Notthisagain. Shwilly Pete’s was no place for us to have a pity party in my honor. “Don’t. Nobody has ever dropped dead of celibacy.”
“How long has it been?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
She narrowed her eyes. “How long?”
“Alright! Like a year.”
Her mouth dropped open. She blinked, then shouted, “YOU HAVEN’T HAD SEX IN A YEAR?”
A group of men standing a few feet away joined Liz in gaping at me like I’d sprouted a giant penis on my forehead. “I can change that,” one of them snickered, giving me a once-over. He was wearing stained jeans, a backwards baseball hat, and shirt that read: EAT MORE ASS.
“I’m good,” I snapped, shooting the rest of the group a filthy scowl before I turned back to Liz. “Next time, try to say it louder. People north of the Golden Gate didn’t hear you.”
“Point taken, but a year?” She could barely choke out the words. “You said it had been a while, but I didn’t thinkthatlong.”
“Actually, it’s probably more like fourteen months,” I admitted.
She whistled and shook her head pityingly, like I’d just informed her that I’d been diagnosed with a terminal illness.
“I’ve had other things on mind,” I said lamely. “Crippling debt isn’t exactly an aphrodisiac.”
“Wait, fourteen months—how is that even possible? You were still living with Nick for part of that time.”
Nick.I gnashed down on my teeth until my jaw hurt. Why did she have to go and bring him up? I hadn’t seen him since our breakup, yet the sting of betrayal was still as fresh as the day I’d caught him in bed with another woman—inourbed, balls-deep inside a sleazy blonde whose name he later confessed he didn’t even know. She was just some girl he’d picked up at a bar, he’d said, swearing over and over that she meant nothing. But if he’d been willing to throw away all we had over “nothing,” then what did that make me in his eyes? Less than nothing?
“Oh,hewas having plenty of sex during that time. Just not with me,” I said bitterly, trying to shake the ugly memory from my head. I’d grieved enough and had wasted far too much of my energy being angry. Nick wasn’t worth getting upset over.
“Douchebag,” Liz said. “Regardless, you’ve really got to start putting yourself out there.”
Here we go, I thought. It was a lecture I’d heard before.
“I know you’ve been hurt, but not every guy is a cheating . . . I’m an idiot.” Liz threw her arm around my shoulder and rested her head against mine. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought that prick up.”
I waved a hand. “I’m over it.”
Her look said that she didn’t believe me.
“I know you think I’m avoiding dating because I’m still hurt or whatever, but that’s not the case,” I said, being a little untruthful. I was in no hurry to open myself up again to potential heartbreak, though that wasn’t the full extent of it.
“So, then what is the case?”
I shrugged. “I want to be the kind of person thatIwould like to date, is all. I need to work on myself.”
“You’re insane. Any guy would be crazy to not want to date you.” Of course, she was obligated to say that as my best friend.
“Would he, though—be crazy? I wouldn’t exactly consider myself a catch at this juncture of my life. I’m flat broke. Not just broke but also in debt. Worse, the first ‘paycheck’ I’ve made in months was the result of me showing my tits to a bunch of strangers.”
“Yes, but you won the contest! That’s got to count for something.” She was really grasping at straws.
“It counts for another reason why a decent man wouldn’t want to date me. Can you imagine how a date would go? ‘Nice to meet you, hot doctor, or teacher, or graphic designer, or whatever. Thanks for the free dinner—you’re buying, right? Because I sure as hell can’t. Oh, what doIdo? Mainly I sit around the house all day in my sweatpants, crying over the fact that I’m still unemployed. Sometimes I like to mix it up, though, by going onto Facebook so I can torture myself by seeing how much better my friends are doing than me: vacations, engagements, new houses.’ Sure, I’m the total package.”
“Blah-blah-blah,” she said. “You’re too damn hard on yourself. Guys don’t care about that stuff.Womendo, that’s for sure. But guys, not really. If you’re pretty and nice, they’ll forgive just about anything.”
“Can we change the subject?” I hadn’t been with anyone in a while, so what? It wasn’t like I no longer felt the desire to love and be loved.
Anyone could have sex. However, not everyone could have intimacy. And that’s what I craved most. I missed having a man who knew that I found runny eggs repulsive; who was content spending all day on the sofa in pajamas, binge-watching Netflix while we exchanged foot rubs; who I could call any time I wanted—and as many times as I wanted—without having to play games or worry about appearing needy; who knew my secrets and could be counted on to keep them safe. Sweet, sweet, familiarity.
