Sex, Life, and Hannah » kissing

Men I’d Like to Fuck Part 3.

hannah — Thu, 17 Mar 2011 17:31:31 +0000

Last night I had a dream involving David Duchovny. I was laying on a big white circular bed in a big white room and he walked in; stopped when the crotch of his pants was at the top of my head, and stood above me for a moment. Then he leaned down for one of those kisses...you know, one of those kisses where you're both upside down from one another...maybe you're getting ready to slide into a 69... And then his mouth left mine and lingered on my chest for a while, and then he started to make his way down, and all I wanted to do was pry open his pants, but instead I said, "you can't, I'm about to get my period." And then I woke up thinking: What the fuck? When has that stopped me before? And I wasn't even on my period, I was about to get it? If parallel universes truly exist, I think I fucked that one up. This is what happens when you do one too many Californication marathons.

No Strings or Guilt Attached.

hannah — Thu, 03 Feb 2011 23:43:46 +0000

The night before I left for Vegas I watched Up in the Air, where the climax of the movie is centered around this unattached, unemotional man realizing he’s fallen in love with a women he wants to make a home with, only to find out she already has a home, with a different man, and family. I found myself relating to the woman; understanding the need for a family yet also the need to get carried away by a moment, a different circumstance, a different man, woman, threesome... Did ‘til death do us part have to mean to never flirt with spontaneous attraction again? Of course your husband is supposed to be enough, supposed to complete you, so that you don’t ever crave getting carried away by a spontaneous attraction, but I’ve read enough about the biology of lust and love to know it’s not always so. At least I don’t think it’s that way for me. I got to Vegas, checked into my suite, flipped the TV on, and layed down. A Sex and the City episode was on; the one where Carrie is dating Aiden and ends up fucking Big. It’s hard for one man to satisfy everything we need. Although I wondered whether somehow it was more alright for a single woman in a relationship to have multiple lovers than a married woman. And then my mind wandered to another time I had taken a trip to Vegas by myself.

An email that made my heart flutter.

hannah — Sun, 19 Dec 2010 22:24:20 +0000

Dear Hannah, You are probably in NYC by now...I am just about to leave for my first week of the new production in Hollywood. I'm using the free high-speed at Panera Bread. Ever been to Panera? It's like the bastard child of IKEA/Starbucks. Just sitting here, it feels as if the walls are screaming "buy inexpensive Norwegian products...now!" They even convinced me to eat one of their damn salads. So, still kinda thinking about you. Still trying to figure out what was so damn fulfilling about spending a night trying to get you to have sex with me and not succeeding (I'm thinking it was the hot make out sessions). ..

Kissing in public.

hannah — Wed, 20 Oct 2010 20:19:28 +0000

From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 2, Spring Season (CHAPTER 18: KNIGHT IN DARK ARMOR) I’m leaning over the bar, finishing up a cigarette and flirting with the bartender who has been pouring me generous drinks all evening. “You look fucking fantastic,” I hear from behind me. I turn around. It’s Phillip Ferrari, looking pretty fucking fantastic himself. He’s wearing dark jeans and a t-shirt, probably handmade by some up-and-coming designer out of SoHo, and a driving jacket. He looks casual yet sharp, as always. He takes the half-smoked cigarette from between my fingers and drops it in an empty glass. “But you’re going to have to quit that.” Fairly tipsy, I throw caution to the wind and wrap my arms around him. “I started thinking you weren’t going to make it.” He’s clearly taken aback, but gives me a squeeze. “And miss seeing how the rich kids on the West Coast live? Not a chance.” He reaches into his pocket, takes out a pack of mints, and pops one in my mouth. I suck on it happily.

His mouth is hard, and he’s an awkward kisser, but…

hannah — Mon, 11 Oct 2010 15:43:22 +0000

Photo: Corbis

From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 2, Spring Season (CHAPTER 17: THE BUSINESS OF PLEASURE) My office line rings. Why is my office line ringing at eight at night? I look at the caller ID. Why is Phillip Ferrari ringing me on my office line at eight at night? I think about not picking up. He can’t know I’m here. He probably wants to leave me a voicemail about a project; he might even get irritated if I pick up the phone and prevent him from leaving a voicemail—he’s that type of man. Then again… I prep myself to express both surprise and fatigue: “Hello?” “I noticed your light was still on.” His voice is static, yet deep and purposeful. “Are you working on the Benson project or the Bridgeloft project?” I can’t quite put my finger on Phillip Ferrari yet. He works—all the time—and he makes everyone feel like they’re not working enough. All he ever talks about is work—even when we’ve gone out to research “everything L.A. has to offer” as “friends.” He doesn’t like anything about Los Angeles; he complains about how it’s not New York: the service is slow, the people don’t care about their appearance, everyone’s always going somewhere but nothing ever gets done. If he has a drink, it’s only ever one type: Lagavulin single-malt scotch, straight up. I once moved his attaché to make room for some paperwork; he moved it back. His clothes are never frumpled, even when it’s hot; he always rolls up his sleeves—two times, exactly—when he’s not wearing a jacket; and he never talks about his private life, maybe because he doesn’t have one. He lives and breathes his career. How I wish I did. He repeats his question and I snap out of it. “The Benson project; I’m not on the Bridgeloft project, remember?” “Can you come into my office?”

