Maybe Tomorrow

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 wind was the only sound that we heard, warm air filled with specks of Sunday that tickled our skin. Our bodies sloped together, shaping the road through a silent language. So this is what Leo meant.

The landscape had a circus-like quality, with colors and shapes of a dry California summer performing about. We were slow-riding yellow clowns, making our way down Mulholland Drive, a twisty expanse of road that is a favorite of thrill riders from across LA. But BMW bikes are heavy, and not made to cut the corners like Japanese crotch rockets. So, we just took our time and silently enjoyed the ride.

I knew this road well, Mulholland always reminded me of home, so when I needed a break from LA, I would get on PCH, turn onto Malibu Canyon and reconnect with a much more simple time of life. As I looked around the familiar landscape, I wondered what took me so long to return.

Maybe, I was just waiting for the right moment.

I took a left onto a gravel road, and slowed as I made my entrance toward an often-overlooked part of the Southern California landscape, Paramount Ranch. Technically, this was not really a ranch, but a Western movie set that was used for scores of old westerns, and most recently by Dr. Quinn. And no, I never watched the show. The ranch was started in the early part of the centure as a studio workaround to unions, located just outside the boundary.

The set itself is comforting, though often upstaged by Malibu Creek’s Mash sets up the road. But there is an underdog quality to this place that I love. I wanted to share it.

“Here we are,” I said, stopping the bike.

“Wow, that was awesome. I wasn’t even scared. Not even when that guy in the pickup passed us.”

“So he did pass us, I actually closed my eyes. Hmm, maybe you should drive back.”

She hit me across the chest. This was going well.

“Have you ever been here?” I asked, recovering from her blow.

“Never, I didn’t even know it existed.”

“Damn Heather, you and your roommates need to hand in your Blockbuster card and get the fuck out of Couchville.”

She hit me again.

“Shut up, Rob, I'm active. I just never come this way.”

“Well, today, you do. C'mon.”

This time, I grabbed her hand and lead her across the bridge, where a small creek floated by effortlessly.

“This is beautiful,” she said as she looked at the western town to the right. No one was there but us and a Macy's-casual couple getting photographed. We kept our distance, allowing each to scurry along capriciously in our own privately connected worlds.

“Ok, so over here is where they filmed a bunch of things, back when people made westerns, I guess?” I failed to share the Dr. Quinn reference, and my lack of knowledge in Western cinema wasn’t really worth mentioning. I was bringing my “A” game, and self-deprecation wasn't on the menu. For on this day I was Ryan, not Seth, even if I did wear the penguin.

“I don’t really watch them,” she said.

“Yea, me either, so what the fuck do we care about these stupid shoot-'em-ups, right? Let’s go over here,” I said, leading her toward the open meadow and away from the engagement photography.

The meadow was huge and deserted, less one blanket set as a light blue island among the green. I started to walk toward it. Finally, I stopped right in front.

“Uh, Rob, I think this belongs to those people,” she said, looking toward the western set.

“Shit, they’re getting their pictures taken, they won’t be back for a while.”

“Rob, no,” she said, smiling incredulously. But I could tell for her there was some appeal in squatting someone else’s picnic. So I pushed it.

“C’mon,” I said, “have a seat.”

“No, no no," she said. It’s too weird.”

“All right, how about this, baby steps. Let’s play with their Frisbee, how’s that?”

She looked at me and smiled nervously. She shook her head "yes."

I leaned down and looked it over.

“Sweet, 165 grams, that’s totally my size. Get ready for some kick-ass throws,” I said sarcastically. Ok, Seth was begininning to rear his white-fro'd head, time to back it up.

So we stood around and played, tossing the Frisbee back and forth, hitting trees, making each other run, and playing human fetch and frisbee golf. The disc flew high into the sky and low into the creek. We ran after each throw in mad dashes, like mildly disobedient children borrowing toys that did not belong. It was a complete rush. It was complete freedom.

“Hey, they’re leaving,” she said, hiding the Frisbee behind her back and motioning for me to turn around.

“Should I yell to them? Do you think they’re coming back? I think they totally forgot," she added, like gunfire.

“Love will do that to you.”

“I probably should tell them,” she said, throwing down the Frisbee on the blanket so they would be none the wiser.

“That would be the right thing to do,” I said.

She started walking towards them, and after about 20 feet, I yelled out her name. I was sitting on the blanket with the picnic backpack open. Her eyes went big.

She hastened her walk back, reminiscent of a power tiptoe, smiling and smirking at my insolence the whole time. She was in drawn disbelief.

“Rob, you can’t, what are you doing?” She asked, pulling me up.

“Well, before you rip my arm off, this is probably a good time to say, 'let's eat.'"

“What?” she said, even more confused.

"Yea, this is mine, well, ours. I brought this for us. It was a surprise. I needed to see if we clicked first before I opened it. I would hate to waste good brie."

She hit me once again, and gave a look that cannot be captured in words. If you've ever gotten or given such a look, you know what I mean.

“I came here before I picked you up and put the stuff down. I’m glad nobody took it. I would have made you buy me dinner.”

“Uhh, Rob,” she screamed, rushing me on the blanket. She jumped on me and began to wrestle. It was so pure and fun, it wasn’t even sexual.

She rolled over next to me, out of breath. I was still laughing.

“Rob Lowe, you’re bad news,” she said, smiling, "but damn, this is the sexiest date I’ve had in my life.”

I smiled and looked at her, waiting for the sign. Was "sexiest" the sign? But before I could even process, it happened. We both leaned in simultaneously for the kiss. It was soft and pure, like a caress. It wasn’t a make love kiss, it was a foreshadow kiss. I only experienced two of those in my life, and they all signaled a brilliant beginning. This was definately not a kiss goodbye. It was a kiss hello.

“I never thought I would be setup by a 14-year old,” she said, “but, I think I owe her one.”

“Fourteen, she told me she was 15?” I said, laughing to myself, then letting it rest, “Yea, I guess we owe her one, maybe a nice fruit basket, or some tickets to Britneys LaLeche Tour.”

“Or maybe the OC box set,” she added.

“We’ll think of something.” I said.

"Yea, we don't have to decide today. Maybe tomorrow?"

"Yea, maybe tomorrow," I said, smiling at her inference.

So we rested and ate and lived and closed off the world around us. We laughed, we flirted and we got to know each other, a 21-year old California beauty and a 30-year old guy from Pennsylvania. It was as right as a first date could be. It was as right as it has ever been.

I've never been more happy to be Rob Lowe.

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Chortling

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’m an optimist. I want things to work out. I want to see people as I hope them to be. But the downfall of my optimistic mind is that reality rarely captures the romantic visions and rarified scenarios that swirl in my head. But this time, with Heather, it was going to be different. I was sure about that.

