I don’t do casual sex. My labels are demisexual and sapiosexual, or some combination of the two, which makes being attracted to someone when there is no intellectual or emotional spark improbable, if not impossible. Ironically, I also have a very high sex drive. This unfortunate condition — that my lady parts have some morality clause I didn’t sign up for — has left me sexless and single for more years than I care to admit.
But when I met a successful author whom I admire (and have had a decade-long crush on) by chance while having dinner at the Tower Bar in West Hollywood, I once again gave the whole casual sex thing the old college try. After all, I knew the inner workings of his mind, and that’s half the attraction riddle solved. But there was something else. He felt familiar when I shook his hand. I unwittingly held onto it for longer than was socially acceptable. He let me. Instant chemistry.
Current trends debunk instant chemistry and familiarity with a potential mate, branding it as the obvious wrong choice. Familiar is bad, Instagram Reels tell me. And “butterflies” mean you’re destined to repeat the dysfunctional patterns of your relationship with your parent with your new lover— a fast track to heartbreak.
I don’t buy it. I am a fully formed, grown-ass woman who has navigated the vast landscape of my mind and consciousness through drugs, meditation, Buddhist psychology and sheer neurosis management. I refuse to discredit an immediate connection with someone as inherently dangerous and resign myself to passionless dating and relationships because “boring” is good and safe.
So, in the spirit of chasing the spark of chemistry and intellect (for me, lightning in a bottle), not long after meeting author guy for the first time, we were sitting on his hotel bed. He tried politely to get the requisite small talk out of the way, and despite my nervousness, I was game.
He was surprisingly open, though trying not to be. He said he would write his first short-story collection soon but wanted to get his latest book optioned into a movie. I said I was trying to find an agent for the YA novel I wrote from the point of view of my pit bull. Although we barely covered the basics, we did all right. Afterward, I laid my head on his chest, saying, “I’ll leave; just give me a minute,” and then added, “Insert Billy Crystal’s line from ‘When Harry Met Sally’ here.”
A short while later, we stood on Sunset Boulevard at the entrance to the Sunset Tower Hotel. The 15-story Art Deco building in Zigzag Moderne is my second favorite building in the world. Its shades of pink, cream plaster and bronze shift in the ever-changing light L.A. is famous for, from sunrise to the golden hour. We talked about the building, and I lamented that the plaster friezes weren’t lighted. Why wouldn’t the owner take the time to up-light the friezes? Seems like a shame. Like keeping a precious gem in the dark where its facets can’t shine. I asked a manager who happened by. He shrugged as if to say, “We just leave well enough alone.”
Author guy and I fumbled through an awkward goodbye. “I have your number,” he told me, which I was pretty sure translated to, “Don’t call me. I’ll call you.” And so, I didn’t. But when he texted the next day, I could still smell him on my skin, and I knew I wanted an immediate redo of our time together. Once we got to know each other, I was pretty sure the sex was going to be transcendental.
A month later, I invited him to my suite at the Pendry in West Hollywood. We still didn’t talk much, but when we said goodbye, I made my request in the lobby near the transportive Anthony James light sculpture.
“I know you’re busy, but I want to get to know you. There’s a connection between us I’d like to explore. Let’s talk on the phone if you can carve out some time.”
He didn’t call, but a few months later, there was an impromptu third time.
“We have great chemistry — the kind I haven’t had in most relationships. I mean, the sex is pretty f— great, don’t you think?” he asked, focusing his intent gaze on my own.
“It can be better,” I responded, looking away to make the honesty slightly less potent. “I need to know you and to be known. What we are doing doesn’t work for me. I need a little more for the sex to be truly great.”
“I guess I can call you when I have some downtime between writing,” he mused, adding, “I’m glad this happened.” We kissed goodbye, awash in the moonlight that casts Franklin Hills in a silvery, ethereal blue. After he drove away, I stood hopeful on my balcony, my gaze fixed on the beautiful, lit-from-within crown jewel of the Hollywood Hills — Griffith Observatory, the brainchild of a raging alcoholic who shot his wife in the eye. Star-crossed lovers. I wondered if they had great chemistry. Did he give her butterflies?
A day later, author guy texted. But he didn’t call. Hopped up on oxytocin and potentiality, I sent an overzealous voice memo, mentioning (again, ugh) that I wanted to have some repartee, shoot the s—, have a meal, add some talking to the sex, and that I definitely wanted to have more sex. He sent a long, panicked text in response. He liked me, but his schedule was full. And his anxiety and borderline depression were keeping him from calling anyone but his close friends.
I said I was disappointed. More than I thought I would be, but I understood.
In his mind, I was a liability, and in not taking the time to get to know me, he had averted disaster — or just left well enough alone. In my mind, a potential L.A. love affair (with great sex) ended almost before it began. In the end, author guy went with the short story. Seems like a shame. It could have been one hell of a novel — enough to base a movie on.
The author is a writer’s writer, copywriter and astronaut of the self who splits her time between Encinitas and Los Angeles. After writing this, she called Jeff Klein, owner of the Sunset Tower Hotel, and asked him to light the plaster friezes. She can be found at @sage_the_writer on Instagram and on LinkedIn.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
