Sporting Wood

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.

I needed an oil change. Yes, probably one of life's most unanticipated errands. The early morning trip to Jiffy Lube, coffee breath leading the way and the L.A. times in hand. But as much as that scenario pains, it felt like a vacation compared to the one presented.

Shelfie was going to change my oil.

Yea, when I bought the car, he offered and agreed for himself that he would throw in an oil change, gratis. He’d been meaning to do it, and because of our new friendship, he decided he would "hook me up." Little did I know, my hook up would not come in the way of a jiffy lube gift card, but rather through the meat-pawed determination and blue-collar sweat of our very own anti-hero, Shelfie.

Even as much as Shelfie has grown on me, it still was met with internal contention. Normally, I would make any excuse possible not to endure the eminent sideline chatter that would accompany such as co-task. Because this simple act reminded me of growing up, my father being the only other person I knew who changed his own oil. To me, it didn’t seem cost or time-efficient to do it. But, changing oil is not about cost or time. It is more about the intimate and masculine contact with your vehicle. That much I did learn.

So I gave Shelfie the green light and decided to come early on Saturday before the poker game. I took the same drive, up the same coast and arrived to the same scene, Shelfie washing his car in the driveway, sponge in one hand, a 12" subway in the other.

“Hey Shelfie,” I quipped.

“Top shelf across the board…bitch,” he answered, as bits of food gristled out toward the driveway.

I was in.

“I moved out the Firebird," he said, putting sponge to the decaled hood, “pull up to just before those ramps, and I'll be right there.”

I drove over to the single garage door, and placed my vehicle just like he wanted. He stood in front of me, positioned the ramps and motioned me forward. I drove up and cut the engine.

“How much did you bring?” he asked, popping my hood and continuing on his sandwich.

“I thought you said it was free?” I said, jokingly.

“No, for Poker.”

“I brought $100. Should I just hand it to you now and start drinking beer and molesting your dogs?” I asked.

“Good one, but I’m not the one you have to worry about. It’s Lindsey.”

“Lindsey? I thought you said it was all guys? Did you get a new dog?”

“No, you fucking pervert. I just named off names, Stan, Jeff, Mark and Lindsey. Maybe you thought Lindsey was a guy.”

“No, I, whatever.”

“Rob, are you afraid of losing to a chick?”

“Not at all, I just wasn't expecting girls around. It’s cool. I was just looking forward to a night away from the ladies.”

I sat on a barstool and watched Shelfie work his magic. I was in his automotive boudoir, immaculate with rubber floor, shiny barstools and properly placed tools. This was not a place to park cars. It was a place to mack them.

“Have you ever changed oil before, Rob?”

“Nope, but I’ve watched my dad do it. Just like I'm watching you.”

“So, you know how, you just don’t.”

“Not really, I wasn’t paying much attention to what was going on.”

“You want to learn?”

“Naa, but thanks.”

“Rob, I’m not your dad, get the fuck over here and learn something,” he said, placing the last few sandwich inches on my hood.

“All right,” I said, like a scolded teen.

He began to remove the plug, and verbally took me through the draining, filter and filling steps.

“Rob, changing oil is like having sex.”

“Yea,” I said, nodding.

“Well, it’s all about opening, closing and the exchange of liquid,” he said, touching the oil and swirling it in his fingers like errant mucous. “I love this stuff.”

“Yea, it’s great,” I said, sarcastically. He did a pretty poor job of making his point. To me, changing oil was still changing oil, even with the homoerotic swirl.

“God, you’re such a punk. If I didn’t know you as an adult, I would probably beat the shit out of you.”

“Just change the oil there, chief,” I said to his continued amusement.

“Rob, don’t you wish you could marry a guy?” He said, finishing the sandwich.

“You lost me Shelfie.”

“I mean, not really, but it’s so much easier to hang out with another guy than a chick, especially if that chick is your wife. Guys have more stuff in common.”

“Shelf, don't fight biology. When guys hang out together all we think about are chicks. Right now, I’m thinking of someone I’d like to fuck.”

“Tracy?”

“No, that's who you're thinking about," I said, amazed the words so easily flowed from my mind to my lips, " I was thinking of someone else,” I added, retreatingly.

But he welcomed the entrance of this subject matter.

“She’s a good one Rob, what she sees in you, I have no idea,” he said, in true guy form.

“She sees a friend, that’s all.”

“Whatever you call it. You should bang her. Bang her all kinds. I think she likes you, in a fucked up way.”

“New subject, let’s go back to how you want to have sex with your car.”

Shelfie would not give up that easily.

“Let me go on record to say you will never in this time score finer pussy than Tracy. How about we lay the $100 down on that.”

“You’re a jackass,” I said, with a hint of pained laughter.

“No, how about this. Lindsey. She is coming over tonight, she’s divorced, available and a bit older, but hotter than Tracy, I mean back in the day. She’s still hot though. That’s why we invite her.”

“I'm sure Val loves that.”

“They’re fucking friends. That’s the beauty of country club memberships. Your wife finds hot friends.”

“No deal. I’ll save her for the rest of your hand-job poker crew.”

“Those guys can’t score with her. Fuck, Rob. But, I would like to see if lightning can strike twice. I mean, you’re not bad-looking or anything, but you need more with her. Just like guys need more with Tracy. The shit she gets from you.”

“How about this. If I 'score' with her, you lend me your car for the weekend. And not the fucking girlie Range Rover. The Firebird.”

I knew that would end the conversation.

“Fuck Rob, no one drives that but me. No.”

“You pussy,” I said turning the tide with language he was sure to understand. But maybe I pushed it too far.

“All right, all right. One night. If you get her, you can take it out for one night.”

“A whole day and night, how about that?” I said, bargaining once again to kill the deal. It didn't work.

“All right, fine, what am I worrying about? You’ll never get her.”

So now I was in. Regrettably, but still in. There was only one thing to do. Win the fucking bet.

“Ok, here are the rules, you can’t say anything to anyone, including Val. I don’t want anyone throwing salt in my game. I will be discreet. Even after, no one can know. Two, I will not fuck her. I will do everything else, but that. It feels weird to do it for a bet. Everything else, but no fucking. Kapish?”

“Fair enough you non-fucking pansy, here’s my rule. If you win, no fucking in my car. I’m totally serious. Not her, not nobody. Do not pick up a girl and fuck her in it. That shit is sacred.”

“Deal, I promise I won’t even sport wood.”

“Seriously Rob. Off limits.”

I nodded in agreement.

“You know how many times I’ve fucked Val in that car?” he asked. I was starting to get used to those types of questions. I answered in his own vernacular.

“All kinds?”

He looked down at the ground.

“None, zero.” he said, dejectedly.

“You’re shitting me, really?”

“She never would. And believe me, we do everything else, everything. Including ass.”

“I get the picture,” I said with enhanced body language that screamed stop.

“I even offered to do it in the garage, because maybe she was freaked about doing it in public, but we fucked at Santa Anita once, in the men’s room. I don’t know what it is with the fucking car that bothers her so much.”

“I can’t help you with this one, Shelf.”

“I know, I know. Don’t fuck in this car. Understand.”

“Yes, yes and yes. Relax. Your already sounding like you lost the bet.”

“Done” he said, snapping the hood down and wiping off his hands, “want to go for a swim?”

“I don’t have trunks or anything,” I said.

“You can borrow mine, what are you about a 36? I'm a 38 so it will be a little big. Maybe I have some old 36's around.”

“Dude, are you fucking with me? Do I need to take my shirt off? I’m a 33. First you think I’m late thirties, then you say I’ve got a 36 waist. What’s next, shelfie, momma jokes?”

"You're momma is so fat, when she sits around the house, she sits around the house." Again, the absence of the rhetorical reared its banal head.

“You know, there’s nothing more dangerous than a man with something on the line. Watch out,” I said.

“You watch out. If you bag her, I’ll throw in a weekend in Santa Barbara, on me.”

That fucker was trying to mess with my confidence, by raising the stakes. Pretty sneaky sis.

“How about a week,” I answered, calling his bluff. I wish I was this good at cards.

Shelfie laughed, but did not answer.

The bet was made. Now, all I had to do was sleep in it.

Read the Rest

It's just a ride, just a ride.

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.

Something has been happening lately. And it is a something I’m not quite sure how to handle. It has been present within my peripheral landscape for the past week. Finally, at the height of my confusion, it formed into a singular focus. I realized what was happening.

Women are noticing me.

Yes, I’m being ogled, sized up and looked at in a way I have rarely experienced, especially in quantity. At Whole Foods, on Wilshire, even at fucking yoga. I needed to get to the bottom of this strange and recent phenomenon, to piece together events to uncover the shared strings. I needed to go Columbo.

I started at the top.

1. The hair-I’ve recently began to grow my hair out a bit. I’ve sort of got the Owen Wilson thing going, and not in the good way. My friend described my hair and lack of product as “homeless.” To my benefit, it is in one of those horrible in-between stages, but could it be the lid?

2. Jim*- Two of the three times ladies have been checking me out, we've been together. Now Jim has a pretty recognizable mug in this town. He’s a classic example of someone whose face you know, but have no idea of his name. Kinda like that fat guy, Big Pussy, on the Sopranos. So maybe that was it. They were checking him out, and naturally moved to me, to see if I was “anybody.” Maybe it was the halo effect?

