Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek behind doors left slightly ajar. This week, the Single Mom Hooking Up With the Restaurant Magician: Female, 27, Los Angeles, educator, single, heterosexual.
6:30 p.m. I take my friend and our sons to the local Italian diner. She recently separated from her husband and we escape into tall-tale sex stories about rich men with gonorrhea while the boys entertain each other. My friend loves the cheese bread and the foreign waiter in a nipple-bearing thermal. I’m proud to see her drool the same way I did when I first moved to the city, discovering the many facets of L.A. hunger.
6:40 p.m. Sicily is the house magician and spots our boys for tips. I name him in good humor after he swirls a finger on the map of Italy placemat. His Sicilian accent is horrible, and I presume it’s only a spoiled ambition picked up in theatrical re-creation. He makes the children laugh and calls me “princess.”
6:55 p.m. My wilted salad greens are subjugated in a trick. Sicily is holding my wrists and calling me “princess” and I’m panting. The thermal-hugging waiter interrupts and Sicily moves on.
7 p.m. I excuse myself to subtly prowl the restaurant for Sicily, but he’s making flower blooms appear elsewhere. The waiter asks my friend about me while I’m in the bathroom. When I return there’s a complimentary dolce served. His tongue is bloated in between his lips when he attempts to ask me out. Pity replaces flattery, and I give him my number. I’d like to soften those nipples.
7:15 p.m. Sicily stands in front of the waiter when I get up to leave and hands me his business card: “I’m not a magician, I’m an illusionist.”
8:30 p.m. My son shows me a disappearing act before bedtime. He’s at a perfect age, oblivious and discovering everything to be an eighth wonder. I kiss him on all points of the face and promise to leave the hall light on.
10 p.m. I romanticize an encounter with Houdini/Sicily. Orgasm by illusion.
2:15 p.m. Mr. Colleague has a distinct sound in his steps when he’s in the mood to flirt. We dated for two months last year, but never had sex. I liked to blame the rejection on his veganism or his straight-edge mentality. He thought foreplay was a battle between sexuality and spirituality, so I would wake up in the middle of the night to come on my breasts and cold sheets in the morning. It was almost enough to convince myself out of repression, but today he stands close and invites himself over.
4:30 p.m. Sicily responds to my e-mail. He invites me and my son out to dinner. I Google-stalk him.
6 p.m. Sicily is outside my apartment. He’s half naked, wearing faded Sketchers and cropped trousers. A tule of chest hair is caught in the buttonholes of his denim jacket. When he speaks he uses his hands, and punctuates each sentence with an extra syllable. His accent is authentic after all. We frolic the neighborhood, hand in hand with my vagrant.
7:30 p.m. We walk home from dinner. I don’t resist when he rests his hand along my hip, especially when he looks at me like I am Venus Hohle Fels. My son gives him an eager hug. He wants to see me after his show tonight. I laugh nervously and shake my head, but there’s something reassuring about his kiss good-bye. When I wave, Sicily is smiling from a silver Porsche.
8:30 p.m. Mr. Colleague arrives and talks a thin boundary with logistics and YouTube surfing. I don’t tell him I’m wearing a negligee underneath my robe and hate myself for putting my son to bed early.
9 p.m. We are spooning upright listening to punk music in bed. I dry rub him. Every breath is slow. I want him to feel how wet I am when he makes me wait as long as I have. I can see the doubt wrestle in his eyes when I turn to kiss him. I begin to doubt my ability to satisfy him.
9:03 p.m. Text from Sicily reads: “I’m coming over.” I respond: “It’s late. Maybe another night.”
9:15 p.m. Our breathing is out of sync and kisses fall in awkward increments. Our teeth hit.
9:30 p.m. Sicily: “I’m right outside.” My nipples are chaffed from child’s play, and so I tell Mr. Colleague frankly he has to leave because Sicily is waiting. I have puppeteered a man’s leave before, usually fostering confusion with the female psyche. The door rattles shut, and I wait at the top of my floor for the voices of two men to meet downstairs. There is no sound but the click of Sicily’s oxfords.
