So, back in December, my friend Jen attempted to set me up with a hot Australian who she described as "a smaller Hugh Jackman." He's an aspiring writer working on a novel. In addition to thinking I might be able to help him, Jen also thought we "would look cute together." For four months the Australian and I kept missing each other, but we finally met on April 1st for coffee at the Abbey.
Whenever I go to the Abbey in the middle of the afternoon, I feel likeJulia Roberts in The Pelican Brief. Remember that scene where she goes to meet a man with a red hat who she thinks is her dead boyfriend's buddy? Only it turns out that the man in the red hat is actually the assassin who, though out to kill her, instead gets killed by the
Well the Australian arrived for our 'date' at the Abbey wearing a red hat. We had coffee. He had cake.
It didn't take me long to realizt that I wasn't dealing with just any West Hollywood homosexual. Here was a man who ingested chocolate and sugar in broad daylight and didn't burst into flames. Further study was required.
Over the course of the next few days, I read the Aussie's short novel and we got together to do notes. I admit I'm blunt. I'm not shy and I don't tiptoe around people when critiquing their work. Surprisingly my Australian anomaly took in everything I said and didn't take a word of it personally. He was rarer than I had previously believed. It was like I had found a unicorn.
In his teen years, Mr. Australia was on a Kids Incorporated type show where he sang and danced. Since that time he has also dated a lot of well known people including several former reality stars (but again, I will remind you, you can't swing a bat in West Hollywood without hitting a reality star. God knows I have tried).
From the very start, the Australian did things that confused me. I would call and leave a message... and he would call back. If I sent him a text message... he replied. And I know you're going to find this one hard to believe, but sometimes I called and he actually answered the phone! This was like some Dian Fossey,Gorillas in the Mist kind of shit. I was afraid to make any sudden moves for fear of scaring him off.
Since Mr. Australia works in the evenings, we got together in the afternoons to work on his book. It was almost, kind of like we were... almost kind of dating. But we weren't dating. Aside from a hug and quick kiss on the lips a time or two, there was nothing intimate of note. I couldn't get a vibe off him. He once mentioned that he hadn't dated in a while and that he had things in his life he wanted to deal with, but this was right after making plans with me for the evening.
We hadn't had a "date-date." We went hiking. We had gone to lunch at Tart. We went to Obar and Fubar one evening. We ran errands together and, on occasion, picked up food and cooked it back at his place. But was this all about me helping him and his book? At one point while in a grocery store, he even said, "You know, I've been really happy the past five days."
Was I in the dreaded, 'friend zone?' I wondered.
I had no idea where this was going. It was like being in the writers' room for Lost.
A week after all of this started, the Australian's adorable friend Mallory arrived from Sydney and stayed for the next eight days.
He invited me over to watch a movie with them one evening. This had to be good, right? I mean, if you're not interested in someone, you don't invite him over to watch a movie with your visiting friend from home, right?
Again, since Mr. Australia works at night, I offered to take Mallory out and show her around. I wasn't doing this to score points or pump her for information. I was doing it to be nice.
One night, I took Mallory to a screening of 17 Again. I would rather swallow glass than be 17 again, but somehow during the film, I couldn't help but realize that I had regressed back to a bumbling teenager, calling Jen for daily updates and insight on the day's events. "Do you think he likes me?" I would ask. And Jen would respond, "You and I don't even spend this much time together. It has to mean something. That or he thinks of you as a friend only."
After the 17 Again screening, I dropped Mallory off at the Australian's place and he arrived from his evening at work a moment later. He opened a bottle of wine.
That's when he checked his iPhone, made a disappointed sigh and grunted, "damn."
Call it intuition, but I knew what that 'damn' meant. I've seen that look before. 'What's wrong?' I asked. He muttered something about a "Ken."
It was either, "I want to be the Barbie to his Ken" or "I was hoping Ken would write me back." Regardless I asked (with the feeling of a dagger in my heart), "Who's Ken?" and he replied, "Just someone I met on FaceBook. Whatevs."
Whatevs, indeed. I guess that was meant to be "I'm not interested in you." However, subtlety is lost on me, so he was going to have to do better than that to get rid of me.
I knocked back my glass of wine and two minutes later, made my escape. Mallory didn't get off the couch (I imagined she was too stunned by the mention of "Ken" in front of me to move). I walked to the door and left with no hug or kiss goodbye from either Australian.
I called Jen and recounted the evening. She told me to drop him. This was not up for debate. "Drop and do not call," she said.
But the next morning he called me and said he and Mallory were going to hike to the Hollywood sign. Still steaming from the night before and knowing that he had no idea how to get to his desired destination, I offered to accompany them.
