Pinot Noir and a Lonely Boudoir

A few words!

Hi there and welcome back to my channel! Just kidding. But honestly, I'm so glad you're here, reading this story. A word of caution: this story is mildly sexual in nature. If you read my last piece, well...this one is absolutely nothing like it, which is what I enjoy so far about Reedsy Prompts. I'm able to tell all of these different, unique stories. It's pretty rad.

Like the contest and prompt would suggest, this story is about a pandemic. What I encourage you to do, dear reader, is remove COVID-19 from your mind as you read this story. While the viral pandemic in my story hits close to home and may remind you of a few things you've experienced yourself, I wrote it to be separate from our current pandemic reality. Its own chaos.

And while the story is centered around a pandemic, at the end of the day, my characters are more than the plot that surrounds them, much like we're more than our own reality. Yes, the pandemic has been an awful tragedy that will go down in history and still has a firm grip on our lives, but you're still here, reading these stories. We're still hoping. Still loving. Still growing.

My hearts go out to those of you who have lost people or parts of your life during this last year.

Cheers.

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Javier: Hey! How was your presentation for work today?

Zoe: Nowhere near as scary as I thought it would be, tbh! It felt good to get one under my belt. Next staff meeting will hopefully be a breeze now!

Javier: That’s awesome! I figured you would kick its ass. ;)

Zoe: It helps being able to wear my comfy pants, because…Zoom. Lol

Javier: Soooo true.

Javier: Soooo I know things are a little…crazy right now in the world, but I’d really like a chance to see you outside of FaceTime.

Zoe: Ugh…I know. I feel that.

Javier: I was wondering if you’d like to get coffee tomorrow? We could even just walk around that park you said is near your apartment. Maybe sit at a respectable distance on a park bench? Lol

Dating during a global pandemic? Yeah. Sure. No problem! Said no one ever.

We’re six months into a viral pandemic. I haven’t messaged Javier back yet, even though a good fifteen minutes has gone by.

I was an active member of the apps – you know, the apps – prior to my state being shut down and before masks became a clothing accessory rather than purely a necessity. Currently, I tend to traffic more of the Etsy-like apps to step up my mask game than I do Tindr, Bumble, Hinge, or Coffee Meets Bagel.

I sit on the edge of my bed and stare in the direction of my bedside table, where my vibrator is tucked into a delicate, frilly music box that belonged to my Great Aunt Bonnie – who was something of a free love kind of character during the ‘60s, so I like to think this is my way of paying homage to the great lady. Even though she died two years ago and I inherited the music box afterwards, I still have to stifle a snort when I open the box and a little tinkle of Für Elise plays before I grab the phallic-shaped pleasure device hidden inside.

I hold it limply – no pun intended – assessing its shape, its bright magenta coloring, and the fact that it is a far cry from the real thing.

I throw it back in the box and slam the drawer shut.

Hi. My name is Zoe Gillespie and I’m a twenty-five-year-old woman with Lupus trying to survive being immunosuppressed while also maintaining any semblance of a romantic life during a global pandemic.

Hi Zoe!

I’ve mostly begun to accept the reality of the lack of intimacy I’ve had with any human being in the last 188 days – but who’s counting? – and that on yet another beautiful, Saturday evening, my plans are lackluster at best. They usually involve a bottle of Pinot Noir and bingeing another few episodes of Ozark, arguably one of the least romantic shows in my Netflix queue, because I simply can’t bear to watch another saucy rom-com that only ends with one thing – a trip to the music box.

Dating used to be easy for me. And I say this with zero percent hubris, I promise. It was a simple pleasure in my pre-pandemic lifestyle. After the gut-punch Lupus diagnosis and the end of a long-term relationship as I began grad school, I decided to spend more time taking chances, fewer moments pondering assurances. The ease of dating simply came from my lack of concern.

At the tender age of 23, still a wee, naïve babe in the eyes of society, I became a serial dater of sorts. No, that’s not right. A serial sex enthusiast is probably more fitting. I gravitated towards dating apps, like most Millenials who are on the cusp of being a Zoomer, but I was open to the chance meeting of a stranger in a cramped, one-room coffeehouse off campus. Much like I savored the piping hot espresso in my cappuccino, I saw fit to thoroughly enjoy the fruits of my labor. Dating is hard work and a girl deserves to be rewarded.

Zach:

The always-stoned, man-bunned college dropout who worked at said cramped coffeehouse. What he lacked in IQ points - and trust me, there wasn’t a lot going on up there under the pouf of hair - he made up for with his deviously skilled tongue.

Arturo:

My seat neighbor in my Intro to Public Policy Analysis course. Brains, beauty, and brawn (every part of him, if you catch my drift), this one was the whole package. Too bad he left for a job back in his home country of Guatemala, no doubt saving the world with his progressive - dare I say, sexy? - approach to policy.

Charlie:

The good boy. The model citizen turned law student who had an appetite for his mama’s blue-ribbon-award-winning pecan pie, Dr. Pepper, and reverse cowgirl. I try not to hold that against the tall, blond Texan.

Ishaan:

The thirty-something coworker of my cousin, Paul. We met at Paul’s wedding and bonded over our love of Two Buck Chuck. I told him that I drank the wine because it was all I could afford. Ishaan said he drank it because he enjoyed the nostalgia of his college years that came with each sip. I whispered to him that it happened to be a staple in my messy, leaky studio apartment and we high-tailed it back there as soon as the dance floor emptied out. 

I won’t bore you with the rest of the salacious details, but let’s just chalk it up to this: dating, having lots of sex, was my thing. And I was damn good at it.

