A Virgin in L.A.

A Virgin in L.A., Chapter 1: The Line

A VIRGIN IN L.A

By Tricia Cerrone

Chapter One-The Line

     My philosophy on true love was based on the three 'R's. Religion. Romance novels. Reality TV.    

     When you ignored the first two and watched too much of the third, you ended up where I was right now. Naked, flat on my back, legs spread. With a friend no less. Kyle. Reaching into his wallet for a condom.

     It was an action that provoked two immediate thoughts. How long should you wait for true love? And, this really wasn't a very dignified position.

     It struck me that this was what happened to people who did not heed the warnings of Reality TV. They ended up doing 'the ridiculous' with someone to whom they weren't even remotely attracted.

     I have definitely been in L.A. too long. I used to be the foremost advocate of true love.

     I looked up at Kyle, between my knees, trying to open the little, square package with careful, scientific eyes. I loved Kyle as a friend but I wasn't, by any stretch, in love with him. Only, what was I waiting for? I was almost thirty. Too old to still be having this dilemma. What if my philosophy on true love was wrong? What if there was no such thing as that magical love where people were physically, mentally and spiritually bonded? This might be all there was. Spiritless sex. So why not go for it?

     A long lost part of my consciousness cried out in silent protest.

     I squashed the cry. With surprising ease, I noted.

     I have definitely been in L.A. too long.

     It was the smog, I decided, distracting myself while Kyle turned the package another direction, trying to locate the easy-rip opening.

     Smog was responsible for over 4200 deaths a year in the L.A. Metropolitan area. If it can kill, then it only made sense that it could suffocate hope, permeate your soul, warp your conscience, and disenchant your heart. Right? It's a known fact that large doses made it hurt to breathe. Like a constant heartache. It hurt to breathe. Perhaps that's what killed my belief in true love. I lived in a love-sucking environment.

     My eyes went fuzzy for a moment, as if there was smog in my room. I blinked to clear my vision. Strange...I definitely wasn't blind with passion. I turned to the offending source. Candles. Ah. An attempt to simulate romance.

     I glanced back up. Giving up on finesse, Kyle had the offensive square packet between his teeth.

     Kyle was such a fun guy. And we had good conversation chemistry. Maybe the other chemistry wasn't exactly there, but he didn't seem to mind. I mean, it's not like a guy needs chemistry to have sex, right?

     I heard a sigh of relief. Kyle conquered the wrapper. It went flying of the side of the bed.

     I tried to follow its path, with my romance-burned vision, fearing my maid would find it later and think the worst. She knew I wasn't dating anyone.

     The condom litter hit an ice-blue wall and fell to the hardwood floor near a stack of books. I caught sight of a 16-ouncer on the floor nearby. Water. Suddenly it was the center of my existence. Between the romantic pollutants and the effort to work up a sexual sizzle, I was dying of thirst. Would it be rude to reach for a drink right now?

     And what about the water?

     L.A. was suffering from an abundance of polluted tap water. If all the air and water being carried through my body, and feeding my organs, was contaminated, didn't it make sense that those same chemicals could invisibly, slowly, and with parasitic surety, rearrange my once healthy outlook into a desperate, confused, pleasure-seeking loner? Wasn't L.A. the capital of desperate, confused, pleasure-seeking loners? Coincidence? Or something in the environment?