I thought about editing the redundancies, the totally cringe sentences, and the egregious grammatical errors (I’m a little embarrassed), but then I thought once I started, I wouldn’t know when to stop. I’d be editing my old self. And I see glimpses of her on the page, still learning the craft and trying to understand desire, beauty, false self-assuredness, the internalized male gaze, and what it meant to want and be wanted.

I hope you enjoy the beginnings, third base, all the overdescriptions, and a tale about a girl from Texas who owned four crop tops and walked with a swivel.

Crazy for You

Candy listened to Patsy Cline every night before she went to sleep. And sometimes, when a boy was on her mind, and she was alone in the house, she would slip on her mother’s red-sequenced dress. Her mother wore that dress to the town’s beauty pageant twenty years before. She no longer fit into it. It sparkled even in the dim light of Candy’s small room. Candy would put on red lipstick and sing along with Patsy Cline’s “Crazy For You.” One night Candy stared into the mirror. She had green eyes that were so exotic people would stare at her as if she weren’t human. Her lips were full and naturally pink, but she usually had a small brown scab on her lower lip because she bit herself when ever she was nervous or angry. Candy’s right leg was slightly longer than her left leg, and she looked like she was swaying when she walked. She pulled her blonde strands of hair behind her ears and gathered herself, putting the pieces back together. She smiled into the mirror and heard applause all around her. “Thank you, Thank you. I just want to say what an honor it is to have your support and admiration. I promise I won’t let y’all down.” Lights blinded her as photographers took her picture. “I loved him so bad, he had to leave. But I’m gonna let him go.”

Candy was from San Marcos, Texas. Her real dad had left her when she was only three. Her step-father, Ronny, moved into her house when she was twelve. Candy wore short shorts to school and hot pink lipstick. She had four cropped halter tops that she wore interchangeably. Candy’s mother didn’t like how she dressed, so she would wear a baggy T-shirt when she left the house, and then she would strip it off, while peddling her bike. After school and on weekends Candy worked at the Slim’s Diner. She was popular with the boys even though she had a limp, and they would flock into Slim’s to visit her. Her limp made her hips swivel, which the boys would fantasize about. In fact, because of Candy, when a girl was sexy, the guys would say, “She’s a swiveler.” It was as if Candy was running on air; she was so light on her feet. And when she turned her head, her blonde hair would bounce in tune with her stride.

There was one boy who didn’t give Candy the attention she deserved. His name was Jamie Fly, but people called him Fly. It seemed that all the girls at San Marcos High had a crush on him. And the joke was that he would “fly” through girls. Fly was a nature lover, and one could bet on finding him drawing down at Hover’s Creek. He always carried a pad of paper with him. He had told Candy about how he was going to New York to be an artist. He was planning on leaving San Marcos soon. Fly had been stuck at home for the last year because his mother had had a baby and his father, who was the owner of Slim’s, had needed an extra hand. Fly managed Slim’s when his father couldn’t make it in. Then Fly would be Candy’s boss. He drove her crazy! He was either flirtatious, or he was indifferent. Sometimes, when she would walk by him, he would touch her shoulder or her back. Or they would have ice cream together while they were closing the diner. They never talked much, but Candy felt excited and intoxicated by his presence. Other times, he wouldn’t even acknowledge her. Candy would be wiping the crumbs off a table, her shorts hitched all the way up her thighs, and she would glance under her arm-pit to see if he was staring at her; he would be drawing at the breakfast bar. She would thrust her hip out even farther, but he still wouldn’t look at her. Once, she was fed up and went over to him, pressing her shoulder into his. She blew a bubble in his face with her watermelon Bubble Yum.

“What ya draw’in there, Fly?”

“Nothin.”

He had drawn a sketch of a tree with a large rock underneath it. Fly used different colored pencils to capture the sunlight sifting through the leaves. He had shaded the indentations of the rock with brown, red, and yellow. Candy thought they blended well together. It was a pretty rock.

“That’s cool, “ Candy said, and she pressed her shoulder harder into his. He smiled at her appreciatively. He had a green hat on that said “Slim’s.” His father had just gotten in a shipment of “Slim’s” hats in dark blue, green, and red. Fly’s eyes were small and delicate, but his blue pupils were very large, as if they were constantly searching for something in dim light. Candy wanted Fly to look at her, but he continued to draw, and he added some more yellow to the rock.

“D’ ya want some ice cream, Fly?”

“Naw, I’m good.” He turned to her and, for a second, he gave her his full attention. “Thanks though.”

“Sure.” Candy shifted her weight to her longer leg. She continued to watch him draw, in case he changed his mind. Then she remembered her pride and walked away to clean another table. She stuck her butt out, resting her wait on her longer leg, and she looked down at her cleavage which was enhanced by her white and pink- flowered halter top. She liked how her breasts pressed together, and she liked the way her gold cross gently fell in between them. Candy continued to wipe off the tables. Candy began to wash the dishes; she was excited to be alone with Fly. Candy’s fingers were pruning, and she shivered as she dried them on a towel. Her fingers squeeked, and she felt shills up her spine. It was one of those weird bodily reactions. But sliding your teeth on a towel was worse. She dried the plates.

“Do you need a ride home?” Fly asked her.

Candy decided she would be coy since he hadn’t been paying her enough attention. “I’ll bike it,” she said.

“Are you sure? It’s far,” he said nonchalantly.

“Fine.” Candy was offended that he didn’t insist on giving her a ride. It would take her at least a half-hour to get home, and she was tired from waitressing all afternoon. But then, she wondered if he was just pretending to be indifferent. She convinced herself that she had solved his mysterious behavior. He was obsessed with her. She smiled secretly.

Candy put on her denim jacket which was too small. She had had it for years, ever since she was thirteen. Now, at seventeen, her long arms swung by her hips as she skipped out of the diner. Fly locked the door, and they walked to this bright, red pick-up. He had saved up for that truck ever since he was fourteen doing construction work in Austin. He trailed his hand along its smooth side as if he knew it would save him. They jumped into the truck and sped down the highway. Candy’s window was open and her hair was wild in the wind. She took a bright, blue band out of her denim-washed purse and pulled her hair back. Wisps of blonde still danced around her eyes, itching her nose. She was lulled by the familiar corn fields that were dark orange in the setting sun. She smelled a hint of cow dung and hay and was comforted.

“That smell is nice.” Candy sighed, while looking out at the orange and pink sky.

“Yup. When I move up east I’m going to miss this sky.” Fly was serious, and then instantly his face brightened as he teased Candy. “And especially the smell of cow shit!”

She hit him flirtatiously. Maybe she would have to take an immature route to win his heart.

He laughed. “Naw, I’m just joking.”

Candy opened her mouth and tried to catch the wind in gulps; it dried her tongue out. She didn’t want to go back home. Ronny would take one look at her cute shorts and perfectly acceptable halter top, and he’d tell her she was dressed like a slut and to change her clothes. She would change into a pair of baggy pajamas and watch TV while her mother and Ronny would sit in the kitchen talking about finances. There were only four channels, and two of them were barely visible. Most of the time, she ended up fantasizing about becoming a famous country singer like Patsy Cline. She would wear pink sparkling dresses, and she’d be able to afford an operation to correct her long leg. There had to be some sort of operation out there that could fix her? Then Candy would retreat to her room and look at herself in the mirror and start to dance. “Hi, I’m Patsy and I’m gonna sing you a love song . . . ” But Candy would wait until her mother and Ronny were out of the house before she did her full routine.

Candy glanced at Fly. He had taken his hat off and his brown, shoulder length hair blew around his face; he rolled up his window a little. Candy wanted to keep driving somewhere, anywhere, but home. Fly turned on the radio and Lynard Skinner was singing “Tuesday’s Gone.” They began to sing the chorus together and bob their heads to the electric guitar and drums. Candy laughed out loud and screamed out to the wind “Woo!” She looked over at him and bit her lower lip seductively. “I don’t want to go home,” she said.

They spent the evening under a willow tree by Baker’s Pond. Fly massaged Candy’s head and face, and she relaxed her mind. They tickled each other like innocent kids and rolled around in the grass. Then they kissed and tickled each other more. Finally, they moved to third base, and Candy felt his lips running up and down her stomach. He fingered her gently, and when she looked up at him his eyes were closed. She wondered what he was thinking about. Fly continued to stoke her and looked off over the pond. A family of ducks floated by. Two of them were fat with green heads. The others were brown. Candy had read somewhere that male ducks were more beautiful than females. They often had coats of red and green, whereas females had boring coats of brown and gray. She wondered why that wasn’t true with humans. Fly seemed to be somewhere in his own dreams. She wanted to be a part of his plans. She fractured the poetic silence and said, “Take me with you – to New York.”

Fly withdrew his fingers from her. He put his hat back on and then resumed looking at the pond. Candy sat up in front of him so he couldn’t avoid her hungry eyes.

“I’m going to be a singer,” Candy said, “and I need to get away from this town.”

“I am not at all ready for a relationship. No, I can’t be in a relationship right now.” Fly’s body became stiff.

“Did I say anything about a relationship, Fly?” Candy said, but his words had stung her. What was wrong with her? Was he ashamed to be with a girl with a limp? No, that couldn’t be it. He was afraid of her. He was afraid of the powerful attraction he had for her.

“I understand. Are you afraid?”

“Yeah, I’m afraid.” Fly watched the ducks paddle farther away, almost out of sight. Candy wasn’t convinced. She decided to take action on her own and seductively shoved him against the trunk of the tree. She went to kiss him, but Fly’s hat bumped her head.

“Oops.” She turned away.

“I think we should be friends, Candy. God damn, it’s gonna be hard because I’m so attracted to you. But things are complicated right now.”

Candy fought against the pang in her stomach and said, “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s be friends. I’m not ready for a relationship right now either – No way, not at all.”

Fly was relieved and his body relaxed. He gazed at Candy’s defined cheek bones, at her freckles and her suckable lips. He grasped her in his arms and nuzzled his face into her cleavage, which was tan from hours on the beach in her hot pink polka-dot bikini. Candy went along with him, praying this wouldn’t be the last time. He tried to go down on her, but she never did that on first dates, especially since she was still feeling rejected. In fact, Candy had never been rejected before. There must be some hidden secret as to why he wanted to be friends? Candy needed to have power over him. Candy remembered all of those times in the diner, where he would touch her hips in passing or when they would share ice cream Sundays in unbearable silence, the sexual tension on the verge of exploding. Candy unbuckled his jeans and was pleased that Fly lay on his back at her whim. She started to give him a blow job and watched his mouth open at her mercy. She stopped and said, “Oh, wait I forgot we’re just friends.”

Fly looked up at her in disbelief. Candy felt mean and changed her mind. She said, “OK, that was manipulative. I’m just joking.” She finished the blow job, even though his penis seemed so foreign in her mouth, and she felt lonely.

Fly drove her home in the silent darkness. Candy’s mother and Ronny would be anxiously waiting for her. If they were in bad moods, she would be grounded for the week. Candy pushed herself up against the plastic door of the truck. The seat belt had no elasticity, and it cut into her stomach. Her shorts were damp from lying on the grass, and she had goose bumps along her arms. Candy wondered how it was possible for two people to kiss and yet be so distant from one another. She thought she could still taste his tangy semen in her mouth. She had pieces of his life in her stomach. When they pulled up to her drive way Fly leaned over and awkwardly hugged her. “I think this will work,” he said.

“What will work?” She could barely see his face in the darkness.

“Being friends.”

“Swell. I hope so.” Candy didn’t want to get out of his truck. She wanted to talk to him some more and understand why he was doing this to her. Was this rejection? No, he was just afraid; he even admitted to it. Candy wanted to kiss him one more time. She waited a couple seconds and then said, “It’ll just be hard if I see you with another girl. But that’s part of life, right?” Candy was trying to sound composed and cool. Fly smiled, but it was strained. Candy jumped out of the truck, and she could feel Fly watching her long limping legs. But people say I’m stunning, Candy thought. I’m going to be a singer like Patsy Cline, and then Fly will be sorry.

Candy had been grounded for a week. But she didn’t care because she would sneak out of her window every night and several of the boys who had crushes on her would pick her up in their trucks. They’d go to the drive in and share ice cream cones. She would get strawberry ice cream with chocolate jimmies. Candy would scan the cars to see if she could find Fly’s pick-up truck. Candy only saw Fly once that week, and he had a girl under his arm. She wasn’t even pretty. Candy told her date she was going to pee. She was wearing a hot pink short skirt, a baby blue halter top, and white Keds sneakers. She strolled passed Fly’s truck and limped as little as possible. She could feel the guys checking her out, but Fly was looking at his girl. Candy wanted to stop in front of his truck and make him kiss her and tell her how much he desired her, but she didn’t know how. She walked passed him, and when she turned around to see if he was looking at her, she watched him stick his tongue into that thing’s mouth. Lucky bitch.

Fly hadn’t managed Slim’s in two weeks. Candy thought he was avoiding her. He’s so god damn afraid, she thought. But the nagging reality that he just didn’t like her interspersed her thoughts. Finally, Fly showed up at Slim’s, but it was to say goodbye. He was leaving for New York the next day. The waiters hugged Fly as if he were the friendliest guy they had ever met, while Candy sat at the end of the diner blowing her Bubble Yum. She stared down at her dirty finger nails. Her hot pink nail polish was chipping. She was frozen and didn’t know where to move. Fly saw her and waived, as if they were only acquaintances. She reluctantly waived back and watched him turn around and stroll out of the diner as if he were about to take on the world. Candy wanted to tackle him. She wanted to shake him and force him to include her in his dreams. She heard his truck rumble and could feel him moving forward, the wind in his hair, singing along, without her, to “Tuesday’s Gone.”

Candy’s mother and Ronny went to the drive in that night. Candy stripped into her underwear and bra. She cradled Patsy Cline’s record, and placed it on her record player which she had gotten for her birthday when she was fourteen. Candy slipped into her mother’s red-sequined dress. She put on her mother’s fake pearls and fake diamond clip on earrings. She put dark red lipstick on which smudged, but Candy was in such a hurry to perform that she didn’t fix it. The lights were shining on her, and there were so many people.

“Thank you, thank you.” Candy swayed her hips and laughed because people wouldn’t stop applauding. “Now listen, I can only begin if y’all quiet down. I appreciate your enthusiasm. And I’m honored to be sing’ n here in San Marcos. You know it’s nice to be back here. It’s been a long time and I’m finally home.” People screamed and hoorayed. Then there was silence. Candy began, “I fall to pieces.” She swayed to the rhythm. “Each time I see you again. I fall to pieces. How can I be just your friend. You want me to act like we’ve never kissed. You want me to forget, pretend we’ve never met. And I’ve cried and I’ve cried, but I have’t yet. You walk by and I fall to pieces.” Candy raised her hands in the air and sang so loud her voice drowned out Patsy’s. She could see Fly on the road drifting away, and decided to let him go.

💕🍭👙🍦🍬💗

If you’re not following me on Instagram, here are a couple events I’ve covered for Observer this past month.

https://observer.com/2026/07/art-photos-parrish-art-museum-2026-midsummer-gala/

https://observer.com/2026/07/photos-watermill-center-summer-festival-artists/

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I’m thrilled to share my conversation with New York Times bestselling author and MacArthur Fellow Ocean Vuong. Interviewing him for Observer was one of the great honors and highlights of my writing career.

We spoke about The Emperor of Gladness, now out in paperback, as well as metaphor, class, truth, and the questions that make us feel alive.

I hope I captured even a small measure of his brilliance and generosity.

You can read the full interview here.

https://observer.com/2026/07/author-ocean-vuong-interview-the-emporer-of-gladness/

PS. If you feel inspired, please consider becoming a paid subscriber. Your support means the world. And liking, commenting, or sharing helps All That Jas grow.

PPS. If you’d like to leave a tip of any amount (no recurring charges), you can do so here💕

And most of all, thank you for reading.

Find me on Instagram: https://instagram.com/jasminelobe

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“Naked Patriot” was originally published in New York Natives in the summer of 2013, my last months in Los Angeles. Back then, I paired it with my figure skating days. For this version, I paired it with an audition instead.

My window has become a portal to terror.

It wasn’t always that way. Growing up in Soho, my bedroom window overlooked an old factory building. From its rooftop, a lone potted tree watched over me. I would drag my chair close to the glass and lose myself in the dark, purple haze of the night. Manhattan isn’t conducive to stargazing, but the glow of airplanes and sparkling city lights ignited my search for something more. In that soft stillness, I would find my peace.

Until recently, my love affair with windows continued in my West Hollywood apartment. At night, stars salted the sky as I traced the silhouettes of two long-limbed trees. Birds rested in their nests singing songs of playful promise while squirrels scurried by holding prized pine nuts. And I found my peace.

I do not know my neighbor’s name, but he’s why my cherished window’s become my hell. He sits on his terrace, which is covered in camouflage bamboo for his privacy. He harasses me all day with pot smoke and a gurgling, hacking cough. Some are loose and borderline healthy, but most are dry and long-lasting, and it feels like death is around me.

I shut my window and open the refrigerator for fresh air, all the while cursing the man with the cough for depriving me of nature’s sweet breeze. I’m being fumigated out of my fucking mind.

