Posts Tagged ‘seduction’

Hot lovin’ in an elevator…almost.

by hannah

May 26th, 2010

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…

Before you cheat, get sober.

by hannah

April 16th, 2010

There is something about this picture that really says it all to me. The man is being taken by a woman. Perhaps he just met her, perhaps it’s a regular tryst. His wife, in the corner, is watching him. Of course she’s not really there, but he knows she’s there. No matter how good the blow job or how tight the pussy, he can’t deny she exists. And his wife is not alone either. She may not be enjoying it, because perhaps she’s doing it out of spite, but once trust is broken anything goes.

And there’s the rub.

I’ve been there; the cheater, the other woman, and the scorned lover. You know what I remember? I was drunk. Cheating is not a logical decision. You’re usually wasted off your ass, set up in some swanky hotel in a different city, with a $300 expense per diem begging to be spent on that top shelf…oh wait, that was 2003. Yes, the secrecy and spontaneity can be thrilling but YOU’RE DRUNK, three sheets to the wind, off your rocker, and if you’re not and you’re cheating, you’re in a fucked up relationship and you should get out. Unless you’re in an “open” marriage or swingers, and the only reason she’s standing in the corner giving you the stink eye is because she’s pissed you ended up with the better half of the couple. More on those confessions in the Summer Season…

Sober the eff up people! As I wrote on my facebook page after I posted this Esquire article that spurred some healthy debate: When you are not completely honest with yourself and the people around you, you are simply living in a mirage of yourself. And if that metaphor doesn’t make any sense to you, just get sober before you do anything.

Now off you go to that happy hour.

Stumbling towards the bedroom.

by hannah

March 18th, 2010

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…