Dimming the Neon Sign: A Lesson on Wanting it Less and Getting it More

Its eight o’clock on a Saturday night and my roommate James and his buddy Brett are pre-gaming in the kitchen. They have the whole night ahead of them and yet the tone in the room is that of impending doom. I sit down to join them for a drink and James asks: “So what have you got planned for tonight?”

“Oh you know, some drinks, some sex, the usual,” I say with a smirk. I'm already in a relationship so getting laid is a no brain-er for me.

“I fucking hate you.” Brett says.

For single men and women in their twenties, a night out poses the same possibilities of excitement that Disney Land does for a five year old. Like the climb up Space Mountain, the thrills that a drunken genital collision have to offer are bountiful and if one bar doesn’t have what you want there’s always another around the bend. Unfortunately for this dynamic duo, their nights have been more like Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride: setting off to nowhere in particular, down a bumpy road where every journey ends in a deafening crash of comical destruction.

“How many drinks do I have to buy a girl for her to go home with me?” Brett asks no one in particular and James shrugs his shoulders taking another swig of whiskey.

I reach over and pour myself a glass and the feeling of the warm brown liquid coating my throat reminds me of a story….

It was winter and I’d thoroughly warmed myself up with a couple of hot totties at the Thirsty Crow in Silver lake. Me and a friend were drunk to the point of sexy pseudo lesbian dancing and possibly making out later, when I noticed a guy at the end of the bar staring at me. He was very cute but his stare was like a hawk zeroing in on its prey and it was giving me the creeps. Only moments later, the bartender waved an arm in my direction and handed me what I can only assume was a Jack and Coke.

“From the man at the end of the bar,” he said.

“No thanks,” I said

We resumed our dancing and though I thought I wasn’t interested I couldn’t help but make quick glances to see how my rebuttal had been received. The potentially creepy man seemed unmoved by my rejection and as I continued to casually keep tabs on him I eventually realized that he was not alone, in fact he had a gaggle of young girls and guys lingering close by that all seemed to know him. What had first appeared to be a man on a mission to get laid, ended up being a guy who didn’t need the company of a lady but had actually singled me out because he wanted me. He smiled and laughed, ordering a round for his group and I began to feel like the one being spurned. Slowly that sensation of creep repulsion began to blossom into fierce desire.

When Odysseus set sail on the high seas and got all those sexy witch ladies, did he bring along a single sailor? When Romeo went to the Capulette ball, was Mercutio his only plus one? 

Going out with a group is essential. Sure there’s the occasional hot loner who gives off the big dick gotta have’em vibe, but he’s a rarity. Having a group of friends with you is the best way to camouflage your true intentions and avoid looking desperate. Some may say that toting around an entourage can be intimidating to others, but if played correctly the high energy of having a large group around can provide the perfect opportunity to take that special someone by the hand and say: “Do you want to go somewhere we can talk?”

After our drink in the kitchen the boys go off, they mine as well be carrying a neon sign that says: Two Dudes Looking to Bone, and I settle in for a peaceful night. Hours later, I’m in post orgasm slumber when I wake up to the sound of ditzy giggles and heavy footsteps. I walk out into the hall to find Brett pacing the perimeter of James’s bedroom door. He stops and stands by like the bouncer of a club, just then James comes out to consult Brett.

“It’s not fair! I can’t believe this happened again!” Brett says.

“I know man, I know.” James shakes his head.

On the surface the odds seem like they could go in either guys favor: they’re both in peak physical shape, both intelligent, well dressed with fantastic sense of humor. But James is quieter than Brett, less extraverted and not as willing to go out of his way to make introductions. Brett, who appears to have an unending surplus of money, buys rounds like it’s the last day on earth while James sits back and watches. And in the end after Brett has put in all the muscle in hopes of getting that special muscle wet, it’s James who reaps the reward. His secret:

“I don’t even want her, I don’t even care,” James says.

Brett stamps his foot like a child, “This just doesn’t make any sense!”

Or does it?