When I finally reopen my window out of desperation, he is lurking there again. I hear the click of his lighter as he prepares to smoke yet another bowl. My fingers curl from tension into angry cat claws as yet another waft of skunk-smelling fumes blows into a bouquet of innocent pink roses on my windowsill.

As if the cough and toxins weren’t enough, the man with the cough has two yappy Chihuahuas and a newborn baby. I hate him, his dogs, and his crybaby of a child. The noise pollution is so invasive, I begin to wonder if I’m the one coughing.

I try to stay positive and get metaphysical. I’m told everyone in our lives is a reflection of ourselves. What does the man with the cough represent in me?

As he gasps for air, I grab my chest. His slime drips down my throat and into my stomach, suffocating me. I wish he would just drop dead already.

I break. “Excuse me, sir.”

I just make out his eyes through the bamboo.

“I’m so sorry to intrude, but I keep hearing you cough. It’s very disruptive. Not to mention, scary. I think you should go see a doctor.”

The man with the cough says nothing. I’ve caught him in a private moment.

Feeling self-righteous, I continue my crusade. I’m on fire.

“Maybe you should smoke your joints inside your apartment? I guess there’s the baby inside, so you can’t do that. Regardless, I really think you should see a doctor.”

An uncomfortable laugh. “Oh, I’m okay. I just smoke too much,” he says, annoying me with the obvious. “I’ve had this cough since art school.”

I’m not sure what to do with this information, but I continue, “I don’t know where you should smoke, but your noises are incredibly upsetting. Thank you.”

I shut the window.

Today, I have a producer’s session for the show Numbers — basically a callback. I literally have two lines. When I went to the pre-read, the casting director who cast me on Dirt said, “I thought of you for this since you’re tall and lanky.” I guess that was the impression I made on him.

The callback is all the way in downtown Los Angeles, an area that makes me feel so lonely, but then again, I’m always lonely here. I sit in a room full of beautiful women, everyone there with their own life stories, vying for a part. One girl comes in who’s voluptuous, and I can’t help but think she won’t get the role because she isn’t thin enough. It’s awful how quickly you start to think like them out here. Maybe I’ve already taken myself out of the running as well.

I go into the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror. I’m looking a little thinner than usual. It’s been a stressful couple of days. So I look at myself. I’ve got my blonde highlighted, curled hair, my light red lipstick, and I’m gearing up and ready to go. I jump up and down in place in front of the empty bathroom stalls, small jumps, just enough to get the blood flowing but not enough to injure myself. Funny that there aren’t any other girls in here looking at themselves. I’m the only one. But I needed to get away from them. I needed to get away from their high heels, their tight jeans, their expressive fashion statements, their gossip, their mouths reciting their lines in a chorus, each one attempting to nail it. I suppose someone will, though. Nail it.

I force a smile in the mirror, then touch the handle with both hands on the way out. I’ve been obsessive compulsive lately, much more than usual, and I have to do everything in sets of twos.

I sit in the chair by “the room” where everyone goes in and comes out slightly changed. I wonder if I’ll mess up.

Be quiet.

We don’t need to tell you not to run, do we?

(I’ll be honest, those lines don’t inspire me in the least.) But I want the part. I want the part more than I want to say the two lines. I want the part. I want something to click. If I’m not going to win first or second place at my USFSA novice figure skating competition, at least give me a small part on Numbers. Can’t something go right for me?

Stop it, Jasmine. Don’t think that. You’re going to go in there and do your job. You’re a talented actress. You’re talented.

They call my name. I’m all in black. My tank top is scooped and has lace on it. I’m a kick-ass hot woman. I’m a scared girl. I’m unbalanced in my body as I stand up with a bounce.

I walk in and see the casting director with his ponytail and comb-over glued to the side of his head. There are two producers sitting to my right, behind a massive wooden conference table. One of them happens to be very attractive. This is it. This is my chance. The room reminds me of my fifth grade classroom with all of its chairs, and its yellow walls.

“Stand over there and you can use that chair to slam down the car door,” the casting director says.

“Sounds good.” I’m a pro. It’s just two lines. I got this. God, this is painful.

I look at the casting director who distantly roots me on with his eyes. I feel like I’m about to jump rope. I’m about to catch the rhythm of his words and attempt to slide in effortlessly, but the strain is already in my eyes.

“Be quiet.”

The casting director responds with his line about how the kidnapped girl needs to listen to what the Charles Manson inspired character says, but before he can finish, I jump in with, “And we don’t need to tell you not to run, do we?”

I overshot the line. I came in with a dive, missed the wave, and crashed in far too soon. Something that was so easy. I am a ball of nerves. I want to go home. I want to succeed. God damn it, get me this fucking job. I am rolled up barbed wire ready to snap.

The casting director signals me with his hand to wait while he continues to read his line. God forbid I cut him off. And then he says we need to do it over again. I tell him I’m sorry. I got excited. (Because I’m so enthusiastic.)

The handsome producer in his olive J.Crew sweater interjects. Maybe he’ll hire me because I’m cute. Maybe he wants to go on a date with me.

Focus, Jasmine. It’s amazing how many things I can think at once.

Once, when I had a callback for House, I stood in front of a row of writers and producers, and instead of thinking about the role I thought: what would they do if I jumped on one foot and quacked like a duck? Quack Quack Quack. What would they do? So instead of acting like a sick patient, I was acting like a duck.

Back to Numbers. I’m all tied up in myself. My spindly arms are trying to hold onto any possible solution.

The cute producer says we’re going to do it again. But this time: “You’re exhausted. You’re not really worried the girl is going to run away because she’s already tied up with rope. Don’t take the script so literally.”

I look at him and breathe, and let out a laugh. I release all the wind and the dead air in my lungs and in my stomach. I let it go and I am there with him. I look into his green eyes. There is an understanding of sorts. I can tell he wants me to do well. They all do, I think. But I’m the only one who dares myself to flop.

I gather my will and focus on shutting the pretend trunk door with a languid exhaustion, saying my lines from my core. Solid and strong. Like a child, I jump back, afraid of the grounded work I’d just done.

When am I going to step into my womanhood and actually be okay with it?

They all say great and thank me. I thank them, and as I gather my purse and jacket off the chair I’m off balance again in my gait. I try to get out of there quickly, since I know their eyes are on my body. Then I realize I’ve forgotten my sides. I turn back and smile as I pick them up, and I trip out of the room.

I go straight to the bathroom, look into the mirror, and recite the whole scene over and over. Be quiet. And we don’t need to tell you not to run, do we? I’m not sure if I was great or terrible. I think I did a good job. But now it’s time to leave it all behind me. Another day, another audition. I pray and fantasize that I’ve gotten the part. I visualize and pray so hard.

I pull out of my driveway to head to my new part-time gig, working as a personal assistant to a love coach who specializes in teaching women how to attract men. In exchange for ridiculous sums of money, she gives clients makeovers and advice. She has huge fake boobs and enough Botox injected in her face to paralyze a man in his tracks, though she’s single.

As I look left and right for oncoming cars, a man knocks on my window. I don’t have time for this shit.

He wears reading glasses and his baby hangs in a pouch from his chest. His two dogs sniff piss on a nearby tree.

“Hey, you’re my neighbor, right?”

“Yes,” I tell him, recognizing his voice.

“I just want to apologize for all the coughing and the marijuana.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it.” I don’t mean it.

“I hate pot myself. It’s just that, you see, I was in Iraq and I got stabbed in the chest.”

My eyes say what?!

“Yeah, well the story is that I was in Fallujah and this guy knifed me. They had to put a plastic tube in my lung until they could fly me to Baghdad.”

My mouth is frozen wide open. I shut it, then say, “I’m so sorry.”

“So I have all of this nerve damage and pot is the only thing that makes the pain bearable.”

“I totally understand.”

Everything I assumed about the man with the cough is wrong.

“Oh, and I don’t want to embarrass you or anything. But I can see right into your window. I see everything.”

“Everything? You mean you’ve seen me….naked?”

“I see you in your underwear and topless all the time. I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re a very sexy woman. You have great breasts. But I just thought I should tell you.”

He looks at me like I have sinned.

“Oh, and my mother-in-law and I saw you and your girlfriend in the nude yesterday, trying on some really nice dresses. I was like, are we really seeing this?”

“I am so sorry,” I manage. “Thank you for letting me know. I’ll be more careful moving forward.”

“As I said, I don’t mind. I just thought you should know. Oh, and any time you want to come over for brunch just give a holler out your window.”

As I wave goodbye, I realize that I forgot to ask him his name.

That evening, I hear him on the terrace. He is a shadow, holding his baby up in the air.

In between coughs: “Who is the most beautiful boy in the whole wide world? Who is the love of my life? Who is my biggest joy?”

Through the bamboo, I see their blurred shapes. He holds his son tight to his wounded body.

I hope he lives a long, long life.

That night I wake up drenched in sweat in the dark. He’s climbed the tree. His legs straddle the thick branch, his body outstretched, his head cocked, peeping in. By the time I open my eyes, he’s gone.

In the morning, I step out of the shower and cover myself with a towel. I’m about to slink away from the window and hide in the corner, but pause instead. I throw up my arms and let my towel drop to the floor. I stand naked and free, totally exposed to my heroic neighbor who took a knife to the lung for America. I figure it’s the least I can do.

Call me a patriot.

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There’s a little personal history behind this one.

Performa was founded by RoseLee Goldberg, who I’ve known since I was a kid — our families go way back. When I was sixteen, she took her daughter and me to BAM to see Robert Wilson’s Time Rocker, and I was spellbound.

That performance was one of the reasons I wanted to be an actress. Years later, in my twenties, I went to the first Performa Biennial in the West Village. In my memory, there was an older man on a small stage, with an image of a room made up of white chalk-like lines projected onto him. He spoke of life, as if suspended in memory. There was a sense of yearning. Perhaps he wanted to stop time. Or to go back. I was fresh-faced and 24. The world was ahead. I may be remembering this all wrong. It was the kind of performance, though, that made me feel all of everything all at once. I’ll never forget it. Feelings stay with me a lot longer than words usually do.

That night I was with that ex-boyfriend who’d later tell me I had dark circles under my eyes, and that I really should do something about it. He would buy me under-eye brightening cream. But I told you about that already.

Inspired, I wanted to stay and speak to the man who’d been on stage. My senses stretched open like a giant yawn. Supercharged. I wanted to stay, bask in the numinous aftermath. But we needed to get to Soho House. We were late for Soho House. This was back when Soho House was a real big deal. “We’re going to be late to Soho House,” he said, pushing forty.

“I’m just gonna say goodbye real quick,” I said, already peeling away from myself.

Two Wednesdays ago, I sat on my own at Town Hall, leaning forward with feeling. It was delectable.

Getting to cover Performa now, all these years later, was very special.

I hope you enjoy it. Here’s Observer’s Performa: Live on Broadway

And here are a couple clips from the night.

Below is a clip from Anne Imhof’s Doom: House of Hope

And here’s a clip from Laurie Simmons’s Music of Regret, starring Meryl Streep.

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Lily’s driving my leased silver Jetta while I hold my hands around the nape of my neck for support. I still have fear tears in the corner of my eyes, but she’s rocking her hips to “Down on Me” by Jeremih, featuring 50 Cent, trying to make me smile. It works, a little. I join in on the parts I know. “I like the way you grind with that booty on me.” We grin. “Put it down on me.” She rides her seat. “Down, down on me.”

“Ow. Stop making me laugh — my neck.”

We drive along Sunset, passing Mandeville Canyon where my ex-boyfriend used to live. I feel its familiarity, its pull, and then the ache of it. We veer onto winding California roads blooming with green leaves and pink flowers. The sun is bright, almost blinding. I am a dark shadow.

We illegally park in the garage beneath Dr. Callahan’s building. It’s Saturday, so hopefully no one checks.

His office is full of purple and pink crystals. A woman with highly contrasting highlights sits behind the desk with a bowl of chocolates in front of her. She hands me a form about my physical history, injuries, medications, and such.

As I sit, this ferocious little dark brown creature with one red eye yelps like it’s facing death. I jump and nearly reinjure myself. The chihuahua growls. Lily tries to pet it, but it snaps. What a terrible way to be greeted.

We sit at the edge of the couch. Then the dog burrows back under the pillows, like nothing had happened. I hold my left hand to my neck and summarize the story of my life with the other.

Lily sips her iced green tea latte with the little tapioca balls. I’d already devoured mine. She is one of the kindest, most beautiful people I know. When I leave LA in two years, she will help me pack up my belongings because I am overwhelmed. She will carry my boxes of books to my car and then to the post office because of my bad back. Lily is slender but strong.

Dr. Callahan tells me he can fix anyone. People come to him from all over the world. A prince flies him private to Saudi Arabia several times a year.

“It’s a blessing you hurt your neck because it led you to me. I’ll fix you,” he assures me.

Even though the consultation fee is hefty, I feel so much relief, I could cry.

As we’re on our way out, Dr. Callahan walks into the waiting room and scratches the dog’s head. We must look apprehensive because he says, “This is Margarita. She’s a bit grumpy, but once you get to know her she has a heart of gold.”

I find that Dr. Callahan is either a genius or completely insane. Maybe both. But I think he’s helping me.

For years I’ve had this syndrome in my hip flexors, where sometimes I lift my legs and it hurts and the muscles go weak. Other times, they feel pretty strong, and I never understand why. Maybe I’m a fool, but I truly believe Dr. Callahan is fixing my hips. He cracks me and wiggles my feet and does all sorts of things until I walk out feeling stronger, more like me, and I can’t argue with that.

Then there’s the kinesiology part. The first time, he said, “Hold out your arm and say your name.” He pushed down and my arm was real strong. Then he told me to say someone else’s name. This time it went weak. The idea is that my body gets stronger with the truth. He presses on some part of my body, like I’m made of all these hidden buttons, and my leg flops down. He pushes another button and it’s strong. It’s like I’m a computer hard drive with all my wires crossed, and he’s going to find my original programming. He’s rebooting me.

I’ve also made it my personal mission to win Margarita over. She’s like the men I date. The moment I stop trying, she inches forward and sniffs me. I’m going to make her love me.

Dr. Callahan’s office overlooks the glistening ocean, like possibility. He writes my patterns down on little pieces of white paper that for homework I have to read out loud while tapping my chest. Last time we spoke about how my body is my guidance, my conscience. For instance, I might want something but my body wants something else. It’s like my body is the thread that ties everything together.

I’m making progress. Last time Margarita didn’t attack me. I briefly said hello and then ignored her. That’s when she crawled over and sat on my lap. My heart was racing so fast. I tried to touch her, but then she quickly turned on me and snapped. I think I may be winning her over.

I woke up angry. Angry at my life. Angry at men. Angry at my left hip, which seems to have tweaked. It happened when I got out of my car and almost stepped into a puddle and froze.

At the time, I was thinking about how unfortunate it was that I had to spend the afternoon with my boss. How I’d so much rather be doing actual work for him — running errands, scheduling his family trip to Machu Picchu — than taking a walk on the beach in Malibu while shooing him off me as he tries to touch my hair, my neck, hold my hand. “I really care about you. You know that? I really enjoy seeing you.” “Me too,” I say, smiling. I pretend I do too.

His second car broke down at the Malibu house, the one I helped him buy because he didn’t want to rent for the summer. I said I could go out and wait for AAA. But no — he wanted to come with me. He was looking forward to spending time with me.

So I pick him up after Pilates at two. He has me drive the Maserati. It’s always breaking down; I’ve taken it for tune-ups before. He says I look good driving a Maserati. I’m wearing the Tom Ford sunglasses he gave me — he’d told me to try them on, and then said they looked better on me than him. So there I am, driving a sixty-five-year-old man’s Maserati in the sunglasses, my armpits soaked, afraid to lift my arms. My left hip that seized that morning won’t stop shouting at me.

The truth is, I’m grateful for the job. I think he’s a quality man in a lot of ways. He roots for me. He asks about my auditions.

We stop for lunch at the Malibu Country Mart. I order the steak that comes chopped into small pieces, like shriveled cow penises with bits of blood. His wine looks enticing, maybe I could hide behind the bouquet of sweet pepper and cherries. I joke that I’m the designated driver, but he insists I take a sip. Sweet pepper and cherries.

I break it to him that I hurt my hip and won’t be able to walk on the beach. “I wish I could,” I tell him. I wish my body weren’t so messed up.

He’s disappointed, so he gets meaner. This isn’t the day he pictured. He rented the Malibu house for the summer and no one came out, and now the car is dead. “It was a bust,” he says. I try to convince him otherwise.

I tell Dr. Callahan about my hip, about my boss. He says I need better boundaries. He says I should look for a new job. I tell him it isn’t so easy to find something part-time that covers my rent. But I’m always looking, I say. I know I do.

Dr. Callahan spends extra time with me today. We make all sorts of discoveries. He writes on his pad: Voice box high and low. Wants to be a child. Child needs in the high. Allergic to being mature. My body becomes strong when I’m high-pitched, like a little girl, and weak when I speak lower, like an adult.

He has an epiphany. “This is huge,” he says. “You’ve developed OCD as a way to cope with your three different sides. You have the little girl who will do anything to be taken care of. She appeals to older men who want to rescue you. Then you have your mature side, which goes weak when I muscle test you. You’re physically allergic to being mature.”

“And the third side?”

“That’s your fantasy of being a movie star and a celebrity.”