Of course, like all good things, it couldn’t last. I lost steam quickly. Instead of being introduced to attractive groomsmen, I was soon acquainted with chronic fatigue, known well to those who suffer from this ridiculous disease.

“What even is Lupus?” I asked my best friend, Dominique, over a bottle of expensive pinot noir - that I definitely couldn’t afford - shortly after the diagnosis. “Of course I would get diagnosed with the disease equivalent of the word ‘moist’. Have you heard the way Lupus sounds on your tongue?”

I was slowing down. Both from my disease and because I was tired of it all. Tired of the one-night-stands, the robotic finger swiping, the hungover feeling of reorienting myself with my body after allowing these men personal access to it. It’s as if my body was telling my heart - and maybe a couple of lady parts - “Hey...not so fast. Slow down and enjoy someone.”

Right when I met a wonderful guy named Javier, a viral pandemic swooped in and brought the world - mine, his, yours, ours - to a virtual standstill.

Sure, I still have my job as a policy analyst at an amazing nonprofit and I’m grateful for that, especially since I’d only just started before the pandemic hit. We still have piles of work to do and we’re all working from home, so not only is my job safe, but my body is safe. I’m fortunate that I haven’t had to experience the death of a family member or friend because of this virus.

But dating a nice guy? Having sex with a human man instead of a pink vibrator? Not in the equation. It’s not even factored in. I’ve been taking prednisone for a while now, which has weakened my immune system, which means your girl can’t go anywhere beyond her four walls.

Fragile body + killer virus = devastatingly lonely

I rise from the fetal position I’ve found myself in on the bed. I pad to the tiny, galley kitchen in my shitty studio. I reach for a bottle of pinot.

Scratch that. My arm stops mid-grab and I wiggle my fingers as I try to pick my poison from the crammed shelves in my cabinets.

Tonight calls for scotch. I reach for the bottle of The Glenlivet and pour myself a couple fingers - and maybe a newborn baby’s pinky - of the amber liquid. 

And then I double that.

I head to the couch that I found outside of a dumpster near a freshman dorm. In near pristine condition, mind you! All you have to do is ignore the bite marks on the armrest and you’re good.

I stare at those bite marks now and wonder what my life has come to.

I decide to peruse PetFinder for cats, which is how I spend the other part of my day when I’m not working, masturbating, or watching Jason Bateman ruin yet another innocent Missourian’s life. I’m about to throw down one hundred dollars for an adorable maine coon named Cindy Clawford when a text notification comes through.

Javier: Too good for park benches, huh? How about a gazebo? Or I could find a tasteful arch for us to stand beneath?

I smile. One has to admire his persistence. It doesn’t hurt that he’s gorgeous. Or that he’s a firefighter. Apparently it’s just my luck that he belongs on the cover of a risqué romance novel.

Javier: Oh c’mon, that at least earns me a tongue-sticky-outie emoji, right?

…

Zoe: I’m partial to a winky-tongue-sticky-outie emoji. ;P

Javier: Wow - you didn’t strike me as the type!

Zoe: But in all seriousness…

I send the text, willing myself to follow it up with the usual, “I just don’t see this going anywhere”, which has been the lie that I’ve told the last few decent men I’ve interacted with. It’s easier.

But my fingers do something entirely different tonight. Maybe it’s the whiskey or punny cat names that are going to my head, or maybe it’s the fact that Javier doesn’t have the attention-span of a fruit fly like some people, but I do something that even I didn’t expect.

Zoe: I have to be honest with you.

Javier: Let me guess...you don’t have a belly button, do you? I’ve read stories about that. Don’t worry, I won’t judge!

Zoe: Lol

Zoe: No, I have a perfectly normal innie belly button.

I decide to FaceTime him, because I want to know how his beautiful face will look when he finds out that I can’t go anywhere anytime soon.

Before he even opens his mouth, I blurt it out in one long stream-of-conscious kind of thread. “I have Lupus it’s an autoimmune disease and yes I know that the word Lupus is so weird and gross and I don’t think that you’ll want to be with someone like me because we have no clue where this pandemic is taking us and we could all be dead in six months and cockroaches will outlive us all --”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” He’s laughing. He’s actually laughing at me while I’m pouring out my little Lupus-weakened soul! “Take a breath, Zoe.”

I do as I’m told and take a few, deep belly breaths like my virtual yoga instructor taught me.

He smiles and if a smile could be quiet, that’s how I would define his. It calms me instantly. “So, you have Lupus. I’m so sorry you’re dealing with that. But I get it.” He pauses and takes a sip of what appears to be some sort of red wine. A man after my own heart. “My mom actually had a heart transplant nine months ago. Then the virus started spreading all over the country. She’s doing well, but I haven’t been able to see her since then. It’s been challenging.”

I sigh, deflated by the toll this year has taken on all of us. “And you don’t want to talk anymore, because then it’s yet another person you can’t touch, can’t hold, right?”

He starts laughing again! I pout at him. “I’m sorry. I’m being so rude. It’s just that you’re so cute when you’re wrong.” He smiles and then looks sincere again. “I’m taking this as seriously as you, Zoe. Though I can’t pretend to know what it’s like to be you, I can say that I’m serious about this. And I’m serious about you. I want you to be safe.”

And then he says the words that make my body go limp.

“And I’ll wait as long as we need.”

Dating used to be easy. Having sex with willing men used to be simple. This is anything but.

I try to hold back tears, because this is one of the first truly great things to happen in over half a year. 

I stare at him very seriously and I ask a burning question: “How do you feel about adopting a cat named Cindy Clawford? She needs a good home, but I don’t think I can logistically adopt her right now. You like cats, right?”

Side smile again. “I love cats.”

And you know something? I think it’s worth it.