"Union Station" by Sam Hendrian

Sarah Rhinestone had skin on her mind as her train pulled into Los Angeles Union Station after a day trip to San Diego. Specifically, skin wrapped around her entire body, soothing insecure corners and alleviating old fears that it was impossible to achieve a perfect orgasm. She was skilled at maintaining a stoic expression; for all her fellow passengers knew, she was thinking about how beautiful the LA weather was. But once she returned  to her bedroom later that night… well, there would be no need to look so unmoved. 

It was a well-known statistic that women generally had a more difficult time achieving sexual climax than men. Maybe it was a matter of biological complexity – their pleasure organs held more nuance than a man’s one-and-done erector set – or it was simply that they had higher expectations. Either way, it frequently left them stranded in the subconscious corridors of fantasy and synthetic vibrations, which was fine enough but still left a lot to be desired. 

Most of Sarah’s friends claimed to have experienced at least one moment of bedroom bliss throughout their young adult lives, but these moments were typically with emotionally detached individuals whose physical prowess compensated for their apathy. Sarah knew this would never work for her; a genuine emotional bond was essential to maximum pleasure. Which of course implied an uphill battle; physical compatibility was tough enough to find, but emotional and spiritual synchronization? Forget about it. 

***

“Any action lately?” her reliably candid friend Jenny asked her one semi-tipsy evening at their favorite neighborhood bar.

“Nothing worth noting.”

“You really should get back on the apps.”

“No thanks.”

“Oh, c’mon, Sarah! You haven’t had any bad experiences on them.”

“But I haven’t had any good ones.”

“Well, you just have to be patient!”

“If Tinder cared about patience, they’d have a very different business model.” Sarah took another sip of whisky and closed her eyes, wishing she could float away at this very moment. Jenny was nice enough company, but she’d also had enough of “nice enough.” Was it truly that impossible to be understood by another person? 

“You’ve got to stop being so philosophical about everything!”

“And you’ve got to stop being so shallow about everything, Jenny.” Alcohol often brought out bitterness in Sarah, something she usually regretted the morning after. 

Jenny looked offended but immediately searched for a synthetic scapegoat. “I think you’ve had too much to drink.”

“I’m barely tipsy, actually.”

“Even so. Do you really think I’m shallow?”

Sarah thought about this for a moment, her sober mind seeming to agree with her inebriated one. “Maybe ‘shallow’ is too strong a word. But I do think you could afford to be a little more philosophical.”

“I’ll try. But I’ve always thought philosophy was overrated. Life is too short to think deeply about everything.”

“But don’t you see? Even that qualifies as a philosophical thought. You’re more deep than you think you are.”

“I suppose so.” Jenny took one last sip of her drink and then stood up, ready to go. “But I’d rather stay shallow for the time being.”

“Why? Life is so much more fulfilling when you think deeply about everything.”

“And much more miserable.”

This struck a chord with Sarah; she knew it to be true, even if she didn’t want it to be. “Well, sometimes sadness is the price of genuine happiness.”

“Who the fuck said that?”

“Me.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” 

“It will in time.” 

“I doubt it.” Jenny started to dance awkwardly, the need to relieve herself overtaking her. “I really need to pee before we go.” 

“Me too.” They both proceeded towards the bathroom, Jenny continuing her awkward dance with Fred Astaire-levels of brilliance. On their way there, Jenny spotted a hot-enough guy and suddenly felt relieved of her need to relieve herself. 

“I’ve got to talk to him,” she whispered to Sarah.

“I thought you had to pee!”

“It can wait.” Jenny made sure she had enough cleavage showing and then strutted over to the mysterious hot-enough dude. Sarah just rolled her eyes and disappeared into the bathroom, not expecting to see Jenny right away when she came back out; the girl had a knack for hooking up with strangers instantly. She was a little jealous of such kinky charisma, but simultaneously grateful she didn’t possess it herself; genuine emotional connections were too important to her. 

She decided to sleep over at Jenny’s one-bedroom apartment but instantly regretted it, kept up all night by the sounds of pleasure in the adjacent room. For a little while she tried to match the delectable decibels by engaging some fantasies of her own accord, but they couldn’t possibly compete without a flesh-and-blood person . Discouraged, she took one last mental snapshot of what she imagined her college crush looked like naked, then drifted off into the land of subconsciousness, praying for an erotic dream. When she woke up the following morning, she felt emptier than she usually did. Jenny seemed so too; her one-night date had left at 6 AM for his coffee shop gig, and it was beginning to sink in that she didn’t really want to see him again. 

“Well, that was interesting,” Jenny confessed, hoping to guilt-trip Sarah into sympathetic follow-up questions.

“Uh-oh. Did he try some weird moves or something?”

“Not exactly. He was actually pretty traditional. Too traditional.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Nah, nothing to be sorry for. I didn’t really like him that much anyway. He kinda had big dick energy. But usually that means he also has a decent-sized set of utensils.”

“And did he?”

“Not as big as his energy. I had to fake it, then look up my favorite video when he was sleeping.”

“Well, better luck next time.”

“I think I’m running out of good luck. My beginner’s streak is wearing thin.”

“I’ll bet you’ll have a comeback sooner or later.”

“We’ll see. How about YOU?” 

Sarah blushed, not really wanting to be honest. “I attempted some mental gymnastics to keep up with you two in the other room. But it didn’t really do the trick.”

“You could have come home with someone last night if you wanted to. I saw all sorts of guys looking at you...”

“None of them were my type.”

“They don’t have to be your type for one fun night.”

“Agree to disagree.” Sarah stood up and prepared to head out.

“Leaving already?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a lot of stuff to do.”

“Like what?”

“I’m not sure yet, I just know it’s a lot.”

Jenny tried not to look too offended. “Okay. If you want to talk more, you know I’m always here.”

“Yes, thanks, Jenny. Sorry if I seem grouchy. I’m just tired.”

“You’ve been grouchy a lot lately. Unless you’re just tired all the time.”

“That probably plays a part of it. I haven’t been getting a lot of sleep lately.”

“Don’t you ever try NyQuil?”

“Sometimes. But it would be nice to fall asleep naturally, you know?”

“It helps if someone else is in bed with you…”

Sarah laughed. “You have a one-track mind, don’t you.”

“I just want you to be happy.”

“I am happy. We just define it differently.”

“If you say so.” Having reached a moot point, Sarah and Jenny said goodbye and carried on with their  days.

Sarah didn’t actually have a lot of stuff to do, but she wanted to; how could she spend her time productively? A shopping spree was tempting, but she was basically broke and felt like a loser going to Goodwill for a cute outfit. Maybe a movie? Nah, there was nothing out she wanted to see. Perhaps she could be charitable and call her mother or grandmother. But then they’d probably ask her probing questions about her love life, and she’d had enough of that for a week. Best just to relax at home and sink into depression; at least she wouldn’t become any more broke than she already was.  

Of course, there was always Tinder… no no no, she’d had enough of fuckboys. Hinge perhaps? Nah, just more fuckboys who were able to hide it better. Maybe she could be old-fashioned and go to a local speed dating event, but those were typically super cringe and filled with desperate people on the cusp of 40. Better to just be lonely and fine with it. 

Well, until she started drinking, and loneliness felt like the worst thing a person was capable of being. Why did society seem to punish people for not having lots of friends or a partner? It should be the other way around; loneliness implied integrity and uniqueness, whereas friendship always ended up demanding some semblance of compromise and conformity. 

The drinking inevitably led to sