I used to love that song. I loved it because Adam the Fifth introduced me to James Blunt after his recent trip to England. So it was like our song.
Adam the Fifth is named that because he was the fifth in the succession of many Adam’s I either dated or with whom I had sexy times. Adam the First was the one who broke my heart. The remaining Adams never held a candle to him. As of this past summer, there have been eleven Adams. What do you call someone who dates eleven men named Adam?
Stupid.
Adam the Fifth was a personal trainer. He was newish to town when we met. We were introduced through mutual friends, because of my modeling connections. I hooked him up with a few shoots and then I hooked up with him.
Our first few dates were fantastic. They usually involved take-out from Chin-Chin, two bottles of white wine, two packs of cigarettes and “America’s Next Top Model.” I was working on a television show at the time and he was training clients at various gyms.
Adam the Fifth was built like a brick caca house. He was a little shorter than me. He had a piercing, vibrant blue eyes and blond, curly hair. Parking at his apartment in Hollywood was like trying playing a live action game of Frogger meets Tomb Raider, but I enjoyed our time together. He made me feel safe. He made me feel special.
But he made other people feel safe and special as well. Apparently I wasn’t the only person with whom he shared late nights of white wine, smokes and Tyra Banks.
Did I find it a little odd that he wanted to meet my celebrity friends to discuss training them? Of course not. That’s what you do when you’re dating. You support the other person. Did I find it odd he was never available for me? Of course not. I was in love.
The eventual undoing of our relationship involved a wrap party at the Standard. I introduced him to a producer of the television show I was working on and then had to step away to get a drunk actor away from the photographers. When I returned, Adam and Dan (the producer) were having a grand old time. Laughing and touching each other’s arms.
I never liked Dan. I didn’t trust him further than I could throw him. (And to call him “husky” would be generous.) He is a very good producer, but an enormous prick. He’ll stab you in the back while cooing sweet nothings in your ear. We all assumed that Dan had an open relationship with his live-in boyfriend.
The next morning, Adam called me and asked me “why do I know Dan?” And I told him that he had met him the night before at the party. “Oh, right. Well I got a text from him and he said he wanted to finish our conversation.”
I have since learned that “I wanted to finish our conversation” is code for “I want to have sex with you, even though you are dating one of my employees who, if I knew any better, I wouldn’t cross. But I don’t, so why don’t you come over to my house in the hills tonight so we can discuss your career in my hot tub? Naked.”
The smart person would have asked, “how did he get your cell phone number,” but I was naïve to think that the boy I was dating would do something like that. I mean, we shared the rise of Eva the Diva. How could he possibly hurt me?
Cut to a week later, I called and asked Adam to a movie and he told me he’s “having dinner with Dan.” A couple of nights later, same thing. At this point he’s now allegedly “training” Dan.
This continued for several weeks. I ceased all communication with Adam, dropping him like a hot sweet potato. I was pissed. Clearly he had used me to get to Dan as a client. They started going to events together, where Dan introduced him as “his trainer.” And of course Dan started recommending him to other industry friends.
What do you call someone who gets paid to have sex with their clients? A whore, right?
What Dan didn’t know is that I discovered communication between he and a number of rent boys. (And I’m not talking the Anthony Rapp and Adam Pascal variety.) Like really… who prints out, files and goes to the trouble with a label maker to organize your chat logs with male prostitutes and then just leaves them on your desk?
Obviously anyone who goes to that amount of work is just asking for whoever finds them to pick up those files, copy them and then interoffice them (anonymously, of course) to the head of the studio, head of the network, and then leave all remaining copies in random locations around the production office like golden Easter eggs.
Did I feel bad about (literally) exposing him and what he wanted to do to “BadLilPup” and “A&F TWINK 88?” Hell to the no. Was it clear that I was the one who did it? Judging from the fact he avoided me like the plague, I think we can all assume yes.
During our hiatus that year, it was clear to everyone that Adam had worked Dan over really well. As much as I would ever hate to admit it, Dan looked fantastic. We’re talking The Biggest Loser good. They continued to “train” together for another year. I assume Dan’s boyfriend knew about their “sessions.” Part of me considered seducing Dan’s boyfriend out of spite, but there’s not enough alcohol in the world that could get me drink enough to go down on that skuzzy little dweeb.
