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From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (CHAPTER 13: ORAL FIXATION)

I’m shuffling around the kitchen and hear my phone faintly ringing. It’s probably in the purse I took with me to last night’s lesbian affair. I rummage around… Receipts—evidence I tipped way too much again; Cliff Bar wrapper—me craving a snack but wanting to be healthy; leftover Trojan—I wonder if double-wrapping Ben would make him less sensitive…I unearth my phone.

“I’m tremendously hungover; do you have coffee?” It’s Ireland.

“What happened to you last night?” I inquire, pouring myself a cup from my just-brewed pot.

After my smoke on the patio, I went back upstairs to find that Ireland had disappeared.

“I totally got conned by that psycho, Nisha.”

Some things just didn’t change.

“I told you she was going to whip out the crazy card at some point.”

Ireland tells me about how after I went for my cigarette, Lucy Lemon sauntered over and asked her if she was interested in a little pot. Having run out of money for another cocktail, Ireland answered agreeably. Lucy led her out back where a limo was parked.

Ireland thought it was cool that she was about to share a joint with the Lucy Lemon. But when Lucy opened the door and Ireland ducked inside, there sat Nisha, in all her red satin glory. Still, at first everything went smoothly; they all shared a joint and a laugh about the good ol’ days. But then Lucy said she needed to step outside.

“That’s when she attacked me!” Ireland continues. “Telling me she hasn’t stopped thinking about me all these years.”

I cringe, and not just because I made my coffee a little too strong.

Ireland tells me how Nisha grabbed her, pinned her against the back seat of the limo, and started groping, grabbing, and shoving her lips in Ireland’s face. “I almost thought, what the hell…”

I almost choke on my coffee. “Ireland!” I yell out, before breaking into a full-blown coughing fit over this proclamation.

“But then I bit her,” she says. So Nisha shrieked and jumped away and screamed something about suing Ireland, while Ireland scrambled to the door, ran out, got a cab, and came home.

Sopranos-style.

I breathe a sigh of relief for my decision to leave with Ben.

There’s a knock at my door. With one ear still to the phone, I walk over and open it. It’s Ben. “Wanna grab breakfast?”

It wasn’t an orgasm, but it would do. I tell Ireland she’s going to have to find another source of coffee.

To Be Continued…

COPYRIGHT
Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season by Dorota Skrzypek.
Copyright 2009 by Dorota Skrzypek.
ISBN 0-9768869-0-7
All Rights Reserved.

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From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (CHAPTER 13: ORAL FIXATION)

I scan my kitchen counter: A half-full bottle of Skyy Vodka…maybe; a bottle of Monogamy cab—definitely not; and a black bottle of 1994 Colheita Porto that my dad sent me for New Year’s Eve—to celebrate my engagement. I pick up the black bottle. My dad, who drinks this stuff every night while knocking back a large cigar, still thinks I’m going to develop a taste for it. The stuff typically makes me gag, but it’s strong, and I need to get rid of it before it brings back any more bad memories of how my New Year’s Eve should have turned out. I open the bottle and pour two glasses. I stroll over to Ben.

Ben is reclined on one end of my couch; his jacket is draped over a chair, his shoes are kicked under my coffee table, and he’s recounting the night he and Yvonne strong-armed her ex-husband over recipes. Her ex got the bar in the divorce, but she refused to give up the title to the dishes she’d helped perfect.

I hand one of the glasses to Ben. “So the large white envelope I saw you holding was filled with…”

Ben nods. He hands his cigarette to me.

“Stealing recipes, Sopranos-style…nice.” I take the cigarette, kick my heels off, and recline on the opposite end of my couch.

I place my feet near his crotch, take a drag, then take a sip of the port—and wince.

Ben starts rubbing my feet with his free hand.

“Somethin’ like that. Yvonne’s stubborn. She kept saying: ‘He’s got the best pub grub thanks to me, and that’s what everyone wants right now.’” Ben takes a sip of his port—and winces. “But, like, fries with six different dipping sauces. You know: fancy stuff.”

I hand the cigarette to Ben, who takes a last drag and then drops it into his glass of port. “This stuff sucks.”

We both laugh, looking at one another through the spirals of leftover smoke.

“I’m told you eventually develop a taste for it,” I say. “So, Wiseguy, back to the night of the Great Recipe Caper, were you packin’ heat, or what?”

Ben tilts his head and winks. “Sopranos-style.”

He grabs both my feet and tugs me toward him. I have just enough time to set my glass down next to the couch before he reaches over, grabs my hands, and pulls me onto him. His hands run up the length of my jeans and grab my ass.

