The Bartender Slash Actor and the Blonde Dancer.

Nothing to do on a Tuesday night and a friend of mine invited me to a Birthday Party at the Green Door, a bar/lounge in the middle of Hollywood that was very dark, very French, and replete with red velvet.

There was a soul/upbeat jazz band playing in the middle room and a single park can lit them from the ceiling corner. A wall length mirror stood behind the band and so the harsh yellow light on their foreheads also reflected from behind and gave a working back light against their hair. It looked like the makings of a 60s exploitation video with well dressed black men who looked too eager to be exploited.

I met the bartender/actor a month ago. It was two weeks before my period, which, if you're familiar with the fertility calendar, was the woman's ovulation period. Ovulation is the four syllable word for the time when a woman is ready to get down. I went to a place called the Cabana Club to meet my girlfriends, and after we finished greeting each other with compliments over what we were wearing and the way each wore their hair, I decided I needed a drink.

I turned around to face the bar and smiled at the woman waiting to get my order.
"What are you drinking?" I asked Sam, ready to get two of whatever cocktail it was.
"I'm done! I can't drink anymore!"
"What? I just got here and I came because you asked me to! You need to get a drink."
The woman stepped away from the bar ledge, visibly impatient, and proceeded to be distracted by her phone.

I decide to just order myself the usual spiced rum and coke, and tried to make eye contact with the woman who was now texting a novel. The other bartender saw me from the corner of his eye and stepped towards me. Now, this was more like it. He was tall with dark hair, high pronounced cheekbones, and a veritable smirk that graced the corner of his lips.

Instinctively, I raised my hand.
"Hi, my name's April. What's yours?"
He took my hand and gave me a firm handshake, "My name's Brad."
We stared at each other smiling for a minute.
"Oh.. yeah.. can I get a rum and coke?"
He made it quickly and I gave him a tip.
"Thanks," I looked up at him with the straw in between my lips.
I gave it a moment before I finally left the bar.

A week later, we went out on two dates and he rubbed my back enough and made me feel uncomfortable. I think it was because that was as far as I would let him go, which let me wonder why I even hung out with him if I wasn't that attracted.

Fast forward to last night and I decide to give him another chance. We stand by the curtains in direct eye contact with the band. He has his hand place on my back/ass and I watched the entertainment as I sipped my drink. I was feeling the saxophone enough to put most of my focus on the show, until a dancer comes out in a lacy black dress, arm length gloves, and short, blonde curly hair. She prowled onto the floor, gyrating her hips and periodically flipping the curls from her forehead. I was mesmerized.

She was a burlesque act that accompanied the song and my eyes accompanied her every move. Halfway through the song, she sees me looking at her and returns the stare while rolling around on the floor. The song was done and she passed by me to the back of the bar. My eyes followed the back of her head.

"Wow. That girl is really attractive."
Brad looked around, "which one?"
"You know, the blonde that was just dancing."
"Oh yeah, she's pretty good looking. Not as good looking as you, though," he looked at me and did the back-rubbing thing again.
I pulled away from him. This is really not going anywhere. I'm here with this attractive enough bartender slash actor sometimes and I am looking at a girl.
We got another drink and went back to the band.
She was dancing again. This time, she had a stool as a prop and was doing the open leg, stool-straddling, bending over once in a while move. I don't know what the rules are for staring sleezily at a girl. I've seen guys do that to me before and it made me want to vomit. Now, I was doing it to her and she stared back at me.
This time, Brad noticed. A slow smile spreads on his face.
The song is done and she walks away again. Brad confronts me.
"What are you going to do about that?" she points at her as she walks away.
"I don't know. I feel nervous. I've never felt like this about a girl before."
"Wow," he takes a sip of his drink. "You know what? I'm going to be your matchmaker."
"No! What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to introduce you to that girl."
"She already left. We're not going to see her again."
"We'll see."

We move to stand by the bar and I leaned my back against the wall. We had another drink and I was feeling more confident than before. As if on cue, I see the familiar blonde curls moving against the crowd. She was walking towards me. This was the moment when I had to make a decision with myself. The definitive line between being straight/gay was suddenly looking like it was dotted. Can I really cross?