On the quest for pussy, after all the misadventures and failed attempts, there comes a point where rejection sets you free. After getting enough doors slammed in your face, ambivalence begins to set in and that’s when things get interesting.

Now I have no clue how many times that guy at the Thirsty Crow had been shrugged off but the moment he gave off the air of giving up and not giving a fuck I wanted him. So I did what any drunk, horny liberated young woman would do: I danced more and more scandalously, edging my way towards his end of the bar until I bumped right into him, literally. I got him to buy me another drink, this time he wasn’t nearly as willing which only enticed me further, and we got to talking. By the end of the night I was ready to jump him. And then he asked if he could take me out sometime.

WHAT? HE DOESN’T WANT TO TAKE ME HOME NOW?

My mind was reeling; he was classy and restrained. He didn’t seem to even want to sleep with me. It was almost as if he was asking to go for coffee and get to know me like we were two virgins saving ourselves for Jesus.

I HAD TO HAVE HIM.

Every girl is constantly being ogled and sized up for sexing. We all walk around expecting you to try to get us naked and we’re both bored and sometimes even slightly repulsed by this. But when we come across a man who isn’t just looking for a warm willing body, we wanna throw ourselves at him; we wanna be pinned down and pummeled.

A patient man is the ultimate aphrodisiac.

Contractions

 

He can only hold me when he wants to.

This is how he was built and can’t I understand

he says don’t I know how much it hurts him;

his hands can’t make me shake and glisten:

“I just need you to wait and listen,” he said.

I remember my knees buckled and rug torn

his hands so soft, held ice cold heath bars

fixated by the chocolate at the corners of my mouth,

memorized my eyebrow hairs and begged me not to pluck the strays.

He plays music about lost love.

Don’t these siren songs come close to our silent meals:

clearing his plate he turns off the light

and I couldn’t force a cough for “I’m still seated here,”

but quickly he mutters “Oh, sorry dear,” and I am illuminated in his exit.

I recall a note he left to say “be back late dove,”

in his new found love of efficient cursive;

marveled at how the pen never lifted,

preferring the crisp index card to the soft bend of loose-leaf.

He shivers falling off the work horse.

Shouldn’t I be as pronounced in my weariness?

He laughs in his sleep, slaps the pillow like an old friend;

shouldn’t wake him but the smile startles the impulse to see his eyes green:

“Just something funny in my dream,” he hurries back to his inside joke I couldn’t- don’t- won’t hear.

I will never be able to consider its humor when he is gone.

Losing Wonderland

 

Oh Dinah,
you are nothing but candy kisses now
and I am too grown for daydreams.
The mind takes control once the training wheels are off,
and I lost you
after the last skip that skinned my knee.

We climbed through a jungle gym
disguised as a tropical island,
and I knew I was past my expiration date
when I couldn’t really see it.
My imagination floundered,
and your colors were lost on me.

I saw the Cheshire cat today,
what does he want?

In my dream we danced in our backyard,
but even your sweet steps could not suffice,
for I heard a rabbit say:
“I’m late- I’m late for a very important date.”
So I followed him down a well, through a row of doors
leading out to a forest filled with suits in shiny shoes,
juggling jobs like fists of flames
and deciphering life’s clues.
Men on stilts climbed ladders to reach promise in the trees,
and quiet girls traded in their pearls for firmer hearts of queens.
But I with no plans of my own
felt watered down by the landscape,
getting lost in the wilderness of choice.

I heard the Cheshire cat today,
what does he want?

Wandering on I came to the edge of an ocean;
feet sinking into wet sand,
I made love to idiot twins
letting them re-shape me with rough hands.
I slept in gardens with Mad Hatters and Hares
marching up and down my apron dress,
tattered and torn I faltered further
finding identity in carelessness.


Dinah my Dinah,
you used to say we’d dance forever if we could just hold on
long enough.

I met a caterpillar offering visions through smoke,
breathing in to find purpose
my lungs settled as he spoke
to a violet fog of daffodils singing a chorus of advice:
With the gift of decision comes the tag of sacrifice.

I almost caught the Cheshire cat today,
what does he want?

