Chapter 19

Racquet World was packed, per usual after the holidays when everyone's racked with guilt for over-consuming. I could relate.

I saw Lee rallying through the little window of the court door, smooth and powerful as always. He was panting and sweating when he stopped to greet me as I came into the room and shut the heavy door behind me.

"Hey," was all he could manage as he tried to catch his breath, but his happy grin was all-telling and infectious.

"Hey." I smiled back. "How long you been here?" I pulled on my glove, slipped the racquet cord around my wrist and spun it until it was tight.

"About half an hour. Came early to make sure we'd get a court." He stared at me, his green eyes penetrating, connecting us in the white, cavernous space, as if we were the only two people on earth. "This is harder than it looks after not playing for so long. You ready to rock?" Lee threw me the blue ball and positioned himself in the center of the court.

Hard didn't touch how it felt on that court within minutes. We were both sweating and gasping, moving in seemingly slow motion to what we use to before the three week break.

"This sucks," Lee wheezed. "I stop getting high and suddenly I can't breathe anymore. What's the deal with that?"

"You quit using then?" I stared at him. He gave me a gentle smile.

"I told you I would." His eyes were laughing, as if he was delighting in my pleasure. “Gave what I had to my sister before I left.” Lee stood before me, sweat matting his hair to his forehead and streaking down his face then onto his loose gray t-shirt, hiding the slight bulge of his belly. His black gym shorts extended to his knees exposing his powerful calves. And though he stood waiting to play against me, we were finally on the same team.

"Ready to take this to the next level?" Lee asked, bouncing the ball a few more times.

"You bet." I flashed my broadest smile to let him know I got his double entendre. "Hit it."

He did, hard and low, the ball hit the front wall with a loud crack! that echoed though the vacant space. I returned his hit virtually as hard and low, and our volley stayed vivacious, hot, a sensual dance, the ball beating a sharp, pulsating rhythm that tingled inside me for the entire time it was in play. I finally landed a perfect dead ball, laying the ball down making it impossible to return.

"Aowww!" Lee yelled like a fan at a ballpark, then bowed to me in mock-humility.

We played for over an hour until I laid the ball down a third time, several minutes after the next players had knocked on the door indicating our time was up.

"Great hit. Good way to end it," the young, thin actor who played Doogie Howser— the genius kid doctor sitcom, said to me as he barged onto the court, clearly perturbed about waiting so long.

"She's a force to be reckoned with, for sure." Lee said to him.

"He taught me everything I know about this game." I told Doogie as I got my keys from the box set into the wall and handed Lee his wallet. A fat, somewhat slovenly young man with a long ponytail followed Doogie in.

"Seems this teacher could learn a thing or two from my student. When, exactly, did you master the dead ball, my dear?" Lee inquired as we exited the court.

"Just doing what you taught me, honey." I stood in the dim hallway watching Lee put his racquet in his gym bag and retrieve his keys.

He straightened and looked at me. "You hungry?"

I was still breathing hard, uncertain how to respond. My best friend for the past two months stood before me, sweat-soaked and breathless, and adorable. But taking it slow sexually was mandatory. I needed time to see if he would follow through with his commitments to quit using and get his shit together, though with his recent efforts in response to my needs, I felt obliged to respond to his. I reached out then and pulled him to me, kissed him hard, long, parting his lips with my tongue and sucking him in. I slid my arms around his neck, pressed my body to his, felt his warm wetness against my cheeks and neck, tasted the salt from his sweat. He pushed himself against me, pinning me back against the outside wall of the court, his growing hardness tingling my crotch like the racquetball vibrating my ass every time it hit the other side of the wall.

Lee pulled back as a couple entered the hall talking. I was grateful for the distraction, so horny I almost came right there, and may have if we went back to kissing, but Lee took my hand, laced his fingers in mine, then picked up his gym bag and lead me from the club.

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We spent Sunday in Santa Barbara., walking, talking, combed the beach for shells. We ate dinner at a charming sea food place overlooking the ocean, and didn't get back to L.A. until after 10:00p.m. I didn't ask him to come inside like last night when he came back to my house after Maria's and we played Tavli till 1:00 in this morning. He had to be up very early for his back east clients, and I had to be at CBS, so we decided to call it a night and meet up after work to play ball, then go to dinner, get back to our routine now that vacation was truly over.

