18. Knight in Dark Armor.

I’m going through dress after dress in my closet. I think I might need to go shopping. I pull out a moss green ditty and hold it up against myself. Not short enough.

I’m going to Ireland’s boy toy’s Hollywood party, and it requires something trashy yet chic. That, and I think Phillip Ferrari is going to be there.

As I was about to leave Friday night, he called me into his office. I sat across from him in the chair we’d used as a prop—on more than one occasion—and asked what was on his mind; people were still in the office, after all. He asked whether I was planning on working this weekend. Code for: Are we going to fuck? I told him I wasn’t. He acted surprised, then asked if I had more pressing plans. I told him about the party in Bel Air hosted by the producer of Space Chicken.

“Swim network, right?”

Impressed, I slowly nodded my head. Then I decided to invite him—in code. I told him it would be a great opportunity to network and that I’d e-mail him the details if he decided he was interested. He told me he’d think about it.

I had a feeling he’d be there.

17. The Business of Pleasure.

The clouds have parted; the sun is beating down; the temperature is hot; and even though summer doesn’t start for ten days, it smells like it has. It’s the perfect afternoon for a well-deserved powwow on the patio of Rosa’s. Ireland flags down the waiter and tells him to bring us another round of Margaritas; then she launches into her tale of Justin Terrance Stone.

Last Saturday at approximately two p.m., Justin Terrance Stone walked into the Saddle Ranch—where Ireland’s been picking up a few day shifts—and sat in her section. “Justin Terrance Stone,” Ireland repeats. “Producer of the new Adult Swim phenomenon: Space Chicken.”

I stare at Ireland blankly.

“It’s a channel for men channeling their prepubescent years,” she explains. “Anyway…”

Ireland goes on to tell me how Justin Terrance Stone tipped her a fifty-dollar bill on the $9.99 Original Cowboy Burger and then ordered a beer. Ireland looked at this kid—wearing ripped jeans, a brown corduroy sport coat with green elbow patches, and some Techno Viking t-shirt—and carded him. The kid actually sulked, and then admitted he wasn’t turning twenty-one until November. Then he took out his wallet, handed Ireland another fifty-dollar bill, and asked if she could make an exception. Ireland grabbed the fifty, but still refused to serve him alcohol.

“Here’s the greatest part, though.” She licks some salt off the edge of her glass and wraps her lips around the straw of her fresh Margarita. “He lives in Bel Air, on this huge estate”—Ireland leans in—“in his parent’s pool house!”

Ireland explodes with laughter and scoops up some salsa with a chip.

16. Racy Fiction.

Jimmy is sitting next to me on Clark and Chopper’s couch. Jimmy is a very tall man who looks like he should play for the Lakers, except that he’s not donning rocks in his ears and gold chains around his neck. Jimmy used to date Clark but is now married to one of Chopper’s exes; I live on a small and incestuous square block. Jimmy visits us once per quarter when his husband runs off to China for six weeks to make inflatable pool furniture for a dollar, which he then resells here for sixty.

“Girl, if I was straight, catching a glimpse of that thong would be the end of me,” says Jimmy, ogling the top half of my Agent Provocateur Nymphette knickers peeking out of my jeans.

I smile. Gay men are so great for the ego.

“Back off,” Clark scolds, walking into the living room with three glasses and a bottle of wine. “I saw her first.” He sits down on my other side and starts pouring.

That’s right—fight over me, like all men should. I sigh. If only being a fag hag included sex perks…

“I think I bought her those anyway.” Clark pulls at the back of my jeans playfully.

“At least you stopped buying them for yourself.” Jimmy smacks Clark’s hand away and winks at me. “Men should not thong.”

Clark’s eyes widen. “You never used to complain.”

“Well…” Jimmy smiles. “I guess I did have a weakness for those leather ones.” He clinks his glass against Clark’s.

“You know, my friend Ireland’s ex-husband wore thongs, and he plays for the L.A. Kings.”

“Let me guess…” Jimmy says. “He’s European?”

]]> http://www.sexlifeandhannah.com/chapter-16-racy-fiction/feed/ 0 http://www.sexlifeandhannah.com/chapter-15-doctor-big-love/ http://www.sexlifeandhannah.com/chapter-15-doctor-big-love/#comments Fri, 18 Dec 2009 01:06:38 +0000 hannah http://www.sexlifeandhannah.com/?p=747 Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (Chapter 15)

15. Doctor Big Love.

Mr. Smyth and I have started dating again—although we have a strict unspoken rule of not calling it dating. He’s made it clear that he doesn’t want a girlfriend. So I’ve decided that I shouldn’t jump into another serious relationship so soon after The Ex, either. I’ve decided to take Mr. Smyth’s therapist’s advice: Be single for a while. Even though when I’m with Mr. Smyth, I feet happier than I’ve ever been.

