My phone beeps with an incoming text around 7:30 PM.
The question: Do I want to go to Rock The Cause’s Valentine’s Day bash with a hunka burnin’ love?
Of course I do! But is this a good idea, to put myself face-to-face with temptation while I'm upset with The Baconator over his lackluster courtship?
ME: OK. What the hell.
HIM: Suggested 50’s attire—red n black, in case u care.
ME: I can do red and black but my clothes are all early 90s :)
HIM: Ha—it’s no bigs.
When I walk through the door of “The Mansion of Love”, the man checking my ID says, “You were here on Halloween, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I was,” I say. “I’m surprised you recognize me, especially since I was in costume!”
“It’s the lips,” he says. “You have a memorable mouth.”
“Oh, jeez,” I say. “You’re going to make me blush!”
(I haven’t been complimented in a long time. Can you tell?)
I abandon my coat atop a liquor fridge and head toward the main stage area. On the way, I’m “recognized” by several people who have to re-introduce themselves because I can’t remember who they are or when we met. Have I been MIA from my own social life that long?
“Hey!” I say, when I spot the man of the hour. He’s dressed in a white T-shirt and jeans, looking adorably grubby. His hair is darker than I remember and his beard is impressive. (Another dude even congratulates him on it later in the evening. You know why beards are sexy? ‘Cause only guys with lots of testosterone can grow ‘em! It’s true.)
He beams and hugs me.
“It’s been way too long,” I say.
“How are you?” he asks.
I sigh and smile that “I know you know but I’m going to pretend everything’s okay” smile. I suspect he’s been reading at least one of my blogs, ‘cause his invitation couldn’t have been better timed.
“I’m okay,” I say with a shrug.
He gives me the once over.
“You’re right, those are early 90’s,” he says, referring to my tight red tank with lace collar, tight black sweater with lace back, and tight slit skirt. (Did I mention they were tight?)
“Gee, thanks,” I say.
“I mean, they’re classic. Timeless.”
He's totally lying to me. I don't mind. It feels good. I need all the reassurance I can get. I’m afraid my mojo has been waning lately. Or rather, I’m worried that The Baconator has become immune to it. I know I’m still sexy. It would just be nice if someone else noticed it.
“Is today Valentine’s Day?” he asks after a swig of his beer.
I give him the “Are you retarded?” look. He’s not kidding.
“Is it February 12th or February 14th?” he asks.
I flash the retard look again.
“Well, I saw hearts hanging from the ceiling at Target the other day, so I figured it was time to buy a card.”
“You did not.”
“I wish I had a better story, but that’s about how it went down,” he says.
Wow. Is this Valentine’s Day apathy encoded on the Y chromosome or what?! Suddenly, The Baconator’s resistance doesn’t seem so severe; at least he knows the date on which he’s supposed to disappoint me!
“I gave it to her on Friday,” my companion continues, referring to his S.O. “Just to be safe.”
I suppose you want to know who the mystery dude is, don’t you readers?
Drum roll please...
It was Casey Call. Yup, my buddy and former “boss” from Pictures of Then.
I could try to write the rest of the evening with an aura of innuendo as if something sexual *might* occur, but let’s be real. Casey’s hot, I’m hot, but together…um…not so much. I totally clam up around him, especially since I’ve been off the scene for so long. He knows more people than I do now in any given context. He’s the one schmoozing and introducing me to people.
Besides, both Casey and I are artists, which means even if we met in some alternate universe and were both single, it’d never work in the real world. The bills would never get paid, both of us would be insomniac and moody, he’d drink too much beer and I’d eat too much chocolate. It would be a disaster.
But let me repeat: he’s attached. As, technically, am I (until The Baconator or I decide otherwise…but we’ll get to that…). So while a little somethin' somethin' is what my devilsh twin would’ve fantasized about, in reality, I'm grateful to have Casey as a platonic friend. The fact that he’s easy on the eyes is awesome, too, but that’s not why I like spending time with him. He makes me laugh with his deadpan humor and unedited lewdness.
Speaking of which, within ten minutes, the talk turns dirty. When I join in his conversation circle with the drummer from The Icy Shores and a booking agent, it’s all about who has the biggest...um...instrument (Casey, or so he says), where he wants to put it in (not the back door), what toy is the most fun to play with (Rickenbaker) and which cupcakes rocks his world (red velvet applesauce).
“Are you glad you came?” Casey asks me during a break in conversation.
Had I been on top of my game, I would’ve said, “I haven’t yet!" with a wink wink nudge nudge. Instead I say, genuinely, “Yes. I really needed to get out.”
Joe Gamble (a.k.a. Pictures of Then guitarist and the life of any party) soon arrives.
“Have you met the blogger?” Gamble asks a musician we’re chatting with. He waves his vodka in my direction. “She will blog the shit out of this event.”
“Casey and I were just saying how charming you are,” I tell Gamble. “But you’re so unorganized. If only you could get your act together, you’d have it all!”
“I’m not perfect,” he says. “But don’t tell my wife that.”
“Yeah, ‘cause I’m sure she hasn’t realized it yet.”
“She hasn’t!” Gamble insists. He leans in and wiggles his eyebrows at me. “'Cause I’m really good in bed.”
I nod in that “Uh-huh, riiiight” way.
“I am,” he says.
Gamble swivels his pelvis suggestively at me. In his black tux and ruffled red satin shirt, he looks beyond ridiculous. He’s clearly several drinks in already.
