I'm... kind of drunk. And by kind of drunk, I mean drunk. Not too drunk, just drunk. I'd have to be, to be where I am right now. Doing what I'm doing right now.

Where am I and what am I doing? Uh... well. I'm standing in the middle of a driveway, next to my car in my skinny jeans-the ones that look painted on-and my hot girl stilettos, a tight, thin mesh top and a black lacy bra underneath. My hair has been teased and whipped until it is a frothy mess and my face is full of makeup. I caked it on, from dramatic smoky eyelids to blood red lipstick. I don't look as whore-ish as I thought I would. This is actually a disappointment.

I don't usually look like this. In fact I never look like this. I went out tonight with a group of friends, a group that I'd been trying to break into for awhile. You know how it is, trying to be one of the cool kids. Except we're all in our twenties and too old to still be aiming for popularity, but in a city like LA, it's all in who you know. Anyway, we went to a few clubs, danced a lot and drank a lot. One of the guys was partying a little too hard and knocked over a speaker. That got us kicked out of TWIST! Instead of grouping up with everyone else at another club down the street, I hopped in my car and headed home. I was tired, and besides, the one person I was hoping would come didn't show.

Not that I was surprised. Inviting JC to something and him actually showing are two different scenarios. He shows up at a club right after I've left, or decides to go to dinner after I decide I'm not going because he probably won't come. Yeah, it's kind of middle school, but do you know any other way to casually get to know someone, make him realize how awesome you are and want to spend more time with you?

Well. On the way home I had an idea.

And had I not been drunk, I would have realized how stupid it was. I wouldn't have flipped my turn signal at the next exit, got off the freeway and back on going in the direction of West Hollywood. Had I not had just a wee bit too much to drink, I wouldn't have driven straight to his house, parked in his driveway (smack in the middle and not even straight) and I definitely wouldn't be standing here in the dead of night, teetering in my heels, adjusting my jeans and checking my hair and lipstick and re-thinking the fact that you can see my bra though this shirt. At the last second, I open the door to the car and lean in and over to the backseat to grab a jacket that I always keep there. You know, on the rare occasions that it's cold in LA.

"Okay," I say to myself, out loud because it's something single people do-talk to ourselves. I offer a bit of a pep talk and give myself an out. "Knock once. Don't ring the doorbell. If he hears it, he hears it. If he doesn't, it's not meant to be. Take your drunk self home."  

While I'm muttering to myself, I'm inching my way up the driveway and the front steps, my heels clicking along the pavement.

"Here goes nothing." Except because I'm drunk I forgot that I was going to knock, and press the little round button. And then let my head fall forward and pound into the screen door. Idiot! The doorbell seems loud, the sound lingering and echoing, but I don't hear any other sounds-namely footsteps. Or voices.

Maybe he's not home? That would be good, actually. Then you won't have disturbed him and he won't think you're psycho. Yeah. Yeah, guess he's not home!

I'm a little disappointed but mostly relieved as I go back down the way I came, clicking along each step toward my car. Just as I reach the handle, the porch light clicks on; this triggers the floodlights over the garage door, bathing most of the block in near daytime brightness. I feel like I've been caught by the FBI or something.

Or worse. Fuck. He's home.

I hear locks clicking and the front door open.  JC stands in the doorway, surrounded by a warm band of light from the hallway behind him. It spills down the front sidewalk and into the yard. He's barefoot, wearing a pair of dark blue nylon pants-the kind he wears to the gym-and a plain white t-shirt. How someone can look hot in such regular, normal, lazy attire I don't know, but I'm breathless, staring up the driveway at him.

"Leah?" He asks eventually, stepping out of the house and moving down the steps.

"Yeah," I answer, my fear and apprehension evident in the waiver of my voice. Fuckfuckfuckfuck I did not think this through! "You don't have to come out. I-I was just leaving."

"So soon?"  He's trying not to laugh, I can tell by the tone of his voice. "Are you okay? What are you doing out here?"

"I uh..."  I lean against my car and try to appear nonchalant. "I was just in the neighborhood?"

"You were in the neighborhood. This neighborhood. An hour away from where you live."