I would occasionally see Adam doing his early morning jog down Fountain and every time I would resist the urge to run up on the sidewalk and ram him. Eventually, I moved on.
Three months after my last contact with him, Adam moved on as well. I heard by New Years of 2006 he was being flown cross country by his new client slash boyfriend (a buyer for a large upscale fashion house). The image relayed to me via a mutual friend was they spent Valentine’s Day sipping cocktails on a terrace, while the rain showered down on them atop the new man’s New York penthouse. And as it was 2006, I threw up a little in my mouth.
Adam the Fifth is that special breed of boyfriend: the soul-sucking vampire. You don’t even know they are draining you till you’re already half-dead. Friends warn you, but you don’t listen. You see the signs all around you, but you ignore them. And as soon as they find some fresh blood, they are on to their next victim.
Now whenever I hear James Blunt I just want to ram a screwdriver in my ear, hoping to deaden the part of my brain that holds the memories of Adam.
I hadn’t seen Adam the Fifth in nearly two years. Every so often I would stop and wonder where he landed and what was new in his world. Had he moved on to bigger clients? Was he still “training” my old employer.
About eight months ago I went pounding up the stairs at my gym, with the Pussycat Dolls blasting in my ears. I was in a good mood as I stepped off the top step and saw him on the elliptical machine. I did that thing where you recognize someone and just immediately scream out, “hey you!” And then process two seconds later, “why did you say that!? We hate him!”
Great, I thought. He joined MY gym. This gym ain’t big enough for the two of us. I changed my schedule just so I wouldn’t have another run in.
But thanks to one of the many Prop. 8 rallies that our city has seen in the past weeks, I ran into him again recently. And he looked terrible. Bloodshot eyes. Scruffy beard. Rail thin. Straggly, unkempt hair. Clothes that didn’t look like they had been washed in two weeks. He looked like a homeless Silver Lake resident.
He ran into me. He stumbled, grabbing my arm to steady himself. He locked eyes with me and you could tell he was processing, “I know you… don’t I?” He looked like he had just peeled himself off an “I Lost Myself To Meth” billboard.
I was with my friend Greg. I yanked my arm away from him and restrained myself from taking the stake of my sign and plunging it into his heart. “No more hate! No more hate!” we continued to chant as I walked away.
Now I only feel one thing for him: pity.
This truly is a town that eats its young. And Adam the Fifth has been chewed up and spit out.
But vampires never die.
Jen called me one night last week and said, “get dressed, I’m taking you to see Twilight” (because apparently I’m a 12-year-old little girl). We went to the Arclight. I had a glass of wine on the patio while waiting for Jen to arrive.
That James Blunt song started playing from somewhere. I couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. I found myself listening to the lyrics for some sort of message.
That song doesn’t make a damn bit of sense. He sings that he was on a subway when he saw this chick with another man, but he’s not going to waste any sleep because he’s got a plan. Then he goes on to sing, “I don’t know what to do, because I’ll never be with you.” WHAT’S HIS
This is a song about a stalker. They shared a moment that will last till the end. Bitch is crazy. I can’t believe I ever liked James Blunt. No wonder he took off his shoes and jumped off a cliff.
But later in the evening, as we were standing in the parking deck, I totally got it. Jen and I were standing at the elevator with her friends Tammy and Mike. And I felt like someone was behind me. I turned around and my eyes met his. And it was like static energy. I hadn’t felt that in years. Years I tell you. And it felt amazing.
I turned back around. Jen and Tammy looked over my shoulders and saw him. I moved around so I could see him again and he was STILL looking at me! And then he smiled. It was that smile that like cuts right through you.
Why is it that certain people illicit certain reactions in us? That make our hearts literally skip a beat.
We were in the elevator as it was closing. Jen and Tammy simultaneously screamed, “what the hell was that!?”
“He was like… like that was for me, right?”
“YES!” everyone in the elevator screamed.
Jen and I went back down, but he was already gone.
A missed connection. But if you’re reading this Robert Gant, call me. I don’t bite, I swear. Not unless you’re in to that kind of thing.
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