Last week Berkely told me I needed to show my body more, “cause then they’ll know you actually fucked like that.”

She was referring to my books, but still, I resented the way she used “fucked” in past tense, as if my sex life was over…maybe I should have taken PeeWee’s advice and gone down to San Diego this weekend after all. It’s not like I got any other exciting offers. None. Zero. Not one phone call, text, or email inviting me to any labour day festivities. I tweeted: I think people are scared of me. Thinking that, made me feel better. I didn’t want to think about the alternative.

And then, Friday morning, a call from Coco “We’re going to an all night Burning Man party Saturday. DJs, freaks, and simulating the burning of the man. Wanna come?”

I love Coco, her and I have the best bitch sessions about our hubbies, and how we want to have sex with Jon Hamm, but honestly, I don’t get Burning Man. It sounds like Woodstock meets Halloween. But longer, and in the desert. And the music is more electronica than Bob Dylan. Oh yeah, and you have to pay hundreds of dollars to get in. 

I decide I’m going to Malibu instead. Alone.

And then, Saturday morning, another invite. My new twitter friends: @jessicajanson and @Henleyblair invite me to go to Vegas. @jessicajanson is a stripper in Vegas, and @Henleyblair is…a lesbina.

I quickly text hubbie: Just to be clear, if my new twitter GFs invite me to Vegas, I can go?

Hubbie: Sure.

My blood starts pumping, with adrenaline. OMG! An adventure. In Vegas. With girls I’ve never met before. That is so up my alley. But then reality sets in. You have no money to go to Vegas right now. But I do have that credit card…NO! I must be responsible. Regardless, it’s good to know how hubbie feels about this. I believe it’s what set the tone for tonight’s conversation.

Hubbie calls, “What’s going on?”

“I’m wondering how long it would take, and how much it would cost, to get my massage certificate.”

He sighs, “you’re back to that again?”

“Jack is quitting framing because he made more in three days massaging, part time, than he did framing for ten days, full time. I could charge $100/hour for a basic massage, and if they wanted a rub-off at the end, my rate would jump to $500,” I say, enthusiastically. 

“Ummm…we’re not going to be married if you decide to ‘rub’ people off for a living, how would you feel if some girl started rubbing me off?”

“Ummm…if some girl is going to give YOU money to rub YOU off, then you’re a god damn superstar in a very untapped market, and I would totally start pimping you out,” I say, very seriously.

He starts laughing. But I’m not joking. Sex is sex, and love is love, and the two don’t necessarily have to get intertwined. I’ve had plenty of sex, with guys that I knew I was not going to spend the rest of my life with or even go on a week’s worth of dates with. I got swept up in a moment, I wanted to have an experience, or I just plain wanted to get my rocks off. And there is nothing wrong with that. Yes, I know, a rub and tug operation is a little different, but still…

Sex is a basic human need, and unfortunately not all humans can come by it easily. Maybe they are shy, or uncomfortable with their bodies, or tired of playing “the game”. Yet the need for a connection, or release, doesn’t magically disappear. We buy time with therapists to work through emotional issues, so why can’t we buy time to work through…physical issues?

Of course I’m hedging my bets on the famous author thing working out for me instead. Just to be clear, Universe.

p.s. The above picture was taken right after I warmed up in the sun after pee-ing in the ocean. What an un-brilliant idea that was. The water was freezing. Like the coldest I’ve ever felt the Pacific Ocean. I later found out it was 59 degrees F. I am definitely more a pool girl.

PeeWee, one of my friends on FB, thinks I should go to San Diego this weekend and seduce hubbie. He also thinks we should have a real wedding one day. And that having kids doesn’t save a marriage.

PeeWee is full of good advice today. But I tell PeeWee I’m not in the mood for any of the above right now.

God I used to be such a bitch when hubbie would leave for a production gig. Like a night without him would just burst my little world. I’d make him pay for it, by whining or being cold-hearted or indifferent when I would see him or talk to him on the phone. I’m sure he was thinking “why the eff did I marry this attention whore?” It wasn’t about that though. I just want what I want, when I want it, and I can be really impatient.

Now, I want some alone time. I don’t think that makes him happy either. I know he was kinda upset that I didn’t want to drive down with him last weekend, “but I’ll be gone for three weeks.”

