Breaking Up in LA

I was 26 years old. My head was in my boyfriend’s lap as he was stroking my hair. No, I wasn’t giving him a blow-job. Instead, I was crying. A different form of intimacy for me. Who am I kidding? This was way more intimate! Tears were more vulgar than cum in my household growing up. I wasn’t allowed to cry, so I learned to weep alone quietly in a ball with the doors locked. I was away from my father now, able to cry freely in another man’s lap, yet I wasn’t feeling free at all. 

Paul and I had been together forever. Well, five years. But five years in your 20s AND living in Los Angeles was basically forever. We were sitting in my parked car with the engine turned off. We had now moved onto location number two for our break-up marathon. The plan was for a friendly break-up during lunch at Hugo’s in West Hollywood. Very logical. Very matter-of-fact. Both agreeing we were no good for each other over a healthy meal. Shake hands and say good-bye. See you in the audition rooms.

Buuuuuuuuutttttt….of course I wanted Paul to feel like shit. I longed for him to plead and beg. I wore a tight skirt and a fitted blouse. He needed to suspect how lots of men were going to want to have sex with me. We had started dating when I was 21 years old. A baby. I wasn’t a baby anymore. I was a very fuckable woman. Paul was never a guy that was led by his dick, but by his ego. Ownership was probably one of the reasons why we stayed together for so long. But I was horny and didn’t care about his ego. I was ready to say goodbye and bang out directors in LA. But when we were alone in the confines of my car, I forgot how much I loved him. I got scared. My heart started to beat faster. What if no one loves me like Paul has? No one will. 

I slouched over him like a lumpy old pillow about to be thrown in the dumpster. I began to panic. 

“I’m so sad. Please, Paul. I love you so much..” 

I started to cry. I felt my world closing in. The world was not my oyster. What does that even mean? Fine. If the world was an oyster, that meant it was dark and clammy and short lived. A world I didn’t want. Take me back, Paul. Please.

“Shhh…Dixie. No. I just can’t. I can’t.”

I was no longer a fuckable woman but a scared little motherless baby. I began to howl. Paul stroked my head. Soothing me. It made me love him more. See? Who would ever rub my head like this? No one.

“Ow.” 

I felt a sharp pain from my head. Paul had plucked out a hair. I stopped sobbing and sat up. What the fuck? C’mon. I was crying.

Paul held a grey hair as if it were an x-ray. 

“Yep. That’s a grey hair alright. Have fun getting older. I heard women really enjoy that process.”