Humble Sex Pie

AK
AK
Jul 27, 2017 · 14 min read

This is an unfortunately true story about having no shame.

We met at a sushi place. Instantly, I knew I liked him. He was shorter than advertised, closer to 5’4” than 5’8”, which is what he had claimed in his online dating profile. He walked with his chest ever so slightly puffed out, and this posturing, combined with the maroon knit beanie that he wore to strategically add an inch or two of extra length above his head, created the illusion of a stature which in reality he did not possess.

But I didn’t mind this slight deception. In fact, I found myself to be very attracted to him. Maybe it was his kind, Caribbean blue-green eyes or his husky, I-just-rolled-out-of-bed voice. Maybe it was the way he described his near-transcendent experience with reading David Foster Wallace, or the way he spoke unabashedly about having not one but two therapists, to offer differing perspectives. All I know is that sitting at the counter, nervously sipping cold sake while skilled sushi chefs sliced slabs of ice cold fish with the grace and precision of Olympic ice skaters, I felt an excitement in my belly that I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Glancing at the menu, he murmured, I usually like to order omakase.

Omakase…omakase…There may have been a time in my former life as a college-aged waitress at a struggling Japanese restaurant in Westwood, Los Angeles when I knew this word, but it had since escaped me. I was silent.

Do you like omakase? He asked.

Another pause.

Yeah, omakase is fine, I said, my voice jumping a few octaves above normal. I didn’t want to admit that I didn’t know what omakase was. It turns out, omakase is plate upon plate of whatever divine combination of ingredients and flavors that the chefs feel like creating, and it was utterly delicious, every bite and flavor amplified by the instant chemistry between us that our initial meeting had conjured.

He had parked closer to the restaurant than I had, so after dinner he insisted on driving me back to my car, which I perceived to be a calculated attempt to get me in a confined space and increase the likelihood of facilitating some sort of physical encounter.

Ever since I had entered myself into the adult dating pool of Los Angeles, I had implemented a rule that I wouldn’t kiss anyone on the first date. The idea of it made me too nervous and felt like too much social pressure, especially since most of the time, after a first date, my impulse was to flee and never see or talk to the guy again, not lean in close for an intimate exchange of lips, tongue, and spit.

As we approached my car, the unspoken weight of what would happen set in on me. I had agreed to go on a date with him on one condition — that if, at the end of the excursion, either one of us felt that it wasn’t a good fit, we would immediately express that to the other person, and then we could both walk away with no hurt feelings. I knew he liked my proposition; he had said it was refreshing. I also knew that this time, neither of us wanted to walk away. Still, I became nervous as we reached the final moments of our first night together, and felt the need to control the situation.

So look, I said. I really don’t like to kiss people on the first date, so please don’t try to do that.

He laughed at me, seemingly surprised and perhaps pleased by my straightforwardness. We were now parked in front of my car. His pretty eyes bore into mine, and I felt both his desire and restraint. Okay, that’s fine. I’ll wait as long as you want. But if possible I’d really like to see you again. Would that be okay?

Yes.

For our second date we met at La Mill in Silver Lake. From there, we walked to the Reservoir and laid in the grassy meadow while small children played around us, careful not to stray too far from their hipster mothers and fathers, with their immaculate, fresh-from-the-farmers-market picnic spreads. It was spring, and everything was blossoming, beautiful, and alive. Staring up at the fluffy, floating clouds, I fantasized about the possible future life that might develop with my unexpected new love interest.

He used our grass-laying as an opportunity to get physically closer, making several attempts to hold my hand, which I coquettishly declined, stating I wasn’t quite ready for that yet. He told me about how he planned to retire in Costa Rica, how his future daughter’s name would be Ruby, and how he could hold his breath underwater for six minutes, which I found doubtful. On the walk back from the park, I gave in and let him hold my hand. This early-stage intimacy felt strange, but also nice.

