Last week, I went out to dinner with an ex. We had been trying to get together for about a year but our schedules could never mash up.
He was someone I met when I came to LA in 2005 and had $22 left in my pocket as I waited to hear if I had been cast on the new version of I've got a secret for Game Show Network. I had no home. I lived in my friends moms her alice office, behind a partition, on an air mattress. I spent that last $22 on a beer and a vodka cranberry on a Sunday night at mickeys. Thats when I met the guy we shall call Ron.
Ron was hot. Hot. Hot. Hot. We hit it off because of this. He was hot. And I liked hot.
Otherwise, not a lot there. Ron talked about show business and his plans of taking over the industry. We talked about his celebrity friends. We talked about various fights he'd had with old friends. We watched American Idol. We had great sex. And very loving pillow talk. Ron cooked for me. And once or twice he bought me groceries. And dinner at chipotle. I was on the verge of homelessness, I didn't get the part, and my boyfriend whom I hated, was buying me a carnitas burrito.
But it wasn't the right fit. And I realized that when I found out he had a boyfriend.
So I ended it, but really, it never really was, I suppose. I was scared and broke and sad but relieved. I kind of hated being with him unless we were eating or fucking so over a final burrito bol i told him it was over. No more sour cream for us. He was upset about this. He didn't understand why I wasn't more patient. Why it was all about me. Why after everything he'd done, I was just going to bail. I mean, the idol finale was next week, and he'd much rather watch it with me than with Jim.
But we've stayed in touch. He's single now, and exactly the same otherwise. Dinner was a conversation about his new ventures, his family, etc. At one point he asked me if I still live on Sweetzer. Otherwise, he may have forgotten my name. I think I heard him say "later, Seth" after we hugged.
Regardless, I made a vow that one day, I would take him to dinner, and that we would have expensive food. And I would definitely pay, and I would tell him it wasn't because I was trying to get laid, but because it was a marker of how far I'd come. How I was now independent. That I was paying him back by showing him that he helped keep me here when I almost had to leave in those first few weeks, without a dime in my pocket and now, I'm a writer, and a comic, and I work in tv, and I gladiated, and started a movement, and don't forget about my cute little doggies.
When I told him this, that i survived, and dinner was my token of thanks for his help, he said he didn't remember that he paid, ever for anything. And "why is it always about you."
He kind of had a point.
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