The pre-date phone conversation went well. It was simple and carefree and left us wanting more. That’s always a good sign. We wanted to see if the person we were speaking to was the person in our head. Whether it was for curiosity or legitimate want, we both decided to get together in person.

I learn from my mistakes, my most recent being Samantha. And truthfully, I make more mistakes than the average person. But, because of that, I have been able to rectify things the second round. And it's not because someone is holding my hand and coaching me, but because I can see firsthand the effects of my actions. Change comes from within, and no matter how much someone tries to give me advice, if I don’t try it my way and fail, it was never really my way. If I accept advice with blind faith, I do so regrettably, enabling behavior that is inorganic. And thanks to my neurotic dress rehearsal with the last younger woman, I am in much better control of the situation for opening day with Heather.

The magic day was Sunday afternoon. No Saturday date night, no popcorn. No expectations. This would be the end cap of the weekend, a simple getting to know each other to see if we clicked in person. Judging by our 45-minute phone conversation, this part of the equation was merely academic. But I didn’t want to enter with an agenda. In the course of our phone call I went from a dirty old skin hound looking for a piece of ass to a guy just wanting some company. If I fucked her, I fucked her. Whatever.

Heather lived in Calabasas, in a townhouse just off Malibu Canyon Road she shared with a few other girls. She was in her last year at Pepperdine, studying econ and Spanish. She was the typical California girl, volleyball player, and by her own admission, a pretty good skateboarder. At face value, we were diametrically opposed, but after those initial labels were peeled off, we realized we were more alike than we thought. For instance, we both are slightly obsessed with Harry Dean Stanton and prefer Twizzlers to Red Vines.

Sunday is a great day for a date. It is such a mental snow day, a slow downward spiral to Monday’s reality. It is the sunset of the weekend, laying open the unstable hope and havoc of the week ahead. Even as a kid, the “Sunday” feeling would affect me. I get completely neurotic about time, even to this day. When I leave work on a three-day weekend, I think, this is the best it will be. I am away at the longest point of the weekend. When Saturday rolls along in a blink, I rationalize, “Rob, think of this as Friday night, the weekend is really just starting.” By that logic, Sunday becomes Saturday and Monday becomes Sunday (still following?). Sunday always fell into the ether for me.

I thought I would attack the Sunday feeling head-on to uncover the benevelent essence of a day connected merely by car-rides home and hotel checkouts. I was going to romance this girl, on a Sunday, in a way I had never done before. When I released myself of expectation, I became warmly confident. I liked my hair, I liked my smile. I liked my words. I’m hot and cold with confidence like this, so when it begins to beam, I need to just let it flow. If I try to do things to keep it from eclipsing, it will fade away. Instead, I just need to chill and not care. It is in mannerly detachment that I shine the brightest. I learned that from my mistakes.

In my most unaffected tone, I told her I would be by her house around 3 pm. That would give me adequate time to nurse my Sunday morning hangover to full recovery. She didn’t ask what were doing, and I didn’t offer it up.

I arrived at her door and knocked.

“Heather,” I said, checking her out. She was as beautiful as the person on the phone. Small nose, blonde hair, awkward yet seductive smile. I could smell her innocence. She was 21 but looked younger. There was no doubt this girl would stand as the hottest girl I had ever dated, even if it was for a few hours on a Sunday. I already logged that in my mental journal in the brief instant before her reply.

“Rob,” she answered, with a staged pause that lead way to a full hug. I had a feeling she hugs most of the important people in her life. I felt good to be somewhat accepted into that fold. And of course I hugged her back. She was fucking hot, remember.

“Here,” I said, handing her a helmet.

She peeked her head behind me and saw my motorcycle parked.

“Wow, this is much better than flowers,” she said, flirtingly aware, “No one’s ever brought me a helmet before, Come on in.”

The Sundays were alive and awake inside her cozy apartment. Her roommates were munching on kashi, sitting on the couch in girlish loungewear. There was a feeling of peace and remorse. The clock was ticking on the weekend, in fact, theirs had already ended. The only thing left was the return trip to blockbuster.

“This is Andrea and Lisa,” she said. They both looked up from their Kashi and smiled.

I gave a roundhouse wave, and smiled back. “Hi, I’m Rob.”

I could tell they were sizing me up. If Heather was smart, this was all premeditated, having her roommates there to approve or disapprove. If Heather provided the sign, I imagine Andrea would have slyly chortled, “Don’t forget to be back by dinner,” or something like that. But it seemed like I made the initial cut, and I noticed a body language that signaled that there would be no chortling.

“Rob, have a seat, let me put some jeans on for the ride.”

I sat down next to the girls.

“Good movie,” I said, “You can’t go wrong with John Hughes on a Sunday.”

“Oh, this is my favorite part,” Lisa said, stopping short of shushing us all. We three watched as Jake leaned against the red Porsche, pointing at Samantha. Jake was the high-schooler every girl wanted to date and every guy wanted to be. It is truly a moment on film for every generation.

“Ok, we can talk now,” she said, signaling her relative indifference for the cake on table scene, “so you have a bike?”

“Yea, I don’t ride it much, but thought I would kick off a few cobwebs.”

“What kind is it?” Andrea asked.

“It’s an old BMW, from 1970. I restored it with a friend a few years ago. Well, actually, I bought the parts, the beer and kept him company while he did it. But it was a team effort.”

They laughed. My mojo was rising. Ask something else so I can answer all charming, I thought.

“You have to take me for a ride sometime,” Lisa said.

Wow, that was easier than I thought. But, although all three girls were cute, Heather was the runaway favorite, a mild and natural beauty.

I smiled, just then on cue Heather walked out, dressed in boots and jeans. It was truly a transformation from lace to leather.

“Don’t be stealing my date. This isn’t Singles, here.” She said, smiling. These girls love their genre movies, that’s for sure.

“Great meeting you Rob,” Lisa said, and was followed by a “Yea,” from Andrea.

“Same here,” I said walking towards the door. Heather grabbed my hand to signal our exit. And held it, smiling back at her friends. I've never felt more like the Fonz in my life.

I helped strap on her helmet and used the proximity to take in her perfection. I never felt more at peace in my life. I was really glad I did this.

“Ok, really, all you need to do is hang on, lean when I lean and keep away from the hot pipes, there,” I said pointing, “Other than that, just enjoy the ride.”

She looked at me and smiled, “I already am.”

Read the Rest

Collared

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 looked at my phone. Shelfie’s name appeared. I had barely caught my breath from Daniel. I stared at the phone and the name, deciding if I would pick it up. And in a moment of unfamiliar clarity, I said "fuck it" and pressed the button to connect. Boy, was I in for a treat.

“What’s up fuck face,” I said, which, although derogatory, signaled my confidence in our new-found friendship.