I went further down the list, crossing things off as I went, shoes, shirts, etc. There was really nothing that seemed to stand out as different. I needed a woman’s perspective. I called Tracy.

“It’s me,” I said when she picked up the phone.

“Yea, I know, what’s up?”

“I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“Why are women noticing me?” I asked.

“Rob, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“Girls, actually, ladies are noticing me a lot more lately. I just need a women’s perspective. Is it my hair?” I asked, with complete earnestness.

“God no, your hair? Ha, Rob, you think it’s your hair?” she said, laughing almost uncontrollably.

“Let’s keep this in a ‘yes’ and ‘no’ format.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, continuing to laugh, “no.”

“Ok, how about Jim*?”

“Oh, God, are you serious? No, people are looking at Jim, believe me. No.”

“I got nothing else,” I said, dejectedly, then it came to me, “Wait, what about that shirt I bought, the blue one with the cool stitching.”

“Oh, that one’s hot. Now you’re talking. It was probably that.”

“No, I was only wearing that at Whole Foods,” I said, pondering.

“Rob, let me ask you this, did these occurrences perhaps place you near your new car?”

“Uh, let me see,” I said as I thought that over. Ok, at the market the girl saw me loading up my bags, the chick on Wilshire was at a stoplight. My thought process was interrupted.

“Rob, hello, did you forget about me?” Tracy said, “Quit thinking. Take it from me, it’s the car.”

“You’re shitting me. I never got noticed in a Porsche, but in a Volvo I do?”

“Rob, truthfully, the only guys that drive fancy cars are ugly ones. I mean, unless you’re famous or rich or something. But most guys are like in mid-life crisis mode, all bald and gross, with like weird hats on.”

"Uh, I don't fit any of those categories," I said.

“That's because people think you have a bad case of the ‘look at me’s’,” she said.

“Wow, love the honest approach today.”

“Rob, I’m sorry. You’re not one of those guys, but people might have thought you were, you know? It’s just been a tough day at work. I’ll try to be nicer.”

“Ok, so why would chicks like a Volvo?”

“Because it says you’re grown up. Not trying to be somebody cool. You’re just being who you are. Ok that sounded incredibly lame, like some CK thing, but really, it means you’re not escalating, but rather you’ve arrived. And not in the way a Porsche would mean you’ve arrived, with cash and all. The Volvo means you’ve arrived full circle, with confidence and stuff. You’ve found your happy place with life and can be yourself.”

“Wow, really?” I asked pondering my new image.

“Yea, fool.”

“But wait, I haven’t found my happy place.”

“Who fucking cares? It’s just when we see a guy in a kinda cool responsible car, we feel a more grown-up attraction. Kind of like a hot guy with a cute kid. It ignites something maternal and biological in us. That’s kind of what a Volvo does. We’re not looking for stand-up sex in a dirty bathroom with a Volvo driver, just maybe some nice head after an outdoor concert, drunk on wine.”

“You’re fucking wacked.”

“We all are Rob, not just me.”

“All right, let’s review. So you mean, I’m not looked at because I’m hot or have a cool blue shirt or hang with a celeb or have Owen Wilson hair? I’m looked at because I appear to be husband and head material in a Volvo?”

“Damn, that’s exactly right. I need to write that down. But you’re giving yourself a bit too much credit in the hair department.”

“I think our conversation is now over, thanks.”

“Oh Rob, you’re welcome. So sensitive. Anyway, See you at Chucks?” she asked, referring to a friend’s art opening in Topanga.

“I’m sensing you are asking for a ride. Is that because you want a designated driver, or just because you want to play married couple?” I asked.

“Because I love Luke Wilson, that’s all.”

I hung up, feeling more smug than I had in quite some time. What Tracy said made sense, in a really fucking weird way. I guess Shelfie was wrong. I guess a Volvo is so safe and uncool, that it is cool. Is that it? A bit of geek chic perhaps. I needed to run it through a male filter, but I started to get it. And once I master this whole mindset I will no doubt use it for my own selfish benefit. Maybe even buy a carseat or two, just for added effect.

Hmm, I think its time to take a little ride.

*fake name.

Read the Rest

Foxes

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.

Shelfie was a man of contradiction. An untamed monolith of virile stature, hidden behind porcelain veneers and a fake tan. Rob Lowe would be no match for man so breeched in such hapless incongruity. Or would he?

In the beginning, I could not do more than simply nod and stare. There was so much visceral upkeep that encircled him and all his surroundings, my body and my mind began to shut down. I was illiterate with doe-eyed, one word responses. Luckily, Shelfie lived in that rudimentary world of communication. But then things changed.

“Ok, so, are you and Tracy--” Shelfie stammered, pointing with his thumb toward the house.

At least that’s what I thought he was doing, and I didn’t have the balls to finish his sentence with, “..sticking my thumb up her ass?” Instead, I played it cool.

“We’re friends. Tracy and I are friends.”

“Have you ever thought--” he said, continuing down a path that was a bit slippery for my taste. I didn’t want this guy sporting wood by my responses.

“Never,” I said lying. Of course I thought about fucking her you hairy knuckled buffoon. Me and every other guy she fucking meets. Good thing that didn’t come out of my mouth.

“She’s quite the fox,” he said, without the least bit of irony in his voice. My God, I was stuck in a driveway with Vinnie Barbarino.

“Oh, very foxy,” I continued, “just not my type, that’s all.”

Another blatant lie. I had to do it. How can you explain the power trip that I was on with Tracy. Our relationship was based on me not fucking her. That gave me the power. Every other guy she met, including Shelfie, imagined a roll in the sack with her before “hello” even left their lips. And generally that desire manifested itself in cheesy pickup lines or the like. Tracy was brazen in this account and became almost instinctual at shooting down pickup attempts. Even the most Matinee-faced Hollywood prettyboy could not enter through that door. It took a more subversive technique. The technique of not caring.

But as much as it was the attraction, it was also the rub. If I did show interest, maybe I could lose her. Maybe what connects us is the disconnect. So, I would simply accept and continue our sexually-charged yet sexually absent relationship. But for now, I was merely listening.

“Lowe, don’t take this the wrong way, but she may be a bit out of your league, mine too, don’t get me wrong.”

I became alive.

“Well, you’re probably not on the playing field, now that you’re married,” I said with just enough laughter to dispel my plausible deniability.

He answered back with an equal amount of cover.

“I didn’t mean that as an insult, really, I just thought she’s young, pretty, has a BMW, you’re a little bit older.”

“Rick, we graduated together. I’m the same age.”

“Oh man, I thought you were almost my age. I'm 40, but thought you were, you know, like mid to upper 30's.”

I seethed.

“No, I just turned 30.”

“Don't get bent out of shape, I just meant that you looked more mature or something. More responsible.”

He changed the subject immediately.

“Rob, I would do anything for my wife. Really, anything. I would lie, cheat, steal. But you know what the one thing I did for her that was the hardest in my life?”

“What’s that, Rick?”

“This,” he said, lowering his shirt and showing a completely shaved chest. It was a ridiculous site, arms thick with human Velcro and a chest that looked like a babies ass.

“I was drunk and Val and I were in the Jacuzzi tub, well we got out the razor and well, when it was my turn, this is what she did.”

I didn’t know what to say. Rick immediately sensed that we may not be ready for such an illustrative conversation. He could have stopped at letting me know he would kill for her.

Thankfully, he changed the subject, once again.

“So what do you think of her?”

“Your wife?” I asked.

“No, the car. Did Tracy tell you anything about it?”

“No, she didn’t”

“All right. Rob, I take care of my cars like I take care of my women. You see how well taken care of Val is. That’s like my cars," he said, pointing to his garage. Around him was a Mercedes that looked really expensive, some new sloped one, a Range-Rover and something else, concealed by a car cover. He pointed to the Range Rover.

“See that, that’s why we’re selling this car. Val wanted it, I got it,” he said. Before me was an enormous white and overpriced white SUV with giant white rims and huge tires. It was flashy even by P-diddy standards.

“It’s nice.”

“Rob, kids are nice. Moms are nice, picnics are nice. But this car if fucking beautiful, Just like women. Women and cars are beautiful, not nice. Where do nice girls finish?”

I looked at him and nodded.

“Huh, where do nice girls finish?” he continued. I realized there was no room for the rhetorical in shelfie’s maligned metaphor universe. I answered.

“Last.”

“Exactly, Rob, they finish last.”

I stared at the soap bubbles and wondered how I lived my whole life without his wisdom. Without the knowledge that women and machines are equated in ways I had never imagined.

“Rob, you don’t want this car. Don’t tell my wife I said this, but you don’t want it.”

I was confused.

“Is there something wrong with it?”

“Mechanically, it’s fine. But image wise. I mean, my wife drives it. Drove it.”

“Yea, so.”

“So. All right. I doubt you’ll be able to get laid with this car?”

“You can’t take your car into the Beef and Brew,” I said.

Now we were both confused.