“So you don’t think I’ll ever be famous?”

“You’re not going to become famous by living in a fantasy. If anything, it takes away your chances, because you’ll do anything for that dream. You’ve picked a hard career.”

“Well, I also thought about becoming a writer.”

He laughs, and his eyes have empathy. He hands me a piece of paper. “Tap it out.”

I pay the bill, which makes me sweat. The woman with the contrasting highlights has a heavy Russian accent. She’s studying business in college. She reminds me of Margarita — aloof, but when she smiles at you, you feel a real sense of accomplishment.

It’s been several months since I started with Dr. Callahan, and there seems to be a light at the end of the tunnel. We’re unwinding me like an onion. I wonder if I’ll ever get to the center. I wonder if there is a center.

He’s been encouraging me to eat beef. I hadn’t eaten it since I was twelve, when I saw the movie Gordy and felt so terrible for the pig that I became a vegetarian. The truth is, because of my eating disorder, it was just another excuse not to eat. Though in the last few years I started eating chicken and turkey cold cuts, which I folded into little plastic bags and nibbled on throughout the day. At first the beef was repulsive. I couldn’t stop thinking about the cows, but I do feel like I have a lot more energy now.

He can be so spot-on, and then say something completely off the wall. He told me cows are servants to the human race, and that eating chicken makes you frantic, like a chicken. “Do you want to run around with your head cut off like a chicken, or do you want to be strong like a bull?”

“Strong like a bull,” I say.

“That’s why people in Africa don’t have powerful leaders. They all eat chicken.”

He’s nuts. I don’t know what chicken has to do with Africa. He’s nuts, and maybe a little racist. I hope not. I do think he’s a good man. Maybe he meant something else.

But then, lying there on the table, when he says charming men and my arm goes weak, I feel like he’s onto something.

“You’re addicted to charming men. Do you know what the definition of charming is?” He leaps to his bookshelf, where his library holds everything from fairies and elves to the history of cancer. “Charming. To enchant. To bewitch. To deceive. To put a spell over.”

“Why am I attracted to men with wit, then?”

“You must have anger toward your parents. You’re rebelling. You’re afraid of being bored. You’re avoiding a real man and creating a fantasy.” He hands me a piece of paper: Attracted to charming men to avoid a real man. “Tap it out.”

I can’t wait to hear what he says next. It’s like Christmas — not the part where your dog dies, grandparents pass on, and boyfriends break up with you, but the part that smells like pine needles, tastes like gravy, and feels like home.

“Next time, we’ll make sure you’re clear of witty, charming men. You need a solid man, like your father.”

I notice he goes easy on my father and hard on my mother. He’s told me I felt like a burden to her, that I’m allergic to her art books. That made me laugh. Though they are heavy, and they do make me nervous.

Margarita is very sensitive today. She danced when she saw me but kept her distance. Then a woman around the age of fifty-five waltzed into the waiting room and plopped onto the pillows, nearly sitting on Margarita, who snapped and growled and barked as if she were the devil herself. Margarita sprang onto my lap, crossing over to my other side, hiding her snout under my arm. The woman kept provoking her with a stupid little baby song — doo doo doo doo. I couldn’t really blame Margarita. The woman was fine, but she acted like the room was her own. I got great satisfaction out of the whole situation. I was Margarita’s home base, her protector. Her little body was warm on my leg, and I felt more than special. I felt holy.

“Jasmine.” I hear Dr. Callahan’s deep voice. I wonder what secrets we’ll uncover, how much freer I’ll be.

Today, we have an exorcism.

He asks if I’d been in Europe in the late eighties or early nineties. I had — I’d spent a summer in Italy with my parents when I was eight. He says that makes sense. There had been a nuclear explosion, the radiation drifted into Europe, and it got into my soul. He says I’m possessed by my past acting roles — that every time I played a role, I created an imaginary identity, and instead of becoming memories, they became radioactive ghosts.

He loses his balance and falls into the bookshelf. His face goes white, his pupils bulging. He gasps at the ghosts that just walked through him. There were several. He leans onto his desk to catch his breath, to rest.

“I wasn’t ready for that,” he tells me. “Usually I’m prepared. I felt it go right through me, through my back. It was gray and old, like fog.”

I’m not sure I believe him. Maybe he was speaking in metaphors. But then again — who am I to make proclamations about the unseen? I wonder how many more there are in me. Maybe I’m a fool, but I want him to get them all out. I don’t want to be haunted anymore.

Maybe I’m crazy for listening to someone like this, but something inside me says to keep going.

⁂

I move back to New York in 2013. For the next year, I will speak to him on the phone. He says he can read my energy from afar. I still owe him a hundred and seventy-five dollars from that last year in LA. I write his notes on pink Post-its and tap it out on my chest. Fear followed me across the country. Or maybe it’s excitement. Either way, I reach for him.

In time, we speak less. A month goes by. I begin the call the way I always do. “How’s Margarita?”

“Oh, you didn’t hear?” he says. “It’s terrible. A friend had been taking care of her. She ran out into the road. She was hit by a car.”

My insides went sour. He didn’t seem upset enough. For the rest of the session I could barely hear him. I thought about her warm little body, her soft dark ears, the way she curled into me. I had earned her trust. If I had been there, I was sure I never would have let that happen. No one had protected her.

I don’t think we spoke after that. His office called twice about the money I owed, the Russian girl’s heavy accent on my voicemail asking when I would pay. At first I didn’t have it. Then I didn’t want to. He’d gotten enough out of me.

The magic stopped when Margarita died.

Part One of The Wrong Reasons: “Fix Me, Someone”

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I need to remember this church’s name because then I can locate myself, swoop in on young me, and wrap my big wings around her.

“It’s a miracle I’m standing before you today,” said the pastor with sandy blonde hair. “Last week I nearly had a heart attack.”

There were gasps. Some grabbed their hearts, wiped tears from their eyes.

He lowered his head, one hand pressed to his chest, the other extended out, gulping back emotion. I can’t remember now if it was Jesus or the Holy Spirit or simply God — only that he described it as a voice that told him to go to the hospital before it was too late. He prayed the whole way there. His pretty wife and two young children joined him onstage. We all clapped. I wondered if his prayers really did save him. I’m skeptical, but I’d do nearly anything to believe in magic

The first time I brought my best friend Ivy. When the rock band played, strobe lights flashing, she couldn’t stomach it. She’d had religion shoved down her throat growing up. I hadn’t. I couldn’t convince her to come back. If my artist parents knew I was there with my hips swaying, my head bopping to Christian pop, they’d just die. But was it such a terrible thing — people coming together to celebrate love, to hope?

I was alone in Los Angeles. And everyone here was so nice. People I’d just met seemed genuinely excited to see me. There were families everywhere, mothers wrapping their arms around their kids, children singing beside their parents. The joy was palpable. People coming together to talk about love, about how things are tough, but that something bigger held them. On some level, I believed that too. Just not quite in the way they did. I was straddling my own line, somewhere between judgment and longing. Wouldn’t it be nice, I kept thinking. Wouldn’t it be nice?

I had found Dr. Callahan— kinesiologist and chiropractor to the stars — after my previous chiropractor kept cupping my ass. A friend told me about him. I started seeing Dr. Callahan regularly, and he told me about the church. He had other patients who’d go too. He told me it would give me fortitude. After each sermon, some of us would form a line — a tap on the back to free your soul, a fix for a tweaked knee, stability through his touch and certainty.

I sat close to Dr. Callahan while the pastor preached about his brush with death and the congregation’s mission. The church was growing, the pastor said. There were new members too. Would they come forward?

Dr. Callahan looked at me. Go on.

So I inched toward the front with about ten others. I tried not to think about the world outside, the months without an audition, the money I didn’t have, the life that kept not happening, and still how badly I wanted everything to work out. I felt hundreds of eyes.

The electric guitar reverberated, rising and diagonal. The pastor told us Jesus would never abandon us. He loved us.

“He will be with you in the darkest hour. He won’t let you fall.”

I pictured myself like a broken plastic doll, my legs and arms always falling off. Put me back together. Fix me. Someone?

“If you feel the presence of Jesus, raise your hand.”

I looked around. Everyone was raising their hands, the steady pulse of the bass washing through the room. I was right up front. People would see if I didn’t.

I believe God is like the ocean and we are little cupfuls, individual and the same all at once. I believe in Christ consciousness, in what he represents. The kind of love that’s so big and bright it makes you choke. But did I feel the presence of Jesus? I wanted to. I wanted to mold what I believed into what they believed, so I belonged.

If only they knew I was just there for the free chiropractic adjustments.

I raised my hand.

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Wilhelmina, the modeling agency that represents me, asked for a personality video to add to my portfolio, something to show how you move and capture your personality.

I immediately thought of Molly O’Connor, one of the most creative people I know. She’s a writer, photographer, videographer, and editor. She interviewed me for Other Wise last fall and created the kind of space that made me want to open. I think it’s because she asked the kind of questions that lit me up, that made me want to communicate.

So I asked her, and she said yes.

On one of the hottest April afternoons, we walked through my hometown of SoHo, over cobblestone streets, sitting on stoops, a bright pink sweater, sunglasses, sweat, and play. Then we went up to a roof and swirled with the wind.

I had years of chronic back pain. Despite fluttering around glamorous parties in borrowed designer dresses, I always looked for the chair. I always looked for a place to sit down.

And now I don’t.

My nervous system still sings to its own tune, there are zips and zaps and pings, but I don’t look for the chair anymore. I could always fake looking happy. I could fake a body that looked strong. But here, I’m not faking.

There’s one shot that reminds me of being a kid, looking in the mirror in hot pink plastic glasses, like I’m a big deal. Like I’m the shit. Like I’m owning whatever this thing is that I have, this life force.

Sometimes you catch a wave. You let yourself bloom.

I hope you enjoy it.

We had so much fun making this, and if you’re looking for someone to shoot something of your own, Molly’s incredible.

You can find her here: https://www.instagram.com/mollytoconnor/

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PPS. If you’d like to leave a tip of any amount (no recurring charges), you can do so here💕

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Find me on Instagram: https://instagram.com/jasminelobe

This was one of my “The J-Spot” columns for the New York Observer.

But first.

Have you noticed everyone’s getting skinny again? Ozempic’s hollowing them out. All these celebrities whittled down to Giacometti-like figures.

I haven’t weighed myself since I was thirty. At the doctor’s office I turn the other way. No one asks. Sometimes I’ll offer up — I had an eating disorder, so…

I was on the Northwell Health patient portal looking for my doctor’s message about my iron deficiency — and there was my weight, its certainty slapping me in the face. I felt something old and familiar. A recognition. I almost missed her.

I thought back to that battered metal scale from the 70s. Maybe the 50s. It had been through hell. As a teenager, I’d step on it like I was about to jump into deep, dark, frigid water. If you hopped on it, you could sometimes get it to go down a pound or two. Then came the rude digital scales with no wiggle room.

Muscle weighs more than fat. Did I have enough muscle? Was I too light? Too heavy? In the heroin chic era, many models were around 5’11”, 120 pounds or less — unattainably emaciated. That was the goal.

Wherever you are isn’t good enough. You need to go somewhere else.

But then I was okay. Like ten minutes later. I was fine. That whole chapter behind me, although always with me.

(A lot has changed since 2018. Some unimaginable things have happened. But one good thing — I am no longer with that fiancé.)

Here’s the original column.

Eighty Percent of Women Think They Need to Lose Weight. How I Became One of Them.

‘Times are changing,’ you may insist. ‘Women don’t want to be outlines anymore!’ But skinny still calls.

By Jasmine Lobe • 10/06/18 7:00am

I have gained weight.

I tried on a bunch of old dresses the other day and they fit, but they were tighter, it seemed. I don’t know.

As I tried on my new Agnes b. blouse for my mother, I set her up for failure.

“I think I’ve gained five pounds, do you?”

“No,” my mother said, “you look great.”

“But everything is tight.”

“I mean, if anything then maybe two pounds?”

“So then I have gained weight?”

“You look better than ever,” my mother tried.

“Since when do you think?”

“I don’t know. Maybe since you moved out. Or this summer?”

“So then I have gained weight.

“You could take it off in a week.“I order in too much now,” I berated myself, “I have to start cooking.

”“You’re healthy. You’re happy. You’re in a relationship.”

“I’ve gone soft. I’ve gone fat. I’ve gone indolent.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she countered. Then, “If anything, I could lose a pound or two.

***

I asked my Physical Therapist. “Do you think I’m thin?”

“I think you’re a healthy, fit woman. Why would you want to be thin?”

Healthy? Normal? I don’t want to be average. I want to be thin.

“We’re building the muscles in your back and glutes. You have more mass. That’s a very good thing.”

“Yeah,“ I flex my arm muscle, “I’m strong.”

She high fives me because she’s fun like that. “And you know, muscle is the new black.”

***

One time I had pneumonia for a month and I couldn’t breathe or eat or talk but my selfies were so goddamn good. The clothes hung off my body, the way they’re supposed to, the way they do on runway models and in the magazines.

I was so concave, so tiny, so ridiculously thin, I was better than you. I was better than me.

“It is changing!” you may insist. Look at Kim K., Serena Williams, Ashley Graham or Iskra. They’ve got millions of Instagram followers. Women don’t want to be outlines! But skinny still calls.

You’re disgusting. Starve, bitch.

***

Anorexia was not fun. Lots of stomach pains. Nutrition wasn’t getting to my muscles and I was exercising so much that my connective tissue tore up. Or something like that.

Standing in a moving subway car was painful, so was sitting. Every time the train stopped and started it was like broken glass cutting into my in groin and down my legs. I’d grimace.

But I was in a full-page spread in 17 Magazine! Twice. And my agency wanted to send me to Paris! My parents wouldn’t let me go, but my friend went. I was so envious of her. What an adventure. How grown up. How romantic!

In Paris my friend was raped by her agent. She was sixteen.

I booked a print job in Miami. I lugged my heavy A.P. Art History book on the plane. I remember this because while I was studying Rococo, we hit turbulence and I didn’t want to die on my way to a modeling job.

Another friend of mine, Milly, had booked the same job. Milly and I had been friends for years. She had lost so much weight—I was so impressed. She must have been a size zero or smaller.

We arrived in Miami late at night. It was a pink hotel with potted palm trees. Milly was famished. She inhaled a huge piece of salmon. She hadn’t eaten yet that day, so that’s how she could get away with it.

I was disgusted by her lack of self-control. I thought it better to spread out eating. I also had it in my head that protein made you fat. My father often made fish for dinner and I’d move it around on my plate or hide it under a piece of lettuce. Then later in the evening, alone, I’d nibble on granola, almonds and fat-free frozen yogurt. For lunch, I’d often eat a bagel but only with one scoop of peanut butter.

I didn’t want my period. I willed it off until I was 18.

I didn’t want to go through puberty because I thought breasts and hips and pubic hair were disgusting. I never understood Judy Blume’s Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret and that line, “I must I must I must increase my bust.”

Who wanted breasts? To me they were globs of flesh that men grabbed or at least wanted to. I would hunch my shoulders. No one ever told me they were a beautiful thing.

I was up for a Versace show. I had to try on pants and walk as best as I could down a runway. I was an ex-figure skater—what did I know about the catwalk? With each step, lifting my legs I felt stabs of pain, maybe in my hip flexors or my psoas muscles. There were so many unknown body parts.

At home, I lay on the ground, hips aching. I was convinced I was made wrong. From the floor, I announced to my parents, “I’m going to be a supermodel. Versace loves me!”

I think they thought I was smug. But I was terrified. I was trapped inside a busted body. I already knew modeling was over.

***

I went to college. At orientation there were all sorts of fun activities that just sounded stupid. I didn’t leave my dorm room and I told my parents “to get me out of Vassar immediately.”

I went on Zoloft and after a few days, I felt something different, almost like deja vu. Was it happiness? Within two months I met my first boyfriend, lost my virginity and ate pizza at 2 a.m. Life was worth living.

I was now a size 8. I probably gained twenty pounds. That summer I modeled, sort of. I couldn’t keep away from it. I wanted to be somebody.

I was told to lose weight. So I went to Wilhelmina’s plus-size division. I was told to gain weight. There were a few girls like me—right in between. It wasn’t very productive, so I started working with their acting department.

Senior year of college, I booked my first role in a John Stamos movie. It was a sex scene. Post-coital, I was supposed to sit on a toilet in a thong, bare- chested while smoking a cigarette. I had some lines. I turned down the role. I really wanted to succeed, I really wanted to be in the movie, but I didn’t want to be naked.

After college, a fellow actress and friend introduced me to her manager, a woman named Gregg. She sent me on an audition with Woody Allen. I got a call back and performed a monologue for him. I played a young student who was in love with him. I had always dreamed of being in his films because I loved Manhattan.

“Thank you for coming in,” Woody Allen said.

This was before #MeToo. That was before I questioned the story line. Gregg was tickled by my audition, and wanted me to meet her associate in L.A. He represented Alexis Bledel and Laura Prepon—The Big Leagues.

I met Gregg’s associate. He had a big belly and was very nice. He seemed excited about representing me.

When, I came back to New York, Gregg sat me down. She had tears in her eyes.

“Sometimes I hate this business,” she told me. “He really liked you and wants to work with you, but you have to lose ten pounds first.”

“Oh,“ I said.