“You call my dad fuck face?” a girl's voice said on the other line.

I gasped. I breathed. I held the phone away and looked at it once again. No, this said Shelfie. Did I fucking program it wrong? I'd been so confident ever since I changed the ringtone. Did I just call my mom fuckface?

“Hello, hello, Rob, are you there,” the phone sang from arms length. I put it to my ear.

“Uh, yea, this is Rob, who is this?” I asked hedgingly.

“It’s Jamie, who do you think?”

“Jamie, what are you doing with your dad’s phone?”

“I needed your number. Oh, and I’m telling my dad you called me a fuck face.”

Shit I thought, Shelfie doesn’t mind me calling him that, but his daughter. I didn’t want to piss the guy off, even if it was a mistake.

“I’m sorry, really. I was just trying to be funny, I thought it was your dad.”

“Rob, I’m just fucking with you, fuck face, I’m not gonna tell.”

“Phew, thanks, but you really...we really shouldn’t be saying that...those words. Ok?

“Relax," she said, in total control of the conversation.

I took her advice and became myself.

“So what do I owe this pleasure? Did something funny happen on Raven last night you wanted to share? A case of mistaken identity, perhaps?”

“Very funny. That show is so last summer for me. And I’m old enough to get your sarcasm. It’s not wasted on me.”

“Good for you, but seriously, isn’t there some law against a 15-year old calling a guy my age. Even if it is from your dad’s phone? Can I get collared for this?”

“No, silly. You’ll only get busted if you fuck me.”

She silenced me. Not even in the good way. In the “reel this thing back in” sort of way. I had to get off the phone.

“Rob, are you there? I was just kidding. Don’t freak. Anyway, I was calling because Sam can’t make it.”

I was still a bit thrown off by the fuck comment.

“Who? What do you mean?”

“Sam,” she said again, driving home the inflection.

Silence. Confusion. Narcissistic thoughts of my in-between hair.

“Sam, Samantha, Sammie, you know, your date for Saturday,” she said interrupting my process.

“Oh, yes, Samantha. Sorry. Yes, what about her?”

“She can’t make it,” she said.

Silence again. Pause. For some reason, I thought about my denim blazer. She chimed back in.

“Yea, but what do you care, you don’t even know her name. Womanizer.”

I hate that term. Now, I was an active participant in this conversation.

“I totally remembered her name. It was one of my goals. A goal that I attained, mind you. But I knew her as Samantha. See, goals are very important,” I said loftily.

“Rob, you’re worse than me. Must everything revolve around you? Don’t you care that she cancelled.”

“I’m absolutely brokenhearted,” I said, realizing this horror was over. It was beautiful, really. I didn’t have to cancel on her and look like the jerk. It was her that did it. Fucking fate rules.

“Rob, I kind of like the confident bad boy in you. My mom thinks you’re some altar boy.”

“Well, your mom’s right. Anyway, was there any other purpose to this call besides Raven and me being stood up by proxy.”

“I think we’ve covered it,” she said. Man, she could verbally spar with the best of them. She’s going to be a contender someday.

“Great, well, tell your parents I said hi.”

But then she retreated, and became a 15-year-old once again. I had called her bluff and won. Age before beauty will always win in a game of wits.

“Rob, don’t you even want to know why?”

I maintained.

“Not really, I mean if I were her, I would lie. I would never want to tell someone I was blowing off the real reason was hair in their ears or bad posture or whatever. I don’t want to know a lie.”

“Her dog is sick,” she blurted out.

“See what I mean, c’mon. It’s cool. I feel bad having you lie for her.”

“Seriously, she missed dance and has been a wreck all day. I think the dog may be put to sleep.”

“Great, is there anything we should do in lieu of flowers, doggie treats to the pound?” I said, still not buying the story.

“Rob, you went from bad boy to ass. Ass is not good.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. But it seems far-fetched, that’s all. Dog eats my homework, dog is sick. Just seems like a bad excuse.”

“I’m telling you the truth,” she said with the earnestness of a 15-year old girl. It made me think of my younger sister. I felt bad, and folded.

“All right, then I will take you at your word. Just have her call me when she’s feeling better. And send my regards.”

“See Rob, I knew you were a bad boy with a big heart.”

“Yea, the good bad boy, like Ryan, huh?”

“You watch the show? I love the OC.”

“Yea, but you know what, I’ve gotta go and you’ve gotta stop calling me from your dad’s phone.”

“Rob, wait. I need to tell you one, well, two more things.”

I sighed into the phone.

“Ok, since you were nice to me, I feel bad. Her dog isn’t sick. She just thought you were too old and not her type. Sorrrrry.”

I was too tired to argue.

“I kind of told her you were 25, and then I kind of told her the truth.”

“Ok,” I said, caring less than I probably should.

"Do you hate me?"

“No. Oh, and was that one and two? Can I be excused?”

“That was one. Are you sad? She thought you were cute, but likes blonde guys.”

“I’ll be ok, thanks. Two please.”

“Ok, really? Anyway, two is this. Oh, I should have said I have good news and bad news, what do you want to-“

“Just tell me two so I can go eat.”

“Ok, meany, two is the good news too. I hooked you up with another friend. And I didn’t tell my mom or dad about it. She is a friend of Sam’s. She’s older, 20 or 21 I think. Anyway, I have her number so you should call her. She’s prettier than Sam, but don’t tell her I said so.”

“Your secret’s safe with me, I don’t think I will be seeing Sam anytime soon, unless I get my hair bleached and cut 5 years off my life. But, this conversation probably cut a few years off.”

“Rob, I got that joke. So cute. I wish all boys were like you.”

“They are, you just don’t know it yet.”

“I’m sorry about this. I feel like-"

“Jamie-" I said, interrupting her apology.

“Yea?”

“Shut up fuck face. And give me the number.”

“Ah, if I were only 10 years older Rob Lowe,” she said,jokingly.

“Don’t wish your life away. Fifteen is good. But you know what?" I said in blissful reflection, "Come to think of it, Thirty is pretty good too. At least it started pretty strong."

It was a veiled wordplay merely for me to enjoy.

She gave me the number and I wrote it down on the cover of Stuff, right across Paris Hilton’s glorious tits.

“Thanks Rob.”

“Thank you. And maybe some night I’ll come over to watch the OC with you and your dad, how’s that?”

“Cool. Could you bring Jamba? Oh, and don’t forget to call her. Really.”

“I will and I will. Bye.”

“Bye, Rob, Good luck.”

So I hung up and stared at Paris’s tits. I wasn’t being disingenuous. At that moment I was really planning to call her. But, my mind changes by the minute. I knew I needed to do it now or I would never do it. I picked up the phone and dialed. This time, I would be a lot more chill. I had nothing to lose. I got a second chance before my first one even expired.