“Rob, I like you. You seem like a good guy. I just think a guy like you might need the help of a hipper ride to help you with the girls. I mean, I want to sell the car, yea, and if you want to buy it, great. But I needed to tell you that. I can drop a sign on this and have it sold in a day. I’m just looking out for you.”

The confusion grew exponentially. Did I underestimate the mind of Shelfie? Fuck, sometimes I am so quick to claim superiority over people, that I get hoodwinked. He was challenging my manhood with reverse psychology.

“Rob, I grew up in Tarzana, in the 80’s. Man, it was a great fucking time. My dad had a construction company and I busted my ass in the hot Valley weather every summer. I stayed home, scrimped and after three years of weekends and summers and having no life, guess what I did?”

“Quit?” I asked in an effort to deflate the lecture.

“Of course not. I bought a car. A beautiful Firebird convertible. God, I loved that car. It made everything worthwhile. I got my confidence, met girls and had one of the best summers of my life, while I continued to work. I owned the Valley back then.”

“Yea, I like firebirds,” I said, wondering if they even made those things. I thought they went the way of the mustache or muscle-tee.

“You want to see something?” he said.

“You’re not going to lift your shirt up again, are you?”

“No,” he said laughing, “come here.”

He walked me across his stamped concrete to the single stall in the garage. He lifted up the car cover to reveal not a Ferrari, but something far more valuable in his universe. The Firebird convertible.

“I had to sell it to start my business, but once I got it going I had someone track it down and buy it on the spot. I completely restored it to original. Want to take a spin?"

“Uh sure,” I said, “Should we tell-"

“Man, you’re whipped Lowe, and she’s not even your girlfriend.”

“All right, let’s go.”

He turned the key as a deep grumbling signaled its emergence from hibernation. He gunned the gas and squealed the wheels. And as much as I wanted to make fun of him for it, I couldn’t. I was honestly having too much fun. Yea, he was about the challenge, but he also had an eye on what got him here, what made him happy and how to give to someone while still being true to yourself. Locked in this rock-jawed caricature could very well be the secret to a successful marriage, a successful life. I just needed to chisel away the subterfuge to find the answer.

“You play cards,” he asked as the smell of burnt black rubber filled the street.

“Old maid?” I said, trying to endear myself to my new friend in the muscle-car. He laughed.

We drove around the block and onto Mulholland, flying faster than the wind, faster than the birds. And as the evening breeze careened off my hair, I realized something strangely profound. The reason for this vibrant occasion was to do more than simply buy a car. It was to reconnect me to a time when fast cars and burnouts defined who you were. It was to reconnect me to high school. But this time I wasn’t watching the burnout. I was making it.

And it was fucking paradise.

Read the Rest

Being Human

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.

The sunburned tourists were mere red flashes as we raced up the coast. People watching was low on our list of things to do this evening. Tracy had an agenda. And I was merely along for the ride.

“Are you excited, Rob?” Tracy asked, patting my leg.

“Super,” I said, less than enthusiastically.

“Ooh, wait till you see Val’s place, your going to have an absolute shit fit. Can I tell you about the car, pretty please?”

“No,” I said. I figured I would at least stay in character until we arrived. Lord knows, she has been a goodie, pretty-please teenager for the past few days.

She must be getting laid, I thought. I had to ask.

“Are you getting laid?”

She looked at me and smiled. But the smile faded as she realized I wasn’t joking.

“Why would you say that?” she asked.

“I don’t know, you just seem all giddy and 13, that’s all.”

“Fuck you Rob, I can be happy if I want. And my sex life is none of your business.”

“Fair enough,” I said, pointing to a street behind Pepperdine, “take this shortcut.”

Directions are a great way to change the topic with Tracy. She gets all frazzled and distracted. I do it to her all the time.

“So, have you met Shelfie? Was he at the holiday party?” she asked.

“Shelfie? Is that a guy? Sounds like that puppet, Alfie or whatever his name was.”

“OK, forget it, Shelfie is Val’s husband. He thinks he’s like a West coast Tony Soprano, always saying things like ‘top-shelf-across-the-board.’ So, we call him Shelfie."

“You publicists are so clever,” I said, but my sarcasm was misconveyed.

“It was between that, and ‘Dice,’ because he kinda looks like Andrew Dice Clay.”

“I think you made the right choice.”

“Wait, but he was at the party, too. Or was he? Wait, last year was at Bergamot. Did you see Val there?”

“Yea, she cornered me for 20 minutes, you totally left me.”

“Ok, maybe he wasn’t there, because he would never let you talk to his wife for that long.”

“Yea, she kept going on about pre-school shit and tennis. And she spent most of the time yapping about my name. Fuck, I forgot about that.”

“Oh, she’s nice, she just tries a bit too hard.”

“Her tits are great too. That’s how I was able to get through that insufferable conversation.”

“They’re totally fake, she has like a gazillion kids or something.”

“Wait, you think I don't know real tits from fake, c’mon Tracy. I'm a fucking dude, remember. Tits are my life.”

“Whatever, she’s not embarrassed. Shelfie bought them for her.”

“So romantic.”

I was spot on with the sarcasm.

“You better be nice, no sarcastic shit there. I just ignore it, but she won’t get your dumb jokes, and that would be mean.”

“Yea, I’m only sarcastic with the people I love.”

“I know,” she said putting her hand on my knee again. Obviously, Tracy doesn’t recognize my sarcasm as easily as she thought. Or maybe she was just fucking with me. The chances were equal.

“I’ll be nice. She's your biggest fan, after all.”

“Rob, stop,” she said stoically.

But it was true; Val was Tracy’s biggest fan. She was a reborn soccer mom, who, with the right tit surgery, was able to transform into an assistant or something at a vapid PR agency.

Val lived in Calabasas, an upscale mecca of McMansions that border Malibu and Woodland Hills. Each day she braved a daily commute to West Hollywood with Louis Vuitton riding shotgun. Val didn’t even need a job, she just wanted to be close to the entertainment scene. And there was no greater access afforded than through the up-and-coming, and securely connected spinmistress,Tracy.

We made our way through the land of trees and stucco, and finally arrived at our destination. It was a 20-foot gate that lead to two-million dollar tract homes. The guard asked for a name and stared at a clipboard. Tracy was on his list, and the gate opened.

“There’s the house,” Tracy said, pointing excitedly to a large tan structure that looked like every other large tan structure on the street.

Outside was Shelfie, washing the car. He was unmistakable. A raw and daft figure perched among the roof-tiled similitude. His hands looked like catcher’s mitts, his hair, dark and receding. Maybe I was wrong about the nickname. Dice would have been a better fit.

“I got out of the car, and shook his hand.

“Hi, I’m Rick,” he said, wiping the soap from his hand. “Just getting her shined up,” he said, looking at the car.

“I'm Rob, nice to meet you,” I followed, converting the niceties.

His interest in me quickly waned as Tracy exited the driver's side.

“Shelfie,” she screamed excitedly and gave him a hug.

“Top shelf across the board,” he said, much to Tracy's satisfaction. They both cracked up on cue.

I looked at Tracy. I had no idea she called him that to his face.

Val walked out, hearing the commotion.

“Oh, hello, Tracy, long time no see,” she said with her own false string of sarcasm. “And, I know this guy. I’ll never forget his name," she said, making me the straight man, “Rob.......Lowe.”

I remembered the implication about the husband jealosy, and didn’t want a mitt in my face. So I awkwardly stuck out a hand and produced a half-baked smile for my fake-titted hostess.

“I thought you were fucking with me, that’s really his name?” Shelfie said to his wife.

“Yes, the same as the actor. They even spell it the same. Right?”

"Yea, we do," I said, wanting to be anywhere in the world, but here.

"Any relation?” Shelfie pressed.

“Uh, we’re both human,” I replied, more glib than I first anticipated it would be.

Everyone laughed. Tracy glared.

"Oh, God, would you like something to drink?” Val asked us.

“I’m fine, thanks.” I answered.

"I'll take something," Tracy said.

“Come inside then. I need to show you what we’ve done with the upstairs bath, anyway.” Val said stealing Tracy away.

“You boys be good,” Tracy yapped, knowing I would never forgive her for this.

I looked at Shelfie, looking at Tracy's ass. Yea, he was the Diceman.

“You wanna beer?” he asked, eyes never leaving cheeks.

“Yea, thanks.”

“So, hey,” he said, “grab a sponge, why am I washing YOUR car.”

He threw his sponge as soapy water and errant arm pubes splashed across my shirt.

My twenties were officially over, once again. I was in Calabasas, bathed in short curlies and washing a stranger’s car that through a combination of coercion and my own laziness was about to become my own. But at least I would be safe.

It was a Volvo, after all.

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Roger and Me

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.

I’ve been a new person for the past week or so. But I’d been that person before. Now, I was subtly becoming a recurring character in my own life, and something needed to change. I needed freedom. I needed variety.

I needed to get off the fucking bus.

In the beginning, it was adventurous. There were new characters in my life, and they were called commuters. For the first time I did not have the distance of a car window or yellow line to seperate. No, with these people, I was alive and in-between, smelling their knock-off cologne, listening to their awkward cell calls, reading an article over their shoulder. I was on a bus. And I hated myself for it.

