Paco and the Couch - June 1, 2006

I don't have much "inbetween" behavior. I do things in extremes, balls out, or not at all, and this is probably why I find myself in so much trouble all the time. When I saw Paco nestled into the recliner next to me, something clicked, and I flipped from pensive brooder to party girl with the bat of a blue-coated eyelash.

I was at a bar on the Sunset strip with some friends. It was the kind of bar that seemed like a house for all its nooks and crannies, things to hide behind to engage in disrespectful acts, velveteen couches spotted with ejaculate, really crusty. The walls were painted black, and "She Wants Revenge" was every third band played. Everybody had tattoos. My clean and pale arms and legs were shockingly pervy, almost revolutionary, "Whoa, no ink." I've never been trendy in any place I've gone in life; I've stood out as odd, rebellious, or just plain messy, but in LA, they don't know what to think of me. Things move at such a pace that my lack style looks like style. That must have been what Paco thought when he looked up at me with doe eyes, which were like two Lindsay olives and reminded me of a movie clip, though I couldn't quite remember which one. Los Angeles is the only place I've lived in which dressing to unimpress will get you laid.

I flopped from the arm of the couch, where I had been discussing something I've now forgotten that was super important at the time, so important it trumped socialization. My flopping landed me square in Paco's lap. I spilled my drink on both of us. The next four things happened in ten seconds or less: 1) Paco wiping vodka off my clean, pale unimpressive leg, 2) Me saying "Thanks." 3) Paco saying "What's your name?", and finally 4) Paco and myself kissing whorishly in plain view. On a crusty couch. On the Sunset strip. It doesn't get any grosser.

But wait...it does.

Sex with strangers seems dangerous to me. I need sex, of course, so I go about getting in a guarded way. My current approach has been to befriend men and women I am attracted to, get to know them, and then sleep with them while maintaining the careful distance necessary to not make things awkward. This approach also works to keep a girl rudderless, baby-talking with her ex and thinking her dogs are her soul mates. Ultimately, this is an unhappy state of being.

A few days after meeting Paco, I was pondering this. It seemed silly and unnecessarily guarded. I began to consider Paco as a potential sex partner. Was he really a stranger at this point? We did swap spit on the strip. He told me lots of stuff I didn't remember about his life...was he inspired by his dad's life, or was he beaten senseless by his dad's wife? Which one? In the end I decided that he would be good for some random sex because he seemed sensitive and sweet, and had really poufy lips and pretty eyes, so he was probably a decent guy. (Here I am like one of the guys, thinking "he's hot, so he must be well-adjusted," but in my defense, "hot" is a quality highly prized in a sex partner)

Paco began calling me. At first it was just a few silly messages, followed by something to do later in the night. I called him back and asked him if he had a job, because he seemed to be calling me a lot during work hours. His response was, "Nah, I keep getting fired."

Me: "Oh."
Some silence here.
Paco: "But I'm in a band, and that takes up all my time."
Me: "Well, that's good."

And who was I to judge? When my probationary period at my firm ended that very morning, and they signed me up for health insurance, it was the first time I'd had it since 2000. I'm no saint in the ways of the working world. I couldn't throw the "shiftless" stone at Paco from my glass house.

I had a lot of writing to do that night, so I told Paco this, and he pouted greatly. I found this to be weird. I didn't think swapping spit signified a commitment, but I was new to this place, so perhaps it did. I gave Paco the benefit of the doubt.

The next day I got several more messages from Paco. He had lost his cellular plan coverage, but could still send me text messages. The messages (six in total) invited me to a karaoke night somewhere in Santa Monica, and invited me, and invited me, and invited me some more. I did not respond. It was while flipping through my new Concordia Flex HMO program booklet, dreaming up all the ways I would use and abuse it, that I remembered what movie clip Paco's eyes had reminded me of.

Oh, yeah. Ohhhhh...

The Lindsay olive eyes reminded me of that famous clip, the one you'd see on posters in dorm rooms in colleges of Jack Nicholson sticking his head through an axe hole he'd freshly made in the door of the Overlook Hotel.

I began to de-consider Paco as a potential meaningless sex partner. I did this while exploring the fee structures for various hospital visits, half disturbed by the fact my cell kept blowing up, half fascinated by all the bargain medical care I could get.

Like:

-If I have my fake teeth replaced from the time I got hit by the car, my flex plan pays 80% of the cost. Awesome.

And,

-Should I need counseling for my various mental illnesses, I can seek treatment at any of the 72 Kaiser Permenente facilities in my region. Rad.

And,

-If a sex partner plants an axe in my forehead, I can be admitted to the emergency room and kept there for treatment at the measly rent rate of fifty dollars per day. Righteous.

By the end of the day, there wasn't much attraction left over for Paco. I mentally reenacted the seedy moment from the couch, and all sorts of important "details" I had missed began filling in. Paco wasn't inspired by his dad's life, he was beaten senseless by his dad's wife. I was so hot for his body, I hadn't fully processed this.

After work, Paco called twice more. I answered the phone, ready to call it all off, but wasn't able to. Before I could say anything about how it was "me, not him," he performed the most outwardly creepy soliloquy, during which he asked to move in with me, asked me to buy him musical instruments, and asked me to not answer my voicemail messages, because he didn't mean to say the things he just said to my message box. I hung up and answered. This is what the message said:

"Hi wittle tute, wittle bunny. Oh you're just the cutest wittle bunny, aren't you? You think you're so cute and so special. YOU'RE NOTHING! NOOOOOTHING!!!!!"

So, no more Paco. I guess I went from zero to sixty and then back to zero again, but my thinking was correct. I need to get laid more often. All work and no play makes Erin a dull Bunny.

Posted by The Bunny at 12:58 PM

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