I stepped forward as she passed by me. I reached out my hand.
"Hi! I had to tell you I think you're gorgeous. My name's April. What's yours?"
She took my hand and shook it. "My name's Emily." She looked down and up again. She told me with a shy smile, "Thank you."
I suddenly lost all confidence, sipped my cocktail, and let her walk away.

The next hour was strange. We would see each other now and again and we would always catch each others eyes. If this was a man, I would already have had a personality-exploring conversation, exchanged phone numbers, and a future date in mind. But before, with men that I was attracted to, they would be the forward one, seeking me out and making sure to get my information. But with a woman that I may or may not be pursuing, I was at a loss at what to do. I was afraid of... rejection?

Brad didn't seem to mind my orientation confusion and actually looked fascinated. He kept offering to talk to the girl for me and I kept pulling him back. Hours pass of non-activity and we decided to call it a night. Brad and I went home, separately of course, with both of us agreeing in the car that we were just friends and him volunteering to accompany me if I decided to pursue my curiosity.

I got home that night wondering where this single life would lead me to. I had never entertained the possibility of attraction to the same-sex before and now, I was a little bit eager to explore it. I still haven't followed through with this but maybe in the future I'll be a slashie too; single slash curious.

The End.

Vampires
Werewolves
Time Travel
Body Switching
Magic
Nerd/Lovable Loser gets the Girl
Nerd/Lovable Loser gets a Make-Over and gets the Boy
Infatuated Dorky Best Friend
Teenage Angst
Mannequin turns into real person
Computer woman turns into real person
Returning from Heaven
Ghosts
Angels
Mermaid
Wish to get older/younger
Love Potion
Witches
Considerable Obstacle
Low Concept vs High Concept

Teenage Gangster from wrong side of tracks has secret crush on pop singer. He somehow sneaks into her birthday party in the Hills together with his friends and tries to confess his feelings.
Woman lives forever by making a pact to never fall in love. The day comes when she finally does and they spend one last amazing night together.
Serial dater is done with it and wishes to turn into the opposite sex, thinking it will get easier.
Random group of the school's upper percentile learn to appreciate each other through the school year.

"I have this theory of convergence. That good things always happen with bad things." -- Say Anything

"I knew it was the last time we'd ever see each other. And just like that I was thrown right back into my old pattern: greasy chinese, sleeping 'til noon, and feeling restless." -- Carrie, Sex and the City S2

3:30 am in the morning, Sex and the City Reruns, and a full blown attack of the insomnia. I'm trying not to dip into my xanax prescription but how do I kickstart myself back to a normal sleeping routine. I'm in the midst of a rejection but I don't want to end it too quickly. Is it sick that I'm trying to relish the days before the inevitable?

The usual, "Do you feel better?" message came again today. And the usual initially hopeful but eventually crestfallen feeling happened as our exchange ended as soon as he was satisfied that my vagina seemed to be healing.

Do I have a right to be angry? Does it really matter? I'm going to be angry anyway. The next time he asks me if I'm okay, I'm going to tell him I'll feel better once he stops messaging everytime he sees the blood stain on his couch and feels guilty. I don't want a fucking pity message, goddamnit! I just want you to really like me.

I hate staring at these almost dead roses.

Anyway.

Is it really considered meeting a boy when your first conversation is done on a social networking site? So I met a boy because he sent me a note telling me we work in similar fields and also saying I was "damn cute." He looked pretty cute, in a picture anyway, so I decided to start a dialogue with him. I find out he's a creative director for an ad agency. I had to admit, I was impressed. And to top it off, he is only 24 years old. Hence, the "boy" label.

It started off innocently enough with "What part of town do you live at?" "What tv show do you like to watch?" and then progressed to "What genre do you like to write about?"

I admitted that recently, it's been romantic comedy. And he, excitedly said that was also his.
And so we tell each other a litany of old 80s movies we both love, he confesses his obsession with deloreans, and somewhere in this, we decide to be writing partners. Maybe we aren't being realistic but doesn't this sound like the initial plot for the typical 80s romantic comedy?