Oh Dinah,
I left you on the other side of the looking glass
long faced with somber eyes,
your silk black hair swaying in the distance.
I cannot recapture that image,
but the smell of confusion follows me everywhere.

Dear Cheshire cat,
I still don’t know the answer.

Moving on, I needed help
but none was offered,
so I trusted in myself Dinah;
and somehow through the chaos and hill climbs,
I saw the world again
through child eyes.
No longer innocent but still wide with a wiser view,
taking every problem as an adventure
without fear of the ground beneath me falling through.

Oh Dinah
I do miss you,
but the flowers still sing,
and the queen is still commanding her cards.
Things go on and on in this rabbit whole
so fast,
not even our skirts provide parachutes.
Some days I take the mushroom and I get big,
and sometimes I drink the liquid and I get small.
Either way, I know I will climb through the row of doors
and end up on the other side.
Either way, I know I will always lose you,
only to find myself again through your loss.

My Ex-Boyfriend was a Pair of Shoes

 

Your singing barcode banter:

like heels bought on a whim,

tight on the instep slick at the tip-

I thought I could get used to it.

Your dancing debt ensued overdraft

and I had to laugh,

"what an insane purchase" resumed from the past.

Still clip clop it never stops,

and I will polish them tomorrow,

another bought reversed to borrow,

every temptation climaxed in a re-gift;

never looked into the interest rates,

if only I had chosen to shoplift.

Your flashing electric advertising the next sale,

but the wearing- in ain’t worth it.

My unnecessary accessory;

a swipe I should have snubbed,

I will return you like so many

pairs of fancy one wear wonders,

hitting the street on calloused feet,

receipt in hand I dust your scuffed souls

thinking, "next time I'll buy something that keeps out the cold; "

invest in practical kicks for more than the rush of resist.

Yet a noble purchase is not easily one,

so I skip in new patent leather looking for pleasure

in the refund.

* Originally published at www.locustmagazine.com

Breaking Up for Dummies

 

 

Remember the days when we actually were forced to look that unlucky person in the face and say that abundantly common phrase: "We need to talk,”?

It was difficult to deal that devastating blow. No one likes to be the bad guy or gal. But mustering up the courage to break it off in person was once considered a vital part of growing up. This right of passage often coincided with other necessary happenings such as finally growing into your hips and testicle drop-page.

But now that we have emails, Facebook and cell phones, many people are skipping this landmark. These days we're so focused on ultra simplifying our world that all the uncomfortable banter and heartbreaking  "This just isn't working out' moments can be spoken without ever having to see the look on the other person's face or even hearing what they actually have to say in response.

With just a few clicks of a mouse you can go from "Relationship" to "Single" and bide your time until your now ex realizes they've been given the boot. You can tap out a few lines of incomplete sentences, top it off with a frowny face and tie off those loose ends in a neat little bow all from the comfort of your own home.

Breaking up has become easy enough that even an idiot should be able to do it. And yet even guys with full rides to fancy grad schools still haven't mastered the artful balance of honesty that comes with a straightforward: "I'm sorry, it's over."

So in an effort to aid those ladies and gents who can't commit and don't know how to pull off the band aid without taking out an eye in the process, I have compiled a small lists of Do's and Don't's. My own Breaking Up for Dummies, if you will.

The Dos (Not to be confused with doing it before you break it off because that is definitely a DON’T!)

1)    Do it quickly. This is not to say that you should be impulsive, I believe in a well thought out break up, but as soon as you know you need to let them know. Ignoring the problem will not make the unveiling any easier in the end.

2)    Be honest and let the other person yell at you for as long as they need to. You owe them this and you probably deserve it. If you don’t deserve it and he or she was actually abusive and undeserving of you, then this will be another reminder that you’re decision was healthy. And while they are screaming a laundry list of profanity you can silently pat yourself on the back and decide which bar you’ll be celebrating at later in the evening.

