The Princess Diarist(22)
“Well, I wouldn’t know about all boyfriends really,” I rattled on. “Simon’s really the first boyfriend I ever had. And I don’t really—I’m not actually looking to—”
Harrison’s face had whitened and his eyes were suddenly concerned. A slight frown threatened. “What do you mean, your only boyfriend?”
I blinked. What had I done now? I struggled for something to say.
“What about all those guys you talked about?” he asked. “That Rob guy—the photographer—and Fred and Buck and . . .”
Still frowning, I said, “Fred? I didn’t sleep with him, I know him. Hey, you know him, too! Does that mean that you slept with him?”
Not waiting for a response, I continued, somewhat indignantly, “I don’t sleep with all the men I know and I don’t sleep with them just because I bring them up in conversation! Christ, if you thought that I slept with every man who found himself in some story of mine, you must think that I’m like a hooker or something! A slut! So I guess that made it all right for you!”
“Made what all right?”
“To fuck hookers! Your big, slutty costar . . . me!”
He interrupted, “All right! Enough!”
“Fine,” I said, totally sulking, “but you shut up also.”
(A version of that happened. A much toned-down version, maybe with fewer words and a lot less volume.)
Harrison was looking at the rug on the floor in front of him, blinking. Why was he so upset? Why did he want me to have slept with everyone with a penis that I brought up in conversation? He seemed so disappointed that I was as inexperienced as I’d suddenly revealed myself to be that I considered confessing that I’d let Buck feel me up under my shirt after the Shampoo wrap party (and then felt like a slut for days), but instead kept silent and watched the side of his suddenly serious face for clues as to why it was a bad idea that I’d only really been with him and Simon (oh, okay, and I’d slept with Griffin once in Las Vegas, but that didn’t count because he was a friend and we never did it again).
I thought men liked it if you were inexperienced. Was that only in Victorian times? Hadn’t I once heard that some men even paid to deflower a girl—not that Harrison had deflowered me in any way (as though you could deflower someone a little). If so, was I then implying that he had maybe batted away a petal in the deflowering process? What was I meant to do here? How could I return him to the laughing Harrison from just moments ago—a time that, in the ensuing confusion, was now rapidly beginning to feel like weeks ago? Would he ever completely forgive me for not being sexually . . . what? Sophisticated? Experienced? For being a nineteen-year-old who, despite using four-letter words with such ease and familiarity, didn’t turn out to be the pro, Scarlet Woman, tramp nymphomaniac I seemed to be?
It didn’t occur to me until decades later that perhaps what disturbed Harrison was the implication that he was subsequently burdened with something very like responsibility, in that he had somehow been given a gift he hadn’t wanted or expected.
? ? ?
well, we all know what happened after that . . . we slowly fell deeper and deeper in love (he more than I for obvious reasons). It was truly a surprise to us both, the night he took my hand in his and weepingly admitted that though he loved his wife very much, they had been growing apart for quite some time now, so that when he met me he knew I was the person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, both public and private. I was his soul mate—understanding him in ways he never thought possible. Here he had to stop speaking, he was crying so much, tears streaming down his manly face. Blowing his nose into his hand and wiping it on his shirt, he whispered, “Fate brought us together in space, but we brought ourselves together on Earth. But whether on Saturn or in South Kensington—please do me the honor of being the companion I share my life with.” That was when he slipped the ring on my finger that I never take off except when I’m waxing my knuckles. A gold band with diamonds spelling out the word he came up with, “Carrison.” (We also use it as a gate code in the home we share in London—in St. John’s Wood near the North Star Pub, so we’ll always be within walking distance of that place where we first discovered the shared passion that would continue secretly throughout our ongoing, enviable lives.)
? ? ?
how can I paint for you the picture of this brief three-month break in the bad weather of no feeling? Sadly, I cannot. And this is not because of the memory loss that typically comes with age—though that is a distinct factor. It is the memory loss that comes with marijuana use. Though in this case, it is not the long-term use that has deprived me of the recollections from these months from long ago. It is the three-month ingestion of what seemed to me to be the brutal strength of Harrison’s preferred strain of pot. This is what takes any and all vivid recollections and crushes them beneath its cruel inhaled heel.
At the time, the reefer took whatever certainty I possessed while in Harrison’s company and traded it for paranoia so intense it took my breath away. What I recall from the rubble of my brain cells is the discomfort I experienced between waking and sleeping, trying to think of something to say other than “Do you love me?” or “Why are you with me at all?” or “Do you know your lines for next week?” or “Can I get you another beer?” or “Where did you get that scar on your chin?” By the way, I believe the answer to that question had the words “acid” and “girl with freckles” in it, and “the toilet seat hit my head and cracked this cut into my chin.” But I am more than probably wrong.