Chapter Nine
F*ck-Ups Two-Fourteen through Two-Sixty-Nine
The Handsome Prince and the Fairy Bookmother
Some number of hours later—reading clocks is hard in that condition—I managed to eat a little soup, down eleven whole crackers without incident, brush my teeth four times, and apply makeup. Yeah, I was superwoman, queen of looking cute after cosplaying garbage.
I nearly broke down and invited Yash over to my place, but there were just too many things there with Dagmar written all over them. One was a giant metal ‘D’ in Times New Roman hanging on the wall of the living room. There used to be an ‘& B’ there as well, but I’d taken a baseball bat to them.
214. Sometimes coping involves baseball bats
Old me would never, ever have done such a violent thing. New me hadn’t thought twice about it. Bashing the letters on the front stoop had been a good upper body workout, and amused my neighbors. I’d even gotten to know Lydia in 301 as she’d taken her own turn at the bat. She had an ex named Blake—small world.
I took a baggie of saltines with me in the cab to Yash’s place. I’m a classy date—
215. Ready to put out and I bring my own snacks
Arrived, rang the bell, got buzzed in. When the elevator doors opened, there he stood before me, sexy as hell in jeans and soft flannel. He jammed his hands into his pockets and looked such the hot dork I nearly jumped onto him and committed a public act of indecency in the hall. However, I was too hungover for jumping…and humping would only happen after I’d gotten a meal in me that stayed down successfully.
216. Oh goddess of hussies, hear my plea
217. Or goddess of booze, maybe
“Hi! Are you feeling okay? How did flight training go?” he asked.
He began to lead me down the hall and I almost asked, “Flight training?” before I remembered the lie I’d told about teaching other flight attendants to land a plane. Wouldn’t pilots teach that if it were true?
218. Please don’t think about that too closely, Yash
“Everything’s great,” I assured him. As we arrived at his door, my stomach gave a tremendous gggguuurrrgglee. He laughed at me and I added, “I haven’t eaten very much today.”
He opened the door and a wondrous smell of delicious nearly knocked me over. “I can help with that.”
Once inside, he liberated me from my purse and led me by the hand to the living room. His soft, warm skin almost distracted me from the plethora of food on his coffee table. Almost. For lo, I beheld a bounty of sweet and sour veggies, noodles, egg rolls, cream cheese wontons, and even more. I sank to my knees beside it and hugged the table.
Grinning from ear to ear, he got on the floor beside me. “I hope this satisfies?”
“Uuuunnnnghhh.” I rolled onto my back like a puppy. “Insert here.” I pointed into my mouth.
His eyebrows rose.
“Your steaming egg roll.”
They got higher.
“Your hot and sour…dumpling?”
He yanked me by the arm until we made our way to the couch. “Dumpling, eh? Have you ever seen a man naked before?”
“Not as many as I should have,” I replied honestly. Too honestly, probably.
Didn’t seem to bother him, for he smiled anew and handed me a pair of chopsticks. “Pick a carton, any carton.”
“I love you.”
“No, you don’t. You love me for my hot veggie buns.” He sniffed indignantly and pretend-sobbed into an egg roll.
I started to giggle, my iffy stomach forgotten in his dorkiness. I pointed to the noodles to start, so he handed them to me.
“Can I get the lady a drink?”
I uttered a squeaking sound that was both embarrassing and stereotypical. But, in embarrassing fashion, I didn’t care. “Do you have any ginger ale? It’s okay if—”
“I do—I’ll be right back.”
In a very clever surreptitious manner, I used his absence to investigate the lay of the foreign land. Not bad. His décor was sort of space-age and modern, but not stark or cold. Tons of books, naturally. Books are a must in a boy. And the walls were a lovely sky-blue—happy, bright, and unexpected. And—ha—it totally smelled like cleaning supplies. The man who put this place together would always pleasantly surprise a woman. If only Giselle could move in…
219. But she didn’t exist
220. No biggie
221. Definitely not ruining my life
222. I’ll just blog about it
223. That would make ruining my love life better
He returned, a cobalt-blue glass in hand, cool and frosty from ice.
“Thank you,” I said.
He bowed. “Your next choice is…” He walked to his entertainment center and I noticed for the first time the enormous TV thereon. Like sixty inches or something? Huge! A very man TV. Stylish and manly—the ultimate straight girl one-two punch of fabulous.