“I’m so sorry,” she took me in her arms.

“I can do that, no problem,” I held back my tears.

***

I spent five hundred dollars, money I didn’t have, on a nutritionist. She told me to eat lots of non-fat greek yogurt. And oatmeal. Or something. I gained weight.

I was 22 or 23 and I was going out to Bungalow 8 every few nights. I wanted to forget the day with apple martinis.

I met David Blaine there. I think we kissed because I was at his apartment. It didn’t go too far. I would remember that. He said it was so refreshing to be with a normal girl who had curves and not another emaciated model. My feelings were hurt.

He gave me his favorite book. He kept lots of copies of it. Primo Levi. It’s about surviving the Holocaust. I read it and was moved.

David Blaine was just acquitted of rape charges. Allegedly he raped a model around the time we met.

***

I was at a barn party in the Hamptons. I was always around rich kids but never rich. I was flirting with this guy, I guess, and this girl with a famous father said, “Stop flirting. I don’t even know why the boys like you. You’re so thick.”

I said, “that’s not a nice thing to say to someone.”

She held up her fists and said, “You want to fight?”

“I’m not going to fight you.”

The girl with a famous father had a younger brother. He was cute. He cornered me behind the barn and said, “ I want to kiss you.”

I told him he was too young. He told me he liked older women. He was only seventeen. Years later, he’d date a much older supermodel. I sometimes still compare myself to her. She’s still very pretty.

***

I went to weight watchers by Union Square when I was twenty-three. Lenore lead the group. She told me I wasn’t heavy enough to join, but then I stood on the scale and she changed her mind. I weighed in at 149. I thought I’d throw up.

I was fastidious. I could eat 20 points a day with a few cheat points and extra points for exercise. First thing I did was cut out alcohol and lost ten pounds right away.

Muffin: minus 3 points, coffee: 1 point, pecans: 1.5 points, raisins: 1 point, exercise: get an additional 2 points.

I liked the meetings. I liked Lenore. She talked about how much she loved cookies.

Losing weight was old hat. Within four months I lost 25 pounds. Lenore was worried about me so I stopped going to weight watchers.

Soon after, I ran into the girl with a famous father at an event.

She said, “I’m sorry for what I said to you, but I think it really worked. You look great.”

I let her take the credit for my weight loss.

I was told by many that now I was thin, skinny, slender, tiny, mini, petit, whatever, I might have a real chance at making it in Hollywood. I was 25.

So I went to Hollywood.

***

I haven’t weighed myself in seven years. Since I was thirty.

My fiancé and I are starting to make home cooked food. First time he made salmon he almost blew up the kitchen. To be fair, there was old grease on the bottom of the oven.

But the second time around, he made cod and it was tremendous. He wasn’t so happy with how I hovered over his shoulder. (I’m a back seat cooker.) But then again, he put so many spices on the fish.

I boiled artichokes. My fiancé had never eaten a boiled artichoke before, so I showed him how to scrape the meat off the leaf with his teeth. Then I scooped out the choke with a spoon. The heart was his favorite part. It’s mine too.

I felt full. I felt healthy. I felt happy.

I wish I had never been anorexic. I feel healthy. I feel happy. I feel like I want to lose two pounds. I feel happy. I feel like I want to lose two pounds.

(Maybe five.)

I feel happy.

I wish I had never been anorexic.

***

I wish I had never been anorexic. It did so much irreparable damage to my body and nervous system.

I wish my mother didn’t want to lose a pound or two. She’s so beautiful and fit. I wish my ex-boyfriend didn’t once tell me in the shower, “You look like you’ve gained three pounds.” I wish that manager in L.A. with the big belly didn’t tell me to lose ten pounds. I wish I didn’t listen to him. I wish studies didn’t show that more than 80 percent of women in the U.S. were dissatisfied with their bodies. I wish more than ten million women in the U.S. weren’t suffering from eating disorders. I wish every 2 minutes a woman in the US wasn’t raped. I wish I was never sexually assaulted. I wish I fully loved and accepted my body. I wish Roe vs. Wade wasn’t under threat. I wish the president wouldn’t tweet, “I have no doubt that, if the attack on Dr. Ford was as bad as she says, charges would have been immediately filed with local Law Enforcement…”

Woman came from man’s rib.

“If she wore a short skirt, she was asking for it.”

Starve off your sexuality. Starve off your womanness.

Why were so many of my friends starving themselves? We all wanted to be somebody. Why did we have to lose weight to get there?

If women had more control over their bodies, If women had more control in politics, If women had more control in the media, If women had more control in finance, If women had more control in fashion, If women had more control in Hollywood, if women had more control in law enforcement…

If women had more control…

Would I still be so caught up trying to lose that pound or two?

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“I want to be the first to treat you the best,” my ex-fiancé Harold promised. He knew about the long list of men who’d hurt me. He knew about the ones who’d assaulted me. He told me he wished he could have protected me as I cried in his arms. His love was outrageous. Almost too much. But I’d grow into it.

A year later, I was walking around with a blown-out hole from my heart to my womb, the rest of me just scaffolding. You could see right through me. A gentle wind could knock me over.

But I needed money. So when a friend told me about a job, I took it.

I’d be hosting a YouTube show to promote the launch of a hedge fund’s cannabis ETF (exchange-traded fund). The problem was I despised marijuana, the skunky smell, how it made me paranoid while everyone else got all goofy and fun. I had an ex who called it plant medicine and was offended when I asked if he was stoned. He was in “communion with the mother,” when really he’d just lost his ambition to a cloud of smoke. I’d have to learn a whole new vocabulary of strains and terms. Up until then, I only knew weed, pot, baked, bong, grass, joints, and CBD oil. I thought Mary Jane was just an ugly shoe, and kept mixing up Gorilla Glue with the Guerrilla Girls.

The CEO, Scott, was a family man with a Long Island accent, not too sophisticated. He hired me along with a professional co-host, Jocelyn, a bubbly, quick-witted brunette who lived with her grandmother in the Bronx. She knew every strain of weed and smoked them all too. She was so good at her job, I worried I’d have to start smoking pot myself. Jocelyn and I decided we’d do a whole comedic shtick where she’d be the expert and I’d be the idiot.

But first, there would be a big bash at a nightclub in the Meatpacking District. It was really just a cannabis symposium masquerading as a launch party, with different companies pushing their products to loud house music and lots of alcohol. When I arrived, Jocelyn was already working the room with a camera crew, so I sat off to the side, smiling, a little horrified. This was her baby. I was just there for the money.

I wandered between tables, asking about CBD products that might help with anxiety, and eventually made my way to the bar. On the far side, an exquisite man looked right at me and smiled. He was unusually handsome, a JFK Jr. type. I was bowled over, still shaky and fragile.

“Want a drink?” he called out over the pulse of music.

I nodded. “Vodka soda.”

He squared up with the bartender, then pushed his way through the crowd toward me. My heart beat so hard I had to lean on the bar to steady myself.

When he handed me my drink, I saw the flick of a gold wedding ring.

I deflated.

He told me Scott was a good friend and teased, “How the hell did you end up hosting a cannabis show?”

“I have no idea.” I humored him a little, but I didn’t want to give my Shakti to an unavailable man. So I told him I was starving and heading home.

“I’m hungry too,” he added quickly.

I hesitated, then offered, “Maybe we could grab dinner with Scott and his wife. And Jocelyn.”

“Let’s do it.”

I found Jocelyn packing up the camera equipment. She told me Scott and his wife had already left, but that I should definitely go to dinner with Doug. He was rich, and Scott had said if either of us locked down an investor, we’d get a cut.

“He’s married, and he’s been hitting on me,” I told her. “I don’t want to go alone.”

“Men.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.”

“You promise?”

She promised.

The steakhouse was across the street. For a moment, I let myself pretend that he wasn’t married, that this was a real date, that he was the kind of man you’d want to lean into and purr. The maître d’ greeted us like we were somebodies and led us to a corner table that felt a little too romantic. I told him a third would be joining us.

Once we sat down, I tried to pique his interest in the ETF.

“Have you ever thought about investing in cannabis?”

“No.”

“It’s a really exciting space,” I went on. “A whole new frontier. Recreational use will probably be legal in New York in the next couple of years, so there’s a lot of opportunity.”

I still barely understood what an ETF was, even after Scott had explained it twice. And I still hated marijuana. But apparently I was trying to sell it.

He glanced past me and lifted a finger to catch the waiter. “Macallan 18. Neat.”

Then, turning to me, “What do you want?”

“An old fashioned.”

“So how do you know Scott?” I asked.

“We were on the same desk during the dot-com days. I got out just in time. I made a killing.”

“That’s lucky,” I said. “Would you ever invest in Scott’s cannabis ETF?”

“Not until it turns a profit,” he said bluntly.

I was disappointed. I glanced at my phone. Jocelyn would be here soon, thank God.

“Look around,” he said.

I looked.

“We’re the two hottest people in this restaurant.”

My jaw dropped. “I mean… you can’t really know that.”

“I only hang out with hot people.”

That’s when I realized he might actually mean it. I told him that was a shame, that he was missing out on wonderful, talented people. He scoffed. “Why would I hang out with wonderful, talented ugly people if I can hang out with wonderful, talented hot people?”

I checked my phone again. Then texted Jocelyn, “Are you close?”

“Sorry babe,” she wrote. “I’m not going to make it. Got stuck returning the lights to the studio.”

My stomach clenched. Doug kept drinking.

“My wife is beautiful,” he said. “One of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. She was a Ford model.” He sipped his whiskey. “But all she does is ride horses.”

“Does she compete?”

“Not anymore,” he said dismissively.

“I was a competitive figure skater.”

“Of course you were,” he leaned in. “I bet you looked hot in those skimpy whatever-you-call-them. Leotards.”

“I was just a kid.” I gulped my ginger ale. I saw myself on the ice, maybe twelve, in a little white dress, full of appetite and innocence.

The room was dim, with amber light flickering from crystal bowls on the tables. I remember it as red. But later, when I looked the restaurant up, the tablecloths were white and the chairs cream leather.

The waiter checked in. Doug waved him off.

“Where did you meet your wife?” I asked.

“Harvard.”

“Nice.”

“We haven’t had sex in over a year.”

“That sucks,” I said. “Do you have any kids?”

“Two. A boy and a girl.” He swirled his whiskey. “She’s a good breeder. Our kids are beautiful.”

I had never heard someone refer to a human being that way.

“I worry about my son,” he said.

“Why?”

“I don’t want him to grow up to be a wimp because of all this #MeToo bullshit. You can’t even ask a girl out anymore.”

“Well, that’s not really true.”

I sucked back a yawn. I felt spacey, like I was watching a movie I couldn’t turn off. At one point in this strange, grainy movie, he reached across the red tablecloth and took my hand. I watched myself not pull it back. I watched myself smile and become the woman he wanted me to be. I could see the pain in his eyes, and despite his ugliness, I felt compassion.

When he asked if I’d go to bed with him, I shook my head. “No.” And I thought, this is so fascinating. This is just stunningly ludicrous.

“Have one more drink,” he said.

“I’m okay.”

“Just one more.”

“I’m good.”

“Then I’ll have one.”

“I should go home.”

“I’ll drink it quick.”

The crowd thinned. Time moved slowly. The bill came in a black leather case. He paid it. When I stood, my legs were wobbly.

At coat check, he stopped and whispered, “Will you hug me?”

“Okay.”

He wrapped his arms around me. He was much taller and very muscular. I lay my head against his broad chest and pretended he was someone I could love. I could feel his desperation like sweat all over me. I peeled away.

“Thank you for dinner,” I said, smiling.

“My pleasure.”

I reached for my phone to order an Uber.

“Come with me uptown,” Doug said. “My wife’s at our house on the North Shore.”

“But I can’t. You’re married.”

“Please. We’ll just zip up the west side.”

The wind hit us. My mouth felt dry, my lips cracked.

“I’m sorry,” I said, squinting.

He hailed a cab. “I’ll take you home then.”

As Doug held the door open, I had a moment of choice.

There are choices you can’t turn back from. But in the moment, they don’t feel like choices. They choose for you, because you’re not there.

And then I was in the cab.

Before I could even put on my seatbelt, he leaned across the seat and lifted me onto his lap, forcing his mouth onto mine. My body felt impossibly small.

“You’re married,” I said, moving back to my side of the cab.

“Come on,” he said, grabbing my hand and forcing it onto his erection.

“Stop.” I pulled back.

Almost home. Almost there.

Then he lurched toward me, lifting my dress, burying his face between my legs.

“No—stop it!” I pushed his head away and pulled my dress down.

He laughed, falling back against the window.

Almost home. Two blocks. Almost there.

“I’m a winner,” he slurred as we turned the corner. “People like us—we’re winners.”

I felt a flash of relief as we pulled up to my building, until he flung himself across me, his head in my lap like a giant baby. Then he pulled me down by the back of my neck to kiss me. I went with the momentum. It was the only way not to get injured. When he let go, I pushed him off of me. He leaned back against the window with a vague look of regret.

Alone in my lobby, I slid down the wall, pulled my knees to my chest, and hit my hand against my forehead.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.

I never should have gotten in that cab. What was wrong with me? How many times could a girl get assaulted? And here I thought I was some sort of #MeToo expert, since I had spoken up, since there was now a language for what men did—as if understanding and articulating it meant that it could never happen to me again.

Stupid.

It was all Harold’s fault. If the life we had imagined together had come true, I never would have had that stupid cannabis job or been in that stupid cab with that stupid man. Harold had promised me, as my body shook in his arms, that no man would ever hurt me again.

Then I realized—I never thought to pound on the plastic divider in the taxi. The driver was right there on the other side. I never called out for help. I never told him to stop the car. I just kept thinking, Almost home. Keep him off of me. Get home.

I must have been as quiet as a mouse. Or maybe he just didn’t want to interfere.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.

The next morning, I told my co-host, Jocelyn, what had happened. She told Scott. Later, she told me he thought Doug was probably just drunk, and that Doug thought I was hot. She added that guys do that kind of stuff when they’re drunk, and he probably thought I liked him.

I didn’t bring it up again. I wanted to keep my job, and I wasn’t about to change Jocelyn or Scott’s view.

I still found ways to blame myself, though. For letting him hug me, for briefly letting him hold my hand, for getting in the cab with him, for trying to be nice, for trying not to upset him.

I would later learn there’s a word for it: fawning.

By the end of that week, Jocelyn told me she’d spoken with Scott and that they only needed one host.

I was fired.

A year and a half later, I was scrolling through a dating app called The League. You’re supposed to have gone to an Ivy League school to be on it, but it’s not enforced. I went to Vassar. Almost an Ivy, but not quite. Almost the sister school to Yale, but not quite.

I stopped on a low-resolution black-and-white photo of a very attractive man. I clicked through his pictures, most of them action shots — running, boating, skiing with goggles. He looked familiar, but I figured maybe we’d connected once before and never met, so I clicked the check mark.

Later that day, we exchanged a few pleasantries. He asked what the most interesting thing I’d done that weekend was. I said brunch with girlfriends — normally not revelatory, but after that year, a cause for jubilation.

He wrote back, “Ha. Ripped the boat on the Long Island bay, had a barbecue with the team. I’m around this week. Want to grab a drink?”

The team? Was he on some kind of rowing or sailing team?

I wrote, “Would you be up for a FaceTime first and then take it from there?”

“Of course.”

I had been on dating apps on and off during the pandemic, and I can’t tell you how many guys were put off by that ask. They either didn’t respond or acted like I was high maintenance. They wanted to skip straight to drinks, despite the plague. So he scored points immediately for being easygoing. We set up a FaceTime for that evening at 6:30.

He texted me he’d be fifteen minutes late, then called to make sure I’d seen his text. Evidently, his workout had run over. I immediately thought, “Oh no,” because I really wanted to like him. It was his voice. I didn’t like his voice.

Finally, at 7PM, he appeared on my screen.

Oh God. I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to drop to the floor and hide, but it was too late.

It was him. Doug. The man who had assaulted me in the cab.

I wanted to close my laptop, but I felt pinned to my chair. Do I close my laptop?

He started talking about his day. My chest hurt, like something pressing in.

How had I not recognized him?

“I know you,” I said, with unexpected intensity.

“You do?” He laughed. “Leave it to me to find one of the only two tall blondes in New York.”

All I could think about was how to get away.

“Where did we meet again?” he asked.

“At that cannabis party.”

“I haven’t been to any cannabis parties since,” he joked.

“I don’t work for them anymore,” I said, almost monotone.

Maybe it was because he was on a screen and couldn’t touch me. Or something else, something like grace. But I felt a surge of strength and clarity.

“I remember you,” I said. “You’re the guy who jumped me in the cab.”

He laughed it off. “I think I was married back then. What was it, a year and a half ago?”

“Yeah.” I was in my center. And I wasn’t smiling.

“What are you doing these days?”

“I’m writing.” This was actually happening. It felt like a chance to heal. “You hurt me that night.”

He went quiet, looked down, then back at me. “I’m very sorry. I was going through a really dark time.”

“Do you remember what happened?” I was trembling, holding it together.

“Vaguely. I was blacked-out drunk. That’s no excuse, but it was a tough time in my life.”

“We were in the cab. You picked me up. You put me on your lap. You forced me to kiss you.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said, shaking his head, glancing out over what must have been the North Shore bay, then back at me. “I’m really sorry about that.”

