What can you say about a love that died? That she was beautiful and brilliant? That she loved Mozart and Bach, the Beatles, and me?
Jane* was in my dorm (UCLA’s Rieber Hall). It was 1988. She was the hottest thing to me. She was Asian. She was little and compact, but with a great rack.
When I thought about her, it was like being lost in Heaven, but the kind of Heaven where you have a lot of nasty sex.
I never got to talk to her much. I had an Asian girlfriend (Mary*) who took my virginity the week of Valentine’s Day 1989. I was 22, almost 23.
I was a year into what was later diagnosed as Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. I was limping along, only able to finish one class per semester. I spent about 18 hours a day in bed, much of it with my girlfriend, much of it listening to Dennis Prager, much of it in bed with my girl and listening to Dennis Prager.
I was lost. Nobody could give a name to what was ailing me.
For a few minutes, I’d get it up. I’d go outside and play a vicious game of basketball. Then I’d go back to bed, sicker than ever.
I only had moments with Jane, the Asian chick with a great rack. There was a time I turned off Bruin walk to the tennis court. I walked up behind her. She turned and smiled at me. She analyzed the backhand of one of the players.
"You understand what I’m saying?" she said and smiled.
I nodded.
Then others joined us and the moment was gone.
One Friday night, my girlfriend was home for the weekend. I sat in the hallway with the Asian and some of my dorm mates.
An Asian slut next door to me (she’d fallen out with her roommate after seducing her boyfriend) walked by. I got up and followed her.
"I’m going to take a shower with you," I said.
She smiled. She liked that.
I was only kidding. I was afraid. I stopped following her.
She went into the Ladies room and came out. Looking at me, she said, "There’s nobody in there. You can come in with me."
I didn’t.
I went back to the group.
I said something friendly to Jane.
"You’ve got a girlfriend," she protested. She got up and went to her room.
I dropped out of UCLA. My girlfriend visited me. I visited her in L.A. I stayed with her for three weeks. I broke up with her just before returning to Australia for nine months where I found another girlfriend.
In May 1990, I returned to my parents home in Newcastle (45 minutes north of Sacramento). My ex-girlfriend Mary visited me.
I was religious now. Just before Yom Kippur, I told her we couldn’t talk anymore. She had to move on.
I got Jane’s address and wrote to her. After a few weeks, she wrote back. Over the next four years, we exchanged letters once or twice a year.
I talked about my conversion to Judaism. She talked about her struggles with God and Christianity and life.
My friends rushed on with their lives. I felt lost and alone.
Through singles ads, I met a woman (Devorah*) in Florida. She flew out to Sacramento to visit me. After three weeks in August 1993, I flew back with her to Orlando. For the next four months, I lived with her. It was the relationship from hell. But she dragged me to her psychiatrist who prescribed nardil, which enabled me to resume about 70% of a normal life (I haven’t moved beyond that percentage in the past 13 years).
Dennis Prager said he might have a job for me if I came to Los Angeles.
I left Orlando and moved to L.A. March 30, 1994. I was excited about reconstructing my life.
I called Jane. I was staying alone at a friend’s apartment.
She came to visit me one afternoon. We sat outside at 923 Levering fifth floor in Westwood and looked out over UCLA. She’d just graduated.
She wasn’t as hot as she’d been five years earlier, but she was the primary girl I’d been fantasizing about for years. I’d been fantasizing more about her than any other woman in my life — ever — except for an elementary school teacher of mine (the mother of my friends).
We’re about ten minutes into our conversation. I steer the topic towards sex.
She seems to say she’s a virgin. That she once messed around with a guy in the dorm but didn’t go all the way.
She looks at me and leans over and kisses me.
I pick her up and we stumble through the apartment to the bedroom, shedding our clothes as we go.
More vividly than at any other time in my life, I’m saying to myself, "You’re acting out your biggest fantasy!"
I’d never been with a virgin before and never have been since.
We confess our deepest desires. She says she wants to see me pee.
I’m with the girl I’ve dreamed about, longed for, rubbed myself raw over. We’re alone. We’re in bed. We’re naked. We’re exploring. It’s beautiful and sweet.
Then it comes time to do the deed. I clamber on top and have a helluva time sticking it in.
She’s not enjoying it. I’m not enjoy it. It’s worse than my first time. It’s really bad.
I brutally get the job done.
I’m apologetic. I say that it gets better. It’s usually better. I must not be very good. When she’s with someone else, she’ll find her rhythm.
I make us peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
We spend the night. We do it again. It’s not much better.
She goes home.
My ex-girlfriend Mary comes over with a bag of potatoes.
I get her into bed.
We do it. It’s smooth and silky.
Afterwards, she says, "How many women have you been with since me?"
"About ten," I say accurately.
"They’ve taught you well," she says. "You were really awkward."
"How many men have you been with since me?"
"One," she says.
I hug her.
A few days later, Jane comes over again. We hook up. It’s not very good.
I feel disillusioned.
The next morning, I’m shaving.
"What are we?" Jane asks.
"Daytime friends and nighttime lovers," I say.
"Have there been other lovers?" she asks.
"Yes," I say.
That’s the end of my affair with my fantasy girl.
We never even got to have good sex.
My ex-girlfriend Mary comes over. I can’t even complete the deed. She wants to leave.
"I haven’t finished!" I complain.
