Sally.

“I love Jerome. He’s such a little shit-show. We had some great times together back in the day,” I told Blake. “How do you know him?”

“We don’t actually know each other,” Blake said. “We had, like, thirty mutual friends and finally someone told me to add him. We chat all of the time, but we’ve never met in person.”

“I’m sure when you do end up meeting him, you’ll adore him. He’s wonderful.”

“Well, he’s doing a show out of town so I’m not sure when I will actually be able to meet him.”

“That’s a shame,” I said, pretending to give a shit.

Blake and I continued chatting and he mentioned that he used to be a fat kid.

“OH MY GOD!” I yelled. “I was a fat kid! My dad even sent me to fat camp!”

He looked surprised. “Seriously? Because for a while there I was clocking in at around three hundred pounds.”

“That’s amazing,” I said, “but you definitely don’t look it now.”

“Thanks, neither do you.”

“You look like a …” I trailed off.

“What?” he smiled.

“I can’t tell you.”

“Say it!”

“Well, my friend Ron and I have this saying when we see a guy with a hot body. We yell, ‘BODY BE RIGHT!’ It’s stupid, it’s like our gay mating call.”

“You’re an idiot,” Blake said.

“Better you figure that out now than three months from now,” I said as I looked at him again. “But it’s true. Body be right!”

“Since you’re a writer, do you think you will write about me?” Blake asked.

“I have the same policy regarding writing about boys that Taylor Swift does. Don’t do anything stupid, and I won’t write about you. It’s a disclaimer I give to everyone and just one of the many wonderful qualities Taylor and I share besides being gorgeous blondes,” I said. Having mentioned that, I’m sure we can all see where this is heading.

Before I knew it, Blake and I were making out. Before I knew it, Blake and I were in my bed together.

“What about Jerome?” he asked.

“Uh, do you see him here right now?” I said.

“No,” Blake said, “but I meant to tell you. We’re kind of dating.”

I rolled over and replied: “I thought you said that you hadn’t even met him yet.”

“We haven’t, but we’ve been speaking a lot and I really like
him. I told him that I wouldn’t do anything with anyone else until we met.”

“That doesn’t make any sense at all,” I said as I suddenly realized why I had never dated anyone younger than me. “Jerome isn’t here. I am and we’re in bed together.”

“I know,” Blake continued, “but I really like him. We’re kind of dating.”

“Sweetie,” I said. I looked into Blake’s eyes and saw so many red flags that I thought I had been transported back in time to Communist Russia. “I understand that you really like him, but you’re basically pen pals at this stage. First of all, you cannot date someone you’ve never met. The word
dating
(an action verb) originates from the word
date
, which means physically being in the same room as someone and sharing any of the following: a meal, a drink, or conversation. You two have done none of the above, therefore you couldn’t possibly be dating.”

I didn’t realize that the word
dating
had to be explained to a twenty-three-year-old. Moral of the story is, Blake and I had sex all night and into the next morning. It was the best sex I had ever had. I was sober, and was with someone who liked me, and it was amazing. I cooked him breakfast the next morning and sent him on his way. He was off to Las Vegas to see his family for a week. I knew I would miss him.

The next week of working out with Tony was like a dream. When you’re working out to make yourself feel better, it’s one thing, but when you’re working out because the potential to have sex is in sight, it pushes you even harder. As I waited for Blake to return, I literally raped the next week of P90X DVDs. Tony and his cohorts had no idea what hit them.

Blake called a few days later from Las Vegas and told me he was returning the next day. I told him that in lieu of taking the
subway in the middle of the night, I would pay for him to take a cab to my place and he could either stay with me or take the subway home from my place. He was a struggling actor, and I felt I should help him. Plus I really wanted to see him. Apparently, I was channeling Daddy Warbucks and smoking cigarettes lit with hundred-dollar bills that night, because I never offer to pay for anyone to do anything. Ever. Blake protested that he did not need me to pay for him to get home, but when he got off the plane the next night at one in the morning, he was singing a different tune.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” he asked over the phone. “I would never ask, but it’s so late and the subway is going to take forever.”

“Of course not, I offered,” I replied, “but hurry it’s late.” Now, in sobriety, I go to bed every night at a healthy 10:30. I truly am the middle-aged woman I always wanted to be.