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From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (CHAPTER 13: ORAL FIXATION)

I’m standing on the patio at Chloe, sucking on the cigarette I bummed off Gunmetal-Grey Girl—who also slipped me her number.

I ponder whether I could sleep with her. She’s attractive, and she radiates sex appeal. But can you really have sex with someone who doesn’t have a penis?

Sure, I’ve masturbated thinking about the Pink Side—but you’re supposed to masturbate thinking about dirty things. Dirty things like women who look like porn stars, with big nasty fake boobs and platinum blond hair and names like Donna Darling—who do chicks and dicks, and sometimes with a strap-on. But staring me in the face…I’d probably chicken out.

“Hannah?”

My self-psychoanalysis is broken because walking towards me is…Ben.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, lighting up a cigarette.

Here he is: my hot neighbor, wearing a suit, looking like…a different man.

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From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (CHAPTER 13: ORAL FIXATION)

After Nisha has finished her coming-out toast, in which she gives a detailed account of her journey to becoming a lesbian, Ireland and I are rubbing elbows with all the lesbians and lesbinas in Nisha’s inner circle. I’m becoming privy to things like: my first lesbian experience was with a prostitute; in seventh grade, my best friend and I would have sleepovers and touch each other’s private parts; when my husband still couldn’t find the clitoris after seven years, I knew it was over; I’m married, but we’re polyamorous.

“Poly-what?” I ask the girl to my right in the gunmetal-grey silk jumpsuit.

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From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (CHAPTER 13: ORAL FIXATION)

One mani-pedi, four mimosas, two new BioFit uplift bras, and half a joint later, Ireland and I walk into Chloe—the new upscale bisexual boutique lounge in West Hollywood. The concept is not that new for West Hollywood: a sexually ambiguous crowd pecking at expensive tapas served on small plates fit to feed lap dogs.

Ireland and I survey the revolving door of typically attractive L.A. fashionistas that all new venues attract for the first eight weekends, as we walk up the stairs for the private “coming-out” party of Nisha Patil.

Ireland and I met Nisha in a poli-sci class at USC. Nisha was the most Amazonian-proportioned women I’d ever met; loud, overbearing, and very opinionated about things like women’s lib and most men being worthless—except, of course, her quiet, squat, third-generation Filipino boyfriend from the O.C., who smiled a lot and agreed with everything she had to say.

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From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (CHAPTER 13: ORAL FIXATION)

Ireland and I are at Lily’s Nails—the premier budget polish salon on the west side, where the ladies are as professional, quick, and cheap as everyone imagines happy endings to be in Thailand. This is where Ireland recently met Tony: the man who delivered her first oral-stimulation orgasm. And this is where Ireland now gets her nails done every week, because Tony has a “thing” about nails.

“I don’t think I can ever break up with him,” she says, finishing her mimosa, which they serve at Lily’s every day ’til 2:00 p.m.—because every day is a holiday at Lily’s. It’s written in small print on the window.

I point to the dark purple nail polish on my elbow rest, and one of Lily’s girls—the one who has been scrubbing and buffing my feet for thirty minutes now—smiles in acknowledgement. She grabs it and starts applying.

“Strong words,” I say, “for a woman who used to call men who had better hygiene than her faggy.”

Ireland nods to another of Lily’s girls, who is carrying a fresh pitcher of mimosa. “That was before my clitoris experienced this.” Ireland grabs my forearm, wraps her lips around it, and starts sucking and flicking her tongue around.

Lily’s girls start giggling, and then chattering amongst themselves in a language we don’t understand.

“Simmer down there, sailor,” I say, removing my forearm from Ireland’s clutches. I grab my half-finished mimosa from the armrest.

Ireland leans toward me. “And he gets it right every time,” she whispers.

I let the bubbly linger on my tongue. Every woman knows the impact of that statement.

“I don’t want to hear this right now,” I say, the wound of The Conversation with Mr. Smyth still fresh. I gulp my mimosa down and motion for a refill too.

“I thought you said he wasn’t even into oral.” Ireland bites into a fresh chocolate chip cookie, also complimentary at Lily’s ’til 2:00 p.m. every day.

It’s true. I’d confessed to Ireland that Mr. Smyth was perfect—except that…right before our last night of hot lovemaking, I decided to tantalize him with some oral foreplay. But when I turned around for a little simultaneous stimulation, his lips never touched mine—at least not the ones that counted. There I was, stuck in a Patient 68, hoping he’d eventually get the hint. But no such luck. I’d deemed it a generational mishap—that night.

I look at Ireland defensively. “We only had three dates.”

As far as I’m concerned, Mr. Smyth is still perfect—with or without the oral tendency. “What if he was about to whip that out on date four?”