He thought so too because he started to get really excited, talking about love and romance and "Can I have your number?" And I, not wanting to be a plot point or the girl in his 80s fairytale, refused to give it to him.

Doctor's orders: No pelvic activity for two months. So. Let's be friends. Let's take it slow. Let's write.

It is four in the morning in Urgent Care, white shoes has been sleeping in the waiting room for a hour, and I stare at the small, grey-haired doctor in between my legs.

"You see, there's a little cut here but that's it. Look, it's already stopped bleeding. You'll be alright. Just go home and it'll heal overnight," he shifted his eyeglasses as if to highlight his conclusion.
I was skeptical. "Are you sure? I've lost so much blood already and I don't think this'll heal so easily," I shifted uncomfortably trying to close my legs.
He peered in again. "No, No. You're alright. It's a just a little cut."
I doubted such a little cut could've produced the amount of blood I had seen but I guess I'll believe the man. He's a doctor after all. "Ok...."

He left the room and I got up to change back into my clothes. As soon as my feet touch the floor, the blood starts again. It won't stop. It flows down my legs in rivers and pretty soon I have literally created a bloody mess. I try not to slip on it as I reach for the door and yell out, "Excuse me! Help! I haven't stopped bleeding!"

A nurse comes back into the room and his eyes bulge as he sees what had happened. He calls for the doctor who shuffles back in. This time, his eyes are a little frightened.

"I think you have to go to the emergency room."

This time, they give me a pad for the bleeding and the nurse writes me up a referral to the nearest hospital. I get dressed and return to the waiting room. White shoes is half asleep but he quickly gets up when he sees me go through the door. He is in the middle of a smile, "Are you better now?"

I feel a tinge of regret as I have to disappoint him. "No, I have to go to the Emergency Room. They think I might need stitches," I turn to the side and get my letter from the nurse. He bids me luck as White Shoes and I hurry to the car.

I think this is officially the worst date of my life. This is probably one of the worst dates in history.

The downtown hospital is a circus. There is a lone douche bag laying on the floor, a fat security guard half asleep beside the metal detector, and policemen everywhere accompanying a coterie of homeless drifters, confused immigrants, and angry bruised gangsters with their arms in handcuffs behind them.

We step towards registration and hand the first woman my note. She doesn't seem to understand what it says. She hands it to the woman beside her in the next window.

"What are you here for?"
"Vaginal bleeding."
She looks over at the note again. She looks white shoes and I up and down. I think she got to the part about "vaginal trauma due to intercourse."
"You need to go to the front desk."
"But there was no one there!"
"There will be someone there now." She waves us away and I hear her exclaim, "Oh my god!" to the woman next to her. Their giggles echo as we close the door.

The woman at the front desk is more forgiving and lets me in quickly.
White shoes decides to forego a night of hanging out with the waiting room vagrants and wait for me in his car. "If you need me, I am 30 seconds away. Just give me a call."
"Alright," I resign. What can you expect from someone on the second date?

And so I sit in a chair inside the double doors waiting, waiting, waiting. Two criminals are led away after being treated. A homeless man walks around in a makeshift cotton jumpsuit. He decides to turn himself in to the policeman claiming he jumped parole. They give him some money for the nearest bus. A wailing woman sits across from me, hoping for some sympathy. A two year old is carried by her worried mother because she has suddenly stopped speaking. I'm glad she is quickly let in.

The clock ticks by.
Five O'clock
Six O'clock
Seven O'clock
White Shoes barrages me with text messages. I tell him not to worry and catch what little sleep he can in the car. I was practicing martyrdom or bravery. Whatever. I wanted to tell him to come back and wait with me.
Eight O'clock
Nine O'clock
I tell White Shoes to go home and I'll call him when I'm released. He had left his front door unlocked and had a deposition to write in the morning. I couldn't expect too much from an almost stranger.
Ten O'clock
Eleven O'clock

I am finally called to a bed in the Emergency room. There is still a wait to be had but this time I can sleep on the bed. Hours pass. I don't keep track. A lovely nurse tries to comfort me as the doctor begins the exploration down there again. My blood pressure drops. I am weaker than before, barely able to speak. They tell me I need to go to surgery, something about a tear inside. I sign whatever paperwork they present to me. Whatever to make this stop. I can barely answer his new stream of text messages. To him they sounded cryptic, but to me I was trying to convey to him the essential info.

