Stand up

Friday the 13th at the Punchline in San Francisco, you bombed.

I'd never seen your act tank before and I was in agony for you. I came with my girlfriend and she and I were to meet you and a friend of yours after the show for a drink. It was just to be a friendly outing, but my girlfriend knew the truth. I was crazy about you.

In the months you and I had been talking and all the shows you'd invited me to, this was the first time you'd asked me to meet you after a show. Usually you kept me at a distance. I was just happy to be around you. From the moment I first watched you walk on stage to open for another comedian, I knew you'd be famous. You became even more famous than I could have imagined.

That night, my girlfriend started pushing me to make a play for you. She was insanely jealous. San Francisco in the late 70's - I was seeing her. I never told you that. Making love to you was OK in her book but BEING in love with you was not. To upset me, she she picked a guy at random and left with him moments before you stepped up to the mic. Sitting in the dark, dead room, I was vulnerable. I did not want to suddenly fall into bed with you. I wanted to slowly fall in love with you.

We walked to Enricos. As we passed all the strip joints you told me how you'd been working on your dancing at the Paladium. You told me about your new contacts in LA and how you were hoping to get into TV. We sat in at a table near the sidewalk, in case my girlfriend came to find us. We had quite a bit to drink. Your friend was so sweet. He'd been friends with you and your brother since high school. He'd been to Vietnam. You were so gentle with him. He was staying with you and he invited me to stay with you too and said you and he would make me breakfast.
We laughed. I did not know know who the man was that joined us at the table. I know you introduced us and that he was a producer and you held this man in great respect. He talked of how you would be famous. He talked about how good it was to see you out with a beautiful woman. Me. He was talking about me. The rest became a blur when I felt you move your chair closer to mine and you took my hand under the table. So gentle. So electric. I wondered if my girlfriend was right after all.

We stumbled from the bar and somehow it was decided you should drive my car because I was drunk. On the way to the car, you kissed me. All my reserve vanished. I was crazy about you. You were obviously attracted to me. Whatever the night would hold was meant to be. It was playful and sweet - making out in front of your apartment on Twin Peaks. Your friend seemed so happy I'd come back with you. I liked him so much.

I was on your couch. You were in your bed. Your friend was on your floor snoring. I got up to go to the bathroom and on my way back you pulled me into your bed. We were drunk. And it happened so fast. In a heartbeat you were telling me to go back and sleep on the couch because you could not sleep with me in your bed.

Did you know I cried myself to sleep?
Kicked out of bed. What had I done?
Why had I gotten into your bed at all?

Once the light began coming in the windows, I slipped onto the balcony overlooking the Castro. Your friend came out with me. He was excited that you and he would be making me breakfast. I told him I didn't think you would be wanting to make me breakfast. I told him I didn't think you wanted me there when he woke up. I hugged him and I left.

We barely talked after that. And once you became famous it seemed like I'd only slept with you because you were famous. But you weren't then. What were you thinking? What led you to believe I was expendable? Usable? How could you be so romantic one moment and cruel the next. Were you so clueless you could not see how much I cared for you? I was not a groupie. I was humiliated and ashamed.

And then, you were everywhere. Every time I saw you on TV, I played through my head what I would tell you, how I would clear my honor. I played it out in dreams. I told anyone who would listen. I dreamed you said you were sorry you'd hurt me.

Last week I read an article that says you met your wife around the same time I knew you. You've been together almost 30 years. You have children. You are still performing, but I can't bring myself to come to your shows.

You knew I was married when you invited me into your bed.
Would the story have ended differently if I had been single?

No, things work out the way they are supposed to.
I expect I'll never get that apology.