"That’s your problem," she says, and leaves.
I place a lot of singles ads. The first girl I meet that April is a shiksa (movie editor) who described herself as looking like Julia Roberts but with a bigger rack.
She picks me up and takes me to sushi. She’s every bit as cute as she promised.
She drives me out to Malibu that night. We park and climb out to the rocks beside the ocean. Beside the pounding waves, we make out. She lets me take off her shirt. She’s awesome.
"Nothing below the waist," she instructs.
A few nights later, she picks me up again. She has something to show me.
She drives me to the park behind what’s now The Grove. She takes me to the Holocaust Memorial. I put my moves on her and pin her to the memorial. "Let’s spend the night together," I say.
She is ambivalent. I press.
"Let’s go back to your place," I say.
"I can’t drive you home in the morning," she said. "I have to go to work [in the Valley]."
"Come back to my place."
She finally agrees.
The apartment I’ve been using is being renovated. It’s a mess.
I borrow a blanket from a friend and Julia* and I head over to the messy apartment.
We close the door and take off our clothes. I spread the blanket on the floor. I feel awkward and give a weak performance. She’s large down there and I feel lost, like I can’t make a dent, like I can’t stir the drink without a bigger straw.
I make up for my shortcomings with digital stimulation.
We hug for a few minutes and she leaves.
A couple of days later, she sends me a long beautiful letter telling me about what our time together has meant to her. She says she adores me.
Somehow, I forget to answer. I lose touch with her. I’ve never seen or heard from her since. And this is a hot chick who looked like Julia Roberts but with a bigger rack!
A woman (Rivkah*) I met through a singles ad when I lived in Orlando flies out to spend the Memorial Day weekend with me. We have a lot of sex and go to a lot of temples.
She pays for me to fly to her in New York and stay with her for three weeks in late July, early August, 1994.
(In the month before I leave, I connect with another nice Jewish girl (Sarah*) at a Jewish singles dance. My opening line? "Where do you go to shul?" She loves it. She’s attracted to my love of Judaism. I move in with her. She says we’re not going anywhere. She sees no future in our relationship. On my final night, she wheedles out of me what, or more particularly, who I’ll be doing in New York. She bursts into tears. The next day, she drives me to the airport. She lets me store my stuff with her.)
Rivkah gives me spending money. She takes me around to Stern College, the Jewish Theological Seminary, Borough Park, Yeshiva of Flatbush (a pilgrimage to Dennis Prager’s yeshiva!) and 42nd Street. She takes me to Broadway shows. She’s bossy. She wants to take over my life. I shut down emotionally but still have sex with her every night.
I place singles ads to meet other women in New York. Rivkah reads one of my ads and calls it and hears my voice.
Our three weeks don’t end well. On our final night, we go to the video store to rent a movie. She selects Sleepless in Seattle. I select two pornos and insist we watch them while we’re making love the final time.
When I fly back to L.A., I leave my wallet behind. She goes through it and finds another New York woman’s (Fran*) phone number and address.
(A few months later, Fran* writes me to say that she’s pregnant outside of marriage — not with my baby, we never hooked up).
I’m now living in my car back in LA. I arrange with Sarah* to go to some Shabbat dinner together. Then I con her into letting me come home with her. We have great sex. We always have great kinky marathon sex.
It turns out that while I’ve been gone, Sarah met a great guy. She brought him home. They may have hooked up. He finds my luggage under her bed. He confronts her. He storms out, never to return to her life.
On this second go round, I meet Sarah’s friends. I meet Sarah’s parents. All of them advise her to ditch me. Her therapist advises her to ditch me.
She throws me out. I borrow $500. I’m supposed to spend the first night with a friend. My car is in the shop.
My friend is not home. I try sleeping in the woods by the Beverly Hills High School. It’s cold and awkward.
It’s Saturday night. Sarah has a date. I stand outside her apartment and wait till she turns out the lights.
Then I ring her bell and explain my predicament. I have nowhere to sleep. She’s not happy. She lets me sleep on the couch.
Within a month, I repay her $500 loan. I send her a long letter explaining and apologizing. She appreciates it. She writes me a long letter back.
Every day for three months after she boots me from her life, I cry.
Then one Shabbat dinner, I make a new friend who it turns out boinked Sarah on their first date. Damn, it took me a month!
This helps heal my pain.
I live out of my car for the next six months (until March 1995).
The years go by. Sarah gets married. Mary gets married and has a baby. The others, I have no idea about. Except Jane.
You may ask why I’m writing all this? Well, I just watched the movie "Away From Her" and it moved me.
This is my clumsy attempt at expressing emotion.
I may never have married and built anything with my life but at least I’ve f—ed a lot of hot chicks.
All these girls I’ve just written about? They’re all archetypes for the chicks I’ve been banging and losing for the past decade.
Oh well. Love means never having to say you’re sorry.
See, I think you’re scared. You put up a big glass wall to keep from getting hurt. But it also keeps you from getting touched. It’s a risk, isn’t it? At least I had the guts to admit what I felt. Some day you’re gonna have to come up with the courage to admit you care.
I Googled Jane about four years ago. She’s never married. She’s surprised I’m emailing her. She asks me why I’m emailing her. I say I just want to catch up.
She doesn’t reply.
What can you say about a love that died? That she was beautiful and brilliant? That she loved Mozart and Bach, the Beatles, and me?