"Going to Surgery." "Scared." "April C********." "Cant talk" I told him my last name. Maybe he will come back.

"Help me, " I whispered meekly to the nurse beside me as the medical team wheeled me to the operating room. My only view is the white ceiling, the big round lights, and three busy aestheticians. One of them injects something into the middle of my arm.

"Ow!" I try to yell.
"It'll be OK," the nurse on my right says sympathetically. She holds my hand as another doctor holds a face mask over me.
I feel profoundly alone.

I black out.

The next thing I know, I am wheeled to another room. The surgery is done and I feel much better. It was the drugs.

My best friend comes in through the curtains with a big smile on her face. He comes in right after her carrying a beautiful bouquet of pink roses.

I look at those roses now as they sit in a vase in my room. It's been two days since I was released from the hospital and his flowers have managed to stay alive. He sends me his daily messages just to confirm that I'm alright, nothing more than that. Our correspondence feels like an obligation, some part of his good upbringing and guilt manifesting itself.

I can't expect anything else from him. That second date was scary enough. And with the doctor's orders of "no pelvic activity for two months," I have no idea why the man would want to hang out with me.

So let's use these roses as a hourglass. They will die soon enough. As the last one wilts, I am sure that it will be the day he'll stop calling and maybe, I hope, the day I'll stop caring.

"Help me, " I whispered meekly to the nurse beside me as the medical team wheeled me to the operating room. My only view is the white ceiling, the big round lights, and three busy aestheticians. One of them injects something into the middle of my arm.

"Ow!" I try to yell.
"It'll be OK," the nurse on my right says sympathetically. She holds my hand as another doctor holds a face mask over me.

I black out.

17 hours earlier.

2nd Date in my new white shirt and new haircut, post menstrual cycle and all the excitement of waiting a week to see him. I step out of my apartment and into his car. He's more gorgeous than how I remembered him before. I try to hide a smile.

We walk into the pool hall and his friends meet us there. He whispers to me secretly, "I wish it was just the two of us." I want to hold his hand.

So we start the pool game with a friendly wager. We divide our teams into boys vs girls, White Shoes and his Best Friend while I team up with his Best Friend's Girlfriend.

She instigates, "If we win, you guys kiss for five seconds."
There are loud groans from the both of them.
"But what if we win?"
"We'll do whatever you like," she decides for the both of us. I shrug.
His Best friend whispers something in her ear. I look across at the both of them and see her blush. "Ok," she agrees. She points at me. "What do you want her to do?"
He looks at my eyes and suddenly grins from ear to ear. He whispers in turn, "I want to see you in nothing but those snakeskin shoes."
I nod at him. I planned to be reduced to this at the end of the night anyway. It wasn't a risk but I think he wanted to be assured.

And so we begin to play the game. His friend asks for a good luck kiss from his girlfriend. They look at me expectant.

"What?" I ask.
"He needs a good luck kiss too," his friends point at us.
I lean into his cheek too quickly and he, charmingly, looks down.

As we take turns around the table, we take every opportunity to pass each other. A little touch on my waist, a little secret smile, hands brushing against each other. We are all riled up for the competition, taking playful jabs at the other team as we drink more alcohol and get more comfortable.

The girls lose the game and he pulls me in. "I think we should go home now," he smiles at me.

Later on that night, after his friends get our hints that we wanted to be left alone, we stare at each other on the sofa.
This is it.
It's not long until I complete my side of our wager. I cover myself coyly with just my hands and he slowly pulls them aside. He whispers to me, "You're beautiful."

I cover him in kisses and so here we are, after days and days of racy text messages and maddening anticipation, we are finally in the middle of absolute intimacy until...