“Hello,” the voice answered.

“Hi, I’m Rob, a friend of Jamie and-“ I said, somewhat nervously.

“I know who you are, I’m Heather.”

“Heather,” I said, “great name.”

And easy to remember.

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Denim-on-Denim

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 ill-prepared for the date. I was having a hard time with the word itself, "date." I am such a fucking cynic in this department, and I couldn’t even breathe the word without feeling like I was on the Brady Bunch. I knew I was going to fuck this up with the 19-year-old. I just knew it.

I had spoken to her on the phone, last week or so. It was one of those conversations where all I was trying to do was not forget her name. It was Samantha (I love setting attainable goals). She had a sweet phone voice, and from Jamie’s picture she looked good. I only saw her face in the shot, so I had to take the leap of faith that her body would suffice. Since she was a 19-year old dancer, I felt comfortable with my odds.

We originally set the date for Saturday. But, as the day encroached, I was starting to feel like this would be weird. I have nothing against young girls, but given our introduction through Val’s daughter, it felt a bit off. Saturday is such a traditional date night too, and carries a vibe of popcorn, movies and making out. I felt I was setting an unreal expectation, wrapping my thirty-year-old need for sex in a sugar-coated, date-night wrapper. I didn’t want romantic comedy and cuddling. I wanted decadent bathroom sex. The symbolic choice of Saturday night created disconnect in my head.

But I was being honest with myself. By virtue of her birthdate, just-legal girls like Samantha are sex dolls to guys 11 years their senior. They are a feather in our cap. A madcap moment of self-made lust, amplified only by our perception of their relative youth. Yea we are scum, but we inherited the world like that. And there’s a lot more that needs fixing than the medievel view of a hot, young piece of ass.

The more I thought about her, the more red flags I raised in my neurotic inner being. Why would this girl even want to date me, sight unseen. Perhaps Jamie gave her a report she approved of, but I’m 11 years older. I thought we were invisible to any girls under 27. I needed perspective. I needed to find out her motives, for my own were id-driven and sinister.

I’m not an expert on sex without strings. Being with only a handful of women has never allowed me to develop that side of my brain. But, luckily I have a few friends who have. Jim was the first that came to mind, by his mere numbers alone, but he’s an actor. Those guys don’t even have to work at it. Even Buscemi can probably get a Perfect 10 Model to rusty trombone him after stepping off a treadmill.

So I chose gay Daniel, not merely to help him manipulate more air time, but to find out the subtle nuances of the one-night stand, of which he has had a ton. I explained my questions, and he was more than happy to help, especially since he knew it would make it to the blog.

“Seriously, no more jokes, why would a hot 19-year old be interested in someone as old as me?” I asked.

“Maybe guys her age can’t make her cum,” he said.

“C’mon dude?”

“Seriously, some girls have a daddy thing. It’s a bit disturbing.”

“So, you think I’m her daddy?”

“No, Rob, God. But maybe there is some truth. Feel her out.”

“I don’t care if she thinks I’m her dad as long as she doesn’t tell me. I just need to know if I’m being a heel for making it a one-night stand? Should I be honest?”

“Rob, you can’t be a bad boy and a good boy in the same breath. If you want to fuck her, do it. But don’t expect her to be your friend. If you want a friend, don’t expect a handjob out of the deal.”

“I hate those anyway. They seem worthless. Anyway, why would I want this girl as a friend. Seriously. I just want someone to screw.”

“Now your talking my language. So what are you going to wear?”

“You know, I haven't even thought of it. Plus, I’m having second thoughts about going in the first place.”

"You bitch, you have to go. You can’t take someone’s Saturday night and then cancel. It’s a total dick move.”

“Yea, but I really think this could turn out bad. Maybe I’m overthinking it. But I don’t need shit from Shelfie and Tracy.”

“Euull, can you please stop talking about him?”

“Yea, you’ve got that thing...”

“…with the hair,” he said, disgustedly.

“Sorry."

“Anyhoots, back to the fashion. Hmmmm, you should wear the Kenneth Cole gunmetal shirt and the denim Varvatos blazer we got you.”

I have no pants to got with that. I haven’t worn it since. I can't even remember the last time I wore it. Anyway, like I said, I don't have any pants."

“Wear the black ones.”

“They’re dirty and I don’t feel like going in to the dry cleaner and having to talk to the short guy. It’s the counter thing.”

Yea, I know all about your counter thing. How about…Duh, fashion staple. Jeans. Just wear jeans. That would be so cute. Wear the ones that make your ass look good. But I would wear a white shirt, something contrasty.”

“I have no idea which pants make my ass look good. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, I’m still a bit leery about throwing down the denim-on-denim look. It seems too fucking boy band. I’m not comfortable with it."

“Oh, God Rob. Everyone’s doing it. Check out the fall lines for God’s sake and stay the fuck away from Old Navy. It’s ruining your fashion sense.”

“Listen, we’ve got a few days left. Maybe we can go find some pants. That blazer is the most expensive piece of fucking clothing I own and I only wore it twice. I fucking hate you for making me buy it.”

“Rob, if I had a dollar for every Gap shirt I gave to Goodwill with the tags still on, I’d be a millionaire. Fashion is fleeting. You need to let it go. But that blazer is super cute and it still is in season. We’ll find you some pants you’re comfortable with.”

“All right,” I said, "maybe tomorrow. I’ll call you. Let me get my other line."

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Hanging Lowe

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 try to be good, really. I don’t wake up in the morning, thinking, "Today, I’m going to obsess about tits," or "I’m going to get wasted tonight and try and screw someone," or "I’m going to fuck two hookers today." Well, two out of three ain't bad.

It’s hard to be good when you have bad influences in your life. And when you're bored on a Wednesday night, phone within reach, bad things can happen. Bad drunken things.

The night started out brilliantly. I was sitting on my couch, eating Chinese food, fresh-faced from Maha Yoga. I was going through my TiVo list and playing my new favorite show, It’s always Sunny in Philadelphia, which MA defines as a "boy show." It was about as good as a Wednesday night can get, barring American Idol. But a certain homosexual party animal had other things in store. I picked up the ringing phone and saw it was Daniel.

“Hi.”

“Rob, It’s Daniel.”

“I know, can I call you back, I’m eating.”

“No, no, no, put it away. I’ll take you out to dinner.”

“Dude, I’m almost done,” I said, pausing. “You know what? Let’s talk, I’ve had enough.” I realized he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

“Ok, so dinner?”

“I just ate, how about tomorrow?”

“No, I want to go out tonight. How about drinks.”

“I’m not drinking during the week. It’s my new thing.”

“What, that’s five days of soberdom, out of seven. That leaves only two days for debauchery. You can’t be serious,” he said, increduously.

“Just trying to keep fit, that’s all.”

