CHAPTER 2: SLEEP WITH DAVID DUCHOVNY
I almost met the actor/musician/novelist David Duchovny countless times; at a Malibu Dr.'s office, the Dodgers Skybox and when he hosted Regis and Kelly - twice.
If he could love Larry Sanders, I argued, well, then, why not me?
When we meet at St. Mark’s Bookshop in the Village, Duchovny sits in a corner reading a US Magazine and eating Kale soup. His hair looks amazing.
He's fit. Still plays basketball…
“David,” I begin, “I’m Cece. Your agent told me I would find you here.”
“Hi, Cece. Care for some soup?"
“I’m a Pescatarian. It’s basically a vegetarian plus fish.”
“I think I figured it out, thanks.”
“So, Cece, why are you here?”
“Well, I’m your biggest fan and want to have sexual intercourse with you
before my fortieth birthday,”
“Really? I’m flattered, but we just met. I hardly know you.”
“Like that matters? I thought you were a nymphomaniac?”
“Fine, you can try and give me a hand job,” he says, unenthused, “My
anti-anxiety medication keeps me pretty limp though, F.Y.I.”
“I’m the only person who actually saw your film, House of D, with Robin
Williams as a retard, and all I get to do is give you a hand job?”
“I’m afraid I’m late for my two o’clock; the life of a sex addict. You
know, I’m booked most of the day.”
“I love you, David Duchovny. I thought you’d read me Irish poetry and
then let me sit on your face?"
“That’s my four o’clock.”
“Then kiss me!”
“I only kiss women I love.”
“Kundera? You’re going to throw Milan Kundera in my face? I know you were a Lit major at Princeton and all, but, do you even know who I am? Do you have any idea who you are dealing with here?"
If we are going to have a literary battle at some point, I want to dig my feet deep into the trenches and get my fists pumped up.
“You’re nothing like the man I love. I hate you, DAVID DUCHOVNY!”
I yell and grab my Agent Provocateur bag and Good Vibrations UPS box and start to head toward the door.
“I’m out of here you low brow, stinky Vegan!”
“Pescatarian!” he corrects.
“Whatever!” I answer back.
I grab the US Magazine out of his hands and hit him over the head with it multiple times. I enjoy this.
“Ouch!” he says
I throw the Fox Mulder figurine I bought at Toys R Us ( nearly fifteen years ago) at his head, and miss. Then I throw an economy bottle of lube at his head that, at five pounds, could double as a hand weight for bicep curls. I finally make contact with his face.
“Jesus, Cece! That one’s gonna leave a mark” he says, covering his right eye with his hand. Then I throw the only thing left in my purse – a box of Magnum sized condoms. Overly ambitious, I know, but that Internet video of him in a bathtub…
“I’m smarter than you, David Duchovny, Mr. Ivy League, big-dick, New York bastard. And I just ate a burger 30 minutes ago – rare!”
I stick my tongue out for extra emphasis.
“You’re a live wire aren’t you, Cece?”
“I’m just a disappointed fan” I answer.
David Duchovny blocks the front door so I can’t leave. He’s taller than I am and his cashmere sweater smells like….Wild Alaskan Salmon and…warm chocolate chip cookies.
“Wait, stay and I’ll cancel the rest of my afternoon for you.” he offers.
“Just take me to that burger place? The thought of red meat is getting my nipples hard. Then I’ll sleep with you, okay?”
“Oh, alright, then.”
We hold hands and take a taxi to Bryant Park in search of some beef.
Sitting outside of the Shake Shack, surrounded by autumn leaves and Peeping Toms, Duchovny downs a double beef patty with bacon and French fries. I sip on a chocolate shake.
“The sex addict thing, it’s just for publicity,” he begins, “It keeps me in the press. I really just go to the GAP and try on jeans during these so called sex appointments.”
“So, then, the well-endowed thing is also a gimmick, for the press?” I ask.
“Oh, no, well, actually that is true. That’s why I’m always at the GAP. My life’s quest is to find the perfect pair of pleated pants.”
He licks the bacon grease off of his fingers, one by one.
“I kind of don’t like to talk about it – my size and all – it brings up, “flashbacks” you know?” Duchovny continues.
“Flashbacks?” I ask.
“I…well, I nearly smothered a girl to death at a Club Med recently. She’s pressing charges and we’re trying to keep a lid on it. We’re lucky because no one even knows what a Club Med is anymore.”
I slam my hand down hard on the table, nearly breaking it.
“Wait, stop, you meant to tell me that your dick is so big, that you nearly smothered a girl to death?
David Duchovny just shrugs his shoulders.
“And we haven’t met until today, because?”
“Well, I’m not allowed to touch or be touched by a woman for the next nine months, or at least that’s what my lawyer tells me. I’m hopped up on anti-anxiety medication from the stress of it all. Couldn’t get it up even if I wanted to. Sorry.”
“Thanks for the burger. I needed some iron in my diet. I’m practically anemic. Can’t make it through another Iron Man without it” he continues.
Goddam Vegans; I mean… Pescatarians.
“Hey, would you like to come over to my place and watch Masterpiece Theater? I have some gluten free Vegan pot brownies in the freezer?”
And then limp dick David Duchovny grabs my hand in his and flags a cab for us on Sixth Ave.
We spend most of the night in his apartment reading aloud and laughing at his unfinished dissertation from Yale. I bribed his academic adviser months earlier to print me a copy. I practically knew it by heart; even the dated CBGB references.
