Unwifeable(56)

It is an incredibly strange experience to act out a comedic vision of what happened.

“I . . . fucked two Italian pilots last night,” I say to Marc, and by way of reasoning say I was pissed he wouldn’t confirm on Facebook that he was in a relationship with me. “But I was thinking about you.”

“Well, that’s very flattering,” Marc says. “So let me get this straight. When did this happen? Was I sleeping? Was it before I came over? Did you shower?”

“Oh,” I say.

“Well, that’s great,” he says. “That’s really . . . that’s classy. It’s coincidental, because I have to meet an entire Swedish flight crew. And I’m going to now confirm the relationship with you is not only over, I’m going to say, ‘Fuck her.’ That is: Mandy. And then in my status bar, I’m going to say, ‘For fucking two Italian pilots at me.’ Because that’s what you did. You’re basically, you’re like, ‘Look, two cocks. Bye!’?”

During the course of several hours of filming, we shoot various establishing shots to set the scene of him as my fictional boyfriend, so we pretend to cook in my kitchen, hang out in the living room, and then “pretend” to fool around on my bed.

“That was really hot,” I text him after he leaves.

“It was,” he texts back, and we make plans for me to cab out to Queens.

I’m a little intoxicated when I arrive, but I listen to him tell me all about this new podcast he is trying to get off the ground called WTF.

When we go into Marc’s bedroom, we are able to continue what we started at my apartment earlier. The sex is fun, and at one point, still a little drunk, I say in my best sexy voice, “Slap me.”

He obliges.

Marc and I keep in touch over text (he says I am “adorable for a toughie”) and on Facebook he sends me links to articles like “Love in the Time of Darwinism: A Report from the Chaotic Postfeminist Dating Scene” and “The ‘Menaissance’ and Its Dickscontents.”

He asks if I’d ever want to grab a meal, but I’m more interested in the sex. Depending on what or when I message him, he asks, “Are you drunky?” He’s been sober for years, I know, but I guess he’s used to dealing with train wrecks like me.

When he does come over again, however, I’m stone-cold sober.

During sex, he repeats what I asked him to do last time—he slaps me.

“What the fuck?” I say.

He gives me a look straight out of Curb Your Enthusiasm that says, No good?

Then I remember.

“Oh, right, because I asked you to do that before,” I say. “Sorry, I guess I fuck differently when I’m not wasted.”

We talk about comedy a little bit after, and he says of me, “I think you’re funny when you don’t know it.”

Which makes me feel the opposite of good, but whatever. He’s probably right.

After sex, he peaces out, but I get a knock on the door a few minutes later.

“Yeah?” I ask.

“I think I . . .” he says, and comes into the bedroom and picks something up off the ground.

“Wow,” I say. “You fucked your AA chip out. That’s pretty good.”

After he leaves, I follow up on something I’d mentioned I would do, and I email Lazlow from Grand Theft Auto, introducing him to Marc about podcast tech stuff.

Marc replies, “Thanks, stud. Nice of u. Nauseous in cab now. Great bein with u.”

I don’t feel like a stud at all. Well, maybe when I don’t know it.



* * *




ONE THING I am certain of: Nothing is off the table anymore.

Who knows—maybe I’m a lesbian?

After meeting a charismatic psychic named Adi, I spend a long, stoney weekend with her. If anything, she makes me appreciate just how hard it is to make a woman come.

But the next morning when I sober up, I tell Adi the bad news: As much as I enjoyed all the nonbinary fluidity, I just don’t think I’m gay.

This inspires Adi to freestyle a song about me: “You wake up in the morning, and you tell me you’re not gay But you’re touching and you’re teasing like you really want to play Experience Girl Experience Girl In it for the experience / Experience Girl.”

She has me dead to rights.

Not too long after, I run into an S&M couple, Edward and Elizabeth, I once interviewed for research on a story about kink. They make me an offer I can’t refuse.

“We’re going to pick up some coke,” Edward says. “Wanna join?”

Cocaine is something I’ve never done before, and I know exactly where it leads. But I just don’t care anymore.

Back at my place, Edward unloads a bag filled with $2,000 worth of S&M gear—giant dildos, collars, and sundry sex toys—for a porn shoot they are doing the next day. Then he rolls up a twenty-dollar bill, metes out several lines on my Green Day Dookie CD, and says, “Welcome to hell.”

The first three lines I snort hit me immediately. I want it all. I can’t get enough. It’s like every doubt I’ve ever had about myself is gone. I can do no wrong. I am unstoppable. I fucking love cocaine.

“I should totally write about this night for this HBO show I’m going to do,” I say, talking a mile a minute, grabbing my computer and pulling up my Spinster “concept” document.