I'm not the ideal person for public transportation. First of all, I'm decent looking. Most people that ride that thing are homeless or hags. So the eye-candy factor was way low. If I wanted, I could have ruled the bus. Gone all Lord of The Flies on their ass, but I wasn't there to ethnocentrically upend the busses class system. I was just passing time between cars.

Honestly, the bus got old fast. I’m generally on my own schedule, and am flawed with details. I was lost more times than found. But, when I finally did force myself to understand the system, I felt a strange sense of accomplishment. And that realization made me sad for myself. I was uplifted because I understood the fucking Blue Bus. What happened to the guy in the Porsche? The one with the cool beard.

In other cities, the bus can work. But here, it is best enjoyed in the abstract. As a social commentary rather than an actual practiced method of transport. In LA, the bus serves as the idyllic answer to an urban transportation problem. But if you take it beyond the sound byte and into the day-to-day, that manifestation can quickly deteriorate to the banal.

There were people on the bus who spent the whole time singing its praises. They scoffed at the car-enclosed drivers, slow-motioning their way to work. Most were professionals, but occasionally, there was a warm breeze of urine and a burlap-covered wino followed.

"Maybe this would force more people to take the bus, to stop all this traffic," I thought. In mere days, I was turning into a public transportation activist, someone with a fucking cause. I hate causes. But as I was connecting and diverging with this strange cult group of bus groupies, I felt myself slipping away, becoming them. Becoming obsessed with fossil fuels.

My God, I started calling gas, fossil fuel.

Then there was Roger, one of the only commuters that allowed me to break into his peculiar circle. He lived a block away and worked a few streets down. He was on the bus every morning, with a brown paper bag and the LA times curled under his arm. He also carried a “bus kit” that included, among other things, a power bar, travel baby wipes and a white, thin towel. Roger had a thing for germs, and always wiped his seat and the back of the seat in front of him. Then, to be doubly sure, he laid the towel as an additional barrier. This process took a whole two minutes. In bus time, that is an eternity. But no one seemed to mind. He was a fixture, and every time I took that bus, the driver and passengers waited patiently for Roger to exorcise his demons and the busses germs. Then we were off.

But after a few days, the novelty of Roger’s towel and the whole bus scene wore off. Sure, I could live without a car, but the life I was living was not real. I was not going to yoga or on dates or playing basketball. I put my life on hold to make the bus work, but really nothing was working. And as much as I wanted to seem rebellious by not needing a car, I didn’t want that to be the way I identified myself. I like driving, heading up the coast or down the 10 for some greasy El Cholo.

The bus began to regress me to the life stage when I didn’t have a car. When I had no small-town escape. Where I had no freedom. I had no desire to reconnect to that adolescent stage in my life, so this past weekend, I finally pulled the trigger on a car.

I had a hard-on for an old Toyota Land Cruiser for a while, but I became more and more concerned as I slid down the purchase funnel. Seems these cars have developed a bit of a cult following. I didn’t want a car like that. A car that strange gear heads talk to me about. My Porsche was a dime a dozen. Every prep-school kid or mid-level agent with an expense account had a fucking Boxster. But this was different.

I also worried about the coolness factor. I didn’t think I wanted to be extreme cool or grunge cool. In fact, I didn’t want to be cool at all. So, I was a bit worried about that. Plus, these cars were commanding some serious coin, and they were almost 30 years old. I really couldn’t see myself laying down that kind of cash for a car that old. I needed something a bit more reliable. So Saturday, I swore off the Land Cruiser and was back to the drawing board, with no idea what I wanted. No idea how I was going to get it. I grabbed a beer and got lazy, again. Maybe the bus wasn’t so bad, I thought. And after beer three, I was convinced of that.

Then, the phone rang.

“Hello,” I answered.

“Did you get one?” the voice asked, with marked anticipation.

“No,” I said, changing the channel. I let the phone go silent.

“Oh, goodie, Val from work is trying to sell her car, and I told her you might be interested.”

I woke up.

“What, Trace, the blonde mom chick? What the fuck are you saying that shit for without asking?”

“I don’t know, I just thought it would a better car for a 30-year-old than a dirty old Jeep”

“It wasn’t a Jeep, and what are you doing saying ‘Goodie.' Are you high?”

“I just came back from a late lunch at el Coyote, I’m a little buzzed.”

“Yea, me too. The buzzed part.”

“Rob, why are you cranky, don’t you even want to know what kind of car it is?”

“No.”

“You’re lazy. You know, I figured out how to take that stupid ring tone off your phone, but I’m not doing it. I’m giving you tough love, Rob. You need to stop being such a boy. You need to stop being lazy and get a car.”

“I’m drinking beer. Can boys do that? Not if they're not 21 or have a fake ID, Huh? Huh? Take it back.”

“I’m coming over, slacker.”

“We’re going to dinner at Stephs in like, a few hours.”

“What, so that means I can’t come over now?”

“No, but-“

‘Hey, Rob…Fuck you, I’m coming over. And we’re going to see her car, and you’re going to buy it.”

“But, I’ve got lounge shorts on.”

“Then you can lounge in the passenger seat.”

"All right, where does this chick live?"

“Calabasas, we can take the coast. Bring your checkbook. And if you buy this car, I’ll change your ring tone.”

“Are you getting some kind of finder’s fee?”

“Stop it, get dressed and I’ll be over in fifteen.”

“Fine," I said, knowing I would never win this battle. She was right. I was a bit lazy.

“Don’t you want to know what kind of car it is before we leave?”

“No,” I said , hanging up, “see you in a few.”

I really didn't.

So I unlounged and unwrapped, grabbed my checkbook and said goodbye to that horrible time in my adolescence when I was at the mercy of my mom’s taxi. And I quickly discovered the best part about reconnecting is discovering the things you never wanted to connect with in the first place.

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To all my friends

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.

Today, I am connecting at the house of Madison with a little light-fare guest blogging. He mistakenly thinks I have a bit of a fanbase(Midwest sucker).

But when he asked for some help, I figured I'd oblige. If you'd like to find out why I'm so fucking accomodating to this star-loving nitwit, you'll have to visit his site.

Peace.

RL

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The Mandate

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.

I was standing on the curb outside my building, feeling the warm, Friday night breeze against my neck. Before me cars drifted along like disaffected ants, retreating to their hills. I looked at each, wondering which one was for me. Which car would be my chariot for the night.

Jim* pulled up in a truck. It was not any truck, this was a true blue and white 1970's beater mobile.

“Hop in, bitch,” he said, and we were off, making our way across L.A. to one of the great institutions of old Hollywood, The Bowl.

Jim is one of those friends I don’t see often, but when I do, its like no time has passed. Nothing feels stale or contrived. Everything feels fun and real. Sometimes I need that simple and silly influence in my life. Jim fills that spot.

“You still have the old truck, I thought you’d have moved on by now, being a big celebrity and everything.”

“Fuck off, Lowe, first of all that Hilton cunt is a fucking celebrity, I’m an actor. Second of all, I don’t need a bitch-ass Porsche to tool me around town,” he said, fucking with me right back.

“I got rid of that. It made me look gay.”

“Hell yea, it did. You and every other targa-topped flyboy in this town. What did you get now, a BMW minivan thing?” he said, smiling smugly.

“I’ve got nothing. I dropped my car off with Derek last weekend and flew back.”

“Yea, Derek is a much better fit for that car, sweet move.”

“I was thinking of getting a Toyota truck or something, I’m checking a few on Lincoln. Those car lots there,” I said.

“What like a Tund-roma or whatever they are?”

“No, nothing new. Like a 70’s one. The ones that look like Jeeps, kind of.”

“Yea, yea. I know.”

"Anyway, I need something," I said, looking out the window at a sea of cars on Wilshire.

“What do you want to listen to, AM or AM?” he asked.

I rose up.

“Is this seriously your only fucking car, because if it is, what’s wrong with you dude? You had this when you worked at Strattons.”

“Lowe, first off, this is a truck, not a car. And yes, it is my only ride.”

“Ok, ‘Johnny Depp,’ I get it, you’re pure. You fight the Hollywood machine.”

“All right, can we please stop talking about stupid fucking cars. Jesus.”

"Trucks, we were talking about trucks."

I relented, "What do you want to talk about then?”

“I don’t know, how about tonight. Don’t you want to hear about our seats?”

“You said they were from your publicist. They’re probably good.”

“God, they’re kick-fucking-ass, Robbie. I got the same ones for some KCRW thing with David Byrne and Arcade Fire. You’re gonna be close enough to fellate Bennett if you want.”

“Is that even a word?”

“Who knows?” He said, pulling up the truck next to a load of hot girls in a VW next to us. He gave them a small wave.

“Do you know them?”

“Na, just spreading the love. See that’s the beauty of this truck dude. I can be anyone I want to be, but myself. No one would believe I would drive this piece of love. It’s better than shades for going unnoticed. That's why I kept it.”

"Yea, it's kind of got a gardener vibe to it."

He changed the subject.

“What’s up with Jill*? I heard her husband went all postal on you in Vegas.”

“It’s been blown out of proportion a bit. We worked things out, who told you?” I said, going around the subject.

“The great one,” he answered, a nickname for our friend, Randy.

“He wasn’t even with us. What a jackass.”