Still pining for more orange-infused alcohol bubbly to numb the pain, I wave again at Lily’s girl with the large pitcher.

Lily’s girl who has just put the finishing touches on Ireland’s leopard-print toe pattern tells her to get up. Ireland carefully pulls her flip-flops over her newly manicured toes.

“You need to find a man who shows his true colors from the beginning—like Tony,” she says as she’s led away to the manicure table. “He’s got oral fever.”

I ponder Ireland’s statement as one of Lily’s girls tops off my glass yet again. Very few men had oral fever. They wanted to receive but not give. They wanted to touch but not taste. They wanted to sample but not dine. And if they did dine, the experience was usually more like going to MacDonald’s than to Chateau Marmont: it was sloppy and quick, and you were rarely asked if you wanted to order something different from the menu.

I had to admit, I had yet to be with a man who had “oral fever.” Not even The Ex got it right every time. He was moody when it came to oral sex. But, I smile to myself, if you got him on a good day, he was like Buck Rogers discovering the wonders of space.

“You have very nice feet.” The cute young Asian girl with the low-cut top, huge lips, and heavy accent says, looking up from my toes, now the shade of Merry Midnight.

I smile and thank her. She slides my flip-flops carefully onto my feet, and then stands up, takes my arm, and leads me in the direction of the manicure tables. “You want extra massage in back?” she asks, rubbing my forearm.

I consider the gesture…but politely decline.

To Be Continued…

COPYRIGHT
Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season by Dorota Skrzypek.
Copyright 2009 by Dorota Skrzypek.
ISBN 0-9768869-0-7
All Rights Reserved.

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From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (CHAPTER 12: POST-EJACULATORY REMORSE)

Three dates. Three perfect dates. Well, two and three-quarters, I think, reaching for another donut hole from the nondescript white bag sitting on my breakfast bar. Hangover food to go with the hangover serum brewing in my kitchen. And then…The Conversation.

In every relationship, The Conversation is inevitable; because two people can’t just “date” forever. The Conversation is usually a dreaded event, because it establishes parameters that up to that point do not exist.

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From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (CHAPTER 12: POST-EJACULATORY REMORSE)

I’m sitting next to Clark at the Pink Bear, getting drunk.

“It’s my face isn’t it?” I slap my hand down on Clark’s forearm. “He doesn’t want me because something’s wrong with my face!”

After leaving Mr. Smyth’s house, I called in sick. I didn’t sleep at all, and couldn’t eat. So I staggered through the day drinking coffee, re-examining every detail of our date a hundred times, wishing I could take back the “B-word” portion of it. I was convinced I’d still be bathing in afterglow if only I could erase that part.

As soon as I’d heard a car pull into the front house, I’d run across the yard and told Clark we needed to go out.

“Oh my god, no!” Clark recoils, aghast. “You’re as gorgeous as ever! Even more so with your saucy new makeup.” Beaming, Clark cradles my face in his hands.

I’ve been pouring my heart out to Clark for over an hour, and for over an hour he’s been reassuring me that I’m still the cat’s meow. But I need to hear more.

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From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (CHAPTER 12: POST-EJACULATORY REMORSE)

Mr. Smyth is sudsing up my back in his luxurious dual-headed shower. I am leaning into one wall, enjoying the attention.

“So, what are you working on next?” I ask, as he starts gently kneading my ass.

“Aside from all the lower regions of your body?” His hands work around to the front.

I look back at him and grin. “In addition to that…what book are you working on next?”

“I don’t know yet; my agent wants me to do something totally different.” He moves his body closer to mine. “Not law related.” He ducks his head to gently suck on my shoulder.

“How do you know so much about law, anyway?” I ask, turning my head to find his mouth and suck on it for a moment.

“My mom’s a lawyer. My dad was a lawyer,” he answers between kisses. “Half my family is in law.”

“And you’re not a lawyer, because…”

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From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (CHAPTER 12: POST-EJACULATORY REMORSE)

Mr. Smyth and I have sunk into the big black velvet C-shaped cushions that make up our private booth in a private corner of the Asian restaurant we’re at. The large floor-to-ceiling red curtains have cut us off from the rest of the world, and Mr. Smyth keeps saying things like: “We should see each other more often than this.”

I keep smooching on him, wondering why I was ever worried about my future, or about whether I did the right thing by not returning the couple voicemails The Ex left me after the incident in the elevator.