3)    Blame it on yourself. Yes the overused “It’s not you it’s me” is more overplayed than a “That’s what she said joke,” but there’s a reason for that: it works. Also it’s helpful to put it all on yourself because in a way. This is. Your fault. Think about it: You said yes to a date with this person, or even pursued getting a date with this person, blew your wad the first chance you could and didn’t really take the time to get to know the man or woman beyond the genitals.

OR….if you did take the time to get to know them and realized YOU were not right for THEM-EVEN IF THIS ISN’T TRUE, hurting someone else’s feelings two times over is unnecessary… unless he or she is a Grade A dooshbag. Which brings me to the don’ts.

The Don’ts or for you classy folk, The Do Nots

1)    No break ups post coitus. You will possibly be murdered or mutilated by your now ex partner. Giving someone the ax with your pants down is just plain foolhardy and asking for it. And “it” could be anything from a kick to the nuts to a picture of you naked and a limerick about your not so impressive member being posted on the Break Up-ee’s blog the next day. YOU DON’T WANT THAT.

2)    Don’t ignore the other person in lieu of actually cutting ties. This is just cowardly and can turn the other person into a temporary raving lunatic. For example: I once met a guy, we went on a date and I decided while we were making out that he had too many tattoos and I was more interested in preppy boys at the time. So what did I do? I ignored his phone calls. For FIVE MONTHS! YES he should’ve taken the hint. YES he clearly was a little desperate and sad for continuing to call. BUT can we really blame him? When you’re attracted to someone you go a little mad. And everybody knows the harder a person is to get the more delicious the idea of getting them becomes.

3)    Don’t blame anything on the other person’s sexual personality. Recently I was broken up with and the reasoning was: “You’re just too sexually aggressive. (Not physically of course)” This makes you seem like a fag. Or no actually homosexuals are highly sexual so this makes you seem like a Eunuch (for those of you that don’t know what that means it is a man whose balls have been removed.) Girls, there is a version of this for you as well. Do you really want to be associated with a crazy cult practice or third world country cleansing? …I don’t think you do!

4)    And finally: Don’t drag the process out. Post break up sex is addictive on both ends and no matter what you both say, the orgasms keep hope alive. And like I always say: If you’re over someone don’t end up under them again, or on your knees getting it from behind, or on top, or in their mouth. Just shut your legs, stick that hard on between your boxer elastic and take a cold shower, because nothing good comes after you ejaculate on your ex. 

*Originally published at www.ultravulgarsuperfiend.com

 

The Birthday Boy

           Stephen was a quiet child and didn’t care much for parties. He would have much preferred skipping his fifth birthday altogether if it meant he wouldn’t have to endure the duties of being the guest of honor. He walked about the house, letting himself get lost in the crowd of family members, head lowered, feet shuffling, like a little lamb headed for the slaughter.

            “There you are,” his mother reached out to give him a firm squeeze. “Let me see that smile.”

           

He let the corners of his mouth lift and she patted his head in approval.

           

“Oh you’re lovely,” she said handing him a bowl of dip, “put it by the chips on the coffee table, would you?”

            After all the guests had arrived, and the usual trading of “you’ll never believe what my child did” stories were dished out over cake and tea, it was almost time to open presents.

           

“Stephen tell us who you are,” a tipsy Uncle gave him a rough pat on his little back.

            The crowd of family members sat on couches, dining room chairs dragged into the living room, and children sat cross-legged below their respective parent’s neatly ironed slacks and knee length woolen skirts. It was early March and though the calendar would soon claim to be approaching spring, Ireland’s climate would take little notice of the change in season.

            Stephen wore a heavy flannel shirt, teal and black plaid “to bring out those sparkling eyes,” his mother had said as she helped him dress that morning. His older sisters teased him for that remark but his new brother’s screeching cries kept his mother too busy to notice the bullying.

            “Who are you?” His Uncle persisted, giving the man beside him a friendly slap on his arm to alert him of the impending hilarity.

            “Yea tell them,” hissed Stephen’s sisters, their hot breath hitting the blond hairs on the back of his neck.