"OW!!!!!!!" I scream and fall to the side of the sofa. I am frozen with my arms surrounding my knees. My vision is coming in spots.

"Oh my god, you're bleeding!" I look over at him in a daze and I see his lap is covered in blood. There is blood everywhere; my legs, the sofa, the floor.

"Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god," he leads me into the bathroom and I can't stand. I stare at the rug and wait for him to come back with towels. I can't clean myself up. I think this is shock. He stands me up and I look at him helplessly.

"What's going on?" I'm still lightheaded. He wipes the blood off me and helps me into my clothes.
He tries his best to comfort me although his eyes definitely look frightened. "It'll be alright. You'll heal soon. You just have to get some rest. I'll take you home. Just wait for me here while I get the car."

"Ok," I sigh as I fall back on the couch.

He leaves and comes back quickly and drives me home. I try to play it off while I'm in the passenger seat. "It's all your fault you big dick bastard!" I laugh. He forces out a chuckle.

We finally get to my apartment and as I open the front door, I turn to him. "Please stay with me tonight, " I look up into his eyes, pleading. I was afraid.

I change into waterproof pants and take precautions for the blood. We crawl into bed and the flow still doesn't stop. My heart is fluttering in anxiety. He dozes off and I alter between waking and nightmares. An hour passes and this time, I'm sure this wasn't going to heal on its own. I change into another set of pants and wake him. "Please take me to the hospital."

To be continued...

The Ex is coming to town today. It has been two months since we have broken up and we are at that stage where we still talk on the phone, still leave towels or toothbrushes or little items of clothing at each others houses, and still have the sporadic sleep-overs. The complicated thing is that we live 300 miles away from each other. So it is a considerable effort to actually be in each others company, confirming that the spark is still there and there is a possibility of getting back together.

But it is different today. I don't feel that excitement anymore when I find out he's visiting me. I don't have a physical urge to be next to him. I am afraid to lose him but I think it's too late. I think we are trying to hold on to a memory of what we were together, when we were happier.

I am afraid to see him today and tell him that this is the last time.

Tonight I went to a private party for the Black Eyed Peas. I am name dropping because I LOVE THE BLACK EYED PEAS and it was very exciting to bypass a line full of hungry people and be let right in through the velvet rope. I have to make an effort to remember these incredible things that happen to me before I get jaded and take everything for granted. Anyway, that is what writing a blog is for.

On a side continuation of the white shoes saga, I was visited with the crazy ex-gf syndrome. By this I mean, white shoe's crazy ex-gf texted me continuously tonight, demanding to know my relationship with him. Apparently, she found my phone number from his phone bill (WTF?!?!) I told her the truth and he apologized copiously while I hid in some dark corner of the party straining to hear him on the phone. In the end, what I took away from the dramatic phone calls in the middle of an awesome party I'm supposed to be having a blast at, is that irregardless of his crazy ex-gf, I still want to see him. And maybe the next time she calls, I will explain to her in detail how good the sex was.

Not ten minutes after I wrote the previous blog, a text message comes from an unfamiliar number.

"Hey April, it's C**** from Friday night. What are you up to? I think we should get together for a drink. When are you free?"

I let out a loud giggle.

"Tonight," I reply back.

I had already made plans with my girlfriends to watch a movie that night and they were on there way to pick me up. So there I was, standing in front of my full length mirror in the t-shirt I had worn the whole day, dirty jeans, and a face that was greasy from having fallen asleep in the middle of the day in a room with no air-conditioning. I had 15 minutes to pull something together.

I ran to the bathroom, washed the muck off my face, put moisturizer on, put extra deodorant on, took out a semi-formal white shirt from the dryer, put that on, too slutty, took it off, put my skull shirt back on, too casual, put the white shirt back on, can't decide, put the skull shirt back on, took my chucks off, put some heels on, re-apply make-up, put the white shirt in my purse just in case, and ran out the door as my friends honked their horn for me to come out.

They forgive me after I explain to them what had just happened. They have gone through the three day why hasn't he called me yet ordeal before.