“She’s trouble Lowe. Are you seeing anybody else? Have you stuck it in Tracy yet? She was in Vegas with that whole crew. ”

“Na, we’re just staying as friends. She let me crash at her hotel, we did some camping and I got the shit kicked out of me. Oh, and she let me use her car this week. That was our summer together.”

“Fucking Lowe, that girl wants you in her so bad. Pay the monkey.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“Forget it. But listen, any girl that gives a guy her car for the week wants it between the legs.”

“It wasn’t the whole week, just a day or two.”

“Let me guess, she drives a Lexus wagon?”

“No, a BMW.”

Jim clapped his hands together in triumph, “A fucking Beemer. One of those minivan ones, probably. Fuck dude, you drove that thing. You are fucking gay. Do you want to pull over and make out?”

“Dickface, first of all it’s a convertible, which probably makes your point just as well, but second, and most important, you’re taking me to see Tony Bennett at the Bowl. That’s like a fucking date. A fucking Man-date. If I want to make out, I’ll do it there.

“Rob Lowe, you ungrateful little bratpacker. I can pull over now, drop you off and call one of Heidi’s old girls to accompany me,” he said jokingly.

“Fuck, put out or get out, I didn’t think you’d have to go that deep into the arsenal until later in the evening. The truck really pays off that persona, though.”

We both laughed. Things got quiet for a moment until the silence was broken with sincerity.

“I’m not a fag,” he said, completely serious.

“I know you’re not,” I said, laughing and pausing, “but what about your boyfriend, is he?"

He looked away.

We got to the bowl, dodging a world of bluehairs carrying picnic baskets, couples carrying wine and busses carrying them all.

“Fuck, these busses suck,” he said, snailing along the entrance to the bowl.

“We should have taken one. They get preferential treatment, and no stack parking.”

“I’ve got valet,” he said, holding up a ticket.

We finally got to the front and dropped stopped the car. The valet looked at the truck like it was an alien spaceship flown to a land of Mercedes, Land Rovers and BMWs.

“It’s three on the tree,” Jim said, refererring to the shifter.

The valet got even more confused. His brylcreamed boss walked over quickly and pushed the young valet aside.

“Yes, we can drive this, here is a ticket, thank you,” he said eagerly trying to accommodate and speed us along. We walked toward the front and Jim yelled back.

“Hey, go easy on this. My truck was brand new the last time I dropped it off, and look at it now,” he said.

The valet guy smiled politely. “We take care, no problem,” he said.

Jim and I walked up to the stairs and grabbed some beers and food from a stand. We ate them on a stoop.

“So how was the birthday? he asked. “Happy Fucking birthday, by the way.”

“It was great. I won $20k in Vegas and fucked two hookers.”

Jim’s mouth dropped, and he smiled.

“You’re fucking with me?”

“No, I saved up cash, rolled it in Roulette and won. Then I dropped it on some call girls.”

“Fuck, who was there with you?”

“Just me…well, and them. The girls.”

Jim looked at me and smiled, sheepishly. He put his hand across his mouth and whispered.

“Call girls are so fucking great. Dude, you’ll never be able to go back.”

“I think I will. But one of them did give me her number.”

"Dude, let's call her."

"And say what, 'My friend Jim thinks you are cute and we are on a date together at the bowl?'"

“Fuck no, Lowe.” He got even quieter. “But seriously, I only stick prostitutes these days, it’s much simpler.”

I busted up laughing, until I realized he was serious.

“What’s wrong with you? You can get anyone. Weren’t you dating Kimberly*?”

“That was just work shit dude. I never fucked her. I mean, I mind-fucked her a bit if that counts,” he said, happy with his wordplay.

I shook my head in disapproval.

“What, you paid for sex? Don’t give me that.”

“Yes, but it was a one time thing. And you, fuck, you don’t even have to try to get chicks. You can just walk up and talk to a chick. You’re a celebrity.”

“I’m an actor, not a celebrity.”

“Whatever, you know what I mean.”

“Yea, when Rob fucks a chick and ditches her he gets called a porsche-driving asshole-"

"I don't drive-" I said, interrupting.

"Yea, yea, you don't drive a Porsche, but back to my point, If I fuck a chick and ditch her, I get called an asshole in the fucking Enquirer, or worse. Did you see that shit that chick tried to pull with Cosby. Chicks are fucked, and this year is my year. I'm not going to go all Cruise and fuck that up.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, your not that big yet,” I said smiling.

He laughed at his smugness.

“You said I was a celebrity,” he said jokingly. “Let’s go to our seats. Later we can hit up the Roosevelt. Maybe I can get you in. Just say you're Rob Lowe's brother with the same name.”

We walked inside the bowl, happy to be friends. Happy that we could still bust each other's balls like we did after graduation. Happy the only change we experienced was for the better.

It had been a while since we had been part of this history. The Bowl is a glorious place, both dignified and accessible, just like old Hollywood. But that Hollywood doesn’t live anywhere but in books, in movies and fortunately for all of us, at the Hollywood Bowl. It is a small part of the past, preserved rather than bulldozed.

We got to our seats, and sat down. Jim shook hands with some guy next to him and started a brief conversation. But not me. I looked up, around, anywhere I could. This was what brought me to the west coast in the first place. Cool evenings under the stars, accessible luxury and good friends. Friday night I connected with them all. And the best was yet to come.
* fictitious name

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for the love of maddy

We interrupt mission four to bring you a hurried announcement.Madison needs some love. His heart-wrenching story really struck a chord with me. And if I post a link to his site, he said he'd give me a straight-guy massage.

Ok, enough theatrics. Check out Madison and see what's up his sleeve.

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Mrs. Amastoy

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.

I followed the summer breeze that cut the thick Pennsylvania air. I wasn’t used to the humidity, so the brief interludes of moving air provided relief and comfort. I stopped the car, closed my eyes and sucked in the hot and wet air. I forgot what I was like to be home. I parked the car and got out.

I began my fourth mission unknowingly last weekend. I felt the urge to go back, not just home as an adult, but to retreat even further. Dropping off my car was nothing more than an excuse for a visit. I wanted to spend my 30th birthday with my parents, even if it was for a day or two.

Sunday morning my parents went to church. Their religion is a bit scattered, my mom is Methodist and my dad is Catholic. My dad always likes to say he goes to Mass to save his soul and church with my mom to save his ass. It’s probably one of the funniest things he ever says, even if I have heard it a million times. It has a much better shelf-life for me than phrases like, “Yea, baby.”

Generally, I’m not one to go to church. That doesn’t mean I don’t believe in God, or anything. It’s just that my fucking wacked out thinking extends to religion. I find the institution to be divisive. It is counter-intuitive to what it was meant to do, bring people together in fellowship. I’ll pray every now and then, but don’t think I need a church to do it. Many people would disagree, but I am only expressing my own beliefs. And I never try to project them on others, especially with something as personal and fundamental as religion.

I just wish others in the world would do the same.

I went the Sunday I was home. It was a 10:45 service. The time is still resolute in my being. Growing up, going to church was the most unanticipated event in my life. I would arrive with my mom, brother and sister, and sometimes my dad promptly at 10:30, and sit for 15 minutes in extreme boredom. I would wish the minutes away, scribbling on bulletins, doing anything to pass the time. The people around us were the people in our lives. Our friends, classmates, co-workers, teachers surrounded us, filling pews with hushed laughter, handshakes and polite nods until 10:45. Then a silence took over the crowd, and only one voice was heard. The service lasted an hour, filled with songs, stories and lessons. Then there was the dreaded, “children time,” when the minister promped the kids to come up to the altar for a elementary-grade bible lesson. I always hated that part of the service. And as they called “children time,” this August morning, 2005, I looked around at the squirming kids in their pews. I guess I was not the only one who dreaded the altar.

I looked at my mom. She seemed happy and proud to have her "son from California" there, which I have become affectionately known. It was that same look she would give Derek and me when we walked back to our seats from children time. It was followed by a kiss on the head and smile. A proud and happy smile. Pleasing my mom was the reason I came today, but there were other reasons as well. Her name was Mrs. Amastoy.

Mrs.“A” was my first-grade teacher. We called her that because it was hard to say her full name. By mid-year, we could say and spell it with ease, but still preferred the nickname. Mrs. A ushered in my independence by treating me with more respect and maturity than I sometimes get today. She initiated my love of reading that has unfortunately deteriorated to Maxim and Giant lately. But regardless of my recent departure from books, she was instrumental in making me love the written word.

I thought about that as I looked at her, six pews ahead, to the right. After the service, I walked over to her. She looked confused, but I could tell that there was some recollection. It had been almost a quarter century since I was her student, and at least five years since I went to church here. But, I could see her eyes come alive with remembrance. She smiled.

“Robbie?”

“Mrs. A,” I said, bending down in the pew to kiss her wrinkled cheek. She smelled the same, that rose smell.

“You look wonderful,” she said.

“You do, too.”

I looked over at her daughter, seated to her left. Her daughter was about 40 and was a splitting image of Mrs. A from her teaching years. I smiled and nodded.

“Hi, Rob,” she said.

Shit, I thought. I have no idea of her name, so I faked it.

“It is so nice to see you, to see you both today.”

“Are you still at UCLA?”