I stared at the ceiling as he packed and told him I needed to get more work done on the next book, and get my corporate sponsorship proposal finished, and continue looking for work. Get my life in order. Start kicking some ass and get somewhere with my life, like I used to be able to do, before this…identity crisis.

Besides, if I was going to seduce hubbie I would definitely need a Brazilian, and I don’t have the money for that right now. Sadly. I AM the cover story of this month’s Cosmo! Eeeeek. Except I know for a fact hubbie is NOT into bush. It’s probably good we don’t see each other for a couple weeks.

I’m also enjoying my girl time with our new roommate for the month, Berkeley. Every time she looks at my proposal she says “you can do better.” And she’s right. I like people that are honest, and smart, because I sure as fuck don’t need any “yes men” around me. “Yes men” just dumb you down.

So I guess I’m not completely alone, although Berkeley’s not around a lot. She’s also doing production work, and when she’s not, she’s trying to stop lamenting over her break-up with her girlfriend. I keep telling her “trust me, you’ll meet someone else, and someone even better for you.”

She likes that I make that statement so confidently. I tell her it’s ’cause I’ve been there and I know. I tell her even if hubbie and I were to break up we would both meet other people and move on. Nobody ever pines, alone, for a lifetime, except maybe some pervy stalker, but the majority of us move on.

Life is just not as romantic as we want to believe it is. It has romantic moments. And it’s bitchin’ when we experience those moments, but it’s also very real. It’s not like the movies. You want to believe it’s like the movies when you’re single, dating, looking for love. But even when you find that love you were looking for, there’s a reality that checks in eventually. It’s not good or bad, it just makes you realize that your time together is not going to be the day you fell in love on repeat. For better or for worse, for rich or for poor, in sickness and in health, that’s the reality.

Last note. I drove around hubbie’s big, old, diesel truck today. He likes to say it freaks him out, but I know deep down inside he loves the fact that I know how to drive big ass trucks. I’m sure it makes him feel like he didn’t just marry some bitchy attention whore, but a woman that knows how to handle things.

From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 2, Spring Season (CHAPTER 15: DOCTOR BIG LOVE)

Tonight is the first night I am going out on a real date with someone other than Mr. Smyth. Cain is driving down from Calabasas to pick me up, and then he’s taking me to Koi on La Cienega.

This is no small feat. He lives an hour north of me and I, in L.A. traffic, live an hour away from Koi. His wanting to spoil me like this doesn’t surprise me, however. Cain is a true gentleman. He’s intelligent and witty, sophisticated, and extremely thoughtful.

He discreetly snuck me two extra pieces of chocolate cake at his sister’s wedding. He also paraded me around like a princess on his arm, introducing me to all the wedding guests as his “lady.” And he didn’t once try to kiss me—even though his broad shoulders and blue eyes looked amazing dressed up in a suit, and the mounting sexual tension between us was as heavy as a Bible lying on a blackjack table. Any woman would die to be in my Stuart Weitzman Fevers and Allen Schwartz halter dress right now, waiting to be picked up by a gorgeous man of solid pedigree. And yet, I felt…uneasy.

I had gone to the Benson wedding not expecting to have all that much fun—but I did. I thought the most amusement I would have was watching Celeste squirm out of her comfort zone all night—except she didn’t. She was too busy trying to fend of Cain’s brother, Jake, who became completely infatuated with Celeste after she crossed her legs next to him and exposed the bottom of her lavender garter belt.

I had never seen a man throw himself at a woman as much as Jake did that night. He catered to her every need, meaning he got her a fresh Perrier with a slice of lemon every hour on the hour, and begged her to dance for four more, even though she kept saying “No.”

By the end of the wedding, Celeste wasn’t speaking to me and I had agreed to a date with the doctor.

My Blackberry chirps, and I reach for it with my free hand, the other twisting large curls into my hair with an oversized curling iron.

“I can’t hide the truth from you any longer,” Jack begins dramatically. “The lies, the deception…it’s killing me.”

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My dad let me play the entire Appetite for Destruction tape on repeat all the way from Edmonton to San Diego and back when I was 13. What was he thinking…aside from letting my appreciation for good music grow.