The week ahead seemed less daunting building something real with Lee, that mattered, my career in advertising a practical joke to creating a bond with him that could lead to a home of our own. I drove to CBS on Monday morning with little of the usual dread. Even walking down the red carpet to the Artist's Entrance, and overhearing some guy asking his wife if I was Winona Ryder didn't bother me. I was there to make money, nothing more, to pay my rent until I didn't need to anymore. I imagined my life with Lee— two kids, large yard with fruit trees and a studio for me. I'd spend the days writing, Lee at home as well, working from his home office while the kids are in school. Sometimes we'd share lunch, or skip it to get intimate. Later in the afternoon when the kids were doing homework, I'd pick some lemons and oranges to marinade the chicken for dinner. I smiled with the fantasy, holed up in Pat's office. Pat was in court ordered rehab after getting busted blowing a joint on the roof of Television City, according to Brian, the lead CD, who warned everyone not to go smoke out up there anymore, “now that L.A.'s turned into a police state."

I leafed through the project specs and groaned audibly over having to promote yet another overacted Brian Dennehy movie. Burden of Proof was based on a book by Scott Turow, a sort of sequel to his first novel, Presumed Innocent. Two books, and two screen deals, and the author was surely flush with money that bought him time to create whatever he wanted. I wondered if Turow had inheritance or financial support when he wrote his first book, or lived poor until he was discovered. And I dreamed I could be too, conjuring a career as an artist— writing fiction, shooting pics, building whatever I conceived. The fantasy felt hollow though, just cultivating my own genius. I needed to nurture a family, love and be loved by those who really know me.

Images from a beam scale to the columned facade of the Justice Building in D.C. helped me focus on creating the print campaign that would go into TV Guides, popular magazines and newspapers across the country. Even if I was never discovered, Lee had kindly assured me he'd be privileged to support our family. And reality or not, his generous offer delighted me.

1/7/92

When I was little, my father used to call me Marco, after the Dr Seuss character in I Think I Saw It On Mulberry Street. Marco is a compulsive storyteller who prefers fantasy to reality.

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I expected for the first month or so, and in fact it played out that being straight with Lee was virtually the same as high with him. For most chronic users, the first few weeks straight are...refreshing. More awake. More socially aware— plugged in. Since marijuana's chemistry stores in fat cells, it leaves the body slowly, over weeks, easing withdrawal symptoms, unlike the intense cravings experienced in days, even hours sometimes when quitting hard drugs or alcohol. The initial abstention is so mild it has been mistakenly assumed weed isn't addicting. But four, five weeks down the abstinence road from smoking and life starts to grate. Irritate. Too sharp. Too real. And then the cravings descend like wolves and continually gnaw on the psyche.

The weeks flew by with afternoons playing ball then sharing dinners together, and on the weekends back to exploring the mountains to the sea. We lingered over meals, lacing our fingers on the table, held hands on long walks, kissed over games of Tavli and at stop lights, fondled teasingly on the racquetball court or stuck in traffic. We shared a passionate embrace at the end of each evening. And while Lee had become more attractive than ever before, another good thing about waiting to make it was building intimacy slowly generally prevented confusing lust with love.

Cozy in his Mercedes, winding through Benedict Cyn, we listened to a mix of Brian Ferry, Chris Isaak and Miles Davis on our way to dinner at Stratton's. He held my hand on the burl divider between our seats most of the way into the city, connecting us. Westwood Village was like a ghost town of its former vibrant self. Streets once packed with movie goers and tourists, specialty clothing stores and moderately priced restaurants, Westwood used to be the place to come for a film debut, to see or be seen. Now most shops closed early, many storefronts were empty, the streets virtually deserted since the displaced gangs from Pasadena's renovation found their way here. Two drive-by shootings last summer took out something like eight people and completed the White Flight from Westwood. Though the grand theater marquees still glitzed up the night, few people came to see movies here anymore. The crowds had thinned to mostly UCLA students and staff. The campus had reclaimed the Village.

Stratton's Bar and Grill was practically empty even though it was just after 7:00 on a Saturday night. Only two other couples sat at opposite ends of the enormous oak bar that ran the length of the restaurant. The room was square and cavernous with wood paneled walls all the way up to the crown molding framing the high, Crawford ceiling. It smelled of sizzling steak and wood smoke inside. Square tables filled the center of the room, surrounded by booths against three of the four walls.