Cock Metal.

hannah — Thu, 22 Jul 2010 16:33:21 +0000

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. I straddle him and beeline for those plush lips. Ben is such a great kisser…

Hot lovin’ in an elevator…almost.

hannah — Wed, 26 May 2010 18:09:30 +0000

From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (CHAPTER 10: LOVE IN AN ELEVATOR) I’m sitting on the floor of the elevator with my head tilted back against the wall, the ice pack covering my face again. The Ex is beside me, his dress shirt back on, his undershirt glued to my nose. The bleeding has stopped, but the elevator hasn’t started. According to the maintenance man The Ex got ahold of, it’s going to be a while. Apparently all the elevators are down, and a woman in labor is stuck in one too; so we’re not a priority. I close my eyes and try to imagine myself elsewhere. I always thought The Ex was The One. When I was thirteen, we had to make a poster of what we wanted our future to look like, and he was it: tall, dark, and fashionable. Not that my whole collage was of the perfect man—I had included my fantasy wardrobe, too—but the male model I’d cut out of the October issue of Cosmopolitan was the centerpiece. And when I strolled up to the Beverly Hilton concierge that fateful Saturday morning looking for directions, I had an eerie feeling I’d just met my centerpiece. We were in love—through the growing pains and the glory. Even when he broke up with me eighty-seven days ago and I ran after him, tears, mascara, and eye shadow streaming down my face, screaming: “Are you sure? Because this is it!” and he stopped, and I went on: “There’s no going back after this! I’m done. No need to hang on to that engagement ring! Are you sure this is what you want?” and he paused, staring at me, and finally said, “I’m sure,” his voice cracking and his head turning away quickly, and I yelled out: “You’re dead to me!”—I still believed we would be together forever. I sigh deeply, wondering how the hell we got here: broken-up, broken, in a broken elevator. “How’s Genie?” I ask flashbacking to our last drama that took place on an elevator. We were at Nieman Marcus, going up to the men’s shoe department, when The Ex’s annoying little micro dog decided to take a whiz all over Charlie Sheen’s shoes. I started apologizing, and The Ex started yelling at Genie, before picking her up and realizing she was getting pee remnants all over his new polo…and pushing her onto me. Then he blamed me for not taking her out for a walk earlier, and I reminded him it was his dog. And worse, just another trendy phase he was going through. He handed Charlie his business card, apologized, and said he’d comp him an all-inclusive weekend stay at the Beverly Hilton. I rolled my eyes. “I moved into a new place that doesn’t take pets, so I gave her to one of the front desk girls at the hotel.” Figures. I move the ice pack, and then turn my head around to face the brushed steel interior of the elevator wall. I am immediately horrified. “I look like the pet project of Dr. Frankenstein gone wrong.” I want to cry. “I’m probably scarred for life. I’ll probably need plastic surgery.” I feel him squeeze my arm. “Hey.” He tugs me to face him. He puts his other hand under my chin. “You’re still sexy as hell.” He smiles. My stomach curls into an anxious knot. Sitting next to The Ex, on this sterile elevator floor, stuck between floors two and three, on this first day of spring, exactly three months before our six-year anniversary, in the midst of this chaotic night, and painful memories, and awkward small talk, I realize that…I am still in love with my ex-boyfriend...

Nostaligia. No, just heartbreaking history.

hannah — Mon, 17 May 2010 16:12:59 +0000

From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Winter Season (CHAPTER 9: ACCIDENTAL) Still in traffic and not even two-thirds of the way home, I start looking around my car for something to keep me occupied: reading material, leftover food, a CD I haven’t listened to a hundred times, anything. I notice a duffel bag behind the passenger seat. I reach around and grab it, and unzip it to examine its contents. Mud-ridden sneakers…were those from the time The Ex and I went hiking in Griffith Park and it started raining? Black sweatpants cut off at the knee—I’m pretty sure I cut those off for the hike. A beat-up old grey t-shirt…the t-shirt The Ex had to change out of because it got so wet. A glass pipe lined with black pot residue, because we decided to wait out the rain in my car and needed something to do. We ended up getting stoned, then horny, and then making out like two teenagers on their parents basement couch in front of a rented movie. Finally he reclined the passenger seat as I whipped out his dick and he ripped off my sweatpants so we could screw our brains out...