Not the trifecta, though. The trifecta includes a lumberjack or astronaut.
224. Lumberjack and astronaut is called the Quadruple Almost Clooney.
I’d just popped a piece of bun into my mouth when he presented me with options for my viewing pleasure. “Holy moly. You weren’t kidding when you said you dig Will Ferrell.”
“Afraid not.” He sat beside me, and I flipped through the stack of DVDs. Anchorman, Blades of Glory, Talladega Nights…
“The Ballad of Ricky Bobby!” I said with a bounce. “That one also has Sacha Baron Cohen. And race cars.”
A slow smile spread across his face, and I could tell I’d chosen well. His eyes sparkled as he said, “And John C. Reilly,” which might have seemed weird, except that I knew they were shining for me. And a little for Mr. Reilly, who, come on, is funny as hell.
“Oh, yeah.” I held up my hand and he high-fived me. The small gesture almost turned me on as much as any kiss.
Almost.
Bonding over silly movies is an excellent sign in a boyfriend. I mean…one-night stand.
225. How badly was I fucking up this one-night stand?
226. Pretty boyfriend badly
He pressed buttons and adjusted settings, munching on an egg roll while he did so, and I nearly died. I nearly died of feelings right there in his tasteful, (newly) clean, interesting living room.
227. Why?
228. Why had I met this marvelous man on a night full of lies?
229. Why had I not just come clean the first time he called me?
230. Why was Giselle here instead of Dagmar?
231. And why was my boob so itchy tonight?
I scratched my boob with my arm and knew there was no going back now. I was doomed. I shoved rice into my mouth. Sooner or later my secrets would burst forth. They had to. Unless I just legally changed my name to Giselle, abandoned every person who ever knew me before, and ran away with Yash to live in a hut in Bora Bora.
232. And also with that blond guy who played Thor
Yes. That was the solution to all my problems.
233. Why hadn’t I considered this before?
He settled in beside me, his remote-clicking completed. Except for one thing. He flashed his whiz-bang universal remote so I could see and clicked a button.
The room lights dimmed.
I laughed so hard I spat out a little rice. He didn’t seem to care, but grinned. “That’s another of my secrets. I’m a huge geek.”
“That’s a secret? Besides, I don’t know if that was geeky or Austin Powers-ey.”
“The couch rotates.”
“And vibrates too, I should hope.”
“For her pleasure.”
He said it so low that he vibrated me, the wicked man. I pushed a wonton into my mouth instead of jumping him. I needed the sustenance or I’d faint during hour four of sex.
234. Optimism
235. Numbered because looking forward to anything positive was probably a mistake
Talladega Nights began, and he slid in next to me, our thighs snuggling like new best friends, our mouths full of delivered happiness. We laughed in the same spots, and soon, my belly burst with fullness and so did my heart.
236. Oh, no, that was poetic
237. Poetic!
Enough of this girlfriend shit. I wasn’t Dagmar anymore. Not in any way. I would not be that woman who trusted and went along with and supported people who hid and dissembled and took. Giselle was independent—the only way to keep a girl safe from the vagaries of others.
238. My own vagaries were enough to deal with
I set my carton on the table, wiped my mouth of sauce, and plucked the chopsticks from his hands. His eyebrows raised and a little pulse in his neck jumped. My mouth split into a giggle—that tiny sign of his excitement nearly made me want to sing with joy.
I bit my lip as I’d seen Britney Spears do in many a sexy music video. What next? The last time I’d attempted to be aggressive with a guy, it ended with a printer up my butt.
Here goes nothing.
I crawled into his lap to straddle him. He smiled and didn’t throw me to the floor. Splendid. His hands slid up my jean-clad legs to cup my ass, his eyes locked onto mine the whole time. We sat there, gazes held, anticipating what we both hoped would happen next. The old me would never have made bold moves like these.
239. To be honest, it was probably good that Yash was bedding Giselle instead of me
He yanked me closer and kissed me. Respectfully, at first, his mouth soft. A warmth suffused my chest. My hands clutched at his T-shirt, and his arms wrapped all the way around. Oh, God. My breasts pressed against him, my thighs caressed his waist. I hadn’t sat on a man this way in…in a while. And I hadn’t wanted to drown in it for a lot longer than that.