“No, no. I graduated a while back. I just turned 30.”

“Rob Lowe at 30. My, that dates me. I remember when you would come to class and try to do all those magic tricks. And those purple pants, they were your signature.”

A wave of color and memory hit me. I had suppressed my feelings of magic ever since first grade. Ever since the “trick gone wrong.”

My parents had taken me to a high school play when I was in first grade. I remember being bored, until the magic happened. The frizzy-haired guy on stage had mystical powers. He would point to a picture, and it would fall from the wall. He would point to a chair, and it would slide across the room. I was entranced. I asked my dad how he did it.

“With fishing line,” he said, more focused on the information rather than keeping the mystique alive for a 6-year-old. After a car ride of prodding, he showed me how it was done.

The next day, I asked my teacher if I could do a trick. She followed my instructions and asked the kids to stand up and cover their eyes. I surreptitiously began tying rope to chair, but instead of merely doing one, I did ten or so. I wanted the trick to be big.

When they opened their eyes, I pulled the string, but nothing happened. The imagination of a first grader is much more advanced than his understanding of physical science. It remains as one of the most embarrassing moments in my life. I never performed again, less an occasional card trick as an adult.

But Mrs. A pulled me aside. She could sense my sadness and disillusion, and she comforted me. I thought that was pretty cool.

“Miss A, I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I imagine most people forget about their teachers, and even if they do remember, you probably don’t hear about it. I just wanted to let you know you had a big impact on me. Remember that story I wrote about the class going to outer space?”

She looked at me and smiled. Of course she didn’t. It wasn’t fair for me to ask, but I remembered.

“Do you still have that Robbie?” she asked.

"My mom might somewhere."

"Do you enjoy writing?"

"Yea, it's fun," I said, retreating to my first-grade vocabulary.

"I would love to read something you wrote."

I smiled.

“Actually, right now, I just kinda keep a diary, that's all.”

“Sure,” she said, “I kept a journal for years.”

My mom and dad walked over, signaling the countdown to our departure. They all exchanged greetings and we were on our way.

“Goodbye Mrs. A,” I said, looking at her daughter and nodding. It was obvious, I forgot her name.

“Goodbye,” said her daughter.

“Rob, do not make yourself a stranger. Your brother Derek still comes by and shovels my walk. He’s a good boy.”

Derek, a good boy. That’s a new one.

We went home and I walked upstairs to go through some stuff. After about 20 minutes, I got in my old car and drove to the next town over. I picked up a few things and went to Mrs. A’s house. I knocked on her door and waited. I could hear her inside, making her way to the door.

“Rob,” she said opening it.

I handed her a giant bouquet and faded construction paper with a spacebus drawn on the cover. It was my outer space story. In it, she drove a bus to the moon, navigating the stars and the planets with ease.

“Thanks,” I said. "You were a good bus driver and got me where I needed to go."

Her eyes welled up, with a satisfaction that she didn’t think she even needed. I was a product of her caring and devotion, returning to pay my respects. Returning to get on her bus. Together, we went on one last trip to the moon.

I hope she never finds out about the hookers.

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Connect

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.

There's been a disturbance in the force for the past month. Even as I get back into my place, things seem different. It's taking a while to settle in. Even worse, Evan changed my outgoing message. It took me a year to have a message I was happy with, not too cool, not to lame, not to funny. Now, it's back to the drawing board.

The message inspired hangups. Evan was trying to fake an American accent with phrases like "You've reached Rob Lowe Sex Club." Some people actually thought it was me, faking a German accent. Worse, I'd been getting a bunch of calls for my birthday. One out-of-the-blue call came from Jim,* a relatively-famous actor friend who thought it was me doing the voice. With filming, travel and conflicting schedules, we haven't seen each other in about a year-and-a-half. If he's as clueless as I remember, he probably thinks I'm running a german fetish club.
I hope that's not why he invited me for a beer.

Jim's call is the latest in a series of occurrences that have been taking place in my life. First, the numbers thing, is still a bit disturbing. It was the first time that I felt the universe was being controlled by a greater force. It was creepy. The other happening, as evidenced by Jim and others, is the resurfacing of people from my past. I rarely keep in touch with old friends and acquaintances for the same reasons many of you don’t. There are a few friends, but most have slipped away, involved like me in their daily lives that they can’t see beyond, or in this case, behind. I send and receive an occasional e-mail, but it seems forced. How can you sum up the last five, ten, twenty years of your life in an e-mail? Most times it all sounds the same anyway, marriage, kids, jobs. I would keep in touch but its hard to get beyond the bullshit layers of lifestage.

This is nothing breakthrough, it happens to most of us. But lately a picture of my life has been created from the tapestry of my past. From kindergarten through college, these people have once again crossed my path in a way that is both leading and unexpected. I feel as if I’m walking toward the “light” and they are there to guide me. It’s very confusing.

I went golfing with my dad last weekend in PA. As we snuck in nine, he tried best to update me on what was happening in the hometown. I was too tired to give a shit. But one nugget did make me care--he told me about a childhood friend, Matthew, who had died a week ago. He had been fighting a world of illness, and at 29 his body gave up. Matthew wasn’t a great friend, even a good one. I knew him in first grade, and he moved away in second. He resurfaced once again in my hometown as an adult, but I never got to meet him as such. I was already gone. To me, he was the kid who could flip his eyelids back. A talent I never had, but not for lack of trying. The one time it worked, I just about freaked out. I wasn’t cut out for sideshow theatrics.

When my dad shared the news, I felt a bit sad. For Matthew and for myself. After I pondered the thought of his death for the last four holes, I came to a pragmatic realization. Matthew had been dead to me for years. If not for a brief year in my life, Matthew lived only in my occasional thoughts. And as he was taken from one world to another, I realized that his place in my life hadn’t changed with the crossover.

Then I started thinking about how I would feel if other people from my past had met a similar fate, people that I was connected with in more significant ways than mere eyelid tricks. But no feelings changed. If those people passed, I would feel the requisite sadness and remorse, but their place in my memory would remain the same. I would remember them as children or high school students or fraternity brothers. I would not see them growing bald or getting overweight or as dads or moms with their kids. In my world they were placed in a suspended reality. They were both alive and dead in my finite memory. And they would remain there forever.

This realization was unsettling. Was I that cold and unfeeling? Or was I pragmatic and rational? Going to school across the country and establishing roots here has disconnected me from my past. The moment I left for college,I knew I would never see many of these people again in my life. Yea, my path has been unique, but I've been counting the steps along the way, and could easily retrace them. I could reconnect to a past filled with skinned knees, dusk baseball games and winter handjobs in the woods. This was my life, I knew the way back.

Prior to this blog, I would have never thought about reconnecting. But the last few missions have helped gain me confidence and completion in many parts of my life that were lacking in both, so I'm going to try out my new life skills. I am about to experience the most fantastic decade of my life, so why not say a proper goodbye to all that came before it.

I’m on a mission. A mission to reconnect, rebuild and rekindle.

*fictitious name.

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To live and drive in L.A.

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.

I tend to get so caught up in the overarching aspects of my life that often times I obscure the details. That hit me yesterday on my JetBlue flight to LA. First of all, JetBlue doesn’t fly to LA, they fly to Long Beach, and maybe Burbank too. But I knew that when I booked the flight.

The other part of the equation that remained unsolved was how I was to get from Long Beach to West LA. Under normal circumstances (and normal circumstances meaning having a vehicle to drive), I could do it in 40 minutes without much traffic. I didn’t really want to take a cab. I’ve had bad experiences with them and their smells. I could rent a car, but that meant talking to someone behind a counter. I wasn't in the mood for that.

I had to go to the bullpen for this. I landed in the LBC and pulled out my new Treo, courtesy of Black. I’m not huge on gadgets, but I figured it was responsible to have a cellphone for my trip across country. Plus, it gave me the chance to keep up on e-mail. At least that’s what the guy with the overly gelled hair at Cingular in Vegas told me. And who was I to argue with someone who wore a cell phone as a clipped-on fashion accessory.

The phone rang on the other end, three times, four, five, fuck.

“Tracy, it’s Rob, call me back,” I nervously said to her voicemail. I hate talking to machines, or whatever they are these days.

I walked over to a coffee stand and my phone rang. Actually it sounded, “Dontcha wish your girlfriend was hot like me.” It was my first incoming call on my new gadget. I couldn’t stop. I panicked and started pushing buttons as the song looped. Finally, I put the phone to my ear.

“Rob?”

“Hey Trac, what’s up?”

“Where are you? I was talking for like half a minute, I kept hearing you cursing and making clicking sounds. What’s going on?”

“Oh, nothing, just hanging out, uh at the Long Beach airport.”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“I went home to my parent’s house, I told you.”

“Yea, but why would you fly to Long Beach?”

“So you could pick me up, that’s why?”

“I’m not driving to Long Beach now. It will take forever.”

“It can be my birthday present.”

“Fuck that, Rob. Give you a ride as your present? I got you something good.”

“Oh,really, what is it?”

“Sanity, I got you some sanity. With a side order of respect for your friends.”

“Ok, well, will you deliver it to Long Beach.”

