At night, I had been spending a lot of time on dating apps, for no real reason other than to have something to do. I hadn’t met up with anyone. The men on the apps were just as much figments of my imagination as the characters in my yet-to-be-completed novel or my prospective Oscar for Best Adapted Screenplay. The messages were dull, often kept to a “snapchat?” (yuck), “wanna come over” (no), “you’re hot” (I know). I doubted our chats could even be called conversations, but the repetition was reassuring, ritualistic.
Over time, they would get deeper, the men fueled by my one-word answers; nothing was more alluring to them than a woman playing hard-to-get. Always, inevitably, they would reveal to me their “secrets” in a display of false closeness engineered to get me attached to them, naked in the backseat of their car, on my knees in a bar bathroom. One had a DUI, which was the deep shame that fueled his rope kink. Another had twice seen pet birds eaten by a hawk. Alcoholic. Suicidal. Pills, coke, pills again. Two moms. Hot stepsister. Famous uncle. Absent dad.
Then I met John. John was a film financier in Hollywood. He had brown hair and a short, thick beard. He was thirty-eight.
John was different. He proclaimed to “have no secrets,” and invited me to artisanal coffee shops and wine tastings. With each “no,” he grew more distant. Within the week, I became so obsessed with John I was unable to sleep.
I imagined what a date with John would look like. We’d have craft beers, or grind our own coffee beans, or watch as crab legs were pulled off a crab tableside. He’d pay. We’d go back to his place, drink a whiskey sour or a margarita. Then another. He’d light a candle in his bedroom and then I’d stand naked, waiting for his appraisal as he looked at me. The candle flame would flicker, casting shadows of my naked body all over the room. He would still be wearing clothes, and I’d beg him to take them off.
Afterwards, he’d ask me about writing and I’d ask about his work. I would tell him about my novel, show him the first four pages that I had in page protectors. He’d put on his reading glasses, study the pages with care. He’d be silent, still. I’d hold my breath. The minutes would grow tantalizingly long. Then, he’d move as if he were struck by lightning: jump out of bed, pull out his checkbook, and sign me a film option.