Several dates later, things were still going well. His name was Drew. He was a 33-year-old real estate developer. In other words, he was rich as fuck (making over $500,000 per year, according to his online dating profile, but then again, he had already been guilty of hyperbole with his height, so who really knows), and seemed to enjoy spending his money on taking me out to eat and drink at swanky restaurants. Being gifted with lavish dinners by a gainfully employed man who had both his own apartment and car was not something I had ever experienced before, as my last boyfriend had been actually homeless for much of our five-year, coming-of-age relationship. This represented a pleasant change of pace, and I was adjusting well to the traditional, heteronormative adult courtship ritual of being wined and dined by a male suitor.

One thing I had observed about Drew since we’d been dating is that the beanie that he wore almost every time I saw him likely served not one but two purposes: The first was to add height, but the second was to hide the true state of his head, which was showing early signs of male pattern baldness. I found his bald spots to be endearing. His hair reminded me of that of a sweet baby chick, and even with his dwarfishness and early-onset hair loss, the man had an undeniable confidence, which was what made him so sexy to me.

Where did this confidence come from? I hypothesize it came from two places: Number one, his blatant wealth and entrepreneurship. Number two, his unexpectedly large dick, the girth of which thus far I had only held in my hand, because I had insisted on taking it slow. To date, it’s the most massive penis I’ve ever encountered, and I think that’s truly what made him so cocky, corny pun very much intended.

Drew was also kind of a bad boy. The sort of guy who would park in a no parking zone for us to go to dinner because it was simply closer and more convenient.

But what if you get a ticket, I would ask nervously.

Who cares?

Drew did not abide by the law. One day I walked into his house and he had a bunch of neatly pressed twenty dollar bills and a few literal handfuls of cocaine lying on an antique mirror tray, perched atop his mid-century coffee table. I had friends over this past weekend, he explained nonchalantly, with a slight shrug. You want some?

I felt Drew was perfect future husband material. I liked the way he called me “Kid” because I was six years younger than him. I liked the way his worn in t-shirts had small holes in them due to a slight moth infestation. He was dynamic, and it felt like he was a true equal on an intellectual and emotional level, plus we were a 96% match on OkCupid. I mean, when you have all that, who cares about a possible drug problem?

But then one night, things changed. We had plans to go to dinner the same place he had taken me for our first date. He was going to pick me up at my house in Mid-City at six, but by six-thirty he still hadn’t shown up. Finally, I got a text from him saying he was stuck at work and would be late. He seemed genuinely apologetic, but I felt somehow slighted and like my time hadn’t been respected. I responded with something passive aggressive, asking him to please not make me wait too long, because I was hungry.

Eventually, he showed up and I got in his car, but something had shifted. The conversation felt forced. Time moved painfully slowly, and while we didn’t address it directly, tension was running thick. We ate our omakase, but this time it didn’t taste as sweet, and I excused myself half way through our dinner to go to the restroom. Looking at myself in the mirror, I couldn’t help but wonder (shout out to Carrie Bradshaw), what the fuck was going on? I took a few deep breaths and returned. Maybe I was just imagining things.

We got in his car to drive back to my place, and he put a song on his stereo. It was one he knew I did not like.

I don’t really like this song, do you mind if we listen to something else?

And that’s when he lost it. Why does it always have to be about you and what you want? Why can’t it ever be about me? I have needs too!

Taken aback, I tried to regroup and hear him out. Maybe I overstepped my bounds with the radio thing. I’m sorry, I said, let’s talk about it.

I don’t want to talk about it.

We were now parked in front of my apartment, and his engine was still running. I knew in that moment I was losing him, but I was going to do everything in my power to stop the casualty from occurring.

Please, just come inside.

I don’t think that’s a good idea.

I put my hand on his arm and pleaded earnestly.

Okay, he finally said.

We talked for a while on my couch. I don’t remember everything that was said, but he essentially expressed that he had decided we would never work because “we can’t bullshit one another” and “are too alike.” He wanted, no needed, me to agree with him, but I wouldn’t.

