-A lesson in never shitting where you eat and never eating your own words-
PT1: I’m just a notch in your bedpost, but you’re just a line a blog
I met my first real boyfriend in the most cliched way - on a set. By “real,” I mean grown up not that my previous boyfriends were scripted, invisible, or, blow up dolls, which brings up a curious observation - why are there only blow up dolls for men?
Throughout the course of our relationship and even still, my father referred to this boyfriend of mine as Double D for reasons that I, unfortunately, cannot share. My sister, on the other hand, would call him “the Imp,” because it was her observation his arms were disproportional to the rest of his body, and because it’s my observation my family superficially berates people they feel have wronged us.
Double D was attractive, confident, charismatic, and relentlessly persistent when it came to pursuing me - the likely culprit of my reckless abandon for shitting where I ate. It also didn’t hurt that Double D smelled like the ocean (I’ve since realized that was probably just his Old Spice deodorant), or that he constantly placed small bouquets of wildflowers on the windshield of my car whenever he left work before I. I never did know where he always found them. He was romantic, sweet, spontaneous, and goofy. Suffice it say, I was fucked.
Although short, our relationship was pretty intense. Sort of like how I remember the sex, which at the time, I thought was the best I’d ever had. Though, if I’m being honest, Double D was only the second guy I’d ever slept with, and the first one was a quarter Japanese so keeping in mind the stereotype (which, in this case was true), that isn’t saying much.
Anyway, back then we both lived in the Valley with distant relatives, so we spent a lot of time driving around finding secluded places where we could make out in private. We enjoyed many a lovely high end dinner at places like Chipotle, and I was often whisked away to romantic getaways like the Urban Outfitters in Burbank, where we’d buy screen tees with sayings on them that now make me cringe.
Looking back, there’s a lot about my time with Double D that makes me cringe. Like, for instance, after meeting his parents, his mother kept calling me by my character's name instead of Rachel. I wasn’t sure if it was because she thought it was funny, or that I was temporary, or that she had huffed too much glue as a hippie in the 60’s, but either way, it was incredibly awkward and uncomfortable - oddly, only to me.
There was also the time I hinted to a publication that Double D and I were dating. “For future interviews, I just don’t want people to know I’m with anyone,” he told me. “It’s nothing personal. I just don’t want to come off less desirable to my lady fans, ya know?” Just writing that makes me want to puke in my mouth - or his.
“Yeah, but people also want what they can’t have,” I rebutted. The irony that I was one of those people is as hard to digest as the current puke in my mouth.
And finally, there was the fact he delegated Fall Out Boy’s “Sugar We’re Going Down,” as our song. I never saw it as the “proceed with caution” sign it so clearly was. Though in the end, there were a lot of signs I missed on the road to love with Double D. Perhaps that’s because my metaphorical car was being driven by young infatuation on a road that, more or less, resembled a deserted dirt path. Regardless, there was one sign I remember spotting before it ended up in my rear view mirror, and let’s just say, I failed to yield.
Ever since I could remember, I’d been dreaming of the day when I’d be able to move out of my parents' house and into a place of my own. A place: that would stay clean and orderly and satisfy my OCD and anal retentive tendencies, where the bills were in my name, where the fridge and pantry were filled with food I wanted, and where I was liberated from ever having to watch anything sports related again. Suffice it to say, when that day finally arrived within a few short months of me being on the show, it was momentous! Albeit, short lived.
“I’m thinking about moving into your building,” Double D said to me one afternoon. “How would you feel about that?”
How did I feel about that? To be honest, part of me (my vagina) wanted him there, but the other part genuinely wanted something for which I had been waiting much longer - my personal space. I wasn’t too keen on the idea of anyone infiltrating that, especially the person who was already infiltrating the space between my legs a few times a week.
There were other reservations I had as well, like the fact Double D and I already worked together. How would spending so much time with one another affect our relationship? Wouldn’t living on the same premises be, quite literally, hitting too close to home? Yet, at the same time, I couldn’t help but feel it wasn’t my place to tell someone where they could or could not live, especially based upon my own selfish needs. Nor did I want to risk coming off as the "demanding" girlfriend who made rules and regulations for her boyfriend to abide by (I’ve since realized “demanding” is another shame word used to keep girls subservient, rather than using “assertive,” the more positive, empowering form).
Worried voicing my concerns might potentially result in losing someone for whom I cared deeply about, I simply kept them to myself and said, “I feel great about it.”
A few weeks later, Double D moved into a building across the pool. The very pool that would inevitably drown us.
The "Double D" series continues next Tuesday 3/27 with Part 2. Be sure to check back, or, become a "Fellow bitch" by subscribing to our website where you'll get a weekly notice every time a new post goes live :) Thanks for reading!