1. Everlasting Light by The Black Keys

2. Kool Down (King Britt’s Scuba Remix) by Mark Murphy & Tenth & Parker

3. Beautiful, Dirty, Rich by Lady Gaga

4. Disko Fleshpot by Thrill Kill Kult

5. Coldsweat (Remix) by The Sugarcubes

6. Rocket Queen by Guns ‘n Roses

7. Night By Night by Chromeo

One day, an elephant is walking through the jungle and falls into a pit of quicksand, quickly becoming trapped.

“Help, help,” he cries.  A lion walking nearby hears his cries, and arrives on the scene.

“Hang on,” says the lion, and disappears.  Almost as quickly, he returns, driving a Porsche Cayenne-Turbo.  He backs up to the pit…

“Grab the bumper,” yells the lion.  The elephant does, and the lion guns it, in a flurry of gravel, grass, and spinning wheels, he slowly drags the elephant out of the quicksand. 

A month later, the elephant is walking in the same area, and hears cries for help… and comes to the quicksand to find the lion trapped!  Without hesitation, he swings his enormous dick into the pit, and tells the lion to grab on.  The lion does, and the elephant whips the lion out of the pit. 

The moral of the story:  If you’ve got a big dick, you don’t need a Porsche.

We’re at the glass case near the cash register looking at cock rings. Christian tells me he doesn’t want leather or rubber. The big Latin man behind the glass case looks impatient when I point to a big heavy brushed metal ring. “What size?”

I look at Christian. He shrugs.

The big Latin man rolls his eyes, “you wanna try?”

I’m confused.

“Me?” And so is Christian.

The big Latin man takes out several sizes of the same cock ring and points to two doors to his left.

“And her?” Christian points at me, and picks up the heavy metal. The Big Latin Man just stares.

I tell Christian I don’t think I have to go in for the sizing.

“Oh no, no, no,” he pulls me with his free hand, “this was your idea.”

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People want blogs to be authentic. Blogs are like the reality TV of books. People want to read the grit of someone’s life, the dirty little secrets, feel they have the ability to press play on some hidden recorder inside a person’s mind.

A la my identity crisis, my being stuck. I don’t know what to do with the “Hannah Blog” anymore.

When I first launched the new Sex, Life, & Hannah website it was because I realized a static destination with information about my book series wasn’t going to cut it. Especially because I had no publicist, no advertising, no marketing budget. And this is so NOT true: if you build it, they will come. Maybe if you’re doing porn. Or self-help. But if you’re just peddling your fictional wares…nope.

I discovered blogging. Albeit, seven years too late, but the concept seemed brilliant to me, especially because I was no html whiz and relied on my web guy for every update. Blogging seemed to be the answer to everything. And I was going to make Sex, Life, & Hannah a lifestyle destination, where people could read about relationship stuff, fashion stuff, sex stuff…I realize a year later, I missed the point of blogging.

The girl that built my Facebook page for Sex, Life, & Hannah said it best: Blogs are about people, not news. Unless you’re the Huffington Post, which calls itself a blog, but it isn’t really in my mind. It’s just a more liberal CNN.

When people read the Hannah Blog (Brenda went on), they want to know what Hannah is thinking, feeling, doing, not the latest celebrity gossip, unless it’s Hannah’s take on some celebrity gossip. I did agree with her. But honestly, I couldn’t wrap my head around the concept. Frankly, I still can’t. I mean, I AM Hannah. Hannah was birthed from me, inspired from my life, my stories, but she’s stuck in 2007 fictionally, and my 2003 diary entries, and I am in 2010. Married. And this is a big deal. I can write fiction about fucking around with multiple men in multiple states like it’s nobody’s business, but if I’m not actually doing it anymore… How can I blog about it going on in the present tense when my present tense revolves around all the fun issues that come with being married, and an unemployed writer that’s limping along a small business?

I’ve thought of all sorts of solutions. Hiring a single girl in her late twenties to be the face and blog voice of Hannah. Reposting my old diary entries as new. Posting new chapters I’m working on from upcoming books as blog entries. Starting a whole new website just for me, and ALL my books and book ideas, and deleting all the other sites (but hubbie would probably fucking kill me). But I don’t know. The indecisive libra in me refuses to make a decision, make a move…and maybe none of it would matter anyway. Isn’t it all just a fucking shot in the dark anyway. I could do it the “right” way and still get no where. Writing is like any other art form. You never know what’s going to resonate with people.