“You hurt me,” I said. It was like something ancient was speaking through me. I wasn’t just speaking to him — I was speaking to all of them. A chorus of men who had hurt me.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“You hurt me, and your actions have consequences.”

“I’m very sorry. I’m very sorry.”

“I told you that Harvey Weinstein assaulted me.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Well, he did. And then you hurt me.”

“I’m sorry that was part of that narrative. I really am.”

We just looked at each other. It was like we knew this moment wasn’t just a coincidence.

“I’m truly sorry,” he said again. He looked anguished. Or maybe restless — I couldn’t tell.

We just continued to stare at each other. And then it was enough.

“Okay. I wish you the best of luck in life.”

He wished me luck in return, and I shut my computer.

On fire, buzzing with adrenaline, I ran to my mother, who was painting in her studio, and told her. She was in disbelief. I pulled up his profile on The League to show her, but he had already unmatched with me. I didn’t know if his apology was sincere, or if he was afraid of me — afraid I’d ruin his reputation, come after his money — or if he just wanted to placate me to get off the call. But it didn’t matter. I had looked him in the eye and said my piece.

Earlier that year, I had spoken to a lawyer who represented many of the survivors in the Harvey Weinstein civil suit. She told me I wouldn’t be able to prove what had happened with Doug — that it would be my word against his, and it would be impossible to locate the cab driver. But I could sue Scott for wrongful termination. I didn’t want to sue Scott. So I let it rest.

After texting a couple of friends, “You’re not going to believe this,” my racing heart slowed. I lay on my bed and stared at the wall. I could have sat up, but I didn’t want to. It scared me how much I didn’t want to. How much I wanted to stare at the wall. How comforting it felt to just lie there, like those trauma patients in movies — where you wonder what they’re thinking. Where they went. Blurry, unfocused eyes. My cheek on my arm. My mouth slightly open against my skin.

I was aware that this was how my body was processing it — the memory, the shock. So I stayed there. Patient. Transfixed. A little afraid. Until the daze wore off.

Then the feelings hit. I came apart. The past tore open and I fell through — down, down, down. Like a whirlpool, round and round. Flashes of men. All of them imposing their will, their weight, their want. I was a passive observer. I could see the surface above —the light, the sky — but I couldn’t reach it.

What would my life be like if I wasn’t so afraid? Who would I be if my life had been different? Can I still be free?

The ache lasted for days. And then, slowly, it got better.

He heard me. I didn’t leave my body. And in some ways, that was enough.

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In certain ways, we’ve had similar trajectories, so we always have a lot to talk about.

We spoke about writing about our personal lives, the difference between shaping a story with craft and meaning versus creating a voyeuristic peep show. And how some people, especially some men, don’t always distinguish between the two.

Sex has followed us wherever we go. It starts as girls. When puberty hits, men begin to leer, and because shame and sex are so inextricably tied in our society, especially for women, the world begins to view us differently. We become less free.

Holly and I spoke about our pull, our calling, to alchemize shame into something hopefully beautiful, liberating, conscious.

We also explored our recent Substack stories and what happens when happiness finds you. If you write about your life, is it only struggle and pain that are compelling on the page? I don’t think so.

For so long, I felt happiness was the promised land, that it would “save” me. But Eckhart Tolle says happiness is not the goal of life, consciousness is. Maybe as we become more conscious we become less attached to the outcome that will “save” us and are more able to taste the juicy strawberry while hanging off a cliff from a vine being chewed by a mouse, with roaring tigers above and below.

We had a lot of fun. I hope you enjoy it.

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And in some ways, I’ve always wanted to capture my mother’s attention, to capture her. I hope I’ve done my best to do that here.

My paintings are words, and her words are paintings.

Here’s the Observer profile link: Painter Kathleen Gilje’s Journey from Restoration to Reinvention

I hope you enjoy reading it!

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PPS. If you’d like to leave a tip of any amount (no recurring charges), you can do so here💕

And most of all, thank you for reading.

Find me on Instagram

In case you missed Part I and Part II, you can read them here: The Boyfriend Spell and The Boyfriend Spell, Part II.

“You got tossed,” Shane grins.

“I can’t leave it like that,” you say, catching your breath. “Will you go back in with me?”

He lights up. Maybe he sees you as brave. Someone who won’t quit.

Maybe you are brave. But it also feels like a compulsion, like if you don’t end it on a high note, something will go wrong. You’ve always been superstitious like that.

This time you run in together, splashing into the shallows before the waves can catch you.

“Okay,” you say quickly. “I’m done.”

And you run back out.

***

On the walk to the bungalow, you have to cross a small paved road. It’s too hot for Shane, so he puts on his sneakers. You don’t want sand stuck in the cushions of your decade-old orthotics, so you go on your tiptoes. It scorches, but there’s a small patch of grass on the other side.

Are you strong or weak? Capable or a basket case? Are you in your body, or outside of it?

Your pale pink toenails look pretty against your spray-tanned feet. You hold one foot out, pointing your toes.

“Look,” you say. “They took the shape of my figure skating boot.”

These feet belong to you, but they’re foreign too. All your little toes slant toward the big one. “Isn’t that cool?”

“Oh yeah,” he says, offering his foot for comparison. His toes curve inward too, but not like yours.

Up ahead is a small parking area by the bungalows, covered in pebbles. You walk over them, saying ouch, playfully, like it’s no big deal—it’s clean pain, not the pain that carries the past.

Back in the room, all fresh and sand-free, you wear a long white strapless dress and gold flat sandals. It’s the kind of dress you’d wear at sunset in Positano, even though you’ve never been to Positano.

“Wow,” Shane says.

You like his reaction.

“The only thing is,” you tell him, wryly, “the dress might be cursed.”

He laughs, raising his eyebrows.

“I could change into this one,” you offer, holding out a turquoise Fleur du Mal slip dress with giant pink roses.

“You can’t go wrong with either,” he says. “But you look beautiful. I say keep it on.”

This makes you feel so good. Like maybe the dress can be saved. Like maybe his care is enough to break the spell.

He wraps an arm around your waist. “We conquered your fear of biking and the ocean today. I think we can turn this cursed dress around.”

“Yeah,” you flirt, leaning your hips into his.

Together you will help each other rewrite the wrongs in your lives.

But you still bring the other dress, just in case.

As he drives to the Crow’s Nest, you feel shaky. The air feels colder, thinner. Maybe it’s the air conditioning?

Shane had told you earlier that week that you could tell him everything. All of your hardest stories. He said he wanted to hear them upfront, before you were both fully committed to the relationship. He didn’t want to be blindsided.

You had told him that intimacy needed to be earned.

He agreed. But he also said there were things he shouldn’t have had to learn halfway in, like when his ex finally told him she had cheated on her ex-husband.

You understood that part of him wanted to know you. You also understood that part of him wanted to vet you.

Outside the windows, the light is soft and dim. Contorted trees and stunted pines blur in the shadows.

The tale of the cursed dress

It all started when your longtime rich friend in fashion asked you to model for her. This dress was your payment. Around that time, she became jealous of your closeness with a dear mutual girlfriend, someone she claimed had taken advantage of her generosity. She demanded you choose between the two of them. You refused.

“So then that’s your choice,” she said, and you never spoke again.

So the dress got off to a bad start.

“Then there was this guy I went on a few dates with,” you tell Shane. “He was Argentinian. His breath wasn’t great, but not terrible. He took me to the opera once. That was nice. The city was hot and oppressive. I hadn’t been to the ocean all summer, and I felt like if I didn’t get out of town, I’d go nuts—”

You turn to Shane. “I have to warn you. This doesn’t make me look especially good. But you said you wanted to hear my potentially triggering stories.”

“I do. Go on,” he says.

“Labor Day was coming up. Neither of us had plans, so I asked if he wanted to go to the Hamptons for the weekend, and he said yes.”

Shane’s eyes stay focused on the road.

“When we arrived at Gurney’s, the men’s steam room was broken and he totally freaked out at the front desk. It was so embarrassing. That’s when I wasn’t sure if I even liked him.”

“Is this why you didn’t want to stay at Gurney’s?”

“Yeah. So I wore the dress that night. I felt beautiful in it, kind of like a goddess—but I was with the wrong man. So I got really drunk. I think I felt obligated to sleep with him because he’d spent all this money on the hotel, and I guess I still wanted to like him.”

“I hope you don’t feel that way about me.” Shane seems put off.

This irritates you. “No. I wouldn’t tell you this story if I did.”

“Okay.”

“So we get back to the room and I can barely lift my head, right? I remember thinking he shouldn’t be trying to have sex with me when I was so drunk. But I guess I also kind of expected it. It was very confusing. The next day my lower back hurt so badly I wouldn’t let him touch me.”

Shane exhales. “I have to say, I am upset. You used the guy to go to the Hamptons.”

“Well, I certainly paid the price, didn’t I?” you hit back. “The point is, it was confusing. And I learned my lesson. And at the same time, it’s more complicated than that. It has to do with the roles we’re socialized into. Patriarchy.”

Shane shifts in his seat.

“This reminds me of my ex,” he rubs his forehead. “When we briefly broke up, I specifically asked her if she’d slept with anyone while we were apart. She said no. Then, once we were back together—once I was already invested—she told me she had slept with someone. She said she only did it because she felt obligated. That she didn’t even like him. It really pisses me off.”

You don’t understand how this has become about Rebecca.

“Shit,” you say. “We’re in East Hampton.”

You were so distracted, you overshot the Crows Nest. It was only a few minutes from where you were staying.

The two of you find your equilibrium and talk about his impact work. There’d been so much chaos with Rebecca, that he’d partially checked out. Now, he’s more focused than ever. He’s realizing he’s talented at what he does, and that he can really make a difference if he keeps his eye on the ball.

“That’s so great,” you say. You don’t talk about your work—your goals and dreams. You’re relieved he doesn’t ask.

At the Crow’s Nest, there’s over an hour wait. He slips the guy at the door some money, but it doesn’t make a difference.

In the meantime, there’s a steep grass hill down to the bay, wooden chairs and low tables, fire pits and a bar.

“Careful you don’t slip,” he says, holding your hand as you walk down the hill.

Your hips bump into each other and you laugh. He jokes, “We’ve got to get our walk in sync.”

You weave through a crowd that looks part St. Tropez, twenty-something young, and some chill people too. Everyone’s looking at everyone.

You order fresh watermelon juice. He decides to have the same, which is unusual for him since he’s a drinker.

As you nibble on a cheese plate, two young French women ask if they can sit at the other end of the wooden table. “Of course,” you both say. They’re charming. Shane offers them some food. They politely decline. Everyone is nice to each other.

“So,” you say after a minute. “Do you want to hear the rest of the story?”

“Sure,” he says, though you’re not sure if he does.

“I had the worst dream that night. The worst dream I’ve ever had in my whole life. It’s super fucked up.” You hesitate. “Do you want me to tell it to you?”

Shane nods. It’s too late anyway.

“I dreamed I was raped and murdered by two men. And when I looked down at my dead body, all these spiders were coming out of my mouth and vagina. Thousands of spiders. But here’s the thing that really flipped me out—the murderers started stuffing the spiders back inside of me. I was begging them not to. Begging. From up above. I don’t know why it mattered, since I was already dead. But I couldn’t even protect my own body, my own dead body. I couldn’t protect myself.”

You tear up.

“You know,” Shane says carefully, “I think this dress is affecting you.”

“Really?” Your insides drop. You’re falling, and he’s not going to catch you.

“Maybe I should go back to the car and quickly change into the other dress.”

“No,” Shane says. “This is good. It’s good that we tell each other these things. It’s important to know about these stories. It’s important to get it all out there.”

You nod. “Okay. I have another really upsetting story too.”

“Maybe we should go somewhere more private,” he suggests.

“Okay,” you say, getting up from the table.

You feel a chill, so you start to put on your ice blue Lingua Franca sweater. Tell the Truth is stitched across it in yellow. But the gold chain link from your white purse is twisted around your shoulder. Shane helps you and offers to hold it.

“Thanks,” you manage a smile.

Two young women ask if you’ll take their picture. They pose in front of the purple-yellow horizon. The water ripples faintly pink and gray-blue.

“So pretty,” you say.

Then you turn to Shane. “Should we have them take ours too?”

***

“Maybe you should burn it,” Shane jokes, opening the door to the bungalow.

“Probably,” you say, almost in a whisper.

You head to the balcony and sit on one of the plush chairs.

“You said you had one more story to tell me.” He leans against the wooden guardrail.

“That’s probably a bad idea.”

“I think it’s a good thing,” he says. “We’re getting everything out in the open.”

“Let me change out of this cursed dress then.”

“Leave it on,” he says. “It’s a dress that tells the truth.”

Your heart thrums. You’ll tell him anyway, knowing how easily dominoes fall.

“So this isn’t exactly a story. It’s more like a moment, a flash memory that I still don’t understand. I understand it psychologically, but— it just breaks my heart. I was twenty-one, and we were at this hot nightclub. A few friends and I went back to the club owner’s house. He was older, in his late thirties. My girlfriend disappeared into another room. Everyone else seemed to disperse. Now it’s just the two of us. He’s all coked up, and he starts masturbating on the couch. It’s like three in the morning. I think maybe I even liked him. So here’s this coked-up guy masturbating, and I say, ‘Will you hold me?’”

Shane is quiet for a moment. “So what happened?”

“I don’t know. It’s fuzzy. Maybe we kissed. Maybe I went home. But the point is, I was turning to a wolf to hold me. I was asking a shark to love me.”

Shane sits in the other chair. A wicker side table is between you.

“I have to ask this for my own boundaries,” he says, hunched slightly, looking at the floor. “Do you have any diseases I should know about?”

You feel like you’ve been pelted in the stomach. There’s no air.

“No,” you say reflexively. “Do you?”

“I’m clean.”

He’s not wrong to ask. It’s the timing. You should have discussed it earlier. You did use protection.

“Well, I did had HPV years ago. But my Pap tests have been clear for many years, and then I got vaccinated.”

“Everyone has HPV,” he says. “My ex had it too.”

A white pickup drives past, a surfboard balanced in the back.

“The point of the story,” you say, “is that I was turning to a shark for love.”

“If I’m being honest,” he says, “do you know how many girls would have lined up to be at that club owner’s house? You were VIP because of your beauty privilege.”

“What?”

“Meanwhile, guys like me,” he continues, “guys who would have truly loved you, had no chance with someone like you.”

You don’t know if you have enough strength to explain yourself.

“I didn’t make real money until my thirties,” he adds.

You feel sleepy. The words come slower. You try.

“Women are told by patriarchy that we need to be young, pretty, and perfect. If you follow that script, you only have a small window. So yes, you date older men with money and power. I’m not saying that makes people happy. I’m saying those are the trappings and undercurrents of patriarchy, which benefits you, by the way.”

“I see what you’re saying,” he says. “It makes more sense when you put it like that.”

You rub the inside of your palm with your thumb. You can’t be with a man who makes you feel dirty for your stories. You’re bursting with them — either they’re a gift or a liability, and he can’t decide between the two. You’re a writer. You can’t be stripped of your own meaning. But you want him to want you. He has the warmth of the sun. Don’t you remember?

“I think I’m going to head to bed,” you say, standing.

You change into a cream slip. It’s a little chilly, so you put on your white thin cashmere sweater.

He lies on his side near the edge of the bed, facing you. You look at him, searching for reassurance.

“I don’t think I can make love tonight,” he says. “I feel so heavy.”

“So do I,” you whisper. “Let’s just cuddle, then.”

He moves closer. Then he kisses you. He gets hard. You’re at the tail end of your period, so he won’t go down on you—it would be too vulnerable right now anyway. He reaches for a condom.

There are still nerves. Bodies trying to figure out bodies. Your hypervigilance never fully leaves you. Shame is already in the room.

You turn onto your stomach. You feel him behind you. You squeeze his hand. He squeezes back.

Afterward, the Olympic cuddler half-asses it. He drapes a limp limb over your waist. You pull away. He doesn’t try again.

You fall into broken sleep.

In the middle of the night, you hear the shower running. Your pillow is wet with tears. He’s cleaning you off.

Abandonment hurts like an anchor. It tugs at your heart so you can only ever get so far.

***

You wake up around nine, still in your slip and sweater, and go straight to him.

He’s on the balcony, looking out. The blue sky looks supercharged.

He turns and smiles. “Hey.” He wraps his arms around you firmly, like he wants you.

You pull back a little. “I’m just trying to understand what happened last night.”

“I know,” he says. “Let’s sit down.” He leads you to the couch. “I was up early this morning—thinking, walking. I sat by the ocean. I journaled.”

“Did you climb a mountain too?” you joke.

You sit on your knees, leaning against the white cushion.

“No,” he says. “But I realized you’re really good for me.”

He tells you your stories triggered him, but that in a mature relationship you talk things through. His mother was promiscuous and absent, but you—you have a way of bringing light to shame. A way of turning things around he’s never seen before. He says you’re brilliant. He says he thinks you’re so good for him.

You’re supposed to meet his friends in Watermill later that morning, but he thinks maybe it should just be the two of you. This is a big conversation. He didn’t come to the Hamptons to be with Frank and his wife. He came here to be with you.