The sound of race cars zoomed around us. It was a strangely hot soundtrack to make out to. Maybe this was why NASCAR was so popular.
He lifted me up. My arms locked around his neck as he swung me onto my back on the couch. I’d been about to suggest we adjourn to the bedroom, but—
240. Lying hussies can’t be choosers
I’d always enjoyed sex, but a shiver raced through me this time. A huge realization had come to me during the last couple of weeks—about my previous relationship, about how little he’d respected me. Blade had, more than once, said something to the effect of, “What do I say to get you to stop talking and take off your clothes?”
Even if Yash and I only experienced this one night together, I didn’t feel as if he was using me, or merely saying the right things until I agreed to shut up and put out.
241. Although…was I doing that to him?
242. Better not think about that too hard
Surely part of being a fuck-up, like all horrible people who succeeded in life, was not being the nicest Mary Sue who ever lived. Right?
Yash jerked his T-shirt over his head to reveal… Holy hunk. Angels sang. Kittens frolicked. The sun shone through the heavens even though it was nine o’clock at night! Bless the new breed of cool dude, New York writers—they spent as much time in the gym as they did at the keyboard. Sometimes more.
Morals? What morals!?
243. Abs
244. Abs were what mattered
245. Also
246. Abs
I licked my lips and actually caught a bit of drool. Like a femme fatale, I beckoned him with my little finger, and my literary hunk dutifully crawled over my body.
He blinked, slow, sultry. I ached for him in places I couldn’t remember the name of at the moment. He leaned toward me, his mouth parted, ready to… “Shit, I need to get a condom.” Making a face, he leaned away a few inches. “Sorry—romantic, eh? I have a clean bill of health. I can prove it, I have the paper around here. I got it to attra—” He cut himself off and sat up.
I cocked my head and leaned on my elbows. “To what?”
Bashfully, he shook his head. “Later. But let me get the…” He smiled and left the room.
“I’m on the pill,” I called. “And I just got a test too. All clean!”
He returned quickly. “I have no doubt. But I like a double protection against pregnancy. Rug rats.” He pulled a face and shuddered. “Shit, probably shouldn’t have said that, either. Are kids a deal breaker for you? Shit, I’m bringing this up on the second date.”
“And saying ‘shit’ a lot.”
He groaned.
I giggled and reached for him. “Music to my ears on all counts. Now…” I took the condom from him and tore it open. “Let me help you with that.”
This was it! I was going to casual the sex! My heart leaped into spasms in my chest—hell, in my feet. Every inch of my skin wanted to rear up to greet his hands, his mouth. And so it did. Again and again his lips roamed across my skin. Then he flipped me over and perpetrated all manner of filthy greetings to the skin on my backside…
247. So to speak
248. Hi, hello, bonjour, ciao, and nǐ hǎo
He did everything right. Everything, and several new things I hadn’t heard of. One of them might have been ‘orgasm’ in Croatian for all I knew. And judging by this lovely man’s smiles, laughter, and general, er, tumescence, I made him just as happy as he made me.
When we’d exhausted ourselves, and our foreign vocabularies, on his surprisingly comfy couch, he said, “Relax.”
He smoothed my hair over my forehead and kissed the spot. I shivered, filled to brimming with happiness, joy, bewilderment, relaxation.
“I’ll clean up dinner,” he assured me. “We can watch the rest of the movie in the bedroom? If you’d like. Then you can fall asleep whenever you want after your long day.”
My brain swam in a sex haze. That was the best I’d had since…since my first fella. Yash definitely outscored Blade in both the freestyle and dismount categories. A ten out of ten, even from the Russian judge.
But what now? I watched Yash’s gorgeous butt as he ran food into his kitchen.
Shouldn’t I be leaving?
But I was so sleepy.
Shouldn’t I be leaving?
But watching movies while snuggled in bed.
Shouldn’t I be leaving?
249. But but but…
250. Butt butt butt
I needed to get out of here. He couldn’t think this was anything more than a spectacular booty call. I sat up and searched for my clothes. They’d gone a-flying some time ago.
Yash returned with a bowl of ice cream.
Ice cream.
Nope, non, nein I should stay, I should definitely stay with the hot naked guy bringing me ice cream.