            “Oh Darling,” his mother came to his aid crouching down to take his chin in her hand. “You guys are embarrassing him,” she gently scolded the group of hecklers and then whispered into Stephen’s ear, “but I’m sure it wouldn’t be too much trouble if you just said it for a laugh.”

            “Come on Steve,” his father spoke in his usual rational tone, “just say it and then you can open your presents.”

            Stephen looked around feeling his cheeks grow warm and pink.

            “I am the gorgeous child,” he said.

            The room burst out in laughter. Bellies held, drinks spilling, smokers coughing in hysterics.

            Stephen still didn’t get the joke.

           

Bay Ridge: A Memoir

 Chapter One:

A mass of green and grey against blue. Houses along the water decrease in size as the avenues pull away from the ocean. Houses with big yards and barking retrievers, old reeds wound about white pillars; these are the castles I grew up fantasizing about. They were only a stone’s throw away from my reality: a six story red brick wonder with doors that changed color biannually depending on the temperament of the apartment COOP board.  My building sat smack in the middle of it’s block, on the precipice of being part of the better bred and falling in with the wrong crowd; we lived between Ridge Boulevard and Third Avenue in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn.

Third avenue filled it’s lots with an array of eateries and shops as well as a bar on every corner. Pizzeria’s and coffee shops, we were the last neighborhood to catch onto the Starbucks craze, made it easy to get your caffeine fix or a fast snack and it wasn’t until I was much older and a college boyfriend said in his best wise guy accent: “Wanna grab a slice?” that I realized how stereotypical my Brooklyn experience had actually been.

Inside our home my parents fought against the boroughs alluring local flavor. Both of them grew up elsewhere, an anomaly compared to the born, raised and breeding culture so specific to the neighborhood and they were both proud of that fact.  My Father thought of himself more as a Manhattan man and loved calling himself a New Yorker, while my mother longed for the quiet suburb she’d grown up in. Perhaps it was this push and pull between his need to get ahead and her need to get away that kept our apartment in a state of disorder. At an early age I began to notice that our decor was far below the standards of most of my classmate’s homes.

My mother tried to decorate our apartment and keep it tidy. She adopted a theme for every room and started with the dining room since it was directly connected to the entryway. She wanted it to have a Japanese garden feel and adorned it with black and gold furniture, a china closet and a matching hand painted mirror, cabinet and a plant less pot that would eventually become the dumping ground for all the magazines my father never read. Then she went onto the first of our two bathrooms and decided it would have a beach theme. She painted it lavender, hung up some ocean art and scattered the window sill with sea shells. But this is as far as she got; none of the other rooms would ever find themselves decorated in any discernible theme.  

Perhaps if my father had been willing to dish out half the funds she needed for furniture, instead of buying pricey electronic gadgets and one too many cutting boards, she might have succeeded in keeping with her theme idea. Unfortunately my father could care less about home furnishings, after all this was just a stepping stone to our eventual penthouse by the park. He cared even less when it came to cleaning.

He was notorious for leaving his empty soda glasses out over night, tossing bills and other important papers on the dining table and then blaming everyone but himself when they went missing; he left his pants and shoes hanging everywhere except in the closet. To the untrained eye it seemed as though he was leading an active rebellion against my mothers platform of aesthetics but to me it was clear that anything like that would take way too much effort for my father. He was nothing more than a throw back to a previous generation who believed in women’s work. But when you got down to it all, he was really just a lazy slob who preferred to adopt grandiose ancient ideals to explain his dislike for cleaning: “I do the dishes and the laundry, that’s enough,” he’d say before passing out on the sofa and snoring. Sometimes I would stand over him and consider waking him up with a splash of warm soda. It was an exciting proposition but I never went through with it.

My father had tantrums more often than a colicky infant and while their catalysts varied, the most common of them all was Coca Cola. His romance with the syrupy goddess began at an early age and he felt a catharsis for the beverage the way one might for a Beatles song. He worshipped Coca Cola, even had a photo of himself as a child hugging an old fashioned bottle of it. He’d had it enlarged and framed to hang above his dresser; a testament of his loyalty to the soda pop God. Our fridge had to contain at least one bottle at a time and if it didn’t he would lose it. My mother knowing this began to wage a war against his sloppiness using his beloved soft drink as her bait. Though she never won, she did succeed in pissing him off immensely.