"I was... partying. With the... people. You know, the group. We missed you."

"Ohhhh." His head tips back as he smacks a palm against his forehead. "Tonight was the Holiday Pub Crawl, huh? Yeah, I'm sorry I had to miss it. I leave tomorrow and I needed to do laundry and pack and stuff."

"Oh! Oh you're busy!" Relieved to find a reason to leave, I grip the handle of the driver side door. "I'll let you get back to...whatever. Have a good holiday!"

I wrestle with the door, finally get it open and sit in the driver's seat. I make all of the motions of getting ready to leave-putting on the seatbelt, turning on the lights, but I can't find my damn keys!

By this point, JC is standing outside my car door, hands in his pockets. He's staring down at me through my window and the expression on his face-it's like he knows. He knows why I'm at his house looking like I'm being interrogated by the fucking Gestapo. I want to dig a hole through the floor of my Honda and then burrow through the concrete in the driveway, then slink away and never come to this house ever again.

He shakes his head and pulls one hand out of his pocket to rap his knuckles on the glass. I hesitate before plug my key into the ignition and press the button to roll the window down. As it lowers, he bends forward and rests his hands on his knees, so we are face to face. He's definitely on the verge of laughing, now.

I want to die. I mean... I like attention from him, but not while I look like the wrong end of a fun night out. I can't even believe I thought he would be interested in me all done up like a Geisha girl. I regret a lot of things in my life-dropping out of school, those six months I worked at Hooters, wearing these heels--- tonight is taking the cake. So hard.

"Uhh..." He pauses, glancing over my face, my hair and my attire. "Have a good time, tonight?" I nod, my head bobbing a few times. "Are you drunk?"

"Not very. I'm okay. I had some drinks."

"Mmmhmm." He blinks a few times, then straightens and opens my car door. "Why don't you come in for a few minutes? Have some coffee or some water or something. You're already here."

"Oh. Well. I don't want to interrupt or anything," I say, while pulling the key out of ignition and grabbing my purse. Right. When a guy you like invites you into his house, you get your ass in that house!

I follow him back up the driveway, the sidewalk, the front porch, across the threshold. I've only been in JC's house once or twice as a friend of a friend. I somehow snagged an invite to a party he threw and got another invite as a result of that one. Both were the most fun I've had in LA since I moved here five years ago. Certainly a more intense scene than anything I could find in Pittsburgh.

Yeah. I'm a long ways from home. I just had this crazy idea that I was going to go to LA, be an actress and a model. Despite everyone's negative opinions on the subject, I packed what could fit in my car and hit the road, bunked with my friend Melanie who did some part time modeling and full time waitressing. After a year of more part time jobs than I could count on both hands and very little acting or modeling work, I started to pick up that my dream was going to take more work than I originally planned. A lot more. And contacts. I needed contacts.

You know, like I said. In LA it's who you know.  

The house hasn't changed much since the last time I was there. It's clean, but not sterile. Really homey and lived in. Lots of art on the walls, a wall to wall glass case with his awards and memorabilia from a life he's only barely clinging to. The floors are shiny old hardwood and colorful floor rugs and pristine, deep pile carpeting. Only the hallway is lit all the way. The other rooms on the main level have, at the most, one lamp lit. I start to feel a little guilty- he wasn't even down here when I rang his doorbell. I interrupted something.

He stops in the hallway at the opening to the kitchen, his hands still in his pockets. "Do you mind taking off your shoes? I mean, you don't have to, it's just that I had the floors waxed and the carpets cleaned and--"

"Yeah, no problem," I say, already kicking off those godforsaken heels. I'm seriously hoping I can borrow a pair of flip flops so I don't have to put those things back on again.

He leads me into the kitchen where the scent of coffee wraps me up in a yummy hug. He must really like his coffee, because his machine is one of those industrial sized jobs-the carafe must hold at least a half gallon of coffee. The pot is half full of dark brown liquid and a mug is sitting on the counter next to it. He opens a cabinet door and pulls down another mug, then glances over at me, his eyebrows raised.