Don’t worry. I’m not bringing anything to an end just yet, or discarding any of the above ideas. And I’m not going to stop writing. That is the one thing I am sure of, as a writer. I’m just venting about the current state of affairs. After all, isn’t that what you’re supposed to be able to do on a blog?

p.s. feel free to vote on any of the above ideas.

“I had always been told that by the time you reached your late twenties you were going to have it all figured out: what you wanted to do with your life, what you wanted to look like, where you wanted to live, and who you wanted to spend the rest of your life with. Instead things seemed more blurred and complicated than in high school.”-ch.14 

Raise your hand if you feel the same way.

A man that knows how to dance is very sexy. And Artem Chigvintsev is not gay.

Christian Bale. Are you still angry? Whatever.

Another reason to watch professional tennis: Fernando Verdasco.

I’ll have whatever you’re drinking and a fag with you any day Gerard Butler…

I’ll probably obsess over Thomas Jane even more after watching Hung. Netflix!!!

I have to agree with the 64% of you and say no, as long as you’re open and honest with everyone you’re dating and sleeping with. Trust is the most important thing you’ve got going in every relationship, and if you eff it up, it’s a high price to pay; higher than being called a slut. So do what makes you happy, but make sure everyone you’re doing it with is on the same page as you:)

From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 2, Spring Season (CHAPTER 14: FRIENDS…WITH BENEFITS)

My e-mail dings and there’s a message from Phillip Ferrari saying he would like to discuss a few things with me.

I walk into Phillip Ferrari’s temporary office. For casual Friday, he’s wearing a black polo shirt with cream-colored pants, and his hair is neatly slicked back. He points to a chair facing his desk, and I sit down.

He starts asking me what I know about downtown L.A.; what type of people live here, where they eat, where they shop, where they work. Then he stands up and gazes out the window.

“I want to design a living space that someone like you would live in.” He turns back to face me again and tells me he needs someone to immerse him in this city, show him where the hype generation hangs out, what the culture of L.A. looks like. “I want us to be friends.”

I agree, because I don’t think it’s possible to disagree with Phillip Ferrari.

When our discussion concludes and I’ve agreed to another friendship with another man I am not interested in being friends with, I thank Phillip Ferrari for his time, stand up, and turn around to walk out.

“Hannah,” he says.

I turn back.

“Office hours are eight to five, Monday to Friday.”

To Be Continued…

COPYRIGHT
Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 2, Spring Season by Dorota Skrzypek.
Copyright 2009 by Dorota Skrzypek.
ISBN 0-9768869-0-7
All Rights Reserved.

Become a Sex, Life, & Hannah Book Club Member and read the entire book series.

Awesome Sunday yesterday! Thanks to some great girls and my friend Jenna’s killer strawberry marg recipe:

Fresh juice from 3 lemons and 5 limes, 1/4 cup of raw sugar, 1 tablespoon maple syrup (I used Agave), 3/4 cup good tequila, 1/4 cup grand marnier, big handful of frozen strawberries, splash of O.J., and ice. Blend. Sip. So good…

As far as the leggings, I don’t own leggings (yet), but I totally dig the way Sasha is wearing hers from American Apparel. A sexy over-sized T hanging off the shoulder (Forever 21), a big bag, and her red BC footwear boots. HOT. My hunt for leggings begins today.

Enjoy your August:)

Ever since my girl Leigh posted this to my FB page, I’ve been having wayyyyy too much fun. So I thought, what better way to start the weekend than to share this link with you: http://www.xmarkyourspot.com/.

Eye candy is good. Have a kick ass weekend;)

I raise my glass to him, and he acknowledges my gesture. I dig my fork into another bite of delicious. I can’t believe the man who just told me that story is snipped. He obviously cares about family, heritage, history… I’ve heard these things are reversible. Maybe that’s his plan; when he meets the right woman. Or maybe he’s had his sperm frozen, in some private bank or vault in one of his many houses. Maybe that’s just how the uber rich do it. I should ask Lola when I get back.

I should just ask him. But I’m reminded of my terrible faux pax with Mr. Smyth. I said “boyfriend” and ended up with a broken heart. If I say “children” I’ll probably end up having to drive myself back to Los Angeles, instead of straddle his hard-on on his private jet. I refuse to repeat the same mistake twice. It’s too soon to pry into things like this. I know he expects more from the women he dates. He expects more from me; that I’ll be able to handle things, like the project at work, and my orgasms. It’s understandable. He’s a busy man. With a great private jet.