While each of these battles had a few minor variations, this is how it usually went:

My father would storm into the living room and stand in front of the television set stomping his feet and screaming: “Where is my Coke?! I need my coke!”

My mother, planted on the sofa would wave a limp wrist: “Josh, I’m trying to watch this.”

“You were home all day,” he’d push out his lower lip showing his bottom teeth, “I gave you a fifty for groceries and you, you, you...”

“I forgot. Just go around the corner and get one,” she’d say still waving but now with the remote in hand as if she could change the channel on him.

“Noooo, you go around the corner and get one!” His hands curled tightly into fists, shaking them up and down.

“Josh you’re acting crazy.” A high pitch laugh would then escape her mouth and this only enraged him further.

“You think this is funny? You think this is funny! You think this is-“

“No,” she’d say standing up. “No I don’t think this is funny. I don’t think it’s funny at all. I work twelve hour shifts and on my days off I cook and clean for this family and you, you, you can’t even bother to put your glasses in the sink after you use them!” And then she’d pick up the latest piece of evidence, a used glass that had been sitting on the coffee table for at least a day. She’d hold it as if she might strike him with it but instead she’d shove it in his face and scream: “The next time you leave your used glass out over night it’s going out the window!”

“Shut up Kathy, just shut up!”

“I mean it! Out. The. Window!”

And here was where the tables always turned; at this point having expended all his energy my father would become the calm one: “Kath would you calm down, for Christ’s sake.”

“I will not calm down,” her eye brows raised as she spoke, her tone frighteningly measured, punching every word. “How. Dare. You tell me to calm down. I will not. Calm. Down.” She edged him up against the television, “I was trying to relax and you come in here screaming and now you want me to calm down! You bastard!”

At this point my father would retreat, pushing her out of the way and walking briskly toward their bedroom. But she would follow after him yelling “I will not calm down! I will not calm down!”

Minutes later he’d be out the door and off to the corner store to get his caffeinated muse, his Helen of Troy, seductive syrup in a bottle. And shortly there after, my mother would be back on the couch as if she’d never left it.

The Jason Fallon Story

I’m gonna f**king paint: The Jason Fallon Story Less than a year ago Jason Fallon, the New England native now residing in downtown Los Angeles, found himself in a tight spot, literally: “All my walls were filled, my laundry room, the hallways, just piles and piles of canvases.” While his crowded apartment was not exactly TLC Hoarders worthy, the plethora of art made quite an impression on his house guests: “Friends would come over and start bidding on the paintings. Eventually I decided to have an art show in my apartment and sold five paintings that night. I sold them for ten, twenty, thirty five bucks at the most; I was just so happy that people actually liked my work.”

Danielle's Bio

Danielle Bauman is a freelance writer living in Los Angeles. Born and raised in Brooklyn, NY, she has been writing ever since she was able to hold a crayon. Thankfully technology and her skills have advanced since then and she has gone on to be published in the Clackamas Literary Review, Locust Magazine, Amiphibi.us among others.

She is a featured sex and relationship columnist for Ultravulgarsuperfiend.com and AdultPlayParlor.com. Danielle has written treatments, cold opens and episode samples for several shows that are gearing up to air and has served as a writer's assistant for numerous playwrights and screen writers. Danielle's talent for finding the specific voice for each body of work she creates, has equipped her with the necessary skills to take on a wide range of projects. She is available for hire and will provide top rate work in the following forms:

* Film and Television Treatments, Cold Opens, Log Lines, and Blurbs
* Episode Samples, Synopses and Script Coverage
* Articles, Essays and Brochures
* Editing and Ghost Writing

While Danielle enjoys writing about pretty much anything, her specialties include:

* Food and Fitness
* Sex and Relationships
* Veterinary Science
* Theater and Film
* True Crime

Rates are dependent on the project.  For more information please contact her via email: daniellefbauman@gmail.com.