I don’t think of myself as an especially shallow person, but my behavior sometimes suggests otherwise. I tend to be very impressed with good-looking people before they actually do anything worth praising, and it’s just harder for me to imagine them as criminals or crazy people. Sure, they can be “crazy” like Zooey Deschanel, but not like Jeffrey Dahmer crazy. If they were eating people how would their skin look so healthy?
So, when an amazingly attractive actor I met on a film shoot flirted with me, I was too overwhelmed to see much else. The fact that he asked me out at all should have tipped me off—I am not a wholly unattractive person, but this man looked like what you’d get if Jude Law and Justin Timberlake had a baby. A gorgeous hipster baby.
I was too busy staring at his glorious face to care that he seemed “a little moody” or “slightly flakey” or even “sort of a jerk,” and so I happily looked forward to our 3rd date. The night started off badly, as he showed up an hour late and would answer no questions about what he’d been doing that day. I didn’t want to seem too clingy, so I let it go. Next we went to a bar where he ignored me to go privately talk with a female friend he ran into for an hour and a half. When I finally told him I was leaving, he talked me down and by the end of the conversation I was apologizing to him for being insensitive and jealous. In fact, I then waited another 30 minutes for him to finish his conversation with his friend. When he invited me back to his place, all wrongs were forgotten. I was too impressed with myself for going home with a 10.
We made it back to his apartment and just as things were heating up, our conversation wandered into sexual history. I said I was all clear, but joked that I was a non-threat anyway because it had been a while.
“How long do you mean exactly?” he asked.
“Six months,” I replied. “What about you?”
“That’s really personal. I don’t want to answer that.”
“But you just asked me the same thing! Come on! You can tell me! I mean, it’s not like we’re in a relationship so I won’t be offended by the timeline. It’s just kind of weird that you won’t answer. If we can’t talk about sex, we probably shouldn’t have sex.” I expected that would get him talking! Use the ole Lysistrata technique!
“Fine then I guess we’re not having sex!” He yelled. That was not the response I wanted. Having trekked all the way to his shitty apartment, I did not want to leave unrewarded.
I should have let it go, but his evasiveness bothered me far more than any answer would have. In my mind I’d already decided that probably the reason he’d been late to our date was that he’d been on a date with someone else earlier. So I kept asking. Prodding. Trying different tactics. I NEEDED to know. After what seemed like an eternity, he said, “It was a month ago, before I ever met you.” I asked if he was telling me the truth. “It’s what you want to hear. Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with you? Why would you even ask this shit? You should just shut the fuck up if you know what’s good for you!” At that point he got up and left the room.
When he returned, he was completely unhinged. Whether he did some meth (my guess) or a screw finally popped loose in his beautiful, beautiful head, I don’t know. He was frenzied and laughing, saying how we couldn’t lie down on an unmade bed! “Stand up! NOW!” He barked. “This is the worst bed I’ve ever seen! Where is the fucking sheet? Where is it? Seriously, where the fuck is it, did you take it? Did something happen to it?” He started to panic until I pulled the sheet up from behind the bed. He grabbed it from my hands and fanned it out. I adjusted a corner and he erupted in anger. “IF YOU SO MUCH AS FUCKING TOUCH THIS SHEET I SWEAR TO GOD I–” and his voice broke off. By this point, I was scared and backed against the wall as he finished making the bed. So why didn’t I leave?
- I was drunk and Drunk Chelsea isn’t good at rational thought.
- It was 4 am far out in Brooklyn and I didn’t know how to get home.
These are terrible, dumb excuses, but me fucking up is the theme of this blog.
“THERE!” he said when finished. “Isn’t that the best bed you’ve ever seen? We have to remember this! We should take a picture!” He pulled out his phone took a photo of the bed, again laughing maniacally. “Take a picture!” He yelled, so I quietly obeyed and took a picture of the bed. Then he put on music, as loud as his stereo system could go, past the point of hurting my ears. “No one is going to sleep yet,” he said to himself.
I sat on the bed watching him, terrified until finally after smoking a bowl, he turned off the music and went to bed. I remained as far from him as possible and we did not speak or touch as I waited for dawn and to sober up. Once that happened, I grabbed my stuff and left.
Later that day I received the following text message:
LOL did you leave????
Yes. Yes, I did. Only twelve hours too late.