The Confession

Not everything in my life is sad these days.

I went to the beach this summer much more often than ever before. I started the summer going fairly regularly with one of my buddies, and when I introduced another one of my friends to the weekend festivities, the duo quickly became a trio (with Special Guest Stars whenever we invited others to join in, for we were not an exclusive bunch). The Beach Buddies were friends I could rely on during the weeks before the breakup, for the Ex never chose to join us. And then after the breakup, I couldn’t wait for the weekends to come so that I could escape to the waves, sand and clear air with these two high-spirited guys who could make me forget my troubles. There’s something about the ocean that feels cleansing and healing (even though the water isn’t remotely pristine here at the L.A. beaches). We would bring liquor, of course, continually topping off our cans of Diet Coke with rum as we drank them down, and usually polishing off a fifth between the three of us every visit. And we’d rate the physical attributes of the guys around us, picking out our Top Three Hottest Men. But mostly we’d just talk and laugh and joke around.

One afternoon, I was alone with Beach Bud #1. My best buddy—let’s call him B—had also joined us that day.

Was it the booze? Had the conversation turned serious, to matters of the heart? Was I just feeling unloved and alone? I don’t remember. But once B was out of earshot, Beach Bud #1 turned to me and said something like “So what are you going to do now that you’re single again?” “I don’t know,” I confided, “but I do know this: I am utterly, completely in love with B,” I confided.

And the thing is, I really meant it. Over the last several weeks, B had been continually advising me to communicate my feelings, but I knew that this wasn’t at all what he had in mind, even if it was something that was ready to explode out of me.

In clear sober hindsight, it wasn't necessarily completely true. But I will at least admit this much: I am definitely a little bit in love with B.

What the hell is love anyway?

I met B last April. The Ex knew him slightly from the gym but I had never seen him before, even though he lives a block away from me. He’s dark haired and kind of short (in other words, not tall and not blond, and thus entirely unsuitable for me at the moment). I didn’t particularly make note of him, really. He was extremely attractive, certainly, but something about his looks was distasteful to me. His blue eyes contrasted sharply with his brown hair and I thought that they glittered rather coldly. I know why. With his little prep-school nose, defined abs, cute hair and (as I later learned, after his shaved chest had grown out) ideally-patterned chest hair, he reminded me immediately of all those perfect looking rich boys I knew in college, the ones I despised and desired and wanted to be, a whole whirlwind of feelings mixed together in a sickening blend of self-loathing. He actually reminded me of one of my best college friends, an indecently handsome rich kid from Palm Beach (not West Palm Beach, mind you; he grew up on the fucking island!) who had spent his boarding school years at Choate.

Of course, I slept with him.

Drugs were involved. And it wasn’t just him. The Ex was there too, as was another guy. But foursomes generally devolve into two twosomes, and B and I ended up more or less paired off. I still wasn’t sure if I particularly liked him, but I certainly liked the idea of screwing someone who reminded me of my fantasy boarding school guys. When the sun came up after that sleepless night, Number Four left us to rejoin his friends, and B, the Ex and I set out for some breakfast.

As the drugs started wearing off, I gradually learned that B wasn’t merely some pretty party boy. He has an interesting career. He is smart. He has strong relationships with his friends. And he is funny. One of the things I like most about him is his great laugh; in the months to come I loved going to movies with him and listening to his uninhibitedly gleeful, boyish laughter ring out. And I realized that he was beautiful.

We quickly became close, all three of us, but I developed a very special close connection with him.

I was still hot for him, after that. That didn’t change. And we ended up in bed together a few more times, just the two of us. But I was still in the relationship, of course, and it never really occurred to me that B and I might possibly develop into anything more than really good friends and occasional bedmates.

Soon, however, I realized that I was completely captivated by him. I wanted to wrap him in my arms. When he fell asleep next to me, I thought that it was the cutest thing I had ever seen. I find his slightly crooked lower teeth entrancing. When we kiss each other, our standard greeting, it’s not just a quick brush of the lips; it’s a real, lingering smooch that means, well, something.

But it’s way beyond the physical stuff. He was the first person I told about the breakup. I don’t think I would have managed to get through the last several weeks without him. I’ve told him things about myself that I have never shared with anyone else. He has a knack for seeing right through any of my bullshit; he was particularly helpful during the extreme emotional turmoils of the Viking saga, helping me realize that what I was feeling so painfully wasn’t necessarily what was really going on.

I’m not his best friend. His ex probably qualifies. I don’t care. I’m not in a competition. B is the one person I call every day. He’s the one I most want with me when I go out. He’s the one I wish the best for.

And even though I’m not what he’s looking for in a partner, I do wonder what it might be like to end up with him. Still, this isn’t remotely some tragic unrequited love. I’m here if he ever needs me, but most of all, I value him, if not as a lover, then as the closest friend I’ve ever had, and I’m lucky to have him in my life.

Or is that just icky?

I told you this was going to be messy.