Chapter 5

Lee called at 8:30 the next morning and asked me to join him and some friends for dinner at Spago's to help him ring in his 39th birthday. I wished him a happy birthday, then declined his invitation, of course. He laughed, said he knew I would.

“Then play racquetball with me tomorrow. I'm gonna need a workout after tonight's dinner. Come on. We should be playing at least three times a week anyway, ramp up the calorie burn here.” Lee was clearly a salesman. He knew I played ball to get and stay lean. I could virtually feel him smiling through the wire.

“What time?” I inquired, smiling too.

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Late Saturday afternoon Lee was on the last court available for the day. We played hard until the club kicked us off the court at 7:00, closing early on the weekends. He talked me into joining him for dinner at Hamburger Hamlet over Diet Cokes in the lobby while the staff cleaned up around us. It was his birthday weekend after all, and he didn't want to spend Saturday night home alone and bored.

“Come with me down to Laguna Beach tomorrow. I want to buy a piece of art for my condo. They have some great galleries down there. You can enlighten me with your knowledge of art history, put that useless degree, as you've mentioned, to use,” Lee teased over his quarter pound double cheese and bacon burger.

He surprised me, first remembering what I'd said about my college education in a casual conversation weeks ago. Second, beyond just soliciting my knowledge, he was interested in art history, one of my passions. I looked down at my Chicken Caesar and suddenly resented the hell out of it, and me— my body— for storing everything I ate to fat, requiring I eat mostly salad to maintain trim, even with playing hard ball at least three days a week.

"Lee,” I began, but hesitated, not wanting to hurt his feelings. “I really love playing racquetball with you. And I, too, would love to play more— three, four times a week if you're up for it.”

“Love to.” His eyes sort of twinkled, I think, and his full lips took on a tentative smile.

“Thing is, I don't want to lead you on." The twinkle in his eyes dimmed, so I tried to soften my delivery. “You're great company, and easy to be with, Lee. And I'd love to continue hanging out after we play, like we have been, like we are, as long as we keep it just friends.” Truth was, he was glorious lightness in my persistent gloom, and more fun than I'd had with anyone in years, but I didn't say it, hoping to keep my message as unambiguous as possible.

His eyes glimmered again. "I enjoy hanging with you too, Ray. I love our connection, how much we have in common— that you think, and you don't drink, and you're not a blind believer.” Lee flashed a quick grin. “You are wildly provocative, and wickedly evocative, my dear,” he said, totally serious.

The compliment empowered me for a second, till trepidation countered. I got that he really wasn't hearing me. “Lee—”

“Look Ray, I'm happy to just hang out together when we can. No pressure, no worries, and with no expectations of anything beyond the friendship we're building." He kept his eyes fixed on mine, our connection only broken by the waiter clearing our plates. And even though my intuition knew his interest exceeded his words, I decided to believe him right then, and pretend we could just be friends.

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On the 101 heading down to Laguna Beach at 10:00 a.m., Lee reached up to his visor and pulled out the Marlboro Red's box, extracted a joint, then flashed a grin. "Care to join me?"

Intuition mocked me. There was no doubt Lee was an addict. Friends we were becoming, and must surely remain. And since friendship was all we'd ever share, there was no need to wear a façade with Lee. I took the joint he extended and inhaled deeply, hoping to shut down my bewildering disappointment, and simply enjoy his company and the moment at hand. I relaxed into the soft leather seat, stared out at another sunny day in L.A., took a quick hit and handed Lee the J.

Driving under the influence of THC didn't phase me. In all the years I'd been driving high, or been with other drivers who are, if anything, weed seems to heighten caution behind the wheel. It knocked back flash anger at idiot drivers— a universe away from drunk, which seems to evoke blankness, or induce virulent testosterone reactions. Wasn't really all that concerned about a DUI either. I'd never known anyone detained or even ticketed for weed with the few cases I'd heard of someone getting pulled over while smoking. Apparently L.A. cops corroborated my observations of weed vs liquor while driving. And they should know, spending all day “scraping people off the road,” a CHP officer once said to me about his job.

Lee got off the 405 at Newport Beach and took Hwy 1 down the coast, along the rim of the Pacific. I unrolled my window and sucked in the salty sweet air of my beautiful ocean. Down by the sea was my absolute favorite place to be. He turned me on to Brian Ferry, among the many tunes he'd complied onto the cassette we were listening to. I sang along softly to Phil Collins and Sting.