He waved the bowl in front of me and drew me to the bedroom, both of us laughing as I licked my lips and followed my nose. Soon, I snuggled against a cushy pillow, and he started the movie for me in the darkened room. His bed was king-size and featured a snuggly duvet cover dusted with the galaxy and stars.
I was lying in heaven.
He soon joined me, and he dipped a spoon into the bowl of shared ice cream. The warm and the cold, the funny and the serene—they drugged me, lulled me. I fought it so hard, his…his…Yash-ness. Why couldn’t he have been a hot asshole like Blade? I knew what to do with that kind of man now. A Yash, however… The guy who stays must be navigated.
Was I assuming he would stay? But a nice man is still able to be bored.
With a cold tongue, I licked my ice cream spoon clean and rested my head back.
I opened my eyes to bright sunlight in a strange room. Yash’s room. I started to sit up, and he came through the door, head peeking first with an adorable grin. “Hi,” he said, all sleepy-like, and I melted back into the covers. He held two steaming mugs aloft. “I hope you’re a coffee person?”
251. Of course—I served coffee all the time at my ‘airplane’ job
I nodded, and he sat beside me. “I have one cream and sugar, one black.” He raised his eyebrows in the question.
“Black,” I replied.
“Good! That stuff is vile.”
He handed me the vile stuff and I groped for my phone…which must be in the other room with my clothing. Heh heh.
252. I’d just lounge in bed
253. Naked
254. Drinking the coffee
255. My naked hookup brought me
“So…” I began. “What or whom did you hope to attract with your clean bill of health. From last night?”
He laughed. “Before last night, it had been about…seven and a half months since I’d had sex. Around month three, I got a full STD panel in the hope that—”
I returned his laugh with a giggle of my own. “If you test it, she will come?”
“Something like that.”
“It didn’t work in a very timely manner.” I ran a finger down his gorgeous thigh. “How can it be that hard for you to get booty?”
He took a long sip of coffee. “I’m not that into casual sex. I like relationships. The sex can be amazing, and there are layers of comfort and trust because you’re not strangers. After my last breakup, a year ago, I went on first date after first date, and a few seconds. Awful. Stilted. Some terrible people, some lovely women, but we just didn’t click. I went on thirty dates or so—matches from the Internet, friends, enemies, paper airplanes thrown in my general direction—and, after they all came to naught, I just quit. I couldn’t do another painful, boring dinner wherein I told the same bloody stories about myself. They’re not interesting enough to recount that many times.”
He paused and looked down at me. “That was much too much information, wasn’t it? I should say something manly about banging women with abandon.”
I shook my head. “No. No, you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t be anyone other than who you are, because that guy is way too awesome.”
He gave me a long, slow kiss that curled my hair and eyeballs, then went to make breakfast.
Breakfast? No way. My insides roiled. This kind, sweet man had trusted me enough to take the next step. I flailed in the bed until I couldn’t stand it anymore and got up. I was closing tonight, and I had to show up for my coffee drones. Maybe I’d bring the crew donuts to apologize.
256. You can get away with more shit at work when the drones love you
But it was haaaaaard to get moving. Because his bedroom was made of warmth and sunshine. My skin felt like a dance, and my heart beat lighter than it had in…in…wow, far too long.
And the sex. Wow. Sweet. Nasty. I’d achieved nasty sex! And, God, I wanted it to happen again immediately.
I had to get moving because I knew I must say goodbye to Yash forever. I couldn’t keep up a lie this enormous. I mean, a girl could lie about her weight, or her number of lovers, or about how often she changed her future cat’s litter box…but her name…and occupation…
Her identity?
I managed to get on my clothing—
257. While he offered to make me breakfast
258. While he stayed naked and impossibly hot
259. While he smiled as his hair flopped over his brow
260. While he told me what a good time he’d had
At the door, he promised to call me. I nodded and bit my lip to avoid saying…anything. He kissed me, his mouth warm and sweet like coffee. I felt that kiss in my toes. In my pleasantly sore lady business. In my soul oh, God, no, no soul talk, was I trying to kill myself with feelings after one bang?
Well, two bangs in one night.
Go me.
I squeezed him tight and nearly ran down the hall to the elevator. I could still smell his skin on mine—the faint aroma of his cologne and his him-ness. No showers for a week, until the reek of me outlasted him.