I could hear her laugh break through. It sort of was like a suspended mouth sneeze, if there is such a thing. I draw that sound from her quite often.

“Maybe I need to keep the sanity for myself," she said, relenting.

“Listen, I’ll take you out to dinner somewhere down here and we can wait out the traffic.”

“What about the traffic going down, Rob?”

“Yea, can’t help you with that, but you’ll be going away from traffic after LAX.”

"I'm totally swamped Rob,I'm going away tomorrow."

"Send your assistant to pick me up, Helen, right?"

"Yea, I'm going to send my assistant to pick up my freaky best friend at the airport, no thanks."

"You've made her do worse."

"Rob," she said angrily.

"Fine-then you come, please? See, that was the magic word. You're kinda obligated now. Here, I'll do it again, 'please.' Now you're doubly obligated."

"Why don't you rent a car or take a damn shuttle or cab?"

Tracy you know how I am with LA cabs, ever since New Year's and the Persian dude. And the rental car thing would require me to talk to someone behind a counter. I've had a long flight and can't deal." If anything, Tracy and I have the same lack of tolerance for "people behind counters." I knew that would get her.

“I can't believe I'm doing this, but fine. See you in an hour. Or nine.”

“I’ll keep my schedule open.”

I sat down in the corner, ready for the wait. She was just being overdramatic. But I knew I had some damage control in front of me, especially if she opened the door to the world of Rob Blogdom. She has grown impatient with my antics. I think she wants the old Rob back. But that guy’s gone. I opened up Giant to finish an article, but no sooner than I got a paragraph in did I realize I still didn’t know how to operate the phone. I looked around for someone with the same phone. I walked over to a man seated three aisles away.

“Hi,” I said to a middle-aged man reading Investor's Business Daily. I held my treo up to soften my entrance.

He looked up from his paper, then at the phone, then at me. “Do you need something?”

“Oh, yea, sorry,” I said, looking at the phone. “I see we have similar taste in phones. Well, I just got this, and didn’t read the manual or anything. I’m not sure how to answer it."

“I usually answer mine by saying ‘hello,’ but I’ve heard more creative ways of doing it. Maybe 'this is (insert name)' would work for you. Give it a try.”

I smirked. What an asshole, I thought. But he had information I needed.

“Very quick, nice one. Actually, I’m not sure what button to press. I only got one phone call and pressed a bunch of buttons, not sure which one worked.”

He lifted his phone off the remainder of the newpaper, “Just hit the green button. Same as sending a call. The red will end it.”

He looked at me and pressed the red button, as if he were saying, this conversation has ended. This dude was truly a piece of work. I hate technophiles.

I stepped back a pace, and held up a single finger, in true Columbo fashion.

“Ok, one last thing, the ringtones. Can I get something plain? Right now I have ‘dontcha wish your girlfriend was hot like me’ that the Cingular guy put on.”

Then he quickly took out his stylus and took me through a preferences this or something. I could tell at this point he was trying to confuse me. Cell phones don’t bond the way Saturns do. I doubt they even have a treo picnic.

“Hey, that was really swell. Totally appreciate it.” I said sarcastically and walked away. I’m not stupid, but this was not a normal cellphone. Plus the guy from Cingular may have thought he was hooking me up with this free dancetone, but I’m a vibration or simple beep guy myself. He totally misread me. And when Tracy called before I wanted to yell, “I didn’t pick the ringtone, really, it was the guy at the store, the gel guy.” But instead, I just blushed.

I was bored so I walked around the airport, inside and out, outside and in. I played with the phone, read an LA Weekly, tossed a quarter in the air. Thought about the hookers.

“Dontcha wish your girlfriend was ho-," The phone screamed. I hadn’t figured how to change tones, but I did figure how to answer it quickly.

“Hello.”

“You so owe me for this Rob, where are you taking me?”

“Are you here?”

“Look outside,” she said, waving.

“Be right there.”

I walked over till I finally saw her. She got out of the car to open the trunk. I was trying to hang up and throw my bag in the back.

“Fancy,” she said, looking at my phone.

“Life’s good for the Lowe,” I said, laughing at how lame that was. I have never referred to myself as such, but I always look for new and interesting ways to annoy Tracy. Even when she hooks me up in ways as dearly as this.

But hard as I try, she still comes back to me. It’s comforting. I opened my arms for a hug, and we embraced against her trunk like long, lost friends. It was a combination “I’m glad your back hug and happy birthday hug.”

“Let me drive, I’m fresh,” I said, trying to be nice.

She walked around to the passenger side and I took the driver’s seat.

“Rob, I have a ton of work to do tonight, could we just go home?”

“Yea, sure, but-, Yea, sure. I can pick up some takeout. We can go back to my place.”

“Oh, you have a place again. How novel.”

She opened the door to the blog. But it just creaked open. I wanted to tell her about the cash but not the hookers, about the suite but not the cannonballs.

“Ok, I’ll take you to the Ivy tomorrow night. On fucking me. How’s that? But tonight, it is Wahoos.”

“Deal,” she said.

So we drove back to my place and the door to blogdom did not open again. She never asked about my car, about those guys who picked up the phone, about me. We eased back into a friendship that had been strained for the past few months.

“I have a favor,” I said.

“Can I borrow your car tonight for basketball?”

She looked at me and nodded like a little girl. God, I love when she does that.

“How long do you need it?”

“Well, I sort of need to get one. I sold mine to Derek.”

She smiled. “I hated that car. You looked so gay in it.”

“Now, you’re telling me. My new car’s going to be way butch, some old Toyota landcruiser from the 70’s. It will be super non-gay. I’m checking some out next weekend on Lincoln. Wanna come?”

“How else are you going to get there?”

“Good point.”

“Rob, what am I going to do with you,” she said, rubbing the back of my hair.

“You can start with lending me your car.”

“Make you a deal, I’ll be at a junket tomorrow in San Francisco. Drive me to the airport, and the you can keep the car tomorrow too. But you have to pick me up tomorrow night...for the Ivy. Yummy crabcakes.”

“Wait, you want me to pick you up at the airport? No deal,” I said mockingly.

We were back in character. Me, the brazen jackass she wanted to save, her the sweet voice of reason I pushed away.

We got to my place and ate on the balcony. The place was clean, but dirty with Euro germs. We ate on my patio and a half-hour later I took her home to Mandeville Canyon. And as I made my way back down the steep slope in Tracy’s BMW convertible, I thought of how lucky I was to have a friend like her. Even if she said I looked gay in my old car.

I took a glance in the mirror and realized she was right. I do look gay in convertibles. It's time for a change.

I’m glad to have my life back.

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Chlorine

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.

Ben* was right, the Bellagio pool was a great place to meet women. Single, beautiful, smoking women with tiny bathing suits and perfect fake tits. Everyone had the same beautiful nose, the same beautiful face. The only thing that distinguished these girls from each other was the color of their hair and bathing suit. Everything else blended away.

I sat down with a copy of Giant, and ordered a water. The whiskey was starting to breathe through my pours and I needed to re-hydrate. I jumped in the pool and floated, suspended, paused. I wish I had a snorkel and mask, but it's hard to score pussy with such ocean-going accoutrements. I would look a bit Peter Pan with that garb, especially in a hotel pool. But it is so fun to float motionless. I decided to make due with my own physical devices and simply float.

I got out of the pool, toweled off, and chugged almost all of the water in a single gulp.

“Rough night?” said a female voice. I looked over, thinking it was the waitress being flirtatious.

“Birthday party,” I said, smiling.

I cupped my hand over the sun to get a better look.

“Vegas is a great place for a birthday party. Was it yours?”

“Yep, today is the day. Turned 30. But it’s just a number for me, really no big deal.” I was laughing to myself at just how false that statement was.

“Well, happy birthday, uh-”

“Rob,” I said, on cue.

“Well, happy birthday, Rob.”

I smiled.

“I’m Jen, by the way.”

“Hi, Jen.”

“Are you here with friends, some big celebration or something?”

“Something like that,” I said coyly.

Keeping my hand up with a squint was not the preferred angle to view this woman, but there were no other chairs. I backed up and let her sit on the foot the lounge.

“Have a seat, I said, putting a dry towel down, “ I don’t want your skirt getting wet.”

“Oh, thanks, what a gentleman. Actually, it’s a sarong. I don’t mind if it gets a bit wet.”

My mind held on those words. I thought of fucking her, but I hadn’t really had an unobstructed view of the ass or face without the 110 degree sun obscuring the package.

She sat down and gave me the look I needed. She was exquisite. Before I was playing this game, trying to find a hot chick, then trying to find one even hotter within five minutes. This girl was game over. Her skin was olive, she looked Greek a bit. Her hair was long and black. The gentle breeze blew strands in her hair that she sexily brushed back every so often. Her “sarong” was yellow, and the backlight revealed a white bikini bottom that looked like underwear. I almost wanted her to stand up again to take it all in.

“Do you want to go for a swim?” I asked, with the upfrontness of a little boy.

“I thought you would never ask. I like the cowboy hat, by the way. Very sexy.”

“Thanks,” I said, adjusting the hat.

I got up and watched her slip off her sarong. I smelled the air. I love walking by beautiful woman and catching their scent. I’m a bit of a freak about it, but I got a good whiff. She smelled amazing.