“Let me guess, you’ve probably never been with more than a handful of men…” he begins.
I hope he doesn’t hear me swallow.
“Maybe less?” he tries again.
“You’re wrong, David. I’m a big slut. And I’ve got the tramp stamp to prove it!”
I try to lift my shirt over my head to show David my lower back, but I have an extra-large head and I get stuck in the fabric.
“That’s not a tattoo” he corrects.
“I’m sorry. I lied to you. It’s just a scar from a botched epidural.”
“Sit here” he says and grabs my behind with both hands and sits me on his lap. Frisky, I think, getting excited for a second, but then remember there’s no chance we are hooking up tonight. Bummer. I pull my shirt back down, embarrassed.
“Pick a book, any book, and I will read it to you.” Now this, this gets me hot. How did David know this is my biggest fantasy –including the brownies?
I grab Franny and Zooey, the less obvious choice, on his Salinger shelf, and sit back down on his warm lap.
“I heard you were the most well-read actor in Hollywood.”
He reads me – the whole book – downing two bottles of Chateau Latour, Leonard Cohen’s favorite wine, he tells me, while eating the whole plate of brownies. Without the stress of a hard on, I kind of relax in Duchovny’s arms and…fall asleep. Goddam narcolepsy.
And then Salinger’s last words pertaining to the serenity of quiet sleep. Brownies finished and candles burned down, I wake up to Duchovny gently kissing my forehead. God, he smells good. Like fresh Red Snapper.
“I… should go” I say as I turn my head trying to wipe the drool away from my chin without him noticing.
I start to gather my things but Duchovny remains sitting, looking up at me from his leather chair. I don’t like it when men stare at me. It means they want to know the truth. Or even worse – have me take my clothes off.
“It’s just a smokescreen?” David pinpoints.
“What?” I ask.
I still have a bad case of the munchies and will for sure be hitting a Bodega on the way home for a ham and egg sandwich. Since there’s no sex on the agenda, I can go ahead and feel comfortable stuffing my face.
“Your writing. I read your blog.” he says.
“For reals?” I ask.
“Yes, I liked it. But, the language, the sexuality, it’s all bullshit, isn’t it? I can't even tell if you actually like sex. What are you trying so hard to hide, Cece? For reals?”
Goddam Genius he is, this David Duchovny. No wonder he got a perfect score on his SAT Verbal. This is better than sex and I bet I can still get my money back for the “Debauchery Box” I ordered online from Good Vibrations. I hear they have a liberal return policy.
“I’d rather not talk about me. I’m really baked from your sweet Hollywood Hash right now. And the Psych 101 analysis is freaking my shit out.”
“Still hiding" Mr. Know It All answers.
“You’re smart, David Duchovny, not just a dick on a stick. You deserve your Ivy League pedigree. Now I know why I’ve always loved you. You are smarter than the average bear.”
“You’re good at deflecting, aren’t you? Maybe one day, you’ll tell me who you really are. What you really want.”
“Forget about me. You’re the Golden Globe winner.” I say.
“Alright, then, Cece, One Day” he offers.
“I just want…people to remember me. I want to get under their skin...”
"So, you're an exhibitionist," David deducts, "Just not with your body."
"Maybe." I kind of answer him, rolling my bloodshot brown eyes, annoyed to no end. Goddam Hydroponic Hollywood Hash. He's got me singing like Ethel Merman here.
At dawn, David walks me out front (in his flip flops) to catch a taxi back home. I make sure to put his Golden Globe statue in my large tote bag; just “borrowing” it. He’ll forgive me for it, later, I'm sure. It’s a fair trade for the giant orgasm I’ve been robbed of. The giant orgasm I’ve been dreaming of finally having.
“I’m glad we finally met, Cece” Duchovny says, sweetly.
“Me, too, David. You’re alright, you know that? You turned out not to be one of those goddam phonies. Without you, I would have never made it to thirty. You were the wisecracking, literary, sex fiend, East Coast boyfriend I always dreamed of. I owe you.”
The cab pulls up in front of us and the street is so quiet that all I hear is the engine running and the radio. I turn my head to listen to the song, The World's A Mess; It's In My Kiss. It's X – Duchovny's favorite band.
And then he leans over and kisses me, square on the mouth, with some force, only making me mourn his impotence even more.
“You broke your rule!” I tell him.
“That burger is making me feel dangerous...” he teases.
Goddam Know It All men with New York accents. Goddam Salinger.
And then I climb into the cab, close the door and roll down the window.
“I’ll keep watching you on TV,” I say, “X-Files, Californication,
“Do you want to see it?” he asks coyly.
“Me?” he confirms.
“Um…yes…” I moan and answer at the same time, mouth salivating…
David Duchovny leans over and kisses me once more. He unbuttons the top button of his GAP pleated pants and slowly pulls down his zipper. I’mawestruck by the size. If only he would smother to death a few ISIS leaders with that shlong and save the fucking world…
“One Day!” David teases; smiling, pulling the zipper back up and buttoning the top of his pants. He waves goodbye and walks back toward the brownstone laughing; his black right eye even more visible from the heavy and sadly unused bottle of lube thrown at his face, hours earlier. The sun is rising.
“Goodnight, Cece!” he yells.
“Goodnight, Asshole!” I yell back, out the cab window, my chest still flushed in anticipation. I feel and hear my blood pumping. I inhale so much oxygen as if it was helium filling me up like a large, floating balloon, about to be set free into the sky above.