I stepped onto the sidewalk and tied my scarf tighter. A cold walk would do me good. Four hours until I had to get to work—throwing winter on my tender feelings would be smart.
This entire life exercise was designed to force me to expand my horizons. I’d done good things, bad things, and good-bad things.
And before my fuck-up-a-palooza, I’d spent my entire adult life going from one serial boyfriend to the next. Two, exactly. Unconsciously hunting for a husband, just as my dad expected of me. My sister had found hers in college—the proverbial MRS degree—just as expected of her. But I hadn’t. I probably could have, though. Shit, I’d still be with Blade even now if he hadn’t gotten a job in L.A.
I shivered against a blast of cold air, both the internal and the external kind. Would I really have married that guy?
Ugh, my head jumbled like a Boggle board. Things I should do. Things I shouldn’t. And whose opinions were they, anyway? Mine? Dad’s? Society’s? Oprah’s?
The honest truth—I was a lying liar who lied. I could not see Yash again. Better that he thought well of one night instead of getting hurt weeks down the line, right?
Right.
I popped into a bakery to get myself a donut to make my deep thoughts more palatable. Mmmmmmm, chocolate-glazed regret.
Yash should be chalked up to a beautiful one-night stand. A reminder that there are fabulous men out there who are kind, have good taste in goofy movies, and screw like sex demons. These 666 mistakes were about new experiences, and should be embraced as such. My mistakes shouldn’t drag on and on, like a trip to the DMV. They should flame out fast and wild, a match in the darkness.
Thoughts of screwing sex demons kept a spring in my step the rest of the way home, and as soon as I got in the house, I put my Yash feelings into a blog post. I didn’t call him Yash, of course. I had called him Writer Guy—WG—before last night. But, as of this morning, he would be elevated to Sexy Sex Writer Guy—SSWG.
This silly little project of mine had begun to go viral. Thousands of blog followers. I was close to one hundred thousand Twitter followers. I wasn’t just me and my brilliance—I think a lot of people were stuck in situations they didn’t like and dreamed of saying ‘fuck off’ to everyone and everything. People were living vicariously through me.
261. I was living the nightmare
Strangers had started telling me how they’d been bold at work, or stood up for themselves with their own jerky partner. All these people taking inspiration from me ruining my life… It was magical. Maybe some other mousy woman would read my misadventures and realize there was more to life than blending into the wall.
262. There was having some motherfucking fun, too
I threw on comfy work clothes and, on the way to JaVaVaVoom, texted Mel to get together after my shift to sew destruction upon Taylor via his mother. We agreed to meet at an all-night Internet café in Brooklyn for maximum anonymity.
263. Anticipation of getting some small form of justice for all the women that scum had abused…
264. Priceless
My bones, they were a-chilled by the time I got into work. I pushed open the door and swept inside, a whole fifteen minutes early—
265. Sorry for my punctuality, fuck-up list
—When I heard scattered applause. I looked up to see if we’d been visited by a celebrity when I realized the staff cheered for me. Hunter pointed to a photocopy behind the bar, and there I lay, on the sidewalk, next to my own vomit. Every one of my fellow drones began whooping.
I bowed, my face wide with the most embarrassed grin of my life.
266. My dad would be so ashamed
267. No decent man would marry a sidewalk drunkard!
268. Good
“I have so many people to thank,” I said. I came around the bar and addressed my adoring public. “My friend Mel, who insisted on the keg stands. The two twin guys who bravely bought us Martinis despite the fact that we could not even remember the fake names we gave them.” Lacey giggled at this one. “My dignity, for being on vacation in the Bahamas. Thank you for the warm tribute. And fuck you all.”
The entire coffee shop began applauding then, and I gave a Queen Elizabeth wave on the way to the back. I searched my heart for some sense of regret. But I didn’t care. Not even a little. What was I going to do about it now, anyway? I deserved the ribbing and, truth be told, a glow warmed me to know that I’d behaved like a twenty-something for once instead of a biddy.
Had I well and truly thrown the old Dagmar out with the bathwater?
I tied an apron around my person and Hunter pointed me toward the register. “Have at it, loser,” he said by way of welcome. “Later on, I’m going to teach you about the different beans of Asia.”