The conversation has gone from the incessantly bad L.A. traffic that led to my accident, to that being why we should all work at home and ride more bicycles, to why I never pursued my passion for fashion design, to how enlightening Mr. Smyth’s trip to India was a couple of years ago. I go from laughing about how a small tribe of kids robbed him of all his rupees at a restaurant in Delhi to pouring my heart out over how my dad convinced me into a “stable” yet completely unfulfilling career. I let him order all the tapas because I trust he knows what I want, and he lets me feed him because he finds it endearing that I hold my chopsticks with two hands.

Mr. Smyth lifts the large decanter off the table and pours more red wine into our glasses. He replaces the decanter and puts his hand back with the other one…between my thighs.

I lift my glass off the table. “You know, David, here I am warming your hands…and I don’t even really know what you do for a living.” I gingerly take a sip. “All you’ve ever said is that you’re an ‘independent contractor.’ For all I know, that could mean you’re a hit man. You just came back from some family reunion in New York, after all.”

“Ahhh, except hit men don’t have family reunions in Manhattan—they have them in more low-key areas like upstate New York.” Mr. Smyth runs his hands leisurely over my freshly shaven legs. “I have no family in upstate New York.” And then he leans in to whisper in my ear: “But I do have an alias.”

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From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (CHAPTER 12: POST-EJACULATORY REMORSE)

I’m in my closet preparing for my date with Mr. Smyth. It’s been nearly three weeks since our last date, and it’s our two-month anniversary. Not that I think he’s keeping track, but…

I grab a short dress (as in, I-thought-it-was-a-sweater-when-I-first-saw-it-on-the-rack short) and hold it against my body. Yup, it still falls just below my ass. I smile; it’s perfect.

I throw on the three-quarter-sleeved black cashmere aphrodisiac and a pair of strappy black heels to match. I head to the bathroom.

My face is better, but there’s still a yellowish-green tint around my eyes and nose. I grab the MAC cosmetics bag filled with the all-new makeup I bought the day after my accident, and try to remember how to apply everything in it. And generously—just like the full-figured goth girl behind the counter did. My phone rings.

“Something strange happened today.” It’s Jack.

“Strange? To you?” Jack saying something strange happened to him is like Rocco Siffredi saying he likes having sex in front of the camera.

“Anyway…I get on the plane—”

“Oh, so you finally decided to leave Maui.”

I’m still not happy about that. After Holly proclaimed she never wanted to go back to Montreal and Lola prodded her on by saying we were all welcome to stay as long as we wanted, Holly convinced Jack to stay there with her an extra few days.

“Stop being bitter.” Jack sighs. “Anyway…I find my seat and start putting my bags away, when this stewardess saunters up to me, her full ass swaying from left to right, and says in this thick French accent: ‘Sirrr, I theenk yuu ave ze rong zeet.’ And then she ushers me to first class!”

Of course. Jack gets to extend his vacation, fulfill some childhood fantasy he’s been hiding about my sister, and nabs a ride home in first class. I on the other hand, get to rush home to a job I hate; riding in a cramped seat, sipping on a small plastic cup of ginger ale, and munching on a bag of preservatives.

“But that’s not the strange part!” Jack interrupts my self-pitying ruminations. “Halfway through the plane ride, she whispers in my ear ‘Get te ze batrum, an liiv ze duur apen.’”

“Great accent, Jack.” I mean it. “You could almost pass for a French slut.”

“I’m trying to give you the full flavor of the situation.”

I tell Jack I prefer not to taste anything he’s ever been involved with.

“Whatever—I get up and look around, and there’s only two other people in first class; one’s asleep, and the other is grooming himself while reading some boring financial paper.”

“No other stewardesses?”

“No, they were all busy serving the poor people in coach.”

I put Jack on speaker phone to try my hand at the concealer.

“So I get in the bathroom, and I have no idea whether to get naked or start washing my hands. Five minutes pass, which feels like an eternity when you’re stuck in the only type of bathroom smaller than a port-o-potty, and finally the door starts to open and I pray it’s the busty French airline tramp and not the gross fat man picking his ear.”

“And…” I prod.

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From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (CHAPTER 11: TALLER, PRETTIER, BUSTIER, CURVIER)

I take a sip of my Bloody Mary, enjoying the last perfect seventy-six-degree day at Lola’s pool…after popping several aspirins.

My black bikini–draped body has not moved from this lounge chair in hours. Jack is sitting next to me—a buffer between me and my sister—although I haven’t yet forgiven either one of them for their suspect behavior.

Jack’s telling me about his visit to the hospital last night to get his stomach pumped, after stuffing himself full of sushi. He’s excited because he’s lost eight pounds.

“I can’t believe you ate fish on purpose,” I say to him. Jack is deathly allergic to fish. “You are so vain.”