"You drink coffee, don't you?" He asks as if not drinking coffee is a sin, as if he can't imagine someone not drinking coffee. I nod vigorously and he begins to pour a mug for me. Smoke curls from the surface, where he's left room for cream and sugar.  "I'll let you fix it up how you want." He points toward the coffee service next to the pot, which holds individual cups of flavored cream and packets of sugar.

"I feel like I'm at a hotel."

He laughs while he refills his own mug, then grabs two packets of sugar and a cup of vanilla chai creamer and dumps them in. He even has those wooden stir sticks that you see at Starbuck's. "It's like that sometimes. More convenient, otherwise I just won't make coffee because I don't feel like dealing with all the stuff that goes with it." He plucks a stir stick from the bunch and dips it into his coffee. The cream lightens the color drastically as he winds it around the mug. "I stole these from Starbuck's."

That makes me laugh, for no apparent reason, but really hard. He laughs, too. I doctor up my coffee with the perfect amount of French vanilla creamer and sugar, stir it up and take a sip. "Mmm," I hum, my shoulders relaxing as the warmth spills into my mouth and spread itself through my body. "That's good stuff."

"Good. This'll sober you up a little bit."

I swallow, instantly embarrassed. "Do I look drunk?"

"You look like you partied pretty hard."

What the fuck does that mean??? Subconsciously, I run a hand over the crown of my head, trying to calm down the teased mess that is my hair.

"You don't look bad, stop that. You look like you've been out and had a good time."  He chuckles and heads out of the kitchen, gesturing with his head for me to follow him. He leads me into the den, which is dark. He remedies that by walking through the room, turning on a few lamps, then picks up a remote from a pile on the table and points it at the gigantic flat screen on the opposite wall.

"JC?"

"Hm."  He's standing, waiting for me to sit, I guess. I take a seat on the couch. He sits there, too but about a cushion away. My heart takes a hit as I notice that he doesn't want to sit close to the girl who dressed up, got drunk and showed up on his doorstep at 1:30am. I can't imagine why.

"What were you doing, when I got here? I mean, the coffee's on, so you were up."

"Stuff," he answers. I think he's going to just leave it there-which I deserve-but he adds, "I was kind of packing, kind of watching a movie, kind of writing."

"All at once?"

He shrugs. "I'm a man of many talents. Some of them coexist well." His lips purse so beautifully as he takes a long sip of coffee. His eyes are trained on the TV as he flips through the channels at lightning speed.

"What were you watching? Or writing?"

He glances over at me, mid sip. "You're kind of nosy, aren't you?"

I shrink back against the couch and quietly sip my coffee, resolving to toss this cup of brew back and hit the road. He clearly doesn't want to talk to me and I feel... so awkward.

Out of nowhere, JC starts laughing. The sound fills the quiet room and bounces off of the surfaces. He's laughing so hard that he has to put his mug down, careful to grab a coaster before he sets it down. Then, because I appear to enjoy the feeling of torture, he slides one cushion over and plops down next to me.

"You're so tense. You look like you're ready to bust out of here at any second. I'm not gonna hurt you." Then just before I could actually relax, he asks, "Did you come here to hurt me?"

A thousand responses zip through my mind, paired with flashes of all the ways I could hurt him, because if he let me I would hurt him so fucking good. Instead, I do the right thing and shake my head no.

"Good," he says. And that settles everything. I guess. He grabs his mug of coffee and sits back against the cushion, flipping through channels again. "Hey, you want to see what my brother got for me for Christmas? He's crazy."

He doesn't even wait for me to answer-he hops up and heads toward the massive entertainment unit built into the wall under the TV. After rifling through the long line of game boxes, he pulls one out, opens the case and slides it into the Wii console. Sure, JC. I came to your house to play Wii with you. Whatever.

He heads back to the couch, giggling like a mad person, this incredibly cute grin on his face. The screen comes to life with a flick of his wrist on the remote and the title Sexy Beach 3 splashes across the screen. The opening credits roll and a cartoon scene opens. A woman is sitting on a rock in the middle of a tropical lagoon. JC moves the controller and on the screen, a hand is petting her... along her shoulders, down her arm, across an unrealistically large chest.

