I've been out of New York for the past three weeks. First, because of the holidays, I made the requisite trip home to Jacksonville. Needless to say, I was ready to leave when my week with my family was up. I was really looking forward to going to LA for New Year's Eve, which also turned out to be where shit would get a little crazy.
When I finally got back to Brooklyn, I immediately made plans to catch up with friends at a bar. As it turned out, all my ladies had their own holiday gossip to share. One friend told me about going back home and having a tryst with her neighbor. He was her “boy next door,” the guy she had grown up with all her life.
She said, “The thing is, we really connected and spent so much time together, that I felt sad coming back to New York. So, I sort of prepared myself for the usual cycle of lovesickness, you know, feeling sad, then hopeful, then anxious, and ultimately trying to get myself to move on from this dude. But then all of a sudden, I thought, why do I have to do this? I had an amazing time with this man. Can't I just leave it at that, and be happy?”
While she was telling me this, all I could think was “Yes, Yes, Yes.” I was experiencing the same thing.
While I was in LA, I got lucky. Not only did I get my brains fucked out, but also I got lucky because it's hard to get a date on the West Coast, or so I've been told by by Californian friends. My date was a stand up comic whom I had met a couple of months before back in New York. Part of his act was to kiss an audience member and so of course I volunteered. (You don't become a sex columnist by being a wallflower.) I don't want to make too much of this kiss, but it was a slow-motion movie moment. I went into the kiss expecting it would feel sort of mundane and gimmicky, but it didn't. I felt like I stopped breathing for a moment. When it was over, the two of us exchanged a quizzical look that said, “Did you feel that too?” Then I turned around and realized that 50 people were watching us. I left as soon as the show was over. I was feeling overwhelmed, and also I didn't really want to ruin the experience by trying to make anything bigger out of it.
However, two months later I turned up in LA (which he calls home) and we went on a date. At first I didn't want to go. I was tired and worried that we wouldn't have a good time, especially since all I knew about him was that he was a good kisser. Nevertheless, I still put on my sexy panties… just in case. Turns out we did have a good time. In fact, we had a fantastic time. He's got the manic, magnetic glow of a true performer, and the type of intense sparkly eyes that make constant contact and leave a lady feeling like she's the only person in the room. I have a hunch there are a lot of people like this in LA, but this was my first one and I was very taken. So taken in fact, that we went back to his house, where we found out that the kiss we shared two months ago was just a preview to our like-mindedness in the bedroom. Also, he had a mirror as a headboard, and though it was beyond tacky, it had other uses that proved to be more important than its aesthetic value. I came a million times (more like twice), and then he drove me home like a perfect gentleman.
The next day, my vacation was over. I got on a plane back to NY with the memory of a crazy LA sex-capade floating in and out of my Ambien-induced sleep.
The LA sex was definitely in my top 10 sexual experiences of all time, but it also got me thinking about how much I've changed sexually in the time that I've been a columnist at The L When I look back on who I was a year ago, this experience would have been very different. First, I know that the moment I looked into the sparkly eyes of his too handsome face, I would have been a goner. Just like this time, I would have had sex with him, and just like this time it would have been amazing, but not just like this time, I would have gotten on the plane and immediately started planning our lives together. I hate to admit this, but I must confess that last year's Lacy would already be thinking about what our children would look like, and what their names would be. Scout and Pepper sound nice, right?
Now, though, I'm proud to say that I have calmed down A LOT. All the people I've slept with this year (the good and the bad) have taught me something about relationships, sex, and—as self-help-y as it sounds—the complexity of what it means to be a human being struggling to make it through. I may not have a partner yet, but I've definitely gained insight.
After this year, I truly believe the hard worn expression, “It's not you, it's me.” Believe me when I tell you that everyone is dealing with their own shit, and it has nothing to do with how “dateable” or “sexy” you are. I'm not saying I don't get my feelings hurt, but I've learned to take all this dating tragedy stuff less personally. At the end of the day, it's just very exhausting.
Most importantly I've discovered what I want. If what I want is to partner down, it's not like having a fling in LA will make or break my search for the right guy, but I do know not that I can't expect a relationship out of casual sex—and then feel betrayed when it doesn't happen. I loved going on a date with this guy, talking to him and having sex with him; I hope to do it again whenever I'm back on the the West Coast. I'm happy that it happened, but I'm even happier that I've only looked at his Instagram once since our sexy encounter. That, my friends, is progress.