Dating an ad man
And you’ll often hear sayings, like, “Odds are good that you’ll meet somebody, but the goods are odd.” And I couldn’t agree more.
When I relapsed for the umpteenth time and ended up with a militant black lesbian for a sponsor, she was very clear that I was not going to fuck my way through the rooms this time around.
“I‘ll take the meeting and you can have the Big Book study.” Even if you avoid those meetings and drive 45 minutes out to bumfuck where nobody knows your name, word gets out.
It’s only a matter of time before he hears how—and who—you’re doing.
But when it goes bad, as it inevitably does when you’re dealing with two crazy selfish alcoholics, then you’ve accidentally shat where you eat.
And then you have to split up territory: “Okay,” you’ll find yourself saying.
But it’s not the Upper Paleolithic, and I don’t need anyone to defend me from a saber-toothed cat; it’s 2016, and we know that femininity is a social construct.
I would go to those uptight “lady” meetings in Beverly Hills and Brentwood where women with bad facelifts and expensive handbags complain about their gardeners. “Well,” she told me, “be scared in the front.” But the desire to escape ourselves is so strong that we can often find a distraction no matter how slim the pickings.
I would go to a Saturday women’s meeting in Crenshaw for lesbians. One day at the crusty Brentwood “ladies who lunch” meeting, a tattooed, dark-haired man walked in.
He pursued and pursued, and I rejected and deflected, hating myself too much to respond to anyone who liked me.
One day, when I was telling him everything about him that made him not my type, he said, “You really should be nice to me because we are going to end up together.” He’s not what I would have ever imagined for myself back when I was a distraction-seeking, unhinged newcomer.