You decide you’ll enjoy the day together and process everything tomorrow. You’re only half here. You’re a good actress. Yes, you still care about him. But you’re gone, mostly.

Or maybe not.

Or maybe it could still work.

The next day you speak on the phone while he’s driving. His flight was delayed. He missed his connection and is facing an eight-hour drive instead. Yet, he sounds energized, buoyant. It almost sounds like he’s in love. Like he thinks this relationship will heal him. Like it’s the next step in his evolution. Like he’ll finally be able to forgive his mother.

You tell him you’re still upset about the other night.

“Let’s talk it through,” he says. “This is healthy.”

You tell him you felt judged. How the timing of the disease question hurt you. How, as a writer, you have to be able to tell your stories—that you can’t be with someone who makes you feel censored.

“I really think I can handle it,” he says. “Maybe you could send me some pieces. I’ll see if I get triggered.”

“I mean, I could send you some,” you say. “But something about that feels weird.”

“Okay,” he says quickly. His voice sounds tinny on the speakerphone. “We’ll figure it out. I just really want this. I think you’re so good for me.”

You don’t plan to say it. It pours out anyway. “But are you good for me?”

He’s silent.

“Let’s take a step back,” he says. “My therapist would say to slow it down when you’re not sure.”

***

The next day he texts you.

“I read your piece,” he writes. “I actually found it empowering.”

It’s one of your old sex columns from 2015.

You immediately respond, “You weren’t upset by the blowjobs?”

“Zero triggers.”

You think, maybe.

The following evening on the phone, the night at the Crow’s Nest comes up.

“Let’s say we’re at a work dinner in Davos,” he says. “I can’t have you getting emotional like that.”

Your jaw drops. You tell him you’re an actress. A woman. You’ve been trained to smile through pain for as long as you can remember.

“You did recover quickly,” he adds.

For the next two weeks you’ll both try to keep the relationship going, but everything points to no. Between work, travel, his kids, and a long-planned weekend with friends, scheduling never lines up.

Finally, he FaceTimes to tell you he wants to put the relationship on pause. He says that if he thought this was the end, he wouldn’t ask for that.

This makes no sense to you.

Your heart aches, but you’re clear. You surprise the two of you and say, “This has to be the end for me.”

He looks pained and leans toward the computer to hug you. His black shirt covers the camera, and the screen goes dark.

That week you cry harder than you thought possible. Your stomach muscles are sore to the touch. And then, slowly, you begin to feel better.

You don’t regret him. He opened your heart. He had a warm heart. You held each other, laughed together, had some fun. You even tried to dream together for a little while.

He wanted to be the man who protected you, who celebrated your power and voice. But he couldn’t—and that’s okay. He made you feel dirty, and he made you feel special and brilliant. And that’s okay too.

That day in the ocean, when you were tumbled and he pulled you out, you had been looking to him. He told you to jump, and you listened.

But if you had been looking at the wave, your instincts would have told you to dive.

The ocean is life.

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In case you missed Part One, you can read it here: Boyfriend Spell

The wave is bigger than you. It takes you. Now your body is upside down. You have no control. You’re weightless, almost like you’re gone. You’re both inside and outside of yourself—there’s the curve of your spine, your skin, the gentle bumps of your ribs—a flash of your own body from somewhere else. It’s just you and the force of crashing water. You brace for unbearable pain. You prepare for destruction.

Then the world flips—sky, sand, foam—and just as the tide sucks you back in, Shane grabs your arm. He pulls you out of the froth and onto your feet. You stumble, but he’s got you.

A mop of hair is covering your face. You push it back and laugh, bewildered. Your bikini is full of sand, your legs go every which way. You test your body out, shimmy a little, scanning for pain. It’s almost like you’re unscathed.

“I think I’m okay.” This hits like an awakening. “I’m not hurt!”

“You got tossed,” he grins, proud, like it’s a rite of passage.

You throw your arms around him. Your bodies press together. The ocean prickles, sparkling and electric. Salt and sand and the sun’s heat. His warm, open mouth on yours.

This feels like the shape of something you’ve longed for.

***

Two weeks before the ocean swallows you whole and Shane pulls you out from its foaming mouth, you FaceTime.

He’s in a new city, settling into his hotel. Behind him, a large window frames glass buildings, reflecting the setting sun’s peach glow. He lets out a long breath and says it feels good to finally have a moment together. His kids will be joining him the next day for their week-long vacation.

He’s on his PC, but the camera sits too high—it looks like he’s staring over your head. This has happened before. You laugh and tell him. He tilts the screen to fix it, but this time the camera is too low.

“Now it looks like you’re staring at my boobs,” you tease.

He actually blushes, mutters something about not knowing why they put the camera there, and gets his MacBook. When he returns, you’re eye to eye.

“How are you?” He asks, taking you in.

You tell him you’re pretty good. Well, you’re okay. You got released from a commercial you were on hold for. He says there must be something wrong with them. You smile.

You don’t tell him how much you feel like you’re failing.

He fills you in on a multi-million-dollar deal that will likely go through. You’re happy for him. He’s worked hard on that. And you remind yourself—men are raised to build empires. Women are raised to be good and lovely and kind and beautiful. At least, this is what you tell yourself when you feel that old stab of panic.

He brings up Rebecca. His ex. She just wasn’t willing to put in the work like he was. That’s what his couple’s therapist told him after their breakup. Rebecca throws fits at night, then wakes up sorry and sweet. You wonder if you’d like Rebecca. She sounds both feral and put together at once. Evidently, she has a trust fund.

The sun is falling behind. A renegade scepter of light pings through. He rubs his eyes, blinks, “So, have you thought about where you want to go?”

Your drawn to the ocean. Your both thinking local—he only has 3 days he can manage. Nantucket, Cape cod, Hamptons? He says he’ll look into places. You offer to help. “Don’t worry about it,” he says.

Before you travel together, you need him to know what’s wrong with you. You’d rather he’s pleasantly surprised than disappointed.

But he’s already familiar with your anxieties. He’s told you they make him feel better about his own insecurities. When he flew to NY to meet you for the first time, you spent four straight days together, which supercharged the intimacy. That last evening, he told you about the relationships he’d been in since his divorce. You eat olives so spicy your eyes water.

There was this pretty twenty-something girl he met at the gym who kept hitting on him. When he told her he was far too old for her, she wouldn’t take no for an answer. She knew it wouldn’t be forever, and she was on board with that. She knew what she wanted, and that was him. So he gave in, and the sex was incredible.

You don’t like this story—you don’t like him in this story. You find yourself watching the two of you, like it’s a movie. You even laugh where you’re supposed to laugh. But your chest feels tight and racy, like your lungs are trying to run away from there. So you stop him.

“Hey, I just want you to know I’m not here.”

He looks confused.

“I’m performing right now. I’m not in my body.”

“What can I do?” He says urgently.

You’re not sure. “Hug me,” you tell him.

He jumps up and throws his arms around you. You two stand there, holding each other, towering over a sea of diners. Your chests inhale and exhale in unison.

“I think I don’t want to hear about you having sex with a twenty-something woman.”

He squeezes you harder. It’s just that you write about your own sexual experiences with men, so he thought you’d be okay with it. He apologizes and grabs you tighter. But of course you’re not okay with that. It’s almost like he’s relieved.

You’re back in your body now.

That was already a month ago.

So you tell him that there are all these issues about you that, if you were a guy, you’d find frustrating. Like you have these phobias. They come from trauma and living, you guess. Weird things, like you’re afraid of long walks because at some point your back will ache. Or your ankle, or your right toe, or maybe a knee. It depends. But you’re not injured anymore. He needs to know you’re not actually broken. It just feels like you might be.

“So no long walks on the beach,” you joke.

He doesn’t think this is a big deal.

You need him to understand that it is, though. Like you haven’t ridden a bike in years. Like there’s fear lodged in your body. How do you explain this to him, when you don’t understand it yourself?

You tell him you’re the type of person who needs a lot of sleep. You can’t function on five like he can. He exercises hard, drinks hard, works hard. You can’t be pushed. You’ll bare your teeth if a man tries to make you do something you don’t want to do.

He tells you, sometimes he wonders if he should slow down.

You think he should, but you nod.

“And I don’t hike either,” you add. “I have hiking PTSD.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“It’s a tough story,” you say. “It has to do with my father. And it’s hard because I love him more than anything. I mean, he took me figure skating almost every day before school. He has the most generous spirit.”

You can feel the blood rushing to your face.

“So I was fifteen and had just come back from skating camp. My hip flexors and groins were injured, and normally they would have gotten better, but this time they weren’t. Probably because of the eating disorder—the muscles weren’t getting enough nourishment.

“Anyway, over the summers we used to hike all the big Adirondack Mountains as a family. It was one my favorite things to do. We were like the Brady Bunch—my parents, my brother, our dog. So they wanted to hike Mount Marcy, the highest mountain in New York State, which we’d hiked before. And I told my father that I wanted to stay home because I was in pain.”

You swallow.

“He said, ‘Are you going to go on the hike with us or stay at home like a loser?’”

Shane winces.

You let out an unexpected gasp, a half-sob.

“I didn’t want to stay at home like a loser, so I hiked the highest mountain in New York State in a lot of pain. It was the first time I went out of my body.

Shane tears up.

“Fuck,” you say, wiping your wet eyes. “So yeah, I haven’t hiked since.”

“I’m so sorry that happened to you.” Shane leans into the screen, close now. “Man, I want to hug you so bad right now. ”

“Me too.” You feel a tug and stretch, where your stomach meets your ribs.

“My father later apologized,” you say. You don’t want Shane to judge him. “He said he didn’t know how serious it was. I had asthma as a kid, and he worried about my lungs. He wanted me to be strong. I mean, the summer before his daughter was working on a double axel, and now she can barely walk?”

Shane squints through tears and grabs his heart, and you think, oh. Maybe there really is something here.

He tells you what a therapist once told him: if your kids almost drown in the ocean, the next time you don’t expect them to just jump back in. You hold their hand. You go at their pace. And when they’re ready, they decide on their terms when to go back in.

“I hope I get to be the one who holds your hand,” he says.

You want him to hold your hand too, and this makes you cry from down deep.

He says you’re in charge of the pace of the weekend. He’ll follow you.

You feel relieved, and then wonder how slow he can actually go.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you!” You say, trying to ham it up. “I have a bit of a phobia about the ocean too.”

He’s amused.

“When I was sixteen, a wave smashed my face into the sand and dragged me along the ocean floor.” You tell it like it’s a Homeric story. “I ran out of the water crying, ‘I think I broke my neck!’ I had a scab on my cheek for about a month.”

“I bet you looked badass,” he grins.

“I really did.” You smile proudly.

Holy shit, is it already 7:45? He has to go to his work dinner. He could talk to you forever. The only reason he knows time’s passed is because the sky’s gone dark.

You will go to the ocean with Shane. And you will discover he is an Olympic-level cuddler.

You’ve never met a gold medalist like this before. He’s strong, like this is so teenage to say, but his muscles are bigger than what you’re used to, like firm pillows you can lay your head upon— and he snuggles in this all-encompassing way. You’d assume such thorough cuddling would suffocate you, but he holds you in a kind of way that makes you sigh and melt.

You’re the type of person who can cuddle for about three minutes before you need space to sleep. Even so, Shane finds a way to stay connected, whether it’s his hand on your arm, his foot on your calf. Sneaky. You smile as you drift off to the purr and lull of the ocean.

You bring enough outfits for two weeks in the Bahamas instead of three days in Montauk. Flowing, flirty dresses. Skirts. Lingerie. Bikinis.

Most days, at home, you wear black leggings and a navy sweater. You don’t show your body much.

But this changes when you’re with a man you’re attracted to, someone who makes your body feel safe enough to open. You want to show your cleavage, your curves. You want to be sensual. It isn’t only for him. It’s for you. You move differently through the world. You feel yourself bloom.

He Ubers you to a lot by JFK and makes sure he’s there first. He’s leaning against a red convertible he rented last minute on that app, Turo—you both laugh at the color.

He’s dressed in black relaxed athletic wear, stylish enough to read as intentional.

You’re wearing tight jeans and a fitted white tee, nude crystal sunglasses with a hint of pink. He tells you how beautiful you look. So sexy. You feel it too.

You make out in the lot outside a Hooters for a while. The sun beats down on you. He says he figures you’ll keep the roof up. In your head, you hear down and nod, picturing stringy windblown hair and sun damage. You’re wearing a foldable straw beach hat, but ever since you turned forty you’ve learned that the sun is the enemy of young, fresh-looking skin, and the whole world seems invested in reminding you of that.

“You want the roof down?” you ask.

“I was thinking up, because it’s so hot, but we can keep it down.”

You realize you got confused. No, you want it up too. He may go hard, he may go fast, but you’re on the same page about the sun and the wind.

The leather seats are low to the ground. He puts on Rufus Du Sol’s “In the Moment” and pulls onto the highway. Your blonde hair splays toward the open window, which you’ll soon close.

For a moment, you feel glossy and easy, like Barbie.

He squeezes your hand.

Oh my god. Are you having fun?

***

You arrive and drop your bags just inside the door. The bungalow is newly renovated, clean, pale wood, everything soft and light. There’s a balcony with a view of the ocean.

Your bodies find each other.

You’re both a little nervous. This is the first time you’ll be sleeping together, and it will be his first time since his ex. You feel like you have to be tender with him, this big masculine man. You want to check in on him, the way you wish men would with you.

“Are you okay?”

He’s okay.

“Are you sure?”

Yes, he’s sure.

“I really like you,” he says, and pulls you closer.

You order in Thai food. You’ve both showered and smell of soap. You’re in black leggings and a thin cashmere ivory sweater. He tells you you look like a ballerina. This makes you feel like waltzing and spinning. From the balcony, the sun is almost gone, just an orange dot above the horizon. He kisses your cheek. The dunes are shadowed and still. You try to memorize the ache of such beauty.

Shane is exhausted, his whole body spent, like he’s coming down from a long race. You, on the other hand, have energy. More than you expected. All that worrying about keeping up suddenly feels unfounded. Maybe you’re stronger than you think.

You fall asleep weaving your limbs together like lanyard, a box stitch.

***

The next day you will ride a bike.

The resort has them lined up in the sand, bright white and waiting. You tell Shane you’ll try for just sixty seconds. That’s the deal.

He adjusts the seat for you. You swing your leg over, find your balance, and pedal onto the paved road. You’re wearing a floppy sunhat and sunglasses that keep slipping down your nose.

“Look at you go,” he says.

You smile and pedal faster, showing off a little. You listen closely to your body, for signs of a stirring. Will you wake the monster?

Shane bikes ahead and snaps a photo of you beaming.

A car turns onto the road. A woman leans her head out the window and grins. “Such a gorgeous day, isn’t it? Aren’t we lucky?”

The whole ride lasts six or seven minutes. Shane calls it a big deal. You’re pleased. You count it as a win. The darkness stays quiet, mostly.

***

You sit under an umbrella and watch the ocean breathe in and out. You needed this.

“Man,” he says, “I needed this.”

A seagull with fierce yellow eyes and wild gray feathers lands close.

“It looks like it’s seen things,” you say.

Shane laughs. “Yeah. It looks like it’s been through hell.”

It notices you staring, then turns back toward the Atlantic, uninterested. You’re in its domain.

There’s a hurricane a few days offshore, so the water is choppy. You ask Shane what he thinks.

“It’s not bad,” he says. “But it might be a bit rough for you.”

The sand drops off sharply where the waves crash. The churn looks complicated.

But the metaphor is already laid out for you. It feels bigger than the ocean. Bigger than a swim. Like something you can’t leave undone.

“Let’s go in,” you say, like a beginning.

To be continued…

PS. BF Spell Part 3 is already written, but I had to cut it in half for Substack, so plan on seeing it in your mailbox next week.

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So I’ve decided: while I’m recovering from one piece, I’ll share more spontaneous snippets of my life. Thoughts. Maybe even a little fashion. A night out in New York. A new mocktail I had an allergic reaction to. Wonderful new friends I’m meeting.

Mostly, I want to stay connected to you in the in-between. In the liminal. In the ineffable space between Part 1 and Part 2.

Some of these memoir-type pieces take me more time than I wish to admit, in part because I’m still discovering as I write in real time. The day I publish, my whole body seizes with adrenaline. I promote like crazy on Instagram, TikTok, Threads, Twitter, Facebook — there’s always one I forget. Oh right, Substack Notes. And I love it, I do. But there’s usually a crash after. A little collapse. Sometimes even a low-level depression.

And then I build again.

I’m trying to get faster. And I think I could be if that were all I was doing. But I’m pitching publications. Writing profiles. Applying for jobs: copy editing (ChatGPT assures me I know how to do this), content creation (ChatGPT says I do this every time I promote a video. I feel like it’s lying to me though.) I’m putting myself on tape for modeling and commercial castings, trying to make sure the lighting makes me look bright like the sun and not indented and shadowy like the moon. Though, I do love the moon.

I had a friend. He started as a lover, then a mentor, then a betrayer, and now I think of him as a brilliant man whose fear made him unbearably cruel. His name was Cal. I’ve been scattering him here and there like little breadcrumbs for you. But if you missed the crumbs, here’s a whole slice of bread.

I’m pretty sure he’s going to be a series right after The Boyfriend Spell.

