Rocky Road
The day dawned when I arrived in La La land, the City of Angels, Los Angeles.
I was so excited to be there, but scared at the same time. My feelings have always been turbulent and a source of my undoing. Mostly I have ignored them and numbed them, in that order. I was done numbing them, having been clean and sober for some six or seven months, with the help of the fellowships of Alcoholics and Narcotics Anonymous respectively. My trepidation at arriving in a strange city, particularly the city in which the film industry was birthed, and in which I was to be peripherally involved, made me somewhat nervous. I had won a competition to appear on an international television show in Los Angeles.
I decided to make contact with a mutual friend of someone back home, who is in the fellowship, so that I could accompany her to a Friday night AA meeting. My only intention was to maintain my sobriety. I had no idea what lay ahead. My sobriety was indeed in jeopardy, but not at all for the reasons I imagined it might be.
I arrived timeously at the meeting with her, after she collected me from my swish Beverly Hills hotel. I was listening intently to the person sharing their experience, strength and hope, which is what happens at these meetings.
Next thing, I became aware of a dark presence, which had suddenly arrived, at the end of the row behind me, a little to my left. I turned my head, and I saw him sitting there, cool as can be; the quintessential ‘bad boy’ to which I am naturally, inexplicably drawn, despite my knowledge to the contrary; ‘Bad,’ as in the dictionary definition: ‘rotten, evil, ruthless, merciless, cruel, base, shameless, debauched, depraved, wicked, corrupt, immoral, dirty, dumb, controllable’. He represented the bad boys I’d wanted to change. In fact, he was later to label himself ‘bad turned good,’ a profile which endeared him to me even more.
A big, tattooed bicep first caught my eye, then a striking hawk-like profile, and an air of macho arrogance. He completely ignored my not-so-subtle glance. I was captivated, and didn’t hear a word for the rest of the meeting, feeling self-conscious and distracted, furtively glancing behind me at regular intervals, straining my eyes in the process. He never looked at me, not once.
I couldn’t stand it. I knew that he had to be aware of me looking at him.
After the meeting, I went over to speak to him. It happens as a matter of course; people chat, have coffee afterwards and welcome the newcomers. I selfishly and unceremoniously made a beeline for him, with intent. I almost knocked down two rows of chairs. I wanted to talk to him. He had a divine deep voice, with his American accent, which I found so sexy. Even his name sounded sexy, “Johnny Rocky” or “Rocky,” as he liked to call himself.
He stood so close to me that I could smell him, and put his leg up against the chair next to me, closing me in. The things he spoke of, in great spiritual terms, made so much sense to me. He spoke of surrendering my will and my life to a loving Higher Power, which would be my salvation in the weak moments of the crippling disease of addiction. He sounded so high-minded and profound. I was intrigued. My heart beat faster. This man held me totally captive. I wasn’t the only one; he seemed to be flanked by women in the fellowship, which only strengthened my resolve. The women at the club all seemed so proprietary over him, and naturally, hostile toward me. I didn’t care, apparently neither did he, he made me feel like I was the only woman alive, gazing at me, with a long and lingering stare.
I kissed him on the mouth before I left. I’m usually flirtatious, but this man was so sexy, I was downright forward. I left that evening, enthralled, but certain that I wouldn’t see him again, so it didn’t really matter. I had other plans that weekend in any event. But as fate would have it, our paths were to cross again, and honestly, I may have facilitated their crossing.
That same friend invited me to Sunday brunch in Venice Beach. We ate, and then I left on my own to explore the shops and beach. She arranged to fetch me from the beach after visiting her friend. She was then to drop me off at my swish hotel, as she had a workout scheduled in the park. I had to check out of that hotel to move back to my hotel in downtown LA. The workout, however, peaked my interest, as it was to be done by none other but this same Rocky, of the Friday night meeting.
“Do you mind if I join you?” I casually asked her.
“I’m sure its fine,” she replied. I asked her to check with him. Of course he didn’t mind. I arranged a late checkout of the hotel, and we headed off to the park.