We like renting the same offbeat foreign flicks. He likes cooking, and I…don’t mind cleaning up afterwards. We agree that making fun of the people onstage at a karaoke bar is way better than actually getting onstage. We believe you can appreciate the beach plenty without actually going into the water. And we both had a blast rocking out to some hairspray cover band at The Whiskey last week.

Our conversations are stimulating; our evenings are passionate. Everything is…perfect.

Jack is surprised but impressed that I’m taking such a casual approach to a relationship. He says I’m finally “all grown up” and getting more realistic about my expectations—except it doesn’t feel that way all the time.

I wake up in the middle of the night sometimes, thinking about Mr. Smyth; how in love with him I still am. I hate admitting that—it feels like a weakness in light of the circumstances. It’s in those moments, when I am completely honest with myself, that I find myself wishing for more, hoping for more, and trying to convince myself that eventually I will get more from Mr. Smyth.

14. Friends…with Benefits.

“We decided to be…friends,” I say to Jack, holding the cell phone between my ear and shoulder as I type an e-mail to one of our sub-contractors about how, yes, he has to provide paperwork showing that all of his employees have work permits.

Jack guffaws. “That’ll be a disaster. You can’t do friends. A few weeks ago you were in love with the guy. Remember?”

My J key is sticking, so I start pounding on it. “Hey, you told me it was lust, not love—remember?”

“I know it’s lust, but you still want love,” Jack says in that you’re-totally-delusional tone of voice. “I know you.”

I give up on the J key, and decide to sign my e-mail with just Hannah. I lean back against my chair and swivel around. I spot two window washers risking their lives in the name of corporate non-streak shine.

I know Jack’s right, even though I’m not going to admit that to him right now.

Jack takes my silence to mean he can start going on about himself. Something about how his friend Adam told him he wasn’t on the invite list to this year’s Memorial Day bash in Lake Tahoe. But all I can think about is my new “friend”…Mr. Smyth.

]]> http://www.sexlifeandhannah.com/chapter-14-friends-with-benefits/feed/ 0 http://www.sexlifeandhannah.com/chapter-13-oral-fixation/ http://www.sexlifeandhannah.com/chapter-13-oral-fixation/#comments Wed, 16 Dec 2009 17:16:29 +0000 hannah http://www.sexlifeandhannah.com/?p=728 Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (Chapter 13)

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.

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—”

11. Taller, Prettier, Bustier, Curvier.

He has skin made of dark chocolate and muscles made from either good genetics, weight lifting, doing triathlons, or maybe…bar-backing.

I get a ping on my new Blackberry. It’s a text from Ireland: I had sex!

I smile, happy Ireland is finally getting some action. But my attention quickly turns back to…

He’s tall and smooth; an array of dreads fall just past his chin. He’s like Lenny Kravitz and Taye Diggs all mixed into one juicy love stick. I lower my sunglasses, my gaze skipping past the dazzle of the pool, to get the full effect—again.

“Lola has it all, doesn’t she?” I sip my Mai Tai, wondering when my über-rich paternal father I never knew will suddenly croak and leave me all his millions, including a vacation house in Maui. Then I could make passionate love with a Jamaican god on virgin white furniture in front of picture windows for days, maybe even weeks, on end.

I text Ireland: Wish I was having sex.

“I don’t know.” Jack responds from the lounge chair next to mine. “She looks like she’s put on a bit of weight.”

10. Love in an Elevator.

I am in a narrow hallway, sitting on a blue twill chair, leaning my head back against a dull white wall, holding an ice pack to my face. I am having one of those surreal moments you only ever experience while immersed in…a daytime soap opera.

Like watching supercouple Luke and Laura finally wed in a lavish ceremony attended by all of Port Charles—even though it was almost broken up by Laura’s ex-husband, only to have it really torn apart when Laura went missing and was presumed dead and Luke started a love affair with some other whore…until he was presumed dead in an avalanche and his sideline whore started shacking up with Luke’s best friend…

Or observing your mother and sixteen other stay-at-home, General Hospital–obsessed suburban housewives throw monthly “Luke and Laura” parties where they drank mimosas, ate cupcakes, and had intense round-table discussions about things like whether it was possible to fall in love with someone who R-A-P-E-D you; whether Scott Baldwin was a better lover than Robert Scorpio; how sexy Frisco Jones was; and whom they would like to run off to a deserted island with to search for the “Ice Princess.”

“I called your insurance company. You’ve got a rental car ready for pick-up at the Enterprise on Wilshire, and your car is being towed to the VW dealership on Santa Monica.”

I turn my head painfully to the right. I feel the pressure of the gauze inside one of my nostrils and the pounding of my head, neck, and entire face. I slide the ice pack over to one eye so that I can focus on…The Ex.