I’m coming for you, Cal. Or should I call him Hal?

Anyway, as I said in The Boyfriend Spell Part 1, I adored him, and I like to think he adored me too. I think I’ll always adore him a little. Cognitive dissonance is a terrible thing.

Once, we were talking about my memoir — how I’m figuring out my life while writing it. He’s a famous Hollywood screenwriter. He said: I could never do what you do, it’s so personal. I wouldn’t even know what I’d say.

It’s hard, I said. It’s taking too long.

Of course it is, he said, it’s like you’re flying a plane while you’re building it.

And I thought: Oh my god. You’re so right. You get me. Oh, how I adore you. You see me. You’ll protect me with your wisdom, connections, and care. We’ll always be in each other’s lives. Eventually, we’ll drift when we start dating someone seriously, and that will be hard but natural. Even then, if we don’t talk for a long while, I’ll still be able to pick up the phone and ask you to write a blurb for my memoir. And you’ll say, this makes me so happy, Jasmine. And I’ll feel my throat close and my nose twitch and my heart grip, and I’ll tear up. And you’ll write a brilliant blurb, as far as blurbs go, and no one would know — but we will.

Anyway.

These “in-between” Substacks will be more spontaneous. More conversational. I said that already. Let me orient myself.

Before I go, I want to tell you: last week, I felt like I was free falling. Like I was ready to have a sit-down with the Universe and ask, what else do you want from me? Do you want me to crawl on my hands and knees and lick the floor for something good to happen? Is that what you want? There were lovely good things happening too, but they didn’t help my case.

Then I read a story in Pema Chödrön’s Comfortable with Uncertainty. It’s kind of depressing, honestly. But it shifted something.

Here’s the gist:

Hungry tigers are chasing you. You run to a cliff. You see a vine and grab it. But below are more tigers, foaming at the mouth. And then a mouse starts gnawing on your vine. (I mean, come on.) But beside the malicious mouse? A beautiful strawberry bush.

So with life roaring all around you, you reach for the strawberry. You eat it.
With your now red-stained lips, you savor its sweetness.

That’s it. That’s the story.

I thought a lot about the strawberries and something actually shifted. My need to push and press and try and grip eased. I realized maybe I can enjoy my life just a little bit without guilt. Without a horse whip. Without knowing whether a “win” was waiting for me around the corner. Without any certitude of direction at all.

Nothing outside of me had changed. And yet, now I could read a book without an anxious heart. Watch The Beast in Me on Netflix and be glad I wasn’t dating or writing about a serial killer. Listen to Taylor Swift’s “Ophelia” and shimmy my hips— and feel like this is so teenage of me and love that. Meditate and breathe and feel that safe soft stillness. I thought about strawberries.

And then, later, I had an unexpected win. I was shocked. But the strawberry came first. It wasn’t the reward, but it kind of was too.

It was like the universe said, You survived the tigers. The mouse. Your nasty, mean self-doubt. Your rage. So now I’m sending you someplace where strawberries grow like weeds. Where the tigers just want their ears scratched. And where mice make masterful meals like Ratatouille. I know he’s a rat, but in this case he’s a mouse with a chef’s hat. Maybe the mouse’s specialty will be chocolate mousse!

Still, you always have to stay a little alert. Wild animals are wild, after all.

Until next time. 🍓
xo,
Jasmine

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Is having a boyfriend embarrassing?

The viral question first posed by Chanté Joseph for British Vogue, may sound flippant at first glance, but don’t be fooled. It’s the breaking of a centuries-old spell.

Take Shane—a great guy, boyfriend material. He’s seemingly not a murderer, rapist, sociopath, certainly thinks women should have the right to vote, that they haven’t necessarily ruined the workplace (well, he did get passed over by a “less qualified” woman for a senior role that one time) and of course, he’s pro-choice.

When he sees you, he grabs his heart—like it burns. You feel it too—hot heart up through your throat, like you’re gonna choke. Eyes blur and sting a bit wet.

He’s dying to love and be loved. You think he thinks you can grow him. Maybe a little you can.

He once did Ayahuasca and experienced what it felt like to be a woman—to be taken, to be desired. He felt the fear of it, and then a surrender. You felt both seen and pissed off that’s how he saw you. He’s fluent in the language of healing and is attuned to masculine and feminine energies, how they dance and flow together. You love that shit.

Of course, there’s an attraction—and you admire him. While he may be a partner at a private equity firm, he runs their impact division like a personal crusade: clean water projects, sustainable infrastructure, public health education. He wants to make the world a better place, and so do you. You’re both dreamers or delusional, or maybe a little bit of both.

You do spend an awful lot of time with him, talking about him. Although, you don’t mind wading through his emotions—gently turning over worn rocks—cradling his grief in your arms, like you wish someone would have done for you. You feel useful.

I mean you’re not dumb. You’ve been to years of therapy. You knew about limerence before there was even a Tik Tok. It’s not rocket science that you’re anxiously attached.

You tell him about this big time Hollywood screenwriter you dated two years back (power still got its claws in you.) And you just adored him and you’re pretty sure he adored you too. His name was Cal—and then Cal from California crushed you. You tell Shane—but he only really hears a distant chorus of his own exes.

There are issues. Shane lives in a red state with a monstrous governor. He has two tween sons, so he has to be there 50 percent of the time. Meanwhile, his Hinge profile clearly stated he lived in Tribeca. He explains that three years ago he lived in Tribeca, part of the time—then he gave up his place for a girl back home—and now he’s looking to rent there again. To simplify, Shane almost lives in Tribeca, part of the time.

Then on FaceTime date two, you discover he’s recently out of a tumultuous relationship with Rebecca. You know pretty much everything about Rebecca—except for the color of her hair—her betrayals, her volatility, what a mistake she was. How she was just like his mother.

***

If you eat a whole bag of Trader Joe’s dried mango slices in one sitting, will you get a sugar high?

Your head, brain, it hurts. So much life in you. Stories. Boyfriends. Put it on the page. Be a words warrior. But Shane will see this as a betrayal. He said he was coming back, promised you he was going to work on himself, that he hoped this wasn’t the end. Are you really going to blow up the fantasy of a future together? He’ll demonize you if you do it. Maybe they all will. Come on, light the match. Be the cunt who tells the truth.

Funny, there was a guy who once texted that he’d seen you on Bumble. Said he’d met you at a party years ago. He wants to grab a drink. Your body recoils. It remembers something you don’t. How’d he get your number? Maybe you gave it to him to get rid of him.

Four hours later, another text, “Yeah, so you’re still a cunt.”

***

If you bind a woman’s wrists and feet and then throw her into a river, will she sink? But what if she is a witch?

You laughed out loud when British Vogue’s Chanté Joseph quoted the top comment under The Delusional Diaries Podcast: “Why does having a boyfriend feel Republican?” 12,000 likes later. Other hits from the same thread. “Boyfriends are out of style. They won’t come back until they start acting right,” and “Having a boyfriend typically takes hits on a woman’s aura.” You find this exciting. Is this backlash to #MeToo’s backlash?

Meanwhile, TheoBro Pastor Joel Webbons tweets, “The young men are waking up. Women will learn to have a quiet and gentle spirit, or they will learn to be alone. Deus Vult.”

Deus Vult means God’s will. It was the rallying cry of the first crusade in the 11th Century. The TheoBros post Deus vult like it’s a call to arms, a holy war rebranded as a lifestyle for men who think God wants them in charge.

You’d chuckle if the TheoBros were just a fringe group of freaks, but they’ve got a direct line to the White House through the newly created Faith Office. And Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth reposted Pastor Doug Wilson’s CNN interview with Pamela Brown, captioned: “All of Christ is life!”

Wilson, who runs a network of over 130 churches with a new one just opened in DC, told Brown, women “are the kind of people babies come out of,” that within marriage, the husband is the head, the wife is submissive, and that he opposes the 19th Amendment.

Deus Vult!

***

One bad night, during the perfect weekend away, Shane says, “I bet your body count is higher than mine.”

You half-laugh. What a frat boy, Andrew Tate kind of comment is that?

“Are you serious?”

“It’s not a judgment,” he says while taking off his sneakers. “I was married for twenty-two years. And you were single and a sex columnist, so I just assume you’ve slept with more people than me.”

He’s slept with 40 women. He keeps a list. Not as a flex, but because every woman’s seemingly meant something to him on his life’s journey.

You may be a former-sex columnist, but you didn’t need to know this. You try to do the girl math. It’s like one of those logic questions on a standardized test. If a 49-year-old man was married for 22 years and has been divorced for 4, how old was he when he got married?

You’ll figure it out later. But you find yourself wondering how he sandwiched all those women around his marriage, and now you’re judging him.

“When I was a sex columnist I had chronic back pain, so I really didn’t sleep with that many guys. Not that that should matter.”

“No, of course not, it’s just interesting.”

Is it?

Maybe it was just a passing thought spoken out loud, but you feel shame. Or does it belong to him? But you feel disempowered. Farther away from yourself.

The worst part is, when you’re back home you start your own list, tallying up men from over two decades. You’re going to prove Shane wrong. Most of the damage was done in your twenties. And now you’re slut-shaming yourself.

***

Would you rather have delicate, man-approved ankles that easily sprain so you’re in constant pain—or thick ankles, “cankles” that take you far?

When you were just twenty-four, you dated a thirty-nine-year-old man—very important in media—a real adult. He chased you, like hard. He was witty and made you laugh. He introduced you to serious people like Dominick Dunne and George Clooney. Whoa! He whisked you off to Paris, where you ordered salad with the dressing on the side. You tasted corked wine at Cheval Blanc and said, “That’s great!” while the others spat it out. And you just had to ride the pony on the carousel.

Back in New York, at midnight with Opus One breath, he’d serenade you with “Singin’ in the Rain,” twirl you around under the warm glow of a streetlight, confess how much he loved you with teary, bloodshot eyes. In the morning, you’d help him pick out a tie—burgundy, brown, yellow, lavender. You’d throw your arms around him as he laced his dress shoes, and he’d have to peel you off—just before a black car pulled up. Then he’d vanish into the day. Other mornings, he’d surprise you with breakfast. “Special delivery, delivery for Jasmine,” he’d say, handing you a muffin and latte in bed. Then, with a kiss to your forehead, “You’re going to kick ass on your audition today!”

He’d call you Bubble Girl because you lived in the clouds. He told you you looked prettier with your hair down. Or, in the shower, he once said, “You look good. You look like you’ve gained about two pounds, though.” What’s so crazy, is you had! He taught you brand new words like smoke show, cankles, and shocker. He looked at your college photos, when you were a size 8, and said you’d been “heavy.”

One night, you leaned in to kiss him. He stopped halfway and said, “You should really do something about the dark circles under your eyes.”

You felt like you’d done something wrong.

Later that week, he bought you under-eye brightening cream like it was a gift. It was in a little yellow tube with a white cap.

If you saw him now, your body would brace, and your heart would pound with rage, and grief, and even love.

And you know what’s embarrassing?

You’d be that nervous 24-year-old all over again, wondering, hoping. Do you still think I’m beautiful?

What women are saying all over social media (November 2025)

“DE-CENTER MEN. Not because you hate them, but because you love yourself more.” (@shereadelsol, Instagram)

“It’s happening to me and I’m legit lost because my only goal in life was to be loved and to love.” (@drasiella, IG comment)

“De-centering men helps women realize how much we shrink ourselves to fit into their expectations.”— (@sommertothill, Threads)

“I’m 40 and de-centered men 3 yrs ago and I don’t even see men when I leave the house. They’re all out of focus.” (@atlsommer, Threads)

***

It’s like you and Shane are separated by a wall of glass. You’re so close to love, but you can’t break through.

Most of your dates with him are on FaceTime. In the four weeks you’ve known him, you’ve only seen each other in 3D once, for three days straight. The nonstop time together fast-tracks intimacy. Your nervous system is already hooked. When he leaves, he dives into another city, another life, while you try to pick up where you left off.

He texts you from hotel rooms: Any news on your castings? How’s writing? Little placeholders. Goodnights. Quick updates on his kids. He speaks about them with such tenderness, it makes you ache a bit. You feel both special and sidelined. You tell yourself it’s good he lives far away. That you won’t be eclipsed by his life like you’ve been with other men. That with the space you can stay focused, write, and work on your career.

But you’re hijacked by fantasy and your phone.

He runs from city to city—in between Barry’s Bootcamp and client dinners and late-night drinking—a life that would hospitalize you in forty-eight hours. But you want to be durable. Tough. You want to move through the world like he does—like it’s built for you, like it belongs to you. You want adventure! You want fun!

And so you retreat into your mind instead— and write, and write, and write—from your childhood bedroom in SoHo, with its pink walls and dollhouse high up on a shelf you hope no one can see.

Writing is your truth. Your comfort. Your sword. Your way to hide from the world, and your way back into it. You want to gulp it down!

So you tell him you can’t do this anymore. But he won’t let you go. He’s at a dinner. Can he call you on the drive home? Give him forty-five minutes.

On the phone—you can’t see his face—you ask, “What do you like about me?”

He answers, earnest and tumbling. He tells you you’re brave—so brave—for how you spoke up during the #MeToo Movement. How much he respects you. That you’re strong. You’re emotionally articulate in a way he’s never seen.

That your transparency, your vulnerability opens him, maybe faster than he’s ready for.

That the way you explore the dark or the “toxic” feminine gives him a different lens on the women who’ve hurt him. Somehow you’ve reframed it, neutralized it. There’s something about you that makes his nervous system feel calm and safe. He feels lucky.

You cry silently because he sees the person you hope to be. Big and bright and powerful.

He says you’ve had such a rich life of adventures, even if things didn’t go the way you planned. He tells you you’re so accomplished, and you think, Yeah, not in my bank account, as if success is measured only in currency.

He claims you’ve taught him more in a month than a year of therapy. He says every time he returns to peace, it feels more fixed and lasting. That he’s healing, growing, and really building toward something new. And no, you’re not a Band-Aid—he’s thought about that. He’s grateful you’ve been so patient with him. He really likes you. More than he expected to.

And finally, he tells you you’re beautiful.

He gets home and switches to FaceTime. You’re both exhausted, delirious, and smiling in the dark like two fools.

“Okay,” you say, then bite your lower lip. “Let’s go on an adventure.”

He lights up—an electric, sunshine grin—like he’s about to crash through the glass and reach you.

“You want to go on an adventure?” he asks, like you’re the most adorable thing he’s ever seen.

Your cheeks twitch from all the smiling.

“Yeah,” you say. “I want to go on an adventure with you.”

And for a moment, it feels like maybe you could run with him too.

To be continued…

Boyfriend Spell, Part 2

Boyfriend Spell, Part 3

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The part of me that wants to fit in—to be all the things society has tried to shape me to be—is absolutely the most boring, dreadfully droll part of me.

Molly O'Connor leans into the wild, the true, and the parts that are both growing and grown.

Here’s the intro. I’m adding the link in this line so you can read the full interview on Other Wise.

Jasmine Lobe: My soul kept saying, “Don’t let them bite you. Don’t become a zombie. Keep your soul.”

The model, actress, and writer on rejecting society’s roles — and writing her own.

There are countless quotes and mystified commentary about Marilyn Monroe’s “childlike innocence.” From Elizabeth Taylor to John Strasberg, all remark on this uncanny quality, as if incongruous with her womanly physique.

It was the phrase I found myself returning to after meeting Jasmine Lobe. The 5 ‘9 model, actress, former sex columnist and prolific writer (you can read her vast works in The Observer and on Substack), exudes that same ingénue aura in the form of a blonde-haired blue-eyed beauty.

And not unlike Marilyn, Jasmine’s looks have shaped how most of the world sees her — barely noticing (or choosing to ignore) the brains and depth behind them.

She has written about her encounters with men from her days as a working actress in the “wild west” of Hollywood, and spoken publicly about being assaulted by Harvey Weinstein.

She writes about the good men, too, like the man who whisked her away from an afterparty and held her, kissed her under the stars on one of those perfect New York City nights.

Jasmine’s work explores what it’s like to be a woman through reflections on relationships with men. Raw, unfiltered and often sexually charged, I asked her where she got such confidence to be so soul-baring: “Because part of the problem with the patriarchy is that when these dynamics stay hidden in shame or silence, they become insidious; they shape how people relate to each other.”

Her directness and unflinching understanding of why she’s here feel as salient as I imagine Marilyn’s must have been when she broke the trance of her own childlike innocence.

Jasmine is here to share her story — her many stories, from the many lives all women live in a lifetime — and to help rewrite the stories for the women of the future.

Read Jasmine’s story on where she is now, below.

(Click on Read more below for more :))

Other Wise

Jasmine Lobe: My soul kept saying, “Don’t let them bite you. Don’t become a zombie. Keep your soul.”

There are countless quotes and mystified commentary about Marilyn Monroe’s “childlike innocence.” From Elizabeth Taylor to John Strasberg, all remark on this uncanny quality, as if incongruous with her womanly physique…

Read more

10 months ago · 3 likes · 1 comment · Molly T. and Jasmine Lobe

I hope you enjoy it and will check out her other interviews. She’s got that magic.

xoxo

Jasmine

Find me on Instagram: https://instagram.com/jasminelobe

You’ve been asked if the guy from the VIP dog park ever called you. No, he didn’t, and you didn’t expect him to. It was one of those fleeting moments that was meant for memory or a Substack post.