“Oh my god. Your voice is fantastic,” he said after I finished singing Long, Long Way to Go.

“Thanks.” My voice was one of the best bits about me. I had perfect pitch and entertained myself often.

“You should make a tape. Send it to producers. See if you can get any traction.”

“Yeah. Along with a fine arts career. Music would leave me equally homeless.”

Lee scoffed, shook his head. “I love this tune,” he said, turning up the live version of Hotel California. “This song isn't really about California. The words are a commentary on the ephemeral women of L.A. Thank you, for not being one of them.”

Don Henley's melodic tenor rang through the Bose stereo. "She got a lot of pretty, pretty boys she calls friends." I thought about Jon, and Tim, and Marc, and Michael, and now Lee. Most people swept into my life like waves, crashing in and slowly drifting out, and I wondered if Lee would be one of them. In my experience, eventually everyone moves on, even if they never leave Los Angeles.

Expensive homes began dotting the rolling hills as we came into Laguna. Hwy 1 became dotted with galleries and chic eateries. We indulged in pastries as walked the small seaside hamlet, and spent the afternoon examining some of the finest original art from around the world. Lee purchased an original Patrick Nagel for $5,500, a three by four foot ink and gauche drawing of a woman with short black hair, in a purple halter top walking a Doberman. He said it reminded him of me and Face.

We stopped at Crystal Cove on the way back and spent an hour or so combing the tide pools, then went to Balboa Island for frozen bananas. After a stroll on Newport beach, we took the car ferry across the harbor to get dinner. We indulged in teriyaki chicken with mudpie for dessert at The Chart House. I insisted on paying the bill, a gesture of friendship for his birthday, I'd told him, though it was more to even the field since he'd been continually treating me. I avoided choking over the $160 tab, left my credit card in the billfold and went to the bathroom, where I put a finger down my throat to get rid of the expensive calories I'd just consumed— a rare practice these days, when I've been particularly indulgent, like I was all day.

Lee pulled into my driveway close to 10:00p.m., blocking my roommates dented, dark green Chevy Vega. He put his car in park and looked at me, searching. "I had a great time today. Thank you for joining me, for turning me on to fine art, and for sharing my birthday weekend." His eyes drifted from mine to beyond me, and I followed his line of sight to Suzanne coming out the front door in a tizzy.

“Hi! Hellooo,” she waved wildly. “I need to get out. Can you please move your car?” Wearing her usual black slacks and loose black long sleeve shirt which exaggerated her beanpole form, she carried a bunch of loose papers, dropping quite a few as she closed the front door behind her to keep Face inside. She bent to pick them up and dropped some more in the process. I couldn't help smiling with a shake of my head.

I looked back at Lee. He, too, was smiling at my roommates antics. “She's a bit scattered, but she's reliable with the rent, and a damn good musician.” I suddenly felt pressured to get out of his car with Suzanne waiting for him to move it. “I really should get going. Happy birthday, again. And thanks for today.” I opened the door to let her know I was coming, and Lee was going.

“Thank you. And for dinner too. See you tomorrow on the courts at 4:00? We're on for Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays now, right?”

“You bet. Look forward to working off some of the gluttony we've been engaging in.” I gave him a weak smile. “Well, goodnight." I got out of his car.

"Goodnight," he said softly.

I thought I sensed disappointment with his last look before I shut the door, though I may have been projecting the reaction I got from most guys. I had no intention of inviting Lee in and going to bed with him, as so many of my contemporaries did these days after a date or two. I'd had sex with five men so far, and only rarely for entertainment. I'd turned masturbation into a fine art, and did not need a man to satisfy me sexually. I've never confused sex and love, like so many women who give into lust harboring an unconscious hope for commitment. Our desire for sex is an evolutionary imperative. Fucking won't form a meaningful bond if none existed before the shared orgasm and momentary tenderness that follows.

After the last time with Jon, I decided the next guy I had sex with would be the last guy I'd ever sleep with. It wasn't exactly about waiting until marriage, but I was counting on my next sexual relationship to be with the man I intended to spend my life, and who was ready to make that kind of commitment to me. And my intuition assured me that would never be with Lee.

11/09/91

Obsession times two serves neither.

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