A woman approached the register. She wore a scarlet suit and black fedora over a glorious mane of purple afro. The white baby hairs at her temples were the only indication she might not be my contemporary—her deep brown, almost onyx skin was flawless. I said, “You look snazzy as hell! What can I get you today?”
She quirked an eyebrow and leaned forward to peer at my name tag. “Dagmar. Dagmar, that’s a rare name. Did you, by any chance, work for Carmichael Burns?”
My eyes widened. “Who’s asking? You can’t be his new girlfriend—you’re wearing too many clothes.”
She snorted. “And I’m about seven decades too old for him. Marlene Hodgkins, Hysterical Books.”
I took her proffered shake and nearly yanked her over the counter with the force of my enthusiasm. My stomach leaped into my throat, but not from alcohol poisoning for once. “Dagmar Kostopoulos. Yes, I was his right hand. Until it wandered, so to speak.”
Marlene nodded. “Damn shame. That Kardashian salad book has shockingly tasty recipes, and is hilarious. Was the humor you? Khandye seems bland as toast.”
My mouth dropped to be remembered, and by a woman who was so amazing in the field. Hysterical Books promoted women writers and released some of the boldest, most fun writing by women for women out there. They took chances on voices that the big five ordinarily wouldn’t, usually to great success. And Marlene was their queen, a.k.a. editor in chief. As such, my hands fluttered nervously. “I’m flattered beyond belief. I’ve been a huge fan of your press for a long, long time.”
“I never forget a name, or a piece of literary gossip.” She glanced around, but nobody was queueing up behind her. “And thank you. Have you decided to quit books completely? Or is this temporary?”
I shrugged. My every instinct screamed to lie to make myself appear less terrible, but that was the old Dagmar. Giselle told the truth. Kind of. “I’m having a life crisis. So I’m… I’m fucking up.”
Her eyebrows shot up again. She had such an expressive face! I bet she wasn’t much of a liar with a countenance like that. She leaned against the counter to peer at me closer. “Fucking up how?”
“Well…” This time, I leaned closer. “I decided that being the dutiful assistant editor had gotten me nowhere, so I wanted to try living like a boss. My old one, to be specific. I tried to bang my new boss”—I pointed with my head in Hunter’s direction—“during my job interview. I got rubber burn from the dress I wore, and he said no anyway.”
She blinked once, twice, her speckled brown eyes alighting with palpable curiosity. “Too bad—brother is fine as hell.”
“Right?”
“Why, though? To see why Carmichael did it? Or just for fun?”
I cocked one hip and contemplated this. “I— It was the latter, really. But maybe it was the former, too. Holy shit, could that have really been the reason?”
“Dagmar, I love it. When I was thirty-one, I took a year abroad in Italy to, eh, ‘fuck up,’ as you so perfectly put it.” She’d said ‘fuck’ like a society matron tasting the word—a strange, but enjoyable, canapé. “They kicked me out, and then I wrote a book about it. My passport was barred for ten years.”
I clapped my hands and laughed and laughed. “You’re a level up. I’m not worthy!”
She graced me with an adorable single shoulder shrug and ordered her coffee. I jumped off the register to make it myself. Even if I never touched a book again, it was nice to know there were people out there fighting the good fight for talented authors, and not being scumbags about it. Unless in Italy, where apparently all bets were off.
When I handed her latte over, I said, “Please come by again.”
“I will. Keep fucking up. Women don’t allow themselves to do that nearly enough.”
I actually had to take a step back and turn—tears had sprung to my eyes. Was this woman my fairy bookmother? I’d never in my life been given permission to make mistakes by an authority figure. And, even though I was practically living a performance art piece at the moment, I still hadn’t thought of it as the right thing to do per se. Dudes called it ‘finding themselves’ then they went to Thailand for a month to pay for sex and drunkenly barf words on a typewriter.
Marlene made me feel proud of my ridiculousness. No hookers needed.
“Hey, Dag,” Hunter called. “How about you do your fucking up in the bathroom? Some kid yakked in there, and I think you’re the perfect person to handle it.”
269. Dagmar Kostopoulos, professional barf expert
While I mopped up vomit, I naturally considered Taylor. We would screw that Taylor good right after work. Well, not screw. Ew.