Amanda Filipacchi - Love Creeps

“Maybe you don’t sew them on well enough. Maybe next time I should try sewing them on.”

“It doesn’t matter how tightly you’ll sew them on. I’ll still lose them.”

“Why?”

“I would give much to know that. I guess I can’t help it.”

Roland made efforts to be a better boyfriend. He tried to show concern and give compliments. The concern came in the form of—

“Does it bother you that your friends don’t really like you?”

“What are you talking about?” she said. “My friends love me.”

“No, not really. I’m good at sensing these things.”

The compliments came in the form of—

“It’s really great that you often read fashion magazines.”

“Why?”

“Because it shows you’re interested in the outside world. It’s better than sitting on the couch, staring at the wall.”

Roland would play pranks on Lynn. Mean jokes. He’d tell her to meet him at a restaurant, and he’d be waiting at another restaurant.

They fought about orange juice.

Occasionally, when he was annoyed, his hand would fly up, as if to slap her, but then it would stay frozen in the air. One time, after his hand had been frozen in the air for a second, it came down against his own face. He slapped himself instead.

Lynn’s self-esteem started to suffer. When she expressed doubts about their relationship, Roland said that despite all her weaknesses and shortcomings, he loved her. He was helpless in his love for her.

Lynn hung on, hoping things would get better.

They discussed the problems in their relationship, tried to come up with solutions. As they talked, Lynn was painting his portrait while he ate grapes and dangled his leg off the arm of his chair.

“We are discontent,” he announced. “We find no pleasure in our life or in each other.”

“Yes, I know,” Lynn said, mixing black with blue to get just the right shade for his eyes — a blue she loved, a blue so black his eyes looked almost dead.

“The reason we’re not happy,” Roland said, “is that in leaving the city, we lost perspective.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, adding a little more black.

“We need to expose ourselves to people whose lives suck more than ours, to remind us of how lucky we are. In brief, I think we need a meeting with Alan.”

She thought about it. It was true that exposing themselves to such a grand degree of wretchedness as Alan’s could be nothing but beneficial. They would no longer take for granted what little good was in their relationship.

And perhaps they could also, while they were at it, try to help Alan, thereby filling their hearts with a pleasant feeling of benevolence.

Roland decided to call Alan immediately and request a meeting.

At the same moment, Alan had a painful erection, as he had had every afternoon that week, because an excessively sexy woman at whose apartment a film was being made in which Alan was acting, was doing everything she could to seduce him.

Alan was taking a few days off from his job to do a favor for one of his new friends, Bob, who had begged him to play a part in a highbrow independent feature film he was making. It was quite a big favor indeed, because it was tax season, and Alan had on average forty tax returns to prepare each week. Bob had succeeded in luring Alan by being very honest with him, telling him that even though he knew Alan was not a professional actor, he had wanted someone exactly like him — someone with a noble air. Flattered, Alan modestly proclaimed that was not him, even though he knew it was now, and acquiesced.

The filming was taking place in a luxurious apartment on Fifth Avenue and Eleventh Street. Alan tried to take advantage of the time between takes to prepare tax returns, but the seductive owner of the apartment had taken a liking to him and was driving him to distraction. His penis was annoyingly erect, a condition that shocked him and of which he disapproved, since he had a wonderful girlfriend, Jessica, and would never cheat on her. A month earlier, they had officially decided to make their relationship monogamous, not that it had not always been.

The day before, Alan had discovered a fun-filled solution to his tormenting lust. The apartment had very large, very private, comically lush bathrooms, and when his erection got in the way of his concentration, he would politely excuse himself with his cell phone, retreat to one of the far bathrooms, and call his girlfriend, who fortunately was spending her afternoons in his apartment, which made it convenient for them to engage in phone sex. They had done this before, on occasion, but it was particularly helpful this week.

“Why are you out of breath?” he asked, when she answered the phone.

“I’m exercising for you,” she said, and suddenly he heard an exercise video in the background.

Alan asked her to take off her clothes. She was always up for phone sex. As well as real sex.

“I’m taking off my underwear now,” she said, while moving up and down over a man, who had his penis in her.

“Are they off?” Alan asked, lying on the floor, on a giant, plump, pink mat, his own underwear and pants lowered to his thighs.

“Yeah, oops, hang on, they’re caught on my heel. There,” she said, easing herself down more slowly onto the penis of her afternoon lover, who knew not to say a word when Alan called. His hands were on her butt, trying to speed up the pace, but she liked it slow, particularly during phone sex with Alan, which she had engaged in before while cheating on him. The afternoon lover was not averse to this. He was sprawled on Alan’s white easy chair, the chair with no arms, which made it ideal for Jessica to straddle him in the way they both liked. The white chair had gotten gradually more stained with each passing day, but Jessica diligently scrubbed the stains after each ride, succeeding only, of course, in making them paler and larger.

Midway through the phone sex, which was even more real than Alan imagined, Jessica’s call waiting beeped. Not wanting to miss a call from her morning lover, she checked, but it was some guy with a French accent, asking for Alan, claiming to be an old friend. He said his name was Roland. She gave him Alan’s cell phone number, and added, “But I’m actually talking with him on the other line right now, so please wait a bit before calling.”

Thirty seconds back into the phone sex, it was Alan’s turn to announce he had another call coming in.

“Fuck that guy, I told him to wait,” Jessica said.

“Fuck who?” Alan asked.

“This jerk who just called and interrupted us. Just don’t answer it.”

“I have to. It could be my friend John, who’s in a terrible mess.”

“No, that wasn’t the name he gave me. I can’t remember it, but it wasn’t John.”

“It could be someone else in need. Hang on.”

Alan switched lines, and this time it was indeed his friend John, sounding very depressed.

Alan apologized to Jessica for having to stop things in the middle like this.

“Suit yourself, honey. It’ll be harder for you than for me,” she said.

Alan laughed. “Why?”

“Because I can finish. And you have to talk to John.”

“Have fun.” Alan zipped up his pants and switched back to his friend in need: a full-fledged stalkaholic from an SA meeting.

John was crying, saying he was on the verge of following the woman he had been trying not to follow for months.

Alan attempted yet again to persuade him to forget about the dumb woman. And he added, “Did you use the gift certificate I gave you for that massage?”

“No.”

“Well, use it, man, please. It helps.”

“I want to follow her.”

“She’s gonna call the cops on you again.”