I was sitting up in my bed on a sunny June morning journaling my morning pages, as prescribed by the book, The Artist’s Way. As this prescription aligned with other systems, my sister’s “Love Breakthrough” gurus, the general “Law of Attraction” guidelines, The Tao of Dating, and whatever strong Goddess power guiding me, my writing was in full thrust. While writing, I allow myself to stray as necessary: walk around the yard, smoke a cigarette, and return to my down comforter and laptop.
Settling back into my soft bed, I opted to do a little phone media. I opened Facebook. Apparently, many friends were enjoying the outdoors, posting images of flower gardens or lanky children in togas and tasseled oxford caps, holding up diplomas. School was recently on break, and families were together and out, all over the country.
Clicking on the familiar image of Scoundrel embracing his dog, I enjoyed a five-minute video of him in Palm Springs. He appeared to be waterskiing . . . no . . . skateboarding behind a golf cart via rope tow. Apparently, someone in the golf cart—probably Mortgage Broker or some other scantily clad stranger—was holding the recording device. The clip was jagged and jerky with laughter. The rope, appearing to be a good ten yards behind the vehicle, slacked and tightened as Mike slalomed through a palm-tree-lined neighborhood, cocktail, complete with drink umbrella, balanced in one hand. “Faster,” he indicated with a thumbs-up, as he crouched low on his skateboard, lifting his big toe and leaning back to take in more speed. His mouth was agape with pleasure, exposing almost all of his perfect white teeth. I closed my eyes, anticipating a crash, remembering so well that fear, and chuckled.
I clicked over to my OkCupid site and shuffled through the river of changing faces. Given my experience, I could now swipe rather rapidly. The vast majority of these men were abominable, if not ghastly. Yet, I’d vowed not to consider this practice a waste of time, but rather, a study of sorts. Strange as they may be, these men were my species and this was a chapter of my life I was trying to understand. As Walt Whitman reminded me, I was discovering myself in dissimilar fellows.
“Oh, my God!” I shouted.
Dani and I were aware we’d been working in tandem for some hours. We’d opted to give each other space to work or create from our prospective rooms.
“What now?” Dani shouted through the walls from her room. “May I make you a shake? I can do banana and kale, with black cherries and chocolate protein.”
“That would be dreamy. Then you must see this.”
I listened to the tss, tss, tss, of Dani’s fuzzy slippers in the kitchen orchestrating her ritual shake. I loved that she took care of me, ensuring I secured all of my daily requirements in one brown, goopy glass.
“Here,” she said, handing me my tall glass of morning elixir. Opening the covers of my bed, she slid herself beside me. “What’s up. Are you writing?”
“First, look at this.” I showed her the video of Scoundrel, which she watched with determined eyes. “You just can’t make this s**t up,” I said. “Everything he does is just so him.”
“I’m so glad that’s over, Reen. You are over him, right?”
“I am, Dani.” I said, looking down at my phone.
“Then why do you even follow him? He’s a reckless fool. He’s reckless with life, he was reckless with your heart.”
“I’m in control of what happens to me. I don’t want to forget anything, Dan. That’s why I write. He’s a part of my story. Now, look at this.”
Opening the OkCupid app, I showed Dani where I’d left the page open to a particular profile with the handle, “HairyVajPlease.” In his profile picture, this guy was completely naked, straddling a piece of raw wood, knees drawn up to his chest, in what appeared to be an abandoned gun battery like those at the forts in the Presidio. He held in his hand a large piece of plywood that he seemed to be reading like Moses would his scroll of commandments. He, the plywood, and his surroundings were splattered with house paint like a Jackson Pollock piece. This blonde, covered with tattoos and a full, scruffy beard, described himself as forty-two and living in San Francisco, and he had a twenty-three-percent match rate with me. That’s beyond low.
“What the f**k is the matter with these people? Reen, you worry about where my work takes me. If you think I’m going to let you go out with this lunatic, you’ve got another thing coming.” Dani snickered.
I had pushed off the down coverlet and was now rolling with laughter on the edge of the bed, punching the pillow in hysteria. “I’m gonna pee my pants!” I stumbled as I guffawed into the bathroom.
As I stood to flush, my eyes flashed on one of our newest wall acquisitions. The old black-and-white photograph of three gals playing volleyball on the beach. With photographs, it’s always important to re-examine them frequently. Every time you study art, like the face of a flower, you will notice something new. Like a garden or a child, like life, change is constantly emerging.
Dani entered the open-doored bathroom, still in need of an answer. “Reen, you are not going out with this guy, right?”
My gaze lingered on the beach-volleyball image, examining the faces of the subjects. Probably in their early twenties, one had long hair to her waist, another a short blonde bob and horn-rimmed glasses. The kind of girl you’d be more likely see at church than naked holding a volleyball over her head, yet I noticed a tiny star tattooed on her hip. The photo was old, weird, and wonderful. Like The Three Graces, it was certainly set up, but by whom? I swept over the timeless piece, following the line down past pouty breasts and supple hips of youth. My eyes rested on the patches between their legs. All three of them donned a significantly piliferous bush.
“Noreen!” Dani now used my given name, reminding me that she’d known me longer than many, and had the power to discipline the child in me. “What’s going on in that brain of yours?” She followed me as I walked through the house to re-examine all the art we had amassed.
“I wonder, Dan,” I started, sitting down now on our soft leather sofa. “I’ve never asked. Do you shave your vagina?”
“Yes, all of it.”
“Why?”
“The cowboy likes it that way. I don’t think you should answer this guy’s profile, Reen. He scares me.”
“I won’t,” I assured her. “It just brings up an interesting subject in my study of men, women, femininity, power, and prowess. I think I’m going to start asking.”
“Sounds interesting.” Dani’s eyes met mine with her usual unconditional love and unperforated faith.
She had a way of lowering her chin when she smiled to remind me of all of the secrets we shared. I’d been loving those green eyes on and off for forty years. We’d been each other’s cheerleaders through all kinds of changes, from sex and drugs to husbands and children.
“Never leave me, Dan. Your support means so much to me.” I fondled my flute, which I left out to remind me to practice.
“Never.”
Reprinted with permission from Hairy Vaj, Please: My journey on OkCupid, which is available from Amazon and Bookshop.