The character squeals in delight and mutters something in Japanese, the sound of which-coming through the surround sound speakers-is unreal. So he's into anime porn? 

"You can only get this game overseas," he says. Apparently this is a huge deal. "I can't imagine what he went through to get it. He couldn't wait for me to open it, so he sent it early."

"Not to mention, this isn't something you could pop in while mom and dad are in the room."

"Yeah, probably not." JC manipulates the controller, prodding and poking the character on screen, who is moaning and whimpering and sighing with increasing volume and what must be the anime version of passion. If this cartoon has an orgasm while I'm sitting here on the couch next to JC, sipping coffee like we're watching Steel Magnolias, it will officially be the weirdest day of my life.

JC glances over at me and laughs at my expression. "Check this out."  He switches the scene to another beach, another busty girl in a barely there bikini. "See, the object of the game is squirt lotion on her, but she keeps moving."

"Aw, she's shy," I comment, making myself sound as dry and sarcastic as possible. JC only laughs and keeps at the game, moving his arm to maneuver around the on screen character. Finally, he hits his mark and a disgusting looking stream of white cream splashes over her chest.

JC raises both arms in victory. "Touchdown!"

As if that wasn't enough, he flips to another scene. "JC..."

"I know, I know. Hang on; I just want to show you this part." He sits back and lets the scene play out. Another tall, leggy character and a male character are in a room. And... suddenly they're having sex. Full out. On screen.

I want to die. And not over the game. I'm basically watching anime porn with JC, someone I'd kind of like to be acting out a porn scene with. The louder and more boisterous the sex gets, the louder he laughs. He points out the gigantic dick on the male character, criticizes thrust length and rhythm and says the female character sounds like she's faking it.

"It's a cartoon!" I finally scream. "Of course she's faking it, it's a fucking cartoon. Are you into this stuff?"

The screen goes black. JC has turned it off, thank God. And now he's watching me while I compose myself. After a moment, he says quietly," It's a gag gift. He thought I would find it funny, which I do."

"That's funny to you? Objectification of women and basically a porn scene right in the middle of a video game?"

"That's not a... porn scene. I just haven't figured out the object of that particular game, yet." I glare at him and he smiles. "I don't think objectifying women is funny. I just think it's funny that it's so poorly done, is all. And that you can totally buy this and play it."

"Alone. Naked."

"Yeah." He shrugs. "Sorry. I guess I don't know you well enough to be bringing out stuff like that. I just... I have a weird sense of humor. I apologize if you're offended. Did you..." He points toward the console. "Did you want to play a game with me? I'll let you win."

I'm considering this a peace offering and trying not to smile as I casually shrug a shoulder and mumble, "I guess. If you want."

"Great," he says, hopping up again to put in another game.

 

 

An hour later, I have beaten him at four games of Super Mario Galaxy 3. We have camped out in the middle of the living room with the Wii-motes, our coffee and a tin of cookies he found in the cabinet. He's sulking because I won fair and square, and consoling himself with the entire stack of shortbread cookies.

I try to grab at one but he shoves it into his mouth. "Okay, you're only eating all of those because I said they were my favorite."

"Yep. I'm eating them all. They're my consolation prize." He's still pouting, playfully so, as he gets up from the floor. "Come upstairs. I need to finish packing."

I had forgotten that he was planning on leaving later that day. "Actually, I should go. You probably should get some rest before you fly out..."

He keeps walking as if I never said anything. "If I wanted you to leave, I would have told you to get out. I keep late hours. I'm up. You rang my doorbell for some unknown reason. You're stuck. Wait here."

He disappears down a flight of stairs and comes back up a few minutes later with two full laundry baskets. I take one and follow him to the top floor, where I can hear the TV softly playing.

I have never been in JC's bedroom before. For my inaugural visit, it is clean and neat, but I'm not surprised. It's also huge-he's knocked down a wall between two rooms and joined them, giving him a bedroom and a workspace, where two computers and two monitors are set up on an L shaped desk.

The TV is a 42" flat screen that swivels so that it can be seen from any angle. Right now it's pointed toward the left side of the room, where a nearly full suitcase is laid out on the biggest bed I've ever seen in my life. It looks like two King size beds pushed together. All of the wood is dark and gleaming and stately, the colors blue and black and cream give the room a calm, beachy feel. 