A young, tall, slender waiter with red hair and a face full of freckles led Lee and I to a booth, and without welcoming us to the restaurant, abruptly asked if we wanted anything to drink. His blue eyes were sad, brooding, and I got the distinct impression our waiter was upset about something as he took our order and turned away.

"Whoa. What is his problem?" Lee said. "Looked like the dude was about to cry." He reached for my hand across the table.

"Yeah. I got that." I took Lee's hand, kept my eyes on his, tuning out the room around us.

"Either he didn't get the part—" Lee began.

"Or he just failed a mid-term—"

"Or broke up with his girlfriend."

"Or lost his dog."

"Nah. He'd be crying then. Bet ya ten to one it's the girlfriend." We watched our waiter filling cups with hot water then Lee looked back at me. "Thanks for choosing to be with me, Ray." He gave me an intimate smile and squeezed my hand.

"Thanks for choosing to be with me, Lee." I flashed him a soft smile, even though it was all fairly disgusting in that puppy love sort of way.

The waiter brought our teas to the table on a round tray. He glanced down at our entwined fingers as he distributed our steaming cups and then put a silver container filled with cream between us.

"Geez, you two look like you're really in love." The waiter spoke with the kid-like cadence of Ronny Howard, and his resemblance to Richie Cunningham of the sitcom Happy Days was remarkable. "You're really lucky to have each other."

"She's pretty amazing." Lee spoke to our waiter but never took his eyes off me. "And I feel lucky indeed to be with her." His eyes twinkled with delight and I beamed, emboldened by his declaration.

Lee ordered crab cakes, with two French onion soups to start and crème brûlée to finish. The room was dim but glimmered with golden light, candles flickering on every table. It felt like a fairytale in there, like we were on a movie set.

"So, do you think we're in love?" Lee let go of my my hand to prepare his tea, then sipped it. There was a hint of humor in his eyes over the rim of his cup, probing mine as he waited for my answer.

I knew the game. He was asking me to confirm our level of commitment first. And a battle ensued inside between giving him the answer he wanted to hear, and the truth.

His expression lost all lightness the longer I remained silent. His eyes seemed to dim and I felt him pulling back, withdrawing from me.

"I'm not sure what love is, Lee,” I began. “I know I totally, completely, unequivocally enjoy being with you, and when I'm not I miss you." I studied him and caught a whisper of a smile. "Love, for me, isn't a state of being, it's an action. And sublime though attraction may be, the kind of love I'm looking to share with you is proven over time, time and time again by consistently being responsive to each other's needs." I stared at him. "You ready for that?"

He was fixed on me. "Definitely."

I smiled, but said a silent prayer that Lee was ready for the real thing, through thick and thin, in sickness and health, to love and cherish till death do us part... I put my hand on the table hoping he'd take hold, and he did. He laced his fingers in mine connecting us again. I felt safe, coveted.

The waiter came back with our food. "I've been watching you guys. And you seem so easy with each other." Richie was very chatty as he set our dripping cheese-crusted soups down in front of us. "I just want to know the secret to your apparent success. How long have you guys been together?"

A slow smile spread across Lee's face. "About two weeks now. We've known each other for almost three months, but she was afraid of me." He spoke to me, not our waiter.

"Well, you guys look good together, you know, right I mean, like you belong with each other. Two sides of the same coin, kind of thing." He set two glasses filled with ice water on our table and tucked the serving tray under his arm as he straightened. "But I can't guarantee the accuracy of my perceptions anymore. I thought my girlfriend and I would be together forever and the slut just dumped me for some cock-sucking, mother-fucking jock." He shook his head and sighed heavily.

"Wow. I'm sorry," I said.

"Me too." The waiter looked at our food. "Enjoy." He sulked away, head down, shoulders slumped.

Lee and I looked at each other and grimaced as discretely as possible.

"He may have been wrong about his ex-girlfriend, but he's not about us." Lee picked up his water glass and raised it for a toast. "To you and me—two sides of the same coin, my dear. Thank you for completing me."

We clinked glasses and sipped our water to consummate the toast, but in a flash of insight I heard distant intuition mock me. Two sides of the same coin ricocheted in my head until the sweet, salty, tangy flavor of the shimmering onion soup captivated me, as did Lee's company.

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