9:45 p.m. Sicily loosens his pants and slips a finger into me. We spend an hour inside of each other. I breathe out and press down on the small of his back so he doesn’t leave. My phone lights. No response.
5 a.m. I’m relieved that Sicily is up and putting on his cuff links. The pale blue air is light on my eyes when I walk him out. He wants to see me for lunch. I want to be on top of the trees, singing with the birds, but he presses down on my shoulders and makes me promise to see him again.
6 a.m. I cook oatmeal to wake my son up.
8:15 a.m. Mr. Colleague’s text messages are still unread in my in-box. I hear his steps, but I know he hasn’t come to my desk to knock knees. He tells me he saw Sicily, but likes to call him “Eurotrash.” His pain is subtle, hidden in snarky comments and ego. I don’t admit to him that I gave Sicily a part of me he can’t seem to obtain.
Noon “Eurotrash” echoes off the hot pink cravat and tux Sicily is wearing at the coffee shop. I try to tame him with a scone, but he sucks on my face like a Ridley Scott encounter.
3 p.m. The waiter’s text: “Why you make me nervus?” I can’t go on a date with a 40-year-old man who can’t spell.
10 p.m. Tonight he puts a peach promise ring on my finger. It’s too big and rolls into the fat of my clenched fist.
1:30 a.m. My son runs to my bed, half-asleep and so frantic he pees a puddle on my lap when I hold him. I gather the sheets for the wash and draw a bath. I wonder if my son notices the magician man pacing the room in his Hanes.
2 a.m. I fall asleep next to my son. Sicily carries me back into his arms. I don’t want to go to him, but I’m too tired to walk away.
6 a.m. His head is in between my legs before I even see the sun hit the blinds. I orgasm twice in a row. I want to ask him to leave before my son wakes up, but I squeal at the pressure of his teeth on my clitoris. Cunnilingus is a sheer form of miscommunication.
6:30 a.m. I wake up to the bang of dishes. Sicily is boiling water for tea and bursting oranges. This is the first time I’ve had sex and breakfast prepared for me. I must be in a Danielle Steel book.
Noon The waiter calls me. I reject the thought of going to another happy hour while my son waits at school.
2 p.m. Mr. Colleague and I sit across from each other at the staff meeting. The sexual tension is buried in the creases of his forehead. I tuck my peach promise ring in between my knees underneath the table.
5 p.m. Sicily meets my girlfriend and me in Hollywood for a ranking (of him). Oh, and a burger. He made love to me, and I believe this is enough to take it to the next level. When he finds out my girlfriend speaks Spanish, he awes me with a brilliant roll of vowels. She laughs when he calls her beautiful and eats the fries off the edge of her plate.
5:30 p.m. I don’t understand Spanish, but I can make out “princess” when I hear it. I have an overwhelming sense of urgency to pick up my son and rescue myself, but Sicily protests at the wheel of my car before I can go. The valet boy steps out and asks if I’m okay. I’m in the middle of Hollywood with gorgeous American men around me, and yes, I’m damn okay.
7 p.m. Sicily shows up at my doorstep with a raging thirties Mercedes. My son pushes through me to hop in the front seat. I climb into the backseat and wave to spectators like a Kennedy. The show stops when the engine dies and we walk home.
8:30 a.m. I call the rich man with gonorrhea to come over and help me avoid Sicily’s calls. He’s the president of his own multi-million-dollar company and so self-absorbed I spend three hours nodding my head to his stories about Costa Rica rather than anything more salacious.
Noon I have mad sex with myself when the rich man leaves, but he’s clouded my mind with STI angst and my orgasm burns short.
7:30 a.m. I hug my son tightly today before his class begins. He walks in, turning around to see if I’m still there, a deck of cards clutched to his chest.
7:55 a.m. Mr. Colleague walks into morning circle late. His jean jacket looks stiff, like he just put it on. We smile at each other. Touché, we say, touché.
TOTALS: One complimentary dolce; two Italian men; one orgasm by illusion; one dry hump; one cunnilingus miscommunication; two morning orgasms with a side of tea and oranges; one masturbation session spoiled by gonorrhea.