April 24, 1970. Two days after her 40th birthday, my mother pressed my father’s hand and said, “Thank you for a lovely life.” Then she slipped into a coma and died from bone cancer.<\/p>\n
I was not yet four.<\/p>\n
May, 1977. I moved to the Napa Valley from Australia with my father and step-mother. I spent 16 of my next 17 years about an hour’s drive from Sacramento. <\/p>\n
February of 1982. On a trip to Australia for my sister’s wedding, I began my habit of browsing men’s magazines like Playboy and Penthouse at the news stand. <\/p>\n
Fall of 1982. In tenth grade, I went to public school for the first time and encounter MTV. Most of the videos seem to be shot in Southern California and the girls appeared gorgeous. I wanted them more badly than Jesus.<\/p>\n
Spring, 1988. Sierra Community College in Rocklin, California. I stood in the parking lot talking with a friend of mine from Calculus class.<\/p>\n
He said that girls in Southern California were really loose. <\/p>\n
I was a virgin at the time and the prospect of loose girls seemed heavenly.<\/p>\n
March 30, 1994. I drove for seven hours south from my parents home above Sacramento to UCLA. It was a couple of months after the big Northridge earthquake and traffic on the Five South was diverted on to side streets at one point.<\/p>\n
It was raining. It was about 10 p.m. when I pulled into a UCLA dorm where I’d stay for the next couple of months with a friend of mine on the faculty.<\/p>\n
The next week, I’d place a singles ad in the Los Angeles Times. I only remember one response. It was from a spunky woman who was all giggly and excited to meet me. She said, “I look like Julia Roberts, only I have bigger breasts.”<\/p>\n
She picked me up that next evening in Westwood. She had a Julia Roberts smile and facial structure and her bust was plentiful.<\/p>\n
She worked as a movie editor in Hollywood and lived in Studio City.<\/p>\n
I was so happy to be back in LA after five bedridden years of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. Her big breasts symbolized the bounty of Southern California. I couldn’t wait to get stuck in.<\/p>\n
She wasn’t Jewish, but I didn’t mind. She took me to a sushi bar in Santa Monica where she ate dinner as we talked about my conversion to Judaism.<\/p>\n
Then she drove me north on the Pacific Coast Highway, pulling off to the side in Malibu.<\/p>\n
It was about 10 p.m. We walked out to some rocks beside the ocean and I put my arms around her and we started making out…<\/p>\n
“OK, but no further,” she said.<\/p>\n
Then she drove me home.<\/p>\n
A few evenings later, she picked me up again.<\/p>\n
“I want to show you something,” she said, and drove me to the Holocaust memorial at Pan Pacific Park.<\/p>\n
As we stood there in the dark, I tried to grope her, but she held me off. She didn’t think it was right to fool around in a Holocaust memorial.<\/p>\n
I wanted to spend the night with her but she said she couldn’t drop me off in Westwood in the morning.<\/p>\n
I told her I had access to a friend’s apartment in Westwood that was being renovated.<\/p>\n
She dropped me off at the dorm. I ran inside and grabbed a blanket and then rejoined her in the car and we drove down the hill and then we parked and went up the elevator and I turned the key in the lock and in the midst of the reconstruction, I spread out the blanket and we took off our clothes and laid down together and began kissing.<\/p>\n
I’d been imagining this moment for days but now it was strangely anti-climactic. Afterward, held her in my arms.<\/p>\n
Then she drove home.<\/p>\n
I don’t think I ever talked to her again.<\/p>\n
I got busy with two women I knew from Rieber Hall at UCLA (1988-89).<\/p>\n
Then this woman I knew flew in from New York for the Memorial Day weekend.<\/p>\n
I let Julia go.<\/p>\n
A few days later, I got a long letter from her. When I read it, I felt like she was holding me close once again and looking into my eyes while the ocean surged around us.<\/p>\n
She talked about how much she treasured our time together. She thanked me for being gentle and considerate with her. She asked to reconnect.<\/p>\n
I don’t know why I didn’t call her. She had everything I wanted in a woman (aside from Judaism). <\/p>\n
I guess I was spoiled. I’d been in LA for a few weeks, and I’d already nailed various women who’d previously been out of my league.<\/p>\n
I lived in the city of angels and felt that Julia wasn’t such a big deal.<\/p>\n
I was wrong. I was very wrong.<\/p>\n
Many nights when I go to bed alone, I think about Julia. <\/p>\n
I don’t reread her letter in my mind and wonder what might have been.<\/p>\n
I don’t picture what she looks like now. <\/p>\n
I don’t replay us wrestling beside the Holocaust memorial. Nor do I dwell upon my inadequate performance of the ultimate deed.<\/p>\n
Instead, I see us standing on the rocks beside the ocean on our first radiant night together.<\/p>\n
She stands above me and caresses my head as I sit on the rock and cling to her like a hungry child. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
April 24, 1970. Two days after her 40th birthday, my mother pressed my father’s hand and said, “Thank you for a lovely life.” Then she slipped into a coma and died from bone cancer. I was not yet four. May, … Continue reading