I looked around. A group of twenty-something guys were drinking large, fruity drinks to my left. It looked like they were all wearing women’s Channel sunglasses. I guess that is the trend with the under-30 set. I’ve only turned 30 today, and already the trends have passed me by. They looked at Jen, fucking her with their eyes the same way I had. I could tell they were wondering what kind of game I was throwing down to get this girl to talk to me. But, there’s only one kind of game in this town. If they’d take off their large, overpriced specs and open their eyes, they would have realized it.

She grabbed my hand. I looked at the frat boys. She gracefully walked over towards the steps, but I stopped her.

“Not that way,” I said, “This way,” as I jumped foolishly into a super-splashing cannonball.

She laughed. I treaded water.

“C’mon," I said, waving my free arm to her.

“I’ll think I’ll go in the easy way,” she said, walking to the steps.

“Screw the easy way, do a cannonball,” I said tauntingly, "They're fun."

She smiled and looked around.

“What if my top flies off?”

“I’ll be on top patrol, besides, half of these fucks are euro anyway, they expect that shit. Even Caesar’s has a topless pool. Don’t be afraid.”

She got to the edge and curled her toes over.

“When was the last time you did a cannonball?”

“Uh, never.”

“Great, then this can be your first. Just jump up, bring your legs to your chest, grab them, and let your top fly off when you hit the water. Simple.”

She tilted her head to the side and game me an incredulous look.

She jumped. I watched.

It was the most unorthodox, yet beautiful cannonball I had ever seen. It was endless, her hair above her face, her expression of happiness and freedom. Her tits.

She hit the water, and I clapped. “Well done, I wasn’t sure it you had it in you.”

“Oh, I have a lot in me,” she said playfully. She flipped her hair slick, and made her way toward me, treading.

“Let’s go where we can stand,” she said.

“Sure.”

“How about a ride?” she said, grabbing my shoulders.

We swam to shallower waters, her on my back, holding me. Her wet tits were pressed into my shoulder blades and her stomach gently brushed against my lower back. I was an aroused tugboat.

I got to where I could stand and turned around. She kept her arms on me, this time we were face-to-face. I looked deep into her eyes. Generally, if I can get to this point, it becomes simply academic. My eyes are my secret weapon, always have been. They change colors with my mood, my clothes. They are blue, green, purple. When they are open, they are my closers. This bitch was in the bag.

“Are you hungry?” I asked.

“I could eat,” she said.

Shit, I thought only east coast Italians used that expression. I liked it.

“The food here is for shit, how about I get some room service?”

“Uh, sure” she said, slightly hesitantly.

“Don’t worry, I won’t make you do any more cannonballs off my bed or anything.”

She laughed, and it seemed to break the ice.

“Order me a chicken sandwich.”

I got out of the pool and picked up a house phone.

“Hello this is Ben.”

“Ben, you little bitch. It’s Rob. Hey, I wanted to thank you. The pool is a great place to meet girls. I actually wanted to see if you could have two bottles of Crystal and a chicken and another veggi sandwich sent to the room. No cheese. Oh, and this time, can you have the guys toast it? I would call room service, but this is kind of a rush, especially the champagne. Oh, and some chocolate and strawberries, maybe a couple of salads. Some shit like that. You hook me and I’ll take care of you.”

“Rob, anything for you. I appreciate you calling me for this, and I’m glad you took my advice.”

“Me, too.”

I walked back to the chair and Jen was toweling off. She was talking to an tall and extremely hot Asian girl. They both turned around when I came by.

“Rob, this is my friend Kara,” she said.

“Hi Kara, nice to meet you.”

I held a gaze somewhere between admirer-and stalker-length. She was amazing. I’ve always had an arms-length fondness for Asian women, but this girl trumped them all. She was tall, slender and perfectly proportionate. Her tits were not small, but not big. They were just right, at least for her body anyway.

“Kara, Rob and I were just going upstairs for a late lunch, would you like to join us?”

My jaw dropped. Was this really happening?

“Sure, why not, I need to get out of the sun.”

“But there’s just one condition,” she said, smiling and looking my way, “cannonball.”

"What?” she replied.

“You need to do a cannonball, we both did, and so do you.”

Fuck, I thought. This girl didn’t seem like the cannonball type. I was feeling Jen's salt infecting my game.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want.” I said.

“Yea, you don’t have to, but you just can’t come with us,” she said teasingly.

It was a challenge. I was invisible at this point, so I let the two girls have their way. Their eyes met and released. Kara walked over to the corner of the pool, and with sunglasses still on, did an even worse rendition of the summertime splasher.

“Whoo, hoo” she said, raising her arm in spirited victory. She got out of the pool and toweled off.

“Let’s go,“ Jen said, grabbing my hand and Kara’s. I looked at the frat boys, again. I was their Madison.

We walked together to my room. The air was sexually charged. We all understood the unspoken, what we were walking toward, what we were talking around. It was electric.

I slid the card and unlocked the door. Inside, the champagne was chilling, but no food. I popped open a bottle and poured it straight down my throat. Jen and Kara were fiddling with the soundsystem, arguing about whether they wanted latin or dance. They agreed on something slow and sexy, a bit jazzy and standard. I walked over to them, bottle-in-hand.

They were slowly dancing, but not with each other. It looked like they were dancing for each other. Jen took a swig, then grabbed the hair on the back of Kara’s head and kissed her, letting a mouthful of champagne flow down into Kara’s mouth. It was unexpected, but she accepted and laughed. This time it was Kara’s turn, she grabbed the bottle and let it flow into the expecting mouth of Jen. Their tongues began to unleash. It was by far the most disgusting and arousing moment in my life. Happy fucking birthday.

They began to undress, peeling off their wet tops. I sat at the hand-carved table, in the hand-carved chair and watched. The matinee of my 30th birthday began to unfold. On the floor, standing up, against the glass. It was beautiful and peculiar. I consumed all. The feel of wet clothes, the chlorine-filled wet hair. The feeling of two woman, becoming one on me. It was profound and universal. It was by far the most exhilarating moment of my life. I breathed and took it all in, a girl under each arm.

I got up and walked by the mini-bar, pulled out a bottle of water and unlocked the safe next to it. Out came $5,000. I walked over to the girls and smiled. I handed them the money.

“We square?”

“Thanks,” Kara said smiling.

“Thanks yourself, especially for letting me pay afterward, your manager was a bit wigged about that. But I'm glad you agreed to the scenario."

"It worked out great,” Jen said as she jumped from the bed and planted me with a cheerleader kiss. “I like you Rob. You’re a funny, fucked-up dude.”

“Yea, you know how hard it was to find a yellow bikini that I liked,” Kara added.

“Well, you looked hot in it. Just keep practicing the cannon balls, they could use a little work.”

They both smiled. I think they liked me in a beyond-john sort of way.

They collected their wet suits and sarongs and went to the door. I walked over to say goodbye, and gave them a special gift.

“Here’s an extra $500 each. Take it downstairs and put it on black. It’s been lucky for me.”

They hugged me like a parting friend and left. I came inside and jumped on my couch, more satisfied with myself than I had ever been. It’s ironic to think that paying for sex actually brought out that kind of confidence. But the world is a beautiful and confusing place, especially when it becomes filled with champagne, yellow bathing suits, and afternoon cannonballs by ladies of the night.

There was a knock on the door. I got up to answer. It was Jen.

“I’d invite you in, but only if you make this one half-price.”

“Ha, ha,” she said, sounding more like an annoyed girlfriend than someone I just paid to finger another girl.

“Seriously, did you forget something.”

“Yea, actually I did.”

She came over and kissed me under the door frame. It was wild and passionate. This is the second time this month I made out in a hallway, with almost the exact same line. Pattern behavior, again. Just like the fucking numbers.

I kissed her for a minute, and she stopped to say something.

“Kim,” she said.

“Huh?” I asked.

“My real name is Kim.”

We kissed some more.

“Want to know my real name?” I asked. “It’s Rob, Rob Lowe.”

She looked at me and we both burst out laughing.

“Yea, right,” she said.

We stopped laughing and she started to leave again.

“I better be going, got a ton of errands to do today, you see, I normally work nights, so my days are free,” she said with sweet sarcasm. I liked this girl.

“Well, if you worked today, does that mean you have tonight off?”

She smiled. What the fuck I thought, why not?

“Yea, why, you want to hang out?”

“I could eat,” I said. It seemed much more clever when I said it.

“Me, too.”

“And this would be with Kim, not Jen, right?”

“That's right, Mr. Rob Lowe, that's right,” she said smiling.

I gave her a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of boxers. She threw them on and I grabbed a few beers from the mini-fridge. I put my arm around her as the sun fell and called Ben.

“Hey Ben, Rob. Could you get me some reservations for tonight at 8, somewhere in the hotel, veggi-friendly?”

“Sure, thing. I’ll call you back.”

“Oh, and Ben, could you send up some popcorn?”

Kim looked at me and grinned. She curled up next to me like a high-school sweetheart.

I curled back.

"Happy birthday, Rob." She said and took a nap in my arms. I smelled her hair. Chlorine. I'll never forget that smell.

*names have been changed.

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Afternoon Delight