I did a bad thing once. A very bad thing. The more time passes me by, the more I realize just how naughty it was. It was bad.
          And I didn’t do it just once.
          But only once was it, very, very, very bad.
          We had been working on the same film set for 2 weeks. I was personal assistant to the director and two producers. Overwhelmed and still in the midst of my flake days, I wasn’t registering details or faces quite like I should have. It wasn’t until the last day of shooting he caught my eye. He was wearing a cowboy hat. Allow me to express my distain for men in cowboy hats. If you aren’t Robert Redford 45 years ago or Brad Pitt circa Legends of the Fall – I think it straddles borderline corny. It’s one of those fashions that either really works for you or makes you look like a complete fool. It’s basically the equivalent of high waist super skinny jeans on women. Nonetheless on this muthaf%^&er the cowboy hat worked.       

          I love dirty talk. Who doesn’t? We’ve all had that moment when just the right thing was said at just the right time to get you where you needed to go. Here’s a little story about a time that does NOT constitute as one of those moments.
   
          We had chilled together the entire night. I was still recovering from a recent heartbreak and he was there to stroke my hair as I licked my wounds.  We didn’t meet at a bar – there was no chance of this being a one-night stand. We were friends who had shared intimate details of our lives with one another. There was no talk of a romantic love that night either. We did speak about working together in the future and he even expressed his concern for our working relationship; at one point he said, “If we work together we absolutely cannot hook up”. That “line” should have been my first indication of his real intentions. But alas…….After hours of talking and drinking on my floor without making a move it was time for me walk him out.

We all experience those moments in our lives when myths become realities. Thresholds are crossed that can never be rebuilt. You learn what BJ stands for, you can now associate an orgasm with what it feels like, and other random facets of life become facts incorporated into our memory banks. Way back in my days of adolescence I had stumbled upon a couple of these life altering junctures quite unexpectedly.

We had been sneaking around for a month – it was all very West Side Story. The rumors were starting to leak; Ricky, my roommate, learned of my love affair when they met in the hallway one night. Ricky wasn’t thrilled about my return to the “situation”, but he didn’t say anything to me about it. In fact, if I mentioned His name the topic was ignored as if the words I had just spoken never escaped my mouth. He had become my past to everyone but me. No one wanted to hear about it anymore and I was too embarrassed to admit I had relapsed to him once again.