As I arrived, he gave me a long lascivious look, devouring me with his dark eyes, and then very professionally ignored me, despite the fact that this girlfriend had told me that he would hit on me. He didn’t, until I asked him to hold my mobile phone. He immediately punched his number into my phone and called his phone, thereby saving my number. “You are so delicious!” he silently mouthed to me, when the other women weren’t looking. I felt myself flush red. He then sent me the same by way of text message later that day. How does one respond to “You are sooo delicious…” all in upper case? I did not, though I wanted to see him again. However, I knew that I was leaving the week thereafter, so there was little point.
But I also knew that he was leading a candlelight meeting that evening. I wanted to go, but my new friend informed me that my downtown hotel was too far for her to travel, and she had to get up early for work the next morning.
In the meantime, some geezer I’d heard sharing his story at another Saturday meeting called me, ostensibly because he wanted to hear my story.
Yeah, right. The rooms abound with sexual predators; I was just too young in recovery to see them for what they are. He asked me out for dinner; I told him I would rather attend a candlelight meeting at an AA club in West LA; the very club that Rocky just happened to manage. He agreed to go, and arranged to fetch me from my downtown hotel.
As we arrived, I walked ahead of him up the stairs of the entrance to the building. He breathed rather heavily (he was old and overweight), and lecherously mumbled something about my ass. I blanched, horrified and disgusted. He was old enough to be my father, possibly even older than that, and quite physically repulsive to me. I was affronted, and then suddenly afraid. I wondered what his intentions were. I sat down, wide-eyed, staring Bambi-like into space, when a deep voice drawled softly next to me: “How you doin?” I later discovered that this line was stolen from a character in the hit television series “Friends,” a pick-up line. I looked down next to my chair, and there he was, on his haunches beside me.
I felt a wave of relief and furtively glanced and nodded in the direction of my escort, whose presence was now disturbing. “Whose that guy?” he asked, in my ear. I just shook my head. My face said it all. “Do you want me to get rid of him?” he whispered. Again, I wordlessly nodded, heart beating at a speed. He immediately took control of the situation. “Thanks for bringing Franki,” I heard him say, shaking the first man’s hand, whilst patting him a little too hard on the back, “I owe her dinner,” he skillfully lied, “so I’ve got it from here. Thanks again.” And off he strode to lead the meeting, winking at me as he strutted past like the cat that got the canary.
I didn’t react to how easily the lies rolled off his tongue; just being grateful at having escaped the first letch. The rooms abound with lecherous predators, notwithstanding a definite admonishment to the contrary, which is read out at the beginning of meetings: “This is not a singles club for sexual adventurers, if you are here to find a vulnerable victim, we ask that you leave and go elsewhere.” What did I know? I thought people paid attention to the things that were said.
I should mention that I am ‘body dysmorphic’: I imagine myself to be a short, fat, ugly person, when I am in fact quite striking; tall, blonde and reasonably well proportioned, though I don’t see it. I’m always pleasantly surprised when I see my image reflected in photographs. I have always played myself ‘down.’ It doesn’t matter what others see, nor how much attention I seem to evoke.
I had mumbled something about liking Rocky, and the old letch next to me had the cheek to say, out loud, “You find that attractive?” His tone dripping with sarcasm and obvious disapproval. It was strangely reminiscent of my father’s reaction the first time he had sight of my first love, Sly. Sly by name and sly by nature. No matter, my reaction was the same; it only reinforced my attraction to him. Sly had arrived to collect me for our first date. I was excruciatingly nervous, rightly so. His entrance to my family home, as I opened the front door, was accompanied by my father’s drunken bark, “What the fuck is that?”
So, I loved him, Sly. I had first seen his beautiful long dark curls from behind and his tattooed bicep. Then I met him and was smitten. Sly had alluring blue eyes and a sideways smirk that had me from the outset. I gave myself over despite, or because of, everyone’s reservations. It seems nothing had changed.