“Okay, but I just need to let you know I got a little hammered on the flight back,” Blake said.

I suddenly realized why his desire to take the subway home in the middle of the night had disappeared—he was smashed. As I waited for Blake to arrive, I kept receiving text messages from him that read: “I can’t wait to see you”; “I can’t wait to kiss you”; and finally, “You’re going to get some good loving tonight.” I was so excited that someone was finally interested in me and I was returning that interest. I had tried for the last eighteen months to put the wreckage of all of my past relationships behind me. Suddenly I was beginning to think that I could date someone and possibly be in love without being wasted drunk.

When Blake arrived at my apartment he greeted me with gin-perfumed hugs and we chatted for a bit.

“How was Vegas?” I asked.

“It was wonderful. I got to see my family and play with my nephew. But I’m glad to be back. It was so hot there,” Blake replied.

“Well,” I said, “it’s a cool one hundred degrees here, so welcome back.” Blake kissed me and I felt relieved he was back. In the spirit of changing things up, I decided I was going to be up-front with Blake, lay my cards on the table, and be honest about how I was feeling. “I missed you,” I said. “I don’t know why, but I was kind of sad you weren’t around.” I paused. “Even though we’ve only met once and you were only gone for a week.”

“I missed you too,” he replied. We kissed again.

Then, old Mark came roaring back like a bat out of hell. I was curious about what was going on with Jerome so I questioned: “Have you been speaking with Jerome?” I had thought that since things seemed to be going so well between the two of us, perhaps he had phased out Jerome in the past week.

“Yes,” Blake said. “I’m actually going to visit him this week.”

Hold up. Wait a minute. Had I not just paid for his sixty-dollar cab ride back from La Guardia?

“What?” I said.

“Yeah, I am going to visit Jerome this week. We’ve been speaking for so long, I figured it was finally time to meet the kid.”

“I’m confused,” I said. “If you couldn’t afford to take a cab back from the airport, how can you afford to go and visit Jerome?”

“Ummmm …” Blake trailed off. “I paid for the trip before I went to Vegas. Besides, you offered to pay for my cab.”

“I understand that, I just wasn’t expecting you to stroll in here and tell me you were going to meet Jerome this week. I
had figured since things were going so well between the two of us—”

Blake interrupted. “I just need to do this. We’ve been speaking for so long. I feel like I at least owe him this.”

That’s the thing with kids these days. Gay guys in their early twenties think that the grass is always greener on the other side. That is, until they figure out what I learned long ago. It’s not greener. It’s actually not even grass—it’s Astroturf. Blake and I went to bed shortly after that but I could not sleep. For one reason or another, Blake really affected me, and something about this entire situation did not seem right.

The next morning, I sent Blake on his way, but before I left him, I had to throw in my two cents once more.

“Please, for the love of God, figure your shit out,” I told him. “I really like you. Please.”

“I have my shit figured out,” Blake replied.

“Whatever,” I said as I got on the subway.

I went to work that day in a huff. I was probably huffing because it was a) a hundred-plus degrees outside, b) Blake was totally playing me and I was allowing him to do it, and c) I had smoked about sixteen cigarettes and it wasn’t even the start of business yet. I had no idea what had gotten into me. Perhaps it was the intense working out or the heat, but I had such strong feelings for Blake, yet I knew it wasn’t going to work out, so I did the only thing that made sense.

“Blake,” I said into the phone later that day. “I’m sorry but I can’t date you anymore!”

I was devastated that I had to dump Blake, because my feelings were so strong for him, but I knew it was for the best in the long run. I had thought I had fallen in love with him at first
sight, but maybe not. After putting the phone down, I realized that I hadn’t worked out yet that day. I popped in the back-and-biceps DVD and began watching it. Immobile.

I stared at Tony as he lifted his weights. He seemed so happy with himself and his physique that he must have been married for years. I did a quick Google search but found nothing about whether or not Tony was in a long-term relationship. As I continued watching the workout DVD and not working out, I began to wonder why it had been so long since I had been in a long-term relationship. I started to think back on all of the train wrecks that I had called relationships in the past and wondered why I even bothered dating in the first place. Before I knew it, I was not only not working out while watching P90X, I was eating a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and sobbing into it. How had I come to this? I text-messaged Ron and told him that we needed to have an emergency meeting of the Babysitter’s Club the next morning.