“Oh, don’t make me hate you more. You are fit. You are such a wreck with your need for constant reassurance.”

“Are we done, here? I’m going to bed soon.”

“Yikes, Rob, I’m coming over. You need a drink. I’m not talking about getting wasted. Just one cocktail.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“No seriously, an hour tops. And you can pick the bar.”

“Daniel, man, I’m trying to be good here, fucking no support.”

“C’mon cranky. I haven’t seen you in decades. Just one drink. One little sip. On me.”

“FuuuuuuuuuuuUUUUk, all right. One drink. Circle bar. Meet me there in an hour.”

“Oh, Rob, great. I’m glad you’re still fun.”

Ok, so I was just going to have one drink. I kept repeating the number in my head, one, one, one, one. One drink. I jumped in the shower, threw on some jeans and drove to the Circle.

I arrived exactly in one hour and ponied up to the bar. Daniel was, of course, late. So I looked around the room.

“Can I get you something,” a hot bartender said to me.

“You know what, I’m waiting for a friend. He should be here any minute, or any hour or any day.”

“I have friends like that.”

I smiled and she walked away towards paying customers. I waited for 10 minutes then made my way around the room to talk to a friend and head to the bathroom. When I got back, Daniel was sitting on the other side of the bar.

“You’re late,” he said.

I just gave him the look.

We both got up and threw down the full man hug. He started rubbing my hair and smiling. I scrunched my nose in disaffection.

"Oh, my God, I haven’t seen you in ages. Look at this mop. You look so WB.”

“I’m trying to get it a little longer. Never really grew it out before. Because it looks like this when I do.”

“It looks cute. It looks a bit gay. And before you get your panties in a bunch, I’m talking good gay, not the way you boys use it, all derogatory. It’s cute.”

“Jim said it was bad gay.”

“Oh, God Robert, when are you going to stop competing with him. He won, you lost, deal with it.”

I looked at him in astonishment.

“Kidding,” he said, smiling. “Sit down.”

“But you do need constant reassurance,” he said under his breath.

“One drink,” I told him, changing the subject.

“One drink,” he replied soberly.

“So why the Circle bar?" he asked, “Perhaps the ridiculously hot waitresses.”

“Don’t judge.”

“Oh, I’m not,” he said looking around, “You breeders are everywhere, not a gay lad to be found in the house."

“Daniel, can you stop thinking about getting laid for a few hours, remember you asked me out for drinks?”

“But Jenni sez it’s 'all about the fuck,' right?”

I laughed. It was strange. Daniel is the only friend I know who reads my blog on a regular basis. He’s just too afraid to comment.

“That’s funny, you’ve been reading.”

“My God, yes, that’s what I’ve been relegated to do, since you abandoned me. How else can I keep up with your fabulous life.”

“It’s not fabulous. And I’ve called you 5 or 6 times since I did the gay thing, and you only returned my call once.”

“I know, I’ve been busy.”

“Yea and you only want to go to gay bars. Dude, that was so early summer for me. I’ve moved on to trying to screw 19-year-olds.”

“Yea, that’s sick. She was like zero when you were 11. Yuck.”

“Oh, and you wouldn’t hook up with a sub-20 boy. C’mon.”

“Oh, you’re right, but I just wanted to say something clever for your blog. Will you write it down.”

“Yea, don’t worry.”

“I miss reading about myself. It was so fun, and you haven’t written about me for eons. It's all about Tracy and Jim.”

“I haven’t seen you, remember? Just in passing here and there.”

“Ok.”

“You didn’t arrange this so I could blog about you, did you?”

“That would be sad and superficial,” he replied.

“Of which you are both, yes. So did you?”

“Well maybe a little. I just wanted to reconnect.”

He was playing to my heart strings.

“Ok, let’s reconnect, bartender, bring another round,” I said.

So we drank. And drank. And we drank. We drank to ourselves, to our lives, to our summer and to our future. And most importantly, we drank to friendship.

“Your friend Cheffy is creepy,”

“Shelfie, like a shelf.”

“Oh, yea. That shaving story gave me the heebie jeebies. I just thought of him and his wife, sitting in their jazuzzi, filled with his short curlies and his meaty hard-on. Gross.”

“He’s not so bad, as long as he keeps the shirt on. You know his wife, right? From Tracy’s office.”

“She’s a demon. Well, I’ve never met her, but she looks like one.”

“She’s fine too. They’re both nice. Really.”

“If you say so, but the shaving sex thing turned me off. Can’t you edit that stuff out.”

“For you, maybe.”

“Hey,” he said like a lightbulb went off in his head, “are you still clean?”

He lifted up my shirt.

“Hold on, I’ll do it.”

I exposed the left side of my shirt, up to the nipple. I figured I'd kick him down a little something.

“It’s growing back. Naughty. I thought surely I showed you the light. Look at this.”

He lifted his shirt, but not discreetly. It was lifted well above his head and flawlessly without hair.

“It was my best one yet, new wax or something. And no bumps.”

“It looks great,” I said, pulling down his shirt, “I’m growing my winter coat.”

“Oh well, I guess you learned nothing from me. But when you’re ready, you need to head back to my girl.”

“Will do, I’ll make sure I mow before the spring fashions come out.”

“And that new car of yours.”

“It’s actually used.”

“Well, anyway, it sounds super grown up. Volvo. Should we talk about 401Ks or something?”

“Should we talk about Sarah?”

“Oh my God, Is she here?”

“Look at that tall girl, the one with the kind of mustache.”

“She should see my girl, she does upper lip, too.”

“Stay on track. She is right behind her. Wait for fake tits to move. Ok, there she is.”

“Uh, hide me.”

“She already saw me while you were primping. I bought her a drink. She’s depressed about her boyfriend."

“Oh, she hates me.”

‘No she doesn’t, here I’ll bring her over. I need to take a piss.”

"No," he screamed in horror. Not drama horror either, real horror.

I walked over and grabbed her and her girlfriend and offered to buy them both drinks. Sarah and I went to UCLA together, and Daniel wasn’t lying. She did hate him.

We all walked over and Sarah and Daniel both looked like ghosts when they saw each other. She was surprised I brought her over, he was surprised I had the balls to do it.

I made the motion for four tequilas to my bartender.

“Listen, I’ll get straight to the point,” I said, drunkenly brazen, “There was some shit with you two, but that’s the fucking past. Daniel is on this kick to reconnect to people, and I thought this would be a good time. Besides, I like you Sarah, and I don’t want Daniel telling me to hide him whenever you’re around. Cool?”

“But he,”

“I know what he did, he's a dick and that was fucked up, but it was a long time ago and no one really got hurt. C’mon, let’s put this behind us and be friends.”

Daniel sat silent. Not believing this was happening.