“Don’t aim that thing at me!” I say, putting my hands out to block whatever crotch vibes he's sending my way.
“It’s powerful.”
“I know,” I say (having just found out his wife is pregnant). “And I don’t need anymore babies.”
It’s at this exact moment that two chicks in front of us turn around, wide-eyed.
“I know you heard that conversation,” Gamble says to them. They confirm they did. Every. Single. Word. Somebody shoot me now.
Embarrassment aside, it’s good to see and be seen. I only get hit on once (WTF?!), though I’m going to blame (or thank?) Casey for that. As I explained to him earlier, he has an intimidating aura. It’s part of the reason why I’ve held off on bringing The Baconator to any of the Pictures of Then gigs. Case(y) in point: we’re watching Alicia Wiley singing her intense, soulful tunes in the V.I.P. room. It's packed to the gills and it's sweltering. When Casey retreats to the W.C., a man inches up to me and semi-yells something in my ear.
“Do you know her name?” he asks, pointing at the stage.
“Alicia Wiley,” I say.
He compliments the performance and I add something equally uninventive like “Yeah, she’s awesome.”
“And what’s your name?” he asks.
I tell him, but the walls are up. My body language is not inviting any attention, even if my outfit is. As far as pick-ups go, this one is really awkward. The guy is standing so close to me I swear I can practically hear the gears in his brain squeaking as he tries to think of what to say next.
Saved by the rock star. Casey emerges from the bathroom wearing the biggest, most ridiculous pair of sunglasses ever.
“Oh my God,” I say. Neither Casey nor I can keep a straight face. We start giggling. The guy standing to next to me? Poof! Gone.
So, as you can see, Casey Call is the ultimate cock-blocker. (Perhaps this fact would reassure, instead of concern, The Baconator!)
I stay through Alicia Wiley’s set and most of The Melismatics, but by 11:30 PM, I’m ready for bed. (The Baconator’s early-to-bed, early-to-rise routine has rubbed off on me.)
I head home and check my email before going to sleep. Saturday night seems like an odd time to receive good news, but that’s how creative people work. Like dominoes, suddenly everything I’ve been waiting on to move forward does. I’ve received good news on two job opportunities and the Man Eater book is finally available on Amazon!
Lucrative opportunities for me to refocus my literary and culinary energies and a segueway to stop blogging are what I’ve been longing for. I feel relieved…but oddly, not happy...because I don't have anyone to share it with.
I want to text The Baconator but I don’t want to initiate contact, either. I’m stuck in that “I have to withhold” place again. Ugh.
I go to bed, sans gush session, and the next morning I awake to bright sunshine, 40-degree temps, and the feeling that a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I feel so fulfilled and grateful for all the good things happening in my life...but there's still that lack of excitement 'cause things aren't right with The Baconator.
Is it possible, I wonder, that I overreacted to The Baconator’s recent mood shifts? Could it be that I misinterpreted what he has already attributed to pre-travel and pre-V-Day stress? Maybe I just need to get back to yoga (I’ve cut back to spend time with The Baconator); maybe I need more fresh air and sunshine; maybe I need to know I still have friends—and that I’m capable of hanging out with them without feeling like I’m doing something “wrong”. Whatever it is that’s going on, I know I don’t want to lose The Baconator. On the contrary; I can’t wait to share this giddy sensation of achievement with him.
I go for a run to contemplate all this, and when I return, there’s a message from The Baconator congratulating me on the book. As for my most recent post? "Boo" is all he says.
“I’m so ready to stop blogging,” I tell him in my reply. “I bet you are, too.”
I don’t regret writing the T.G.I.Friday's post, but it did leave a bitter taste in my mouth. I think The Baconator is afraid of how he’ll be interpreted on the blog, so he’s choosing to withdraw instead. I don’t blame him. Situations and feelings are so fleeting, but what I write about them is permanently scrawled on the interwebs. It’s not easy being so exposed. I feel somewhat inoculated to it, perhaps in part because I’m “in control” of what gets put out there and in part because I’ve been putting it out there for so long.
I once told The Baconator that if it came down to my having to choose between him and the blog, I would choose him, no question. I think our relationship is in a precarious state at the moment and while he’d never ask me to keep quiet (well, except for the V-Day events that he’s asked I not share), having a real-time play-by-play of our relationship is not helping matters.
That’s a long and drawn out way of saying: I’m ready to close the Man Eater chapter of my life for good (besides the book plugs, of course!). Whilst rereading some posts from 2009 over the past few weeks, I see how much I’ve changed. It’s time to reinvent myself…and it’s time to reinvest myself in what I really want and need, which is a private relationship.
As I write this now, I’m getting ready for my V-Day date with The Baconator. Yes, to take the pressure off him, I made the plans…and I’m the only one who knows what they are. How’s that for secret keeping? It’s a start.
And this is my way of saying “The End”. Thank you, readers, for sticking with me for the past year-and-a-half. I will leave the archives on here for the time being (though I must admit, I have removed many posts that were incongruent with the new image I’m trying to project). I will also continue to blog PG, recipe-related posts, on the Crazy Sexy Delicious site. And, as always, you can (and should) order Man Eater: Seductive Stories and Mouthwatering Meals on Amazon so you can get your erotic food writing hit whenever you need it!
I don’t know what the future will bring, my dahlings; all I know for sure is that it's bound to be delicious!
xoxoxxx,
Man Eater
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