Funny You Should Ask: Coming soon to Apple TV!

by Elissa Sussman

“Has anyone ever told you that you kind of look like one of those cat-clock things?” he asked.

I could have listened to him say my name all day long. Because he said it as if he was tasting it.

I’m pretty sure people in New York watch bad TV. They just do it in smaller apartments.

I knew that actors and actresses made sacrifices to look the way they did, but I’d never really thought much about it. I just enjoyed looking at the results.

He laughed. It was a great laugh, all low and dark and rich. If chocolate cake had a laugh, it would be that.

“I didn’t think it was possible for so many words to come out of somebody’s mouth that quickly,” he said. “And I auditioned for Gilmore Girls.”

“You moved to New York,” he says. “It’s what writers do.”

I want to be mad at a man, and this one will do just fine.

“He wears his jeans too tight,” she’d say. “That means he’s insecure about his dick size.”

“I’m not his type.” She rolled her eyes. “Guys like that aren’t having sex with you because they’re attracted to you,” she said. “They do it because they can. Because they know you want it. And that’s what gets them off. Their type is anyone who can stroke their ego. And they care way more about that getting stroked than their dick.”

As it was, I still wasn’t sure this whole thing wasn’t a drawn-out fever dream brought on by staring at shirtless pictures of Gabe before going to bed each night.

I was ninety-five percent sure that this wasn’t sexual. That five percent, though . . .

I imagined that one of the perks of being a celebrity was being able to abandon articles of clothing and knowing they’d be fine. Or just not caring.

He swung me around as if we were ballroom dancing instead of in the middle of a gay nightclub where everyone was half-naked, sweaty, and about one Jell-O shot away from retreating to a corner to fuck.

“You think he doesn’t have feelings?” Ollie asked. “He’s an actor. He has all of them.”

The music became part of you. It became you. When a song like that came on, you were nothing more than a vessel for its splendor.

It was another great song—whoever was in charge of the music tonight must have just plugged the speaker directly into my memories.

I was too drunk. Not just on alcohol, but on the intoxication of being close to someone I’d lusted after for a long, long time. Someone who’d felt untouchable. Unattainable.

What is this Dirty Dancing shit?

It felt like a scene out of a movie. The whole thing was bizarre and surreal and unbearably sexy.

Here was one of the hottest guys on the planet—according to People magazine—and he was turned on and pressed up against me.

the feminist masterpiece Magic Mike XXL

I checked myself out in the mirror, while also practicing how to graciously turn down the cocaine I assumed I’d be offered.

“I’m good,” I tried again. “I’m high on life.” I shook my head. “You’re ridiculous,” I told myself. “No one is going to waste cocaine on you.”

No. I was being ridiculous. If there wasn’t cocaine, there probably wasn’t any free love. Despite the house—with its raunchy seventies vibes—practically begging for it.

“That’s my girl,” he said. I blushed. Fiercely.

“Fuck,” he murmured. “I want . . .” Whatever he wanted, I was completely willing to give him. “You feel so good,” he said. “You feel so good . . . baby.”

My skin feels tight, like lust is a wild animal pacing beneath it.

THE COZY RECOMMENDS is written across the top. And there are my books. Right in the middle. The place of honor. And beneath them is a handwritten sign: RECOMMENDED BY GABE. Smart, funny, addictive nonfiction, the card reads in what I assume is Gabe’s writing—blocky and a bit uneven. You’ll be thinking about it long after you’ve put it down. “We’re big fans here.” Elizabeth beams at me.

Why am i cryinggg

“I thought we’d established that I’ve read everything you’ve written.” It’s one of the hottest things anyone has ever said to me.

She seems like a wonderful person to make happy.

“I want you,” Gabe says. “I’ve wanted you. Since the first moment.”

His lips are still on mine, resting there, not kissing but not not-kissing. Like a placeholder. A promise.

“There’s nothing just about you,” he says.

I know that if we do this, I’ll never get over him.

“Mmm,” he says, the sound strained and distant, as if he’s reciting baseball statistics or math equations or whatever men do when they’re too turned on to function.

We’re both chasing the same thing, racing toward it together.

I’m aware of nothing but where our bodies connect. Hands. Hips. Lips. There’s a shudder and at first I can’t tell if it’s me or him, but then I’m lost. I explode like a star.

I have that feeling of not belonging. What it was like in New York. What it’s been like in L.A. I’m wondering if I just don’t feel at home in myself anymore.

I can’t promise that I’ll be worth it.”