He messages me again.

"Pick you up at 9 pm?" I tell him to pick me up at the movie theater at 930 pm.

When the movie was over, I hugged my friends goodbye and they wished me luck. I ran into the bathroom, quick armpit and make-up check, and strutted back outside.

He picked me up from the curb on Sunset in a bright silver SUV. He stepped out and waved. I waved back and immediately saw the familiar white shoes.

We had dinner. He gave me the twenty questions and I gave him the I'm shy but a little adventurous scheme. I really am. But we somehow ended up on his room, tangled up on his couch, about to break a cardinal first date rule.

I gasped in between kisses, "Hey," gasp "I can't do this" gasp "I'm on my period" gasp.

He stopped. And then, continued to kiss me.

"When are you done? Tomorrow?"
"No."
"Tuesday?"
"No."
"Wednesday?"
"No."
"Thursday, Friday?"
"No, next weekend."

It didn't seem to faze him. We turned around on his couch like in the basement of our parents house in high school while they are home for another hour. After much frustration, I finally asked him to take me home.

Next week is our second date. I think we are a bit overzealous and I will probably still be on my period. Should I reschedule? Or endure a severe jeans burn? Is there a third option here?

It all starts at a bar.

The music is too fast and the room is too dark. I stroll to the bar and offer my friends a drink. I turn my back on the bartender and they all take turns giving me an embrace. I missed my friends.

But then behind one there is a man who looks at me for a brief second. Did I really see it? I turn back to the bartender and he pushes over our melonball drinks; my friend in a martini glass and mine in a shot. We drink simultaneously and we both cringe and laugh.

One of my friends is lost in a European conversationalist and I am searching for something... I walk across the bar and look for this mysterious "upstairs room."

As we pass by the well-dressed Hollywood regulars, I see some of my friends across the room motioning towards me. He is with them.

I walk to them quickly and he looks at me again. I reach out my hand. "My name is April." I push out a dazzling smile and he catches it. "My name's Charlie."

We pass through a walkway, forced to be inches away from each other. The bouncer doesn't let us in. We laugh it off and retreat. There are other places to waste our adventure on.

So we stroll outside and everyone takes their cigarettes out. I light mine and we all condense into our small circle of friends. I look down and he's wearing immaculate white shoes.

As the group leaves for the next bar, we both seemed to walk slower on purpose. His smile is genuine, shy, not knowing how beautiful he was. I don't remember what he told me as we walked together, something about his dimples, or his smile, or his light blue eyes.

We enter again, now without hassle at a place called Ecco. This one is louder and more cramped than the last but there is a different energy here. We all knew we were going to have fun tonight.

I go towards the corner of the bar and a few local strangers say Hi. I do my best to try to entice them. "Why not?" I thought as we laughed together. I notice him looking at me from across the room. He decides to come over to tell me that I'm popular. But it didn't matter, because I'd already stopped talking to everyone else as soon as I saw him looking at me.

He leaves briefly and my friends decide to snitch on him. "He's totally into you."
"Really?"
"Yeah, he said his favorite month is now April."

I don't notice when he comes towards me and grabs my hand. He whispers, "Let's Dance."

The music changes when we get to the middle of the room. He won't look at my eyes but I keep looking up at him in hopes that he will catch mine. But the moment passes too quickly as I foolishly follow my friends to the outside patio and leave him by himself.

I immediately regret my decision.

I try to go back but we have already lost it. I sit down again and he sits beside me. I don't know what I was thinking when he asks for my number. Somehow, I go into a monologue of how I need a challenge and play coy and pretend I'm not interested. I give him a business card anyway but with someone else's number on the back of it, of course, in self-destructive fashion. I laugh and he doesn't see through my joke.

My friend Sam tires of the bar and wants to leave so I follow her out. I leave him behind, knowing I will never see him again. But me, in my delusional optimism, still wishes he will call me.

I know that we have lost the moment. I know that I had my chance. And all I can take from it, apart from his eyes and his smile, are the vision of his white shoes that he told me he had worn for the first time that night.