No. I think there is good stuff here and we should work through this, I argued. I don’t want a partner who can bullshit me. The fact that we can’t is a good thing.

Well. You’re braver than me, he said.

Why are men often capable of such cowardice? That is a question I still have to this day.

Drew pulled his beanie off his head and ran his hands through his sparse peach fuzz hair, something he did when he was stressed or thinking deeply. Then he said with a sigh, why can’t you just have more levity?

From there I only had one move left. One more play. Slowly, I started unbuttoning his shirt. In the breath between our sensual kisses, he tried to verbally resist me, but his body responded otherwise.

I don’t think we should do this.

You said you wanted more levity, I whispered, as I grabbed his hand and pulled him back towards my bedroom.

Then, of course, we had sex. It was animalistic and intense. In that time, I gave him all of myself. He aggressively thrusted himself inside of me, the sweat of both of our bodies mixing together into one liquid form. We both came, and then, ever so unfortunately, with his penis still hard and inside of me, I burst into tears.

I couldn’t stop crying. It was the ugly kind of crying. Now we were covered in a special blend of sweat, cum, and tears, and he made efforts to comfort me by embracing me and telling me it was going to be okay.

I’m sorry, I kept saying, between sobs.

As soon as my crying subsided though, he sprung up out of bed and put his jeans back on, preparing to leave.

What are you thinking? I asked. Every man’s favorite question.

I don’t even know how to feel about any of this, he said. Naked, I followed him as he walked down the stairs of my entry way. He gazed at me wearily and kissed me on the cheek before shutting the door behind him. When the door closed, I collapsed on the stairs and formed a fresh puddle of tears around me. The sounds of my wailing echoed through my empty house.

In the days that followed, I tried to process what had happened. At first I thought he had been the one to blame. Then I decided it was me. I realized I had to take accountability for my part of this clusterfuck, and I wanted to clear the air. The timing could not have been worse in that he was preparing to leave that weekend for Coachella. I reached out with a text to ask if I could see him before he left. At first he said yes, and then he said no, things were just too crazy with him getting ready to leave…Nevertheless, I kept trying.

But I can come to you. Wherever you are. I’ll leave work right now.

Let’s just wait until I get back on Monday. I’ll be less distracted.

Reluctantly, I conceded. While he was gone that weekend, I bought a beta fish. I named him Levity, because fish float, and I thought I was being clever. I took a picture and texted it to him.

Drew, meet Levity.

Minutes later, I saw the message had been Read, but as the hours passed and then the days, there was no reply. I tried not to take it personally, knowing he was likely just obliterated on drugs — a victim of bad cell reception and desert dehydration — and I took comfort in knowing I would see him the following Monday.

On Sunday, I decided it would be a good idea if I baked him a pie, as a sort of Sorry-I-Fucked-Up gesture.

PLEASE DON’T make him a pie. You really didn’t do anything wrong, one friend had begged me when I told her my plan. But I didn’t listen.

Instead, I found a recipe online, went and bought a beautiful, overpriced glass pie dish, and painstakingly baked him a coconut cream pie from scratch, because he had told me once that it was his favorite.

That night, I practiced what I would say to him. I even conceptualized an interpretive dance inspired by Ryan Heffington’s Sia music video choreography, to show him how I felt. But Monday mid-day rolled around, and I still hadn’t heard from him. Reaching peak levels of attachment anxiety, I decided to reach out:

Hey. So I know you may be in a very delicate post-Coachella state, but I really want to see you tonight so I’m going to come over. You just tell me whenever is good for you, and I’ll be there…sound okay?

Again, no reply. A few hours pass. Ever known for my tenacity, I persisted.

So…is the no-reply meant to be read as ‘bitch, leave me alone’ or ‘I just need some space/time’ or maybe something else I’m not picking up on? I have spent the last six days developing a speech for you, so I’m really hoping you’ll hear me out…

Finally, he replies, I absolutely will. I’m just fried. Brain no worky. Just later in the week, please.