On our way up to the Hollywood sign, the Aussie mentioned he had a friend who was going to introduce him to a certain hero in the new Star Trek movie, so "he can be my boyfriend."
I snapped. "So basically, you need to be on a television show in order to date you. That's what you're saying."
In response, he claimed to have dated people who were not television personalities (though his list of examples was comprised exclusively of guys he dated before they were television personalities). I immediately regretted turning down Big Brother and realized I was going to have to get on a show before I could ask this one out.
We made it to the summit and I took pictures of the Aussie and Mallory. While there, two cute gay guys visiting from Florida walked up and asked if I would take their picture and I obliged. Photo taken, one of the guys then asked, "Do you want me to take a picture of the three of you?" I said 'No' three times before nodding at the Aussie and jokingly saying, "I don't like him very much."
Mr. Australia heard my diss and wandered off, taking in the view of Burbank. I thought, 'I've pissed him off. ' So I walked up behind him, put my arm around him and asked, "Are you ready to go?"
I wanted to shake him. I wanted to punch him. I wanted to grab him by his really great hair and pull it and scream, 'Do you like me or not?!' But I refrained.
That night, I texted him to say that I was helping Jen at a video shoot the next day, but wondered if Mallory might want to visit the Griffith Park Observatory with me the following night. I also asked him to call me when he got off work.
He never called.
For the entire eight hour shoot the following day, I sat there with my Blackberry surgically attached to my hand waiting for a text, email or a phone call.
Nothing.
After we wrapped, I went to Java Detour (my "office") to write and it was there that I looked down and saw his incoming call. At this point, I was pissed because it was the first time in seventeen days that it took him 24 hours to respond to me.
But I wasn't angry at him. I was angry at me. What had I turned into? Who was this person breathlessly awaiting a communiqué from a guy? I was angry that I had become this person and yet... frankly, so happy that I had found this person again. Because it had been years since a name on my Caller ID made me happy.
For the first time in years, I had butterflies.
Long story, short, Mr. Australia had called to tell me that he was leaving for work and that Mallory was packing for her flight the next day and just wanted to watch television.
He ended the conversation by saying he would call me over the weekend. I said, "Good. You call me this weekend."
I hung up the phone and turned around to see Kevin, a regular at the coffee house. We usually sit four feet away from each other and occasionally say "Hello" or "Let me plug in my extension cord" or "God bless you" to a sneeze. Seeing me squeezing my phone, he asked me what was wrong, and I said, 'Nothing. Boy problems. Or lack thereof.'
"Good. Then tomorrow night you and me are going out," Kevin said.
I didn't know what to say. I was stunned. It was out of the blue. So I said, 'Yes. Absolutely.' I was angry. I was bitter. I was over this crap. Kevin and I exchanged numbers and made plans.
I went home that night and began texting the mortician. We had cooled off considerably and hadn't seen each other in over two weeks. He had been to a conference for funeral home directors in El Paso and I wanted angry/ revenge sex. He was out to dinner with a friend and was going to bed early. "But maybe tomorrow," he said.
And thus ended the love story between Alex and Ben, the mortician.
I felt bad. Really bad. I mean, I wasn't in a relationship with the Australian, so I was well within my right to have sexy time with whomever I chose. But now that I was making plans to go out with other people and texting booty calls to a Long Beach mortician, I felt like I was cheating on him.
Saturday morning, I canceled plans with Kevin, claiming to be under the weather and went to seeLymelife at the Sunset 5 by myself.
There's a scene in the movie when Jill Hennessy's character is at a bar and she's dancing with her husband. She's happy and doesn't have a care in the world. Then another woman walks up and starts dancing with her husband and Hennessy slowly realizes that everyone is aware that this whore and her husband are having an affair.
Embarrassed and humiliated, Hennessy's character slinks off, head down, trying to be brave and cool. It's so heartbreaking and I thought, 'My God. That's me! I'm so clueless!'
I've gone over all the scenarios in my head. Maybe he just sees me as a friend.
Or... maybe he 'likes me' likes me.
Or maybe I should take my hint from the fact that he never called.
So, Davis the Australian, this is me, asking you out. This is me, writing a note that reads, "Would you like to go out on a real date with me, with some dinner, wine, maybe handholding at a movie and the possibility of an awkward goodnight kiss - Check YES or NO".
I'll be waiting for your response. And while I wait, I'll just keep hitting refresh on Susan Boyle singing "I Dreamed a Dream."
I hope the answer is 'yes', but if the answer is 'no', whatevs.
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