"I love this room," I say, dropping the basket onto the bed next to the suitcase and climbing up to the middle. "I feel like a queen!"

JC laughs and slides the baskets over to him, next to each other. "I like it up here, too. I hide in here a lot."

I decide to help, because I'm nice like that. And nosy. Maybe he has some boxers in there. I grab a stack from a basket and dump it in my lap. T-shirts. Boring! 

"I'm kind of picky about my clothes..." he says, eyeing the stack of t-shirts I'm beginning to fold.

"I worked at the Gap for 6 months and Abercrombie for 8 months and I was a manager at American Eagle. I know how to fold shirts." Expertly, I lay them out and execute a perfect retail fold on one shirt after another. When I finish the pile, JC pushes the basket toward me. 

"Just stack them in the suitcase. You want to watch a movie?"

"As long as it's not anime porn, I'm game."

He laughs from the bathroom, where I hear him opening and closing drawers and tossing things around. "See?  We're gettin' to know each other."

It is 3am. I am nowhere near tired. I am sure I look like a banshee by this point in the night. But I am in JC's bedroom. On JC's bed. Folding his t-shirts. We're gonna watch a movie. Not bad, Leah. Not bad.

Once the laundry is folded and stacked into the suitcase and JC has added his shaving kit and yet another pair of shoes, he forces the bag closed and sets it upright on the floor. Then he crawls across the surface of the bed and piles the pillows-of which there are many-up against the headboard. "Relax," he says, tapping the spot next to him. I scramble backward and fall into a heavenly cushion of feathers and foam.

"Can I ask you a question?" JC asks, flipping through the ON Demand menu.

"Sure," I say, fully relaxing and enjoying this moment, but feeling a little sleepy coming on.

"How are you just... hanging out in those clothes? Aren't you uncomfortable?"

I laugh because I am. The band of my jeans is digging into my hip and they're so tight I can't breathe. And this bra is only sexy for a few hours, after which it becomes so uncomfortable I want to rip it off. The Ripping Off Point had long since passed. I wanted to be sexy for him but... I wasn't sure if it the effort was even worth it.

"Beauty is sacrifice," is all I can say, after which he drops the remote, rolls off of the bed and stalks to the closet. He comes back with a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and tosses them on the bed next to me.

"Go change. Bathroom's over there."  He points toward a closed door and hops back on the bed, then levels a glare at me when I don't move. "The movie will start when I don't feel uncomfortable looking at you. Go."

I have no choice but to get up and go into his bathroom and put on the change of clothes that he insists I put on so that we can watch a movie together. Seriously? What is my life?

In the bathroom, I take one look at myself and almost hyperventilate. My hair, my makeup, my... everything. Oh, God. I don't know how he hasn't tossed me out of his house on my ass by now. I open the door and call out to him that I'll be just a few minutes, then frantically search the cabinets for a clean towel and a bar of soap. I find both-he keeps hotel soap in his linen closet??? - and turn on the faucet, scrubbing off every ounce of makeup. I do my best to wet down my hair and reverse the teased, feathered, used-to-be-big-but-now-looks-like-a-deflated-basketball hairdo.

I peel off my clothing, doing a little dance of joy as soon as I can take the bra off, and slip on the shorts and t-shirt he gave me. It's a Led Zepplin. I make rock horns in the mirror at myself, then gather my clothes together and head out.

He rolls over when he hears the door open. "Oh. Leah. That was you, the whole time? I didn't recognize you under all that gunk."

"Ha ha," I say, but I smile and drop my pile of clothes on the side of the bed and crawl back to my spot. "Thank you for the clothes. I like this shirt."

"Keep it," he says. "What do you want to watch?" He's still flipping through the cable channels. He probably has every cable channel ever invented, and there was still nothing on TV.

"I don't care."

"A Christmas Story it is, then!" He gets up, grabs a blanket from a chair and comes back to the bed and spreads it over the both of us, then snuggles down against the pillows and, via some button or switch somewhere, turns the lights down.