“You know, fuck it,” she said. “Ted was an asshole anyway. I should have known the guy was gay.”

“Yea, it wasn’t my fault,” Daniel chimed in helplessly.

“It was your fault, but it’s over. You could have said no, but that’s all behind us.” I said.

I grabbed her friend by the arm, and put the tequila in front of her.

“I don’t drink tequila,” her girlfriend said.

“Tonight you do.”

I put the lime in my mouth. And I poured the warm shot against her lips. She never took her eyes off the glass. She never flinched. And I grabbed her arms and pulled her to the lime. It was very safe. Very WB. And she was very cute.

“Ok, your turn,” I said to Daniel and Sarah.

And they followed. And we drank. All of us. In big gulps and small shots. In our cups and from each other. We were friends, and it was fun. And, as my motto has been lately, at the end of the night, we all went our separate ways. Expect for me and Daniel.

“Let’s take a cab, you can crash at my place.”

“Rob Lowe, you fucker, you set me up.”

“Hey, you don’t want my blog friends to think you’re boring. I can invent drama as well as you.”

“You little shit.”

“Maybe you can start your own blog.”

“Yea, he said laughing, “GayinLA.com.”

We both sat on the curb, drunkenly waiting for our cab.

“I’m never doing this again. One drink, I said. One Drink. I’m going to be hungover tomorrow.”

There was no response. I looked over and Daniel’s eyes were closed, head bobbing and falling in slow motion, like someone sleeping on a bus. I put my arm around him and put his head on my shoulder. Because, that’s what friends do. Especially drunk ones with work in the morning.

God, I'm hungover.

Read the Rest

Beautiful Noise

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.

Jim* called me on Monday. He’s climbing Mount Whitney this weekend and needed to pick up some shit at Adventure 16. What the fuck, I thought. I needed to get away from the computer.

He picked me up at work around lunch time, and soon we were inside the great outdoors. The first thing I noticed were the bad haircuts. Every salesperson had one. I usually internalize such observations, but the Twilight-Zone quality of these zombie salespeople pushed me to remark.

“Jim, do you notice something about these people,” I asked while he was leafing through some North Face.

“Na,” he said, giving a distracted courtesy look.

“Come on, have a look.”

“I don’t know, everyone’s wearing Teva Sandals?”

“No you schlump, everyone has bad hair. Really bad hair. The same bad hair.”

He looked up and smiled. He finally saw what I did. It was prince hair. Strange by a single account, but in numbers it became almost cultish.

“You’re right Lowe, but your hair sucks too.”

“It’s in the in-between stage, I told you.”

I walked away, looking for something remotely interesting. This shit was really expensive. Really expensive. A hiking stick set was $80 and most of the jackets were $300-$500. Nothing appealed to me, so I thought of a fun game. Find the most expensive items, and see if I could get Jim to buy them. So I began, picking and shopping and bullshitting about the quality of this over this. In the end, he spent about $1,800 bucks. I wish I was on commission.

We got in his truck and drove to Poquito Mas, a Mexican restaurant around the corner.

“So, you’re doing this hike in one day. Dude, you know Mark did it in four. That’s a lot of shit.”

“Don’t be such a mom.”

“Mark is in better shape than you. And he doesn’t drink.”

“But he’s a loser, and can’t cum unless his ankles are tied together.”

“That’s a rumor.”

“Whatever, he’s a loser.”

“Yea, no shit he’s a loser, but he’s a fitness freak and it took him 4 days to climb Whitney.”

“Relax and eat your gay salad.”

“Do you want a fill?” I said, referring to his drink.

“Na.”

I walked inside and went to the soda fountain to refill my own. No soda. No lights. There was a guy in front of me, and I asked him what was up.

“No lights, for the past 10 minutes. Maybe you should take your sunglasses off,” he said to the profound amusement of his plumbing buddy, wearing the same sassy plumbing T-shirt.

“Good one. Yea, thanks.”

“It’s been that way for the past 10 minutes.” Plumber 2 said, trying to one up his friend.

“I get it."

Just then my phone rang. Yep, same fucking stupid ringtone. I really need to find time to change it. Plumber boys looked at me and smirked at the fem sound of my phone. I turned away and answered. It was Tracy.

“Rob, do you have power?”

“Really, it’s fucking out for you, too?” I said, realizing her grid must be out too. This was bigger than I thought.

“Yea, I almost got stuck in the elevator. I would have died.”

"Man are you ok, did they get you out?"

"Well, I didn't actually go in, but usually I take it for lunch, and I could have been trapped."

“Where are you now?” I said, unfettered by her pronounced exaggeration.

“Outside our building.”

“I’m at Poquito Mas with Jim…being harassed by plumbers.”

“What?”

‘Nothing, the power’s off here too.”

“Do you think it’s the Muslims? How am I going to get my car out of the parking garage?”

“I doubt it’s the terrorists," I said, politely eschewing her unknowingly racist comment.

“But yesterday, they were talking about it on the news.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. Anyway, Jim is motioning for us to leave. He’s got some teenage girls talking to him. I think he wants me to save him.”

“So you don’t think-"

“It’s fine, seriously. And call me if you need me or if your car is stuck. I’ll call you from work and let you know if there’s power. Sounds like we may have a snowday.”

“Oh, that would be fun.”

“Oh, one last thing. Is my hair that bad?”

“It’s in-between, right?” she said sheepishly aware.

“That’s why I love you. Bye.”

I walked outside and saw Jim regrettably holding court with two high school seniors.

“Ready," I said walking by, grabbing his arm.

“Gotta go,” he said, pointing to my hand on his arm.

"They asked me if I was friends with Kutcher, ha. I told them he was a fag."

"Making friends everywhere you go, huh?"

"But I said I would fuck Demi."

“Yea, who wouldn't, she's got a few good years left in her," I said, "by the way, that was Tracy, they have no lights in West Hollywood.”

“Fuck, really? Goddamn Al Qaeda,” he said, with a remarked expression.

“That’s what she said. Turn on the radio.”

We got in his truck and looked to the left on Westwood Blvd., the light was out. We looked to the right, seemed clear. Until we saw the huge backup, five blocks ahead.

“Fuck, dude, it’s out by the Pavilion too. Should I take the freeway?”

“I don’t know. I think we’re just fucked.”

“All right, then what should we do?”

“Just drive” I said.

We both sat silent, simply listening to AM radio. We both were afraid to talk about what we thought was happening, even as the announcer listed other city districts that were in chaos. I didn’t need this shit in my life right now. I didn’t need to reconnect to the most heinous moments in the history of our country, but inevitably I did. Cars floated by, each in a similar dimension. The bigger picture and unhealed wounds allowed us to all connect to a mournful past, as much as we fought it.