Although, every time you walk by the VIP dog park, you peek through the hedges. You look for the marble bench where the two of you sat and where you got all those mosquito bites. The other day, you saw a golden retriever peeing on a sculpted bush. You imagine it’s the type of garden where maintenance hoses down the vegetation so it never smells acrid and only ever of spring. You’ve never seen dogs play with each other there—it seems more like an introspective park, where dogs do their lonely business or lovers have deep, forlorn conversations and then vanish.

A black standard poodle sniffs the foliage the golden just peed on. The branches of a small tree in a stone planter block your view. This secret garden looks wild, but controlled. You stand on your toes. A man with a Barbour jacket, a gold wedding ring glinting, throws a tennis ball that bounces off something you can’t see and rolls somewhere else you can’t see. The blonde dog crashes after it.

A shooting star is a flash and then it’s gone. Maybe it shines in your memory or it’s meant for a Substack post. Maybe you’ve forgotten where and when you saw it. A moment of wonder. You remember how it shimmered like tinsel and then disappeared. Although, it’s possible it was a UFO!

Shortly after the boy from the dog park whose breath smelled like smoke, you meet a Turkish man, Emir, at an art opening. He’s your age. You’re not in a place to date; you’re still shell-shocked from your broken engagement. When your whole life doesn’t go to plan in a very big way—it almost feels like you’re in a play and all of your lines are acerbic, irreverent. So you start to play around within the play. Shakespeare knew. All the world is a joke.

Eight months earlier, you showed up at the apartment you shared with your ex-fiancé—let’s call him Harold. The doorman, Freddie, stops you. You’re no longer on the list. All your clothes are upstairs—and your parents’ art. Freddie, who you always high-fived with, says, “I’m so sorry. This is the worst part of my job.”

You think about dodging him, zigzagging past, forcing your way upstairs to press your love upon Harold—but instead you call him on repeat. Your hands shake so hard it fascinates you. This must be what trauma looks like.

Now, on your first official date, you eat a boiled artichoke. It’s an early summer evening and the restaurant is nearly empty. Emir admits he’s googled you and read that you were assaulted by Harvey Weinstein. You think, Whoa. You summarize the story for him briefly, like it happened to someone else.

“Can I hug you?” he asks.

He’s sweet, but it feels more like you’re comforting him.

You make out on the way home. It’s fun. Light. Kissing is easy. It’s above the neck and far enough from the heart.

On the second date, Emir wants to cook you dinner. You think maybe it’s too soon, but it also sounds kind of nice.

He shows you his newly renovated one-bedroom, then bounds up the steep staircase, three steps at a time, to a small private rooftop framed by pale pine walls for privacy. He’s proud of it. There’s a barbecue, a metal table with three chairs, and the smell of kerosene.

You’ve brought a bag of spinach as your contribution. When you’re back in the kitchen, he gives you a bowl. You dump it in while he leaps between the kitchen and the roof— checking the grill, grabbing utensils, seasoning the meat. You ask if he has olive oil and balsamic vinegar. He searches through the cabinets—they’re somewhere, there—and what about salt? He finds it behind the paper towels, hands it to you, then bolts back up the stairs, three steps at a time.

You follow him, gripping the bowl of spinach. He presses the spatula down on the steak so the blood and grease hit the coals and hiss. Your eyes sting.

“Is that well enough for you?” he asks.

“Maybe a little bit more.”

You pull back a chair, sit, and flick your pinkie nail against the inside of your thumb. Your mother does that when she’s nervous. Your ex hated his mother. He told you she once threw a butter knife at him and called him ugly.

Emir lays your steak on the plate. You thank him and cut around the fat.

“Do you love your mother?” you ask.

“Of course I do. Who doesn’t?”

“Oh, not all men do,” you say. “My ex-fiancé told me if his mother died, he doubted he’d go to her funeral.”

Emir—he’s handsome but who cares—says he can’t imagine. You tell him neither can you.

You prod on. “Have you ever struggled in life?”

He laughs, a little uneasy.

“Like, have you suffered?”

He has to think about that. He lost his job during the 2008 recession but bounced back at Goldman. “Nothing like you’ve had to go through, though.”

Was he referring to Harvey Weinstein? Heartbreak? Being an artist? Being a woman?

After dinner, Emir shows you the communal roof. There’s a love swing facing the downtown skyline. City lights are Manhattan’s stars. You choose the couch close to the edge, where a short metal fence keeps tenants from tripping and falling off.

If you wanted to, you could jump off the building. You don’t want to—but if you did, you could. Sirens ping by below.

It isn’t death you’re poking. You just don’t have the energy to perform or please. It’s like there are no rules anymore. The disappointment has been so steep, you’re not sure whether you’ve given up or surrendered. Funny. You aren’t even drinking. You’d think you would be in this state, but lately alcohol only gives you headaches.

So you skate the surface, treat this date like a game, and Emir takes the brunt. This isn’t who you are, but for the moment, you fuck with him.

Mid-kiss, you pull back and bite your lip. You’re so goddamn excited to ask the next question on your makeshift checklist. You gear up.

“Have you ever wanted to kill yourself?”

You’re building this airplane as you fly.

“Hasn’t everyone thought about killing themselves from time to time?”

You’re impressed. Maybe he’s deep after all. You can’t imagine dating someone who hasn’t thought, What’s the point of this life? at least once.

You end up in bed. You’d wanted to go home, but he insisted you’d only make out, which you weren’t entirely opposed to. You end up taking off your dress, and he says, “You have an ass like a model.” This makes you self-conscious. You’ve been doing squats to build your glutes to support your lower back, to get stronger. Your body doesn’t feel like your own. You want to turn around and take a peek yourself, see what he sees, but your head won’t turn that far back.

He climbs on top of you. You’re two bodies with borders and skin and weight. You’re not ready. You were far more comfortable trying to make him uncomfortable, interrogating him. He’s muscular, unlike your ex, who had the body of a scarecrow. Your limbs tighten and lock. You’re like a downed raptor with blue-silver scales and sickle-shaped claws—frozen in time.

“I think I… I think we should—”

“Yes, I think we should too.”

“Should what?”

“That we should have sex.”

“No. What I meant was I think we should stop, and I should go home.”

He hesitates. He’s much stronger than you. He’s heavy. For a second you’re frightened; then he climbs off and you can breathe again. You think, Wow. He’s such a good guy—he listened.

You walk home through Chinatown, grateful even for the stench of hot garbage. What were you thinking? You just want to be left alone. You don’t want anyone to touch you. You just want to curl up in a corner. You’re not cool. You’re not tough. You’re not wry. You’re like a frightened kitten—hair on end, paws pointed, mouth open, and a dry pink tongue like sandpaper.

He was a decent, good-looking guy, sure. But really, the only thing you found interesting about him was that at one point or another he’d thought about killing himself. You took that to mean he felt things.

He doesn’t call or text you, which is good—although you’re a little offended, ever so slightly insulted. Were you that repugnant? You must have scared him off—but not quite enough. He waits two weeks to call you.

You don’t respond. Or maybe you do. Gosh, you can’t remember.

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Eight months after my ex-fiancé broke up with me over email, I kissed a guy — in a VIP dog park — and I liked it.

It was the kind of hot summer night that could only happen in New York. A glamorous screening, complimentary popcorn, and the premiere publicist who finally remembered my name.

I was catching up with my friend Lily, waiting for the movie to start, when she turned to me and asked, “Have you started dating yet?”

I sank into my chair. “No, I was just planning a wedding and now I have to start from scratch?”

Just then, two attractive guys walked up to us and sat to my left. One was extremely handsome, tan, with shining eyes and dark blonde hair. He grinned as he opened his water bottle and said, “Want a sip?”

“Do you have cooties?” I joked.

“Ha,” he laughed, “No.”

“I’ve got my own water.” I volleyed back.

I sensed his every movement throughout the screening, especially during the sex scenes. I wondered how old he was. Maybe twenty-five or a young thirty-five? He seemed full of himself.

It was already late when the movie ended. Lily turned in for the night, but I saw my friend Celine across the theater and waved. Together we headed to the after party which was just a few blocks away. Upon entering a hotel garden terrace, we stepped into a zoo of celebs and socialites getting photographed. I thought about my days as an actress and wondered if I hadn’t quit, if Hollywood hadn’t spit me out, could I have made it?

We beelined for the food. As I stuffed my plate with hummus and veggies, I scanned the outdoor terrace for the cute guy from the theater. I spotted him. He was engrossed in conversation with an orthopedic surgeon I once saw for knee pain. I’d seen the doctor at a couple other screenings, so he was an orthopedic surgeon socialite. And then the cute guy walked towards me, “Yes!” and then passed right by me, “No!”

“Hey,” I called out. “You sat next to me.”

“I wasn't sure if that was you,” he said turning around. “It was so dark in there.”

It wasn’t that dark. Maybe I’d reached that age of invisibility. I was thirty-seven.

Nate was twenty-eight, which was disappointing. He must have been an inch taller than me and he smelled like smoke. He was a Taurus with a Scorpio rising— because I asked. He told me he was on again and off again with his ex. They were currently off. He told me he had a company he started with his older brother that had something to do with Apple Pay and gaming. He told me he came to this party as his friend’s plus one, not because he was important. “I have a lot of demons,” he said, looking out across Sixth Avenue.

It was clear he wasn't interested in a relationship. As we sat down on a bench, I told him I was writing a memoir. He said that was cool. I told him about my broken engagement. He said he felt for me and was sorry I was in such a tough place.

“No, I’m not,” I said defensively and then softened. “I’m much better now. You should have seen me a few months ago.”

“Therapy helped,” I added.

“I’d like to try therapy,” he said.

“You should.”

“My father thinks it’s stupid.”

Movie stars buzzed about. The younger, more desperate me, would have tried to befriend them (or date them) to feel better about myself—only to feel worse.

“Want to go smoke?” he asked.

“Marijuana makes me paranoid,” I said.

“Want to go grab a drink then?”

It’s not that I didn’t want to, but it was getting late. And nowadays, after just one drink, I’d get a headache and feel lonely and adrift the next day. I asked him if he’d walk me home instead.

“Sure,” he said. He stood by the door and watched me as I air-kissed and said all my goodbyes like I belonged. For a moment, I even felt like I did — like I was one of them.

He lit a joint when we hit the street. As we passed a gated garden, I said, “That’s a VIP dog park. Fancy dogs go there.”

“You want to go in?”

“It’s locked,” I said.

“I’ll jump it.” Before I could say anything, he crawled up over the gate and opened it from the inside.

“We’ll get in trouble,” I said nervously.

“You don’t like to break the rules?”

We sat on a marble bench under a canopy, amongst a zen garden with sculptural rocks and perfectly coifed hedges for dogs to pee on. He reached for my hand—it’d been so long since I’d been touched. Then he leaned over and kissed me. I could feel his warm, fire mouth; it tasted like an unknown mouth, not like my ex, Harold’s. I didn’t miss his mouth anymore. I kept kissing him. He was young. His skin was nice and smooth. His teeth were real, not blinding white veneers. His hair was thick. What was I doing all these years dating older men?

“We’re so bad,” I joked, looking around the dog park. “I hope we don't go to jail.”

He laughed. “I’d love to see you in jail.”

I rolled my eyes. “That’s the last thing I need right now.”

“I spent the night in the can once,” he relit his joint, exhaling a plume of smoke.

“You did?” I asked, worried I could get a contact high from sitting next to him.

“I owed tickets for skate boarding and I had a warrant for my arrest.”

“I feel like a lot of guys spend a night or two in jail.”

“Yeah.” He took another hit and cleared his throat.

The mosquitoes had it in for me. I had to make a criss cross with my thumbnail on a coin-sized bite.

“I’m not quite a man.”

That’s what he told me. I had to laugh. He didn’t take offense.

“I may have a man’s body but I still have a lot of growing to do, a lot of maturing.”

“That’s more evolved than most men would say. At least you can admit it.”

He looked at me in earnest. I ran my hand through his hair, and gripped it firmly—rolled his head round. We made out for a while. We kissed and I scratched my legs and we kissed and I scratched. I was twisted like a corkscrew. Eventually, I said, “Do you think we could switch sides?”

“Is it your back?” He asked empathetically.

I must have said something about it. I couldn’t remember.

“It’s much better now.” I didn’t like to admit weakness. I’ve always wanted to be perfect.

He sat on the other side of me, but I was still torqued. I felt fragile but also wise in a somber kind of way. Through the corner of my eye, I caught Miley Cyrus looking down at us on a big billboard. She was holding the handle of a bubblegum pink rotary phone to her ear.

“She’s calling our ex’s,” I quipped.

“Oh god, no.” That hit him a little too hard.

He crossed his outstretched legs. “You’ll find the right guy. You’ll have your white picket fence.”

It hurt my feelings he didn’t even pretend to be the one.

“I don’t want a white picket fence,” I said.

“You know what I mean. You’ll have your own version of it. You’ll be okay.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you're open and honest and kind. I just know it.”

“Thank you,” I said, feeling melancholy, like we were having a breakup.

I scratched my legs fiercely. “Look.” I showed him the bites. I counted at least seven.

“You wanna go?” he asked.

I didn’t want to go.

“I probably should,” I said.

We walked out of the dog park as if we belonged. Down the block, we passed two sloshed guys on a bench. Nate stopped to relight his joint. I waited a few feet ahead.

“Lucky you,” one of the guys called out to him.

“I’ve got issues,” Nate shouted back.

“Yeah,” the guy said, “your issue is five feet in front of you.” They spoke about me like I didn’t have ears—words between men. We briskly walked past them.

“What was that about?”

I knew. I just wanted him to look at me like he felt lucky.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“They were drunk.”

“Clearly.”

We necked in front of my parents’ building by a fire hydrant. I hoped my landlord, Joy, wouldn’t send my father another slut-shaming text. A couple years before, she’d caught me making out in the lobby.

Nate hugged me intensely, forcefully. I was afraid he’d vanish, turn to foam.

“We should exchange numbers,” I said. “Or do you think we’ll never see each other again?”

“What’s your number?” He got my digits. “I just say goodbye to people like that. I don’t know why.”

His light blue shirt was partially unbuttoned revealing tan skin. I fell into him which felt like a warm sigh. I gripped his muscular arms under his long sleeves. He ran his hands down my back and grabbed my ass. My leg wrapped around him. It felt so good. Maybe we could even have sex. Could I handle it without expectation? I didn’t know. I wished I had worn perfume.

“If we keep hooking up, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop,” he said. “And it would be irresponsible of me to have sex with you.”

“Why?” I whispered, tears pooling, but not spilling.

“Because you’re too vulnerable right now.”

Of course, that made me want him more.

“The pot will help with my blue balls,” he joked.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“You should never apologize for that.”

“I wasn’t really,” I said coyly.

“Is that a Warhol on the wall?” He asked, looking up into a brightly lit window on the second floor across the street.

“Yeah, of Marilyn Monroe. No one’s ever really there except for some trust fund kids who come and go. They keep the light on all the time.”

“Crazy,” he said and then looked at me with bright green eyes. “I should go before, you know…”

“I know,” I exhaled. “Thanks for being my first kiss since my ex. You’re going in my book.”

He kissed me harder. He kissed me even better. Then he walked away, turned around and smiled.

🌸

P.S. I’m keeping All That Jas free for now because I want these stories to be shared. But if you’d like to support my work—and help me keep creating—becoming a paid subscriber means the world.

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I did my first Substack live yesterday with none other than Holly Solem from Hollywould. She writes about sex, desire, beauty, power, and a damn good time — or not. When I stumbled upon her writing earlier this year, I marveled at her brutal honesty, self-awareness, free-spiritedness, and gumption. So when I was about to launch my Substack, I reached out to her over Instagram and asked her for some tips. She told me consistency was key (she publishes every Saturday and I’m trying to get better at that), and also to have fun. Gulp.

My interpretation: go for it. Play. Be imperfect. After all, we’re on this planet for how long? On my deathbed I don’t want to be groveling, thinking, well, I wasn’t sure if I could disguise so-and-so well enough and then I sat on it because the time came and passed. I thought that sex scene was too graphic, even though the writing felt so alive. But I didn’t want to be misinterpreted, to have men think it was about titillating them, when it was really about reclaiming myself, trying to find a way to see my body through my own eyes and not through their gaze.

A body that’s messy, sacred, beautiful, uncontrollable.

And well, I just want to cut the ropes and gags of shame, and the good-girl promises — to unravel it all. I guess what I’m trying to say is I still have a lot of ropes to cut. I still have a lot of power to both rage and flower into. I think I have more to give, although I have given, and more to say, although I’ve said, and more to primordial scream, although I have screamed.

What I’m really trying to say is that Holly is good at cutting those cords of shame, and she doesn’t apologize for it either. It was fun to finally meet her for the first time via Substack live and to explore and laugh, to see all that we have in common but also what makes us unique.

I hope you’ll also subscribe to her Substack Hollywould

And I hope you enjoy our Substack live.

Thank you to everyone who tuned into my live video! Join me for my next live video in the app.

P.S. I’m keeping All That Jas free for now because I want these stories to be shared. But if you’d like to support my work—and help me keep creating—becoming a paid subscriber means the world.

Find me on Instagram: https://instagram.com/jasminelobe

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