So I'm taking inventory: I am warm. I am comfortable. I have spent a night laughing and playing games with JC. I am, for all intents and purposes, in bed with him. Under a blanket. Watching a movie. And... did he just scoot up against me and toss his arm over me? Score.

Ralphie is begging his mother for a Red Ryder BB Gun, and she's saying no, because he'll shoot his eye out. Other than quoting the famous line, he doesn't say anything. He lies next to me, snuggled up against me, his arm heavy and warm and comfortable across my belly. I feel his chest rise and fall and his breaths on my arm. The hairs stand up on end and I fight a shiver.

I wonder at what point, in the past, I could have done this. Just shown up out of the blue to hang out with him, and he'd let me in and basically act like some psycho chick didn't invade his house. Maybe he was just tired enough or just lonely enough or just curious enough. Maybe I was just drunk enough or just funny enough. Maybe it was all of the above.  Who knows, and because I'm kind of proud of myself for making the effort tonight, I decide that there must have been some perfect aligning of the stars for this to happen.

"So you're not going home for Christmas?" He sounds so sleepy-his voice is like gravel. The rumble vibrates through my body as he speaks.

I shake my head. "Here is home. When I left, everyone basically said see ya when you fail and have to crawl back. I haven't been back since."

"Wow. That sucks."

"It did. But now I don't really think about it. I'm not doing what I came out here to do, but I'm making it." Close enough. I'm a Buyer for a group of Department Stores. It's... sort of modeling. I just dress up other people-in my head-and then buy what looks good on them. And as fake as I have to be to those bitches, there's plenty of acting.

"Good. If you're happy doing what you're doing..." He pauses to yawn and shift his body. One of his legs wraps around mine. I swear I am going to explode. "... then you should keep doing that. That's what I believe in."

"Yep. So you're flying to Florida tomorrow?" He nods. "Excited?" He nods again. Witty conversationalist. "Your family seems close. That must be nice."

"Mmmhmm," he answers. "It is. They're supportive. As long as I'm happy."

"And are you?" It seemed like a logical question to ask, but he heaves such a long, hard sigh that I'm worried I offended him.

"For the most part."

"Like 99.9 percent happy? That's pretty good."

"Well 99.9 is technically 100. I'd go with a more arguable 93.7."

I laugh. "So what would fill in the other... what...six... point... fuck I can't do math at this time of the morning."

"I'm not looking for 100 percent. I think if you don't know pain, you don't know love. If you never see rain, you're never thankful for the sun. 100 percent is a fallacy but... if I could get a couple more points, I'd consider myself completely happy. Happy enough."

"So, but... you didn't answer the question. What would bring a couple more points for you?"

He shrugs. I don't think it's that he doesn't know. It's that he doesn't want to tell me. And that's okay.

I snuggle down under the blanket, on the cloud of pillows with JC right up against me, his heart hammering out a steady tha-thump that is rocking me to sleep. The movie ends and starts up again-back to back to back airings all weekend long. He reaches behind him for the remote and aims it at the TV. The room is dead silent, but not completely dark. The monitors on the desk give off a faint glow on the ceiling as the screen savers blink and crawl and flash.

"Sorry about that game," he whispers.

"It's okay," I whisper back. "I wasn't offended, really."

"No? Coulda fooled me."

"I was just... never mind." I'm not going to tell him that the game made me want to jump him.

"Leah?"

"Hm."

"Why did you come over here? I mean... were you just coming to hang out, or what?"

I shrug. It's not that I don't know. It's that I don't want to tell him. He doesn't press, so I guess that's okay.

"Leah?"

"What?"

"When I come back, after the New Year..."

"Uh uh..."

"Let's hang out more. I have a feeling you could give me some more points."

Fuck me, Merry Christmas, Happy Birthday.

"Yeah. That sounds cool."

I feel wet lips on my cheek, and then they are gone. JC settles in next to me. "G'night."

"JC?"

"Yeah." 

I lean over and plant one on him, a big mushy kiss. When I lay back down again, I can tell that he is smiling.

"'Bout time," he says.

I grin into the pillow and grab his arm to pull it tighter around me.

"That just gave me a few points."