Drivers didn’t honk, pedestrians didn’t scream. For better or for worse, we were in this situation together--bound by the bigger picture, unconcerned with commute times or lights or the “D” we just got on a test. We weren’t thinking about making rent or what we would wear to the Tropicana Friday. Those thoughts were dormant, lost in the unsolicited caress of nervous survival. Finally, Jim broke the silence.

“Want to get out of here?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just get out of the city. My assistant can get Elan’s place in Santa Barbara.”

“Are you trying to hit on me, in this moment of crisis,” I said mockingly.

“Not with that hair,” he said.

Just then we saw a beacon of hope, a green light. No flashing, no four-way stops. No good-mannered drivers. Santa Monica sat unaware and unaffected by the blackout. We felt relieved. The radio announcer told us they were investigating worker error. And slowly we inched once again on our own personal journey of the everyday. Concerns of ex-girlfriends, hair, box office grosses and lines in our faces slowly revealed themselves. We were happy to be back to the yelling and the horns. We were happy to be back to the beautiful noise of a cloudy city.

We were happy to be back.

*actor bud, not real name.

Read the Rest

Summer Blues

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’m a boy of summer, just like Don Henley sang about, except I don't wear wayfarers. At least not for the last few decades. Although, cookouts, campouts and madras shorts do suspend some of the best memories of my life. But summer is over, and this boy needed to pay his penance. To step through the mental vortex that signified the end of all he loves, at least for another year.

Fucking Labor Day.

Granted, Southern California is nothing to complain about on this topic. But growing up in Pennsylvania, that feeling of misplaced summer and quiet winter inertia remain, regardless of where I live. My youth provides context if only to reflect a diluted L.A. passing of seasons.

In this past week, I have been reconnected to someone else in my life. The same ex-girlfriend camp who threatened to shut down my blog a few months ago dropped me a line just before Labor Day. We never talked about our breakup, and for her, this seemed like a good time. We both were experiencing the end of summer blues, and maybe that fueled her unannounced call. There was one caveat, I could not write about it. But let’s just say the husband, the actress and I have worked things out. It was and still remains a good thing.

I never got to drive Shelfie’s car. My plan was half-assed and had the potential to cause some serious harm. I tried to get the girls and mom out of the house, and start a strip poker game, exposing Shelfie’s shaved chest to all his friends. He broke the guy code, I figured it was the least I could do. But as I thought things through and removed my own ego, I just decided to let it fly. I didn’t need to prove my manhood to a guy who wanted to live a sexual conquest vicariously through me. Could I have had her? Probably, I got the vibe. But it will never happen. An imaginary line had been drawn that can never be unimagined. It's ashame because she was my type too, old and lustful. And I've been pretty horny lately. But with age comes baggage, and even if there was no bet, I didn’t need to be carrying any more than my own.

I was able to rationalize all this in my head, almost on the spot with Jamie's OC Mix #4 bumping in the background. At the table, I played up the charm and let Shelfie think the bet was on. And he seemed to love it--the flirting, the touching, the peeking at cards. I brought my "A" game as a pure misdirect. Because I read Shelfie as well as I read the woman. He has a horrible poker face and it was easy to tell he wanted to lose the bet. He was in the moment, and flesh trumps machine.

When the game ended and the lights went down, I simply parted ways with her. I think Shelfie was a bit surprised, but it was my only play. Screw her and I would have been his idol for life. Don’t, and I would never hear the end of it. I didn’t need either scenario in my life.

As the sun sets on Mission # 4, I remember some beautiful things. Things I’m not quite ready to put into words. It’s a bit hard to explain, but especially with ex-girlfriend actress, I found that life affords us the ability to reconnect as someone else, in different times, in different places. In this particular case, we entered as friends, became lovers (hate that word, but it makes the point), became enemies, and have completed the cycle as friends. It gives me hope for other relationships in my life. I like hope.

There is one final task I must complete before I lay rest to this mission, and that is to reconnect with some old friends from high school, including my first love. She’s married, has a few kids, but I’d like to at least say a proper goodbye. We never had the opportunity. For all I know, we're still going out. There was no official closure other than me going off to UCLA and us never speaking again. There's a fall wedding in a few weeks in PA that I will be attending that will give me opportunity to see many classmates, including her. And motive and opportunity are all the we need in life, right? At least that's what they say on NYPD Blue before they collar the bad guy. Anyway, I thought it a fitting finale to this mission, so why not.

Oh, and I got the number to the 19-year old. I'm calling her this weekend. Hopefully, she can release my end of summer blues.

Read the Rest

Square Pegs

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 had painted myself into a corner. As easily as I could justify the sexual nature of Mission #1, several months later, it was difficult to fit this Lindsey bet into that same package. My brain is often compartmentalized to a fault, but this time I was pushing a square block into a round hole. I was unprepared for such a task.

I began to realize that Shelfie presented a deeper character than I originally surmised. His depth of understanding, hidden within a white-ribbed tank was a dangerous liason. He can manipulate while he hides, with a emotional intelligence worthy of any adversary. And as those around him let down their guard, he can easily gain the upper hand. Even with that breakthrough information now in hand, he still got the best of me. I admired and despised him for that.

Val and her kids were assembled around the pool. I decided to just wear my own shorts, because nothing Shelfie had would fit. I knew it by sight, as he held them up for me to see. Shelfie was obviously a 36 when Duran Duran was at the top of their career, because the shorts he pulled out were straight out of the 80s, wrinkled from two decades of non-use. Even holding them up to my waist, I felt unflattered.

Swimming at Shelfie’s house was like jumping off a rope swing into the river. He doesn’t just sit and wade, he’s an active participant. Jumping, kicking, splashing, every dip is greeted with the effervescence of a first-time splash. His aqua-silliness was contagious and narcotic. I’ve never felt more alive and at ease with a person I had just met. We were as different as could be, but we connected in an adverserial, yet friendly way that was only beginning to be unveiled. We were brothers, fighting for attention.

Val leisurely held court on the side of the pool while we played with Shelfies girls, 15 and 9. They were mini-Vals, complete with under-appreciated black razor cell phones and juicy couture sweats.

Shelfie was her antithesis, going balls-out like a 10-year-old boy with water cannons, dunking and bombing parties. He was as much not about his appearance as she was about hers. First of all, its hard to look good in the water. Val knew that, and I doubt her low-lights have ever made contact with the salt-filtered water.

But Shelfie knew the pool was more than a place for holding oiled-teak lounge chairs and the milfs that filled them. He was never aloof, always appreciative. And as I watched him swim, hair slicked back to receding, wrinkles collapsing his smile, he looked like a boy.

“Don’t you ever take that thing off?” I asked, referring to his tank top.

“Not since, the, uh, accident,” he whispered.

“Oh honey, it’s starting to grow in,” she said, referring to his shaved chest.