After the meeting, Rocky asked if I was hungry. I was too nervous to eat, and it was too late anyway. He stopped at a grocery store to get some food. Nervously, I asked what he expected from me. As if mortally wounded, he stopped abruptly, grabbing me by the shoulders with both hands and looking me deep in the eye, “I only want to listen to you and enhance the spiritual part of your life.”
That did it. I was convinced. I felt safe from harm with this man. He had allayed my fears with his sincerity. He seemed to be genuinely interested in me, not just my physical form.
He came back to my hotel, and up to my room, needing to eat. I did not. He listened to me speak, encouraging me to share too much about my personal troubled relationships, life, failed love and the universe in general. I made myself vulnerable to this total stranger because he seemed so caring; he appeared to be genuinely listening to me, punctuating my monologue at appropriate intervals with the right noises. I felt so connected to him, and so content. I eventually felt safe enough to fall asleep in my enormous king size bed. When I awoke he was still there, fully clad in his vest and jeans, even down to his socks, behaving with all due decorum. Or so I thought.
In fact, he kept his socks on for such a long time thereafter that I began to wonder whether he had deformed toes, (mine are somewhat gnarled from years of being en pointe, damaged in ballet shoes, so it is my issue) or whether he had toes at all. He did; they were ugly, yellow fungal-nailed protrusions, but at least they were there. My fear of physical deformity was abated.
I don’t think he’d even kissed me. I believed him to be the perfect gentleman, having not made a single inappropriate move on me. I believed him when he said he had the utmost respect for me. I was thrilled at finally having met a man who didn’t aim for the area below my waist. He seemed special and different, treating me as though I were special and different too.
After I had showered and dressed, he took me for lunch at a wonderful Oriental restaurant in downtown LA, darkly cosy and romantic, in our own little booth. He had not showered, but then I supposed it was because he was in my hotel room. I did, however, notice that he had gone down to his car to change his shirt. He ordered all the food- too much- but all very tasty, and we drank iced tea and laughed. I thought he was wonderfully entertaining and solicitous.
He didn’t want me to leave his side. I thought that romantic, not obsessive at all. He later took me back to the West LA club, for our mutual friend was leading that evening’s meeting. The energy flowing between us was palpable, and everyone present was sensitive to it. There were knowing smirks at one another and at us. I was later told that everyone had thought that we were having hot sex at that stage; I think we’d barely exchanged a kiss, though we were exchanging long, adoring looks at one another.
The majority of people in the rooms are very much like the majority of people anywhere: some nondescript, others striking, and some just plain ugly. But their true natures reveal themselves when they share their stories, and it is then that their characters emerge, and just like in any other situation, one soon finds those that one is drawn to. I’d found mine. I couldn’t take my eyes off him, and every time he stared at me; a lingering, long look, I felt my heart racing. I’d found my angel in the City of Angels.
I can’t quite remember the exact detail when I finally slept with him. The detail is unimportant, but suffice it to say that the reason I can’t remember is because it was, well, unmemorable. But on the Wednesday, he stopped me in the main street outside my hotel, holding me tightly by both arms and looking deeply into my eyes, “I love you,” he sincerely declared.
“Oh,” I stammered, nervously, “Um, thanks?”
He didn’t leave it there, “Don’t you feel it?” Without waiting for a response, he continued, “we are meant to be together. I believe, in my opinion that God brought us together for a reason. There is a reason that you came to me, at this time. We are destined to be!” He was so emphatic; I was starting to believe him. Its true, if you believe something so strongly, it becomes reality, and his was manifesting before his eyes.
“I guess so,” I stammered, not quite convinced, but always so open to outside persuasion. It’s true what they say: “if you don’t stand for something, you’ll fall for anything.” Indeed. Like I said, I can’t remember the detail around when I finally succumbed to his advances, it was nothing spectacular, but he loved me, so it was okay, right? I illogically reasoned.
He used the spiritual principles of the program of recovery to persuade me that my Higher Power was bestowing this as a reward upon me, one of the many gifts of recovery. I believed him; it was too good to be true.
And, you know what they say: if it seems too good to be true, it probably is.
