Series 2, Episode 2:  “I’ve Been Let Down”—Mazzy Star

“I’ve been let down

And I’m still coming round

I’ve been pulled down

And I’m still coming round for you.”

Unlocking the “charmingly” rickety door of our house in West Philly was always challenging, even in the most lucid moments.  Both deft key manipulation and precise applied force were required.  But now, five…no, maybe six whiskeys into the night, I was practically using my bike to break it down.  I was already considering spending the night on the porch.  Despite the cold fall rain, it wouldn’t be too terrible.  I was drafting the blueprints for a lean-to made of sticks and fallen leaves, when the door gave into my ministrations. My bike and I tumbled into the living room.   I laughed as I bound up the stairs, followed by our army of small animals.

“How was your date?”  Janelle was awake, calling me from her bedroom.  The very idea that I had left the house on a weeknight, to meet a boy at a bar (!), was shocking to her (and everyone else).  My daily schedule  consisted of work, followed by bikram yoga, and finished with hours spent hunched over my desk writing stories.  I was either really stubborn or truly disciplined.

I took off my boots and jumped into bed with her.  “Well, I don’t want to reveal too much of the future, but I’m probably going to marry him.”

She laughed. “Oh yeah, you’re really drunk. And you smell like a jug of whiskey.”

My eyes widened in horror.  “Oh no!  Do you think he thought I was drunk, too?”  I closed my eyes, trying to count the drinks we had both consumed through the night.  Two or three at the hipster ethiopian bar? Another one or two or three at the slightly-less-hip ethiopian bar that was closer to my house? I was pretty sure we were even on the drink count, but he was definitely much larger than me.  On the bright side, I hadn’t fallen down any stairs, nor had I laughed so hard that my drink sprayed out of my nose.   

“I’m going to tell you about the date and you tell me if I sound like I’m slurring.  Then I will know if seemed drunk to him.   It will be efficient that way!”

I broke it down into bullet points:

He was super cute and had a nice voice.

He asked me real things about myself, not just “what kind of music do you like?”  And he didn’t talk about his job at all.  

We kissed in the rain on a randomly placed bench.

I never wanted the date to end.

And oh, most importantly:  I told him about Dylan, her father, Chicago, and everything else that related to it.

Janelle gasped in surprise.  As a rule, I never tell anyone anything relating to that aspect of my life until we’ve got 15 dates under our belt.  Hell, I’ve had friends for years and years that possess only the haziest knowledge of those events.  It’s not that I’m ashamed about it (after all, I have no problem broadcasting it via the internet), but on a date, it’s sort of a heavy trip.  “Oh, hi, I’m Amanda.  I’m from central Pennsylvania, I like cats, and I studied painting and comparative literature in college. Also, my boyfriend died of a heroin overdose three months before our daughter was born, so I’m a little fucked up.”  Yeah, bad idea.

I still don’t know why I told him.  It just felt right.  Maybe he asked the right questions.  The glasses of Jamesons might have loosened my tongue.  Pheromones might have dulled my usually sharp skepticism.   Maybe I was briefly bored with closing myself off to everyone.  Most likely I would regret this tomorrow.

“Well, it sounds like you really like him.  And the good news is that you’re not slurring.” She paused for a moment.  “And the bad news is, what about your vow?”

Oh yeah, the vow.  

I had decided that I wouldn’t have sex for a year.  The previous two years had been spent sleeping with ex-boyfriends, ill-advised suitors, and individuals I would never respect.  The ensuing drama, ugly phone calls, and awkward bar confrontations were just too much work.  I also began to realize that a lot of my self-confidence came from my conviction that I could get anyone to sleep with me, any time, under the most complicated circumstances.  Years of recklessly obtained data had revealed this.  I suspected there were other aspects of my persona that could fill me with pride and illusions of success, but I wasn’t 100 percent certain what those qualities/skills might be.  I thought that taking a year off would solve most of my problems.  And well, it kinda did.   I slept with a good friend in Portland on December 31st.  I didn’t tell him of my plan, because I thought it might give him performance anxiety.  And then I flew back to Philadelphia, ready for a life of self-imposed chastity.  I focused my energy on writing and my family.  I saved a lot of money that would have been otherwise spent on booze and nice underwear.  I grew to appreciate sleeping alone more than I ever thought I might.  And no, I didn’t have hairy palms and I hadn’t gone blind yet.  Then again, nobody had ever challenged my will power.  So I didn’t deserve a pat on the back just yet.

I groaned as I crawled out of Janelle’s bed.  “I’ll wear two pairs of underwear the next time I hang out with him.”

As I opened my own bedroom door, I added, “Then again, it’s almost October and it’s been a good run.”

I could still hear her giggling as I collapsed into my own bed and drifted into unconsciousness…while wearing the same sequin hot pants that I had worn for the date.  I was going to have a headache in the morning.

P.S. I wanted to find a photo from that time period and this was the best I could do…three days before the night in question.  I promise I’m not that vain. Or maybe I am.