“But still, I feel more comfortable like this.”

“Hey, don’t be ashamed, like you’re a metro or something. I got waxed. It hurt, but it looked pretty good.”

“Really? Like that guy in the 40-year-old Virgin, I heard he did it for real.”

“Yea, haven’t seen it, but it hurts. That I can offer firsthand.”

“Maybe you should do your arms so they grow back together, and your neck,” Val said.

“I’ve got a girl, if you need one,” I offered.

“Enough. I’m not doing any more damage. The shirt will come off in due time.”

I swam to the side of the pool and pulled myself out. It was getting to dinner time and Val invited me to stay.

“We’re ordering from Pick-up Sticks in the Commons, what would you like Rob?” Val asked.

“Orange peel tofu is good there. That’s fine. And brown rice.”

“Orange peel tofu? Ha, are you serious?” Shelfie asked.

“I’m a vegetarian.”

“What, a vegetarian in my house,” he said mockingly. “I never understood you guys.”

“Yea, its hard to understand people not eating meat,” I said sarcastically. And before you ask, I’d rather not answer. Let’s just say I live a low-impact lifestyle, ok?”

“Honey, leave Rob alone,” Val said.

“Oh, he knows I’m just teasing,” he said, mock punching me.

“Hey, do you have some pants or something I can wear?” I asked, dripping pool water.

“Yea, I think maybe some 36’s somewhere?”

“What, like parachute pants or something? How about sweats, do you have any sweatpants?”

“Hell, I’ve got a ton of tracksuits. You name it, I’ve got it. You like Fila?”

“I just need some regular gray sweats or something. Nothing red or fancy.”

“I can get some for you Rob.” Val said.

It was amazing. I hadn’t realized how much I missed my mom until I had experienced another. Val was no longer a sex object, she was a real person. I was beginning to enjoy my time with this family. I made a mental note to call my mom tomorrow.

I tried on Shelfie’s sweats. They were huge and ridiculous, and they were mine for the night. I sat down at the table and hid my lower half. Jamie, their 15-year old sat next to me.

“Hi, Rob.”

“Hi Jamie,” I said looking up from the paper.

“You’re cute.”

“It’s the sweatpants,” I said blankly, with eyes on paper, “Hammer time.”

“You’re funny too. But I don’t get that joke.”

“Well, there was this singer guy in the 80’s that wore these big pants. MC Hammer.”

“Ok, did you like him? I mean his music.”

“Not really.”

“I like Jem, Yellowcard, Maroon 5 and the Rolling Stones,” she said, counting each on a finger.

“The Stones, really?” I asked.

“Yea, I got that from my dad, he always used to sing Wild Horses to me.”

“Really?” I said surprised.

“He’s a great singer. Not just because he’s my dad. He’s really good.”

Wow, I thought. The world of Shelfie was beginning to unfold in front of me. More than a gear head, less than a rock star, Shelfie has truly found his happy place in this misplaced suburbia. And it was nice to share it with him.

“Maybe we need to bring out the Karaoke.”

“He won’t do it in public,” she answered, emphatically.

“Well, let’s see what we can do about it.”

“I love Maroon 5 too, Adam is so dreamy.”

“Is that the singer?” I asked.

“Yea, ‘I was so high, I had to recognize’” she started singing.

“I met his girlfriend in Dallas last year on a layover, before they were big.”

“Was she cute?”

“Oh yes, well he’s a rock star," I offered as rationale, "You know what, she kind of looked, yea, she did, she looked a lot like you.”

“You’re kidding,” she said with stammered enthusiasm.

“No, really, I thought you looked familiar. That’s very weird.”

She shrieked like she just saw the Beatles at Wembley.

But she did look a bit like her. That was not lip service fed to a 15-year old. It was true, less a hair-trigger of confidence-building embellishment.

“I like you Rob.”

“A lot of people do,” I said jokingly.

“Ooh, I would love to totally set you up with a friend.”

“Jamie, I’m 30. Your friends are half my age.”

“No, no, there’s this girl in dance that’s like 19 or 20. I know she’s out of school.”

“I’m not really sure how a 20-year-old would fit into my life now, but thanks for the offer.”

“Rob, don’t be a baby,” she said, reaching into her pocket and aiming a phone at me. She took my picture and turned it around. “Oh, that’s hot.”

“Please don’t. Seriously.”

“Listen, I’ll just send it to her, and if anything happens, it happens.”

“Just don’t tell her it was my idea. Just say 'this is a friend of my dad.' Play it cool, and really. I’m not interested.”

“Are you worried Tracy will be mad?” she asked out of the blue.

“What? Why? No, Tracy is a friend.”

“That’s not what my mom says.”

My God, is everyone in this house ganging up on me about this, I thought.

“Well, your mom is just joking, or messing with you. Or insane. Or not your real mom," I said, counting on my fingers as well, "But, she isn’t right. That's for sure.”

“Rob and Tracy sitting in a tree,” she began to sing-song.

“Shouldn’t you be IM’ing your friends or stealing music with your iPod. Shew,” I said, motioning for her to leave.

“K i s s i n g,” she continued.

“I’m going to throw you in the pool,” I said.

“First comes love,” she said, running away.

I ran after her, gray sweatpants flapping in the wind.

“Ok, I will let you send my picture to the girl if you answer a few questions,” I said finally cornering her by the spa.

“Go ahead Rob Lowe,” she said, happy and breathless.

“All right, but it has to be a secret.” I said.

“Ok. Promise," she said catching her breath and pausing, "Rob, if I were older would you go out with me. Like real old, like 25?”

“No, and stay on track. Ok, I want you to tell me about Lindsey.”

She looked at me and smiled.

“This is about the bet.”

“What?” I answered.

“The bet you and my dad were talking about. Outside. I was listening.”

“Hey, don’t your parents teach you about private conversations?”

“Yea, but it was fun. I think you can. My mom thinks you can too, but she thinks it’s a bad idea.”

“What the F-,” I said, stopping myself.

I took a breath.

“How does your mom know?”

“I heard my dad telling her about it. He said it was your idea.”

“That scoundrel. Hmm, your dad double-crossed me.” I said, amused by his play.

“You’re fucked, Rob.” She said, blankly.

“Hey, watch the mouth. You’re like 15. You kiss your Strawberry Shortcake with that mouth.”

“I kiss a lot of things with it.”

“Ok, this conversation is over. Your family has absolutely no degree of privacy,” I said, almost as an aside.

Jamie walked away, smiling, “No one drives that car but him. Not me, not mom, and not you Rob Lowe, my dad is making sure of that.”

“Jamie, I have an idea. But I need your help.”

“Will it get back at my dad?”

“I hope so,” I said.

"Count me in."

And we walked away to plot our triple cross. This was going to be some poker game.

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