Kissing the shampoo boy.

hannah — Wed, 24 Mar 2010 16:19:50 +0000

From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Winter Season (CHAPTER 7: FRIDAY NIGHT CUTS) It’s Friday night, and all over Los Angeles people are getting ready to go out: some, on a hot date; some, to a hot club; others, to Blockbluster. I’m at Chopper’s hair salon about to get my hair cut, hoping it will help inspire a hot date—one of these Friday nights. Ben is washing my hair. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since he left the bouquet on my doorstep. “I loved the flowers.” Ben smiles and keeps massaging my head. “We should hang out again sometime.” Ben continues smiling and nods. And then he straddles my reclined body, his hands continuing to rub tingling conditioner into my hair. My hands grasp the arms of the chair in anticipation—of something. He looks at me, still smiling and rubbing. And then he leans his head close to mine and brushes his lips against mine. I part my lips and feel his tongue. His tongue swirls around my tongue, and my tongue swirls around his tongue. I don’t understand how someone can be so great at foreplay but so bad in bed.

Stumbling towards the bedroom.

hannah — Thu, 18 Mar 2010 16:23:53 +0000

From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Winter Season (CHAPTER 6: VALENTINE’S DAY MARTYRDOM) Mr. Smyth and I walk inside. I toss the bouquet onto my coffee table. We look at each other in silence for a few moments. And then, in typical drinking-all-night-and-picking-up-the guy-you’ve-been-drinking-with-all-night fashion, I grab hold of him, and we start making out hard and fast. Clumsily our hands fondle each other; clothes get unbuckled, unhooked, unbuttoned, and unzipped. We stumble toward the bedroom, then the bed, our lips furious and our hands adamant. And then I pass out. I wake up feeling my hangover. I turn my head and attempt to focus on my neglected alarm clock. Shit! I’m late. I turn my head the other way. Shit! Mr. Smyth! Mr. Smyth and I walk inside. I toss the bouquet onto my coffee table. We look at each other in silence for a few moments. And then, in typical drinking-all-night-and-picking-up-the guy-you’ve-been-drinking-with-all-night fashion, I grab hold of him, and we start making out hard and fast. Clumsily our hands fondle each other; clothes get unbuckled, unhooked, unbuttoned, and unzipped. We stumble toward the bedroom, then the bed, our lips furious and our hands adamant...

Making out with Ben

hannah — Mon, 01 Feb 2010 17:22:56 +0000

From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Winter Season (CHAPTER 3: THE AGONY OF ECSTASY) Ben and I are lounging on opposite sides of the couch. The Christmas lights have been turned off and the music has ended. It is dark and quiet. My eyes are closed and all I can feel are Ben’s hands plying my feet and calves. He still has not said a lot tonight, but maybe he doesn’t have to. Maybe some people say enough with what they do and the energy they emanate. I feel fantastically good. I feel better than I have since The Ex broke up with me, and maybe even longer. For the first time in a long time I admit to myself how stressful and full of anxiety our relationship really was. Maybe Jack is right. Maybe I do need someone better for me.

Why Grandma Never Kissed on the First Date

hannah — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 20:13:17 +0000

It seems as though the reign of pucker-up-then-give-him-the-cheek is over. In the most recent Think Tank poll, a whopping 86 percent of respondents supported kissing on the first date. This is the dawn of the forthcoming woman. And she’s horny as hell. “Horny?” you may ask. “Aren’t we only talking about a kiss, here?” Not really. Let’s consider why the first-date kiss is historically taboo. Back in the day, when America was bursting with righteousness...

Chapter 7: Friday Night Cuts

hannah — Mon, 27 Aug 2007 19:35:59 +0000

Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Winter Season (Chapter 7) CHAPTER 7: FRIDAY NIGHT CUTS. It’s Friday night, and all over Los Angeles people are getting ready to go out: some, on a hot date; some, to a hot club; others, to Blockbluster. I’m at Chopper’s hair salon about to get my hair cut, hoping it will help inspire a hot date—one of these Friday nights. Ben is washing my hair. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since he left the bouquet on my doorstep. “I loved the flowers.” Ben smiles and keeps massaging my head. “We should hang out again sometime.” Ben continues smiling and nods. And then he straddles my reclined body, his hands continuing to rub tingling conditioner into my hair...

Chapter 3: The Agony Of Ecstasy

hannah — Thu, 23 Aug 2007 19:29:23 +0000

Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Winter Season (Chapter 3) CHAPTER 3: THE AGONY OF ECSTASY. I am bent over grabbing one ankle. The Yoga Instructor is coaching us to breathe deeply so that we can form our bodies into perfect triangles. But what we’re all really doing is checking out The Yoga Instructor. The Yoga Instructor has long blond hair, a perfectly chiseled body, and a hip-hugging sarong tied around his waist. He reminds me of the men who adorned the romance novels I used to find in my mother’s bedside table. “If done correctly, this pose will remove tension from your lower back and your mind,” he says, gliding around the room. It may also cause my head to explode from checking out his biceps while inverted.

I had sex with Metal Guy.

hannah — Wed, 18 May 2005 17:50:48 +0000

On our fourth date, we had sex. He drove into town, and I picked him up at his parent's house. We took a drive down the coast and stopped in for a drink and a snack at some restaurant where we shared a lounge chair and did a lot of kissing. The sex was so passioante. It wasn't fucking or just sex, it tore into my soul. But Metal Guy lives in L.A. and I'm in San Diego for now. And he's not financially stable. Although maybe all that doesn't really matter.