“I’m so vain? Last night, you were begging me to make you up like Bambi Woods, and you haven’t taken off your sunglasses since you woke up. Listen, skinny bitch, everybody’s vain.”

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From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (CHAPTER 11: TALLER, PRETTIER, BUSTIER, CURVIER)

I wake up with one foot on the floor and one sheet draped over me. I feel my tube top wrapped around my stomach, my hot pants hiked up my crack, and my cell phone on my chest. I pick it up and focus my dried out eyes; there’s a BBM from Mr. Smyth: Sounds like you had a wild night.

Wild night? What does that mean? I scroll through my sent messages. Oh my god. I told him I loved him!! Shit. I have to call Jack. And then I remember: Jack is here—or he was here, until I couldn’t find him at all last night.

I sit up and my head pounds. I pull my tube top back up over my bra. I stand up and dislodge my hot pants. I notice a pair of flip-flops just my size, placed neatly by my bed. Flip-flops on, I balance myself upright, put on my sunglasses, and scurry through the bathroom to Jack’s room.

I knock softly. No answer. I knock a little louder and put my hand on the doorknob. As I start to twist, I feel a twist in the opposite direction from the other side.

The door opens and Jack’s face peeks out. “Before you say anything, I did not have sex with your sister.”

I push open the door and Jack yells out—something about his toe. And there she is. Perched perfectly on Jack’s bed covers. On the covers I wanted to crawl under, to hang out with my best friend.

She exhales smoke out through the open bedroom window, not glancing in my direction. “Hello, Hannah.”

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From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (CHAPTER 11: TALLER, PRETTIER, BUSTIER, CURVIER)

I’m slinging back drinks, enjoying getting hit on by the bartender, and BBM-ing with Mr. Smyth.

The only good thing to come out of the accident is this piece of technology that my office replaced my missing phone with: a phone, camera, Internet, GPS, and Atari machine all in one. I’m finally forgetting everything that happened with The Ex, and that my nose seems to have shifted slightly to the left from getting hit by an air bag. I’m grabbing appetizers by the handful from attractive waiters and wondering if any of them will one day realize that their sperm could be making them way more money than their waiting skills. I turn back to the bartender. He’s already pouring me another Mai Tai.

I walk around, starting several conversations with people I don’t know about things I won’t remember the next day, and bum a few cigarettes along the way. I continue to ponder Peterson & Associates; whether they hire women, how much my eggs are worth, and whether my sister’s eggs are worth more because she’s some Chicago suburb slut. I text Jack, and call him several times more, but can’t find him.

I find my way back to the flirtatious bartender and order more Mai Tais. I start BBM-ing Mr. Smyth again. In a world where money and looks talk, the down-to-earth cavalier older man I met in a woman’s bathroom two months ago might be my only hope.

To Be Continued…

COPYRIGHT
Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season by Dorota Skrzypek.
Copyright 2009 by Dorota Skrzypek.
ISBN 0-9768869-0-7
All Rights Reserved.

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From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (CHAPTER 11: TALLER, PRETTIER, BUSTIER, CURVIER)

I walk through two large glass doors wearing a feathery brown tube top stuffed with the latest in gel push-up technology, matching hot pants, and tall grey suede boots. The party is in full swing because Lola knows how to throw a party: light appetizers, strong cocktails, and beautiful people as far as the eye can see.

“Darling!” Lola calls out, motioning me over to her. “You’re the spitting image of Keira Knightley—you could be her stand-in. And let me tell you, stand-ins make good money.” Lola starts squeezing two lemon slices into her drinking glass. “Say the word and I’ll call my agent.”

Lola is always trying to convince me to be an actress. If I ever start looking good in front of a camera, I’ll consider taking her up on the offer. Unfortunately, I always appear uncomfortable in photos and I stammer in front of a video camera—drunk or sober. To me that says it all.

I grab a Mai Tai off the tray of a waiter walking by. “And your guy looks like a god. Where did you find him?”

Lola puts her arm around my shoulders. “You wanna know the truth?” she asks under her breath.

I’m not sure if anyone is every ready for the truth—especially from Lola—but I nod.

“I hired him.”

“He’s a prostitute?” I don’t do as good a job of saying this under my breath.

“No!” Lola reels back. “If he were a prostitute he wouldn’t have cost nearly so much.” She continues under her breath: “It’s this agency, Peterson & Associates. They’re like a match-making service, but for woman who want to get pregnant. Well, women who want to get pregnant but are tired of waiting for men to step up to responsibility.” She whispers the amount she paid for Tomi in my ear.

I reel back. I don’t make that much, working nine to five, in a year. I am so in the wrong business.

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