Okay, but the pie I made you last night is going to go bad so just know it’s the thought that counts…

Hahaha. Thanks, darlin. It could keep until tomorrow, no?

Note to the reader — I know. You’re cringing. I am too. But it’s about to get a lot worse. Tuesday night, I ended up going to his house. I put on a cute crop top and tousled my hair beforehand, attempting to look effortlessly sexy (a friend will later say to me, Girl, literally nothing about this story is effortless).

Humble pie in hands, I walked up his stairs to find him in the fetal position on his couch, still appearing to have the post-Coachella blues. I presented him with the pie and sat down next to him. We hugged for a moment.

Look, I said, one hand placed delicately on my heart, the other over his. I really care about you. Last week, I just got really scared of getting hurt, and my defenses went up and I reacted poorly. I think that we can grow and learn a lot from each other. I know what I want, I’ve thrown my ego out the door, and I’m sorry. I will respect whatever you decide, but if you’re open to this, I’d like to see where this goes.

Thanks for saying that, he said. Long pause. I need to think about it.

His response came as a genuine surprise. I had imagined that the pie and speech would have been a slam dunk, and by this time we would be having joyful make up sex and rubbing creamy coconut pie filling all over our bodies and licking it off of each other’s sticky limbs. But so far he hadn’t so much as offered me a slice, and now he needed time to think?

Okay, I said. Well, just let me know.

In a state of confusion and disbelief, I left. Driving home, I realized that in the heat of the moment, I had forgotten a lot of what I had planned to say, along with failing to launch into the interpretive dance segment of my performance. I texted him while stalled on the freeway to tell him this realization, and thank him for hearing me out. Until we do or don’t meet again, I concluded.

Wish I’d had more to say. Still just super tired, is all he replies.

Most guys are assholes. They just are. But sometimes you don’t realize it when you’re in it with them. A week passes. Then another. No word from Drew. I decided I couldn’t wait any longer.

Hey Drew, I know you told me you needed time to think but at this point I would appreciate if you could tell me if you’re still taking time to think, or if you’ve drawn some conclusions. Can we meet for coffee to talk? If you don’t want to, that’s okay, but please just tell me rather than leave me wondering whether or not you got my message. I still care for you. Hope you’re well.

Message: Read. But he never wrote back.

You would think at that point I would have thrown in the towel and would have walked away with what little dignity I might have had left. But I was the little lovelorn engine that could. I decided if text messages weren’t working, I would go old-school romance on this bitch. I would write him a hand-written letter and put it in the mail.

A good friend who is an art therapist coached me through what to say. We decided it would be best if I kept it brief and somewhat airy:

Dear Drew, If you should ever change your mind about this, I hope you’ll give me a call. I can’t promise where I’ll be in life, but it would be nice to hear from you. Until then, take care.

We all know how this story ends. I never heard from him again. And I never got back my pie dish. Levity, my fish, died shortly thereafter. One day I walked into my dining room, and he was floating upside down in his bowl, the vibrant rainbow luster of his body replaced by a lifeless gray.

I don’t look back on these events and feel ashamed, however. Instead, I feel proud that I took myself to the limits of vulnerability and fought for something I believed in. Was I unstable and deranged at times? Absolutely. Did I act without pride? You bet. But I needed to go through that dizzying experience to understand why I will never put myself in that sort of disempowered role again.

I don’t bake pie for boys who don’t deserve pies anymore. I don’t chase people who don’t want me, or take ownership for all of the blame and weight of something that doesn’t work out, when it was more than just me who was involved. And if for any reason something is not a fit, then I respectfully let it go. When it’s meant to be, it will be.

The word levity literally means lightness. There are places one can go for something light; there are modifications that can be made: substitute with skim milk, egg whites, apple sauce…maybe some artificial sweetener, instead of the real thing. But I am the butter, the sugar, the salt, and the cream. If you can’t handle the richness of these flavors, then please get out of my kitchen.

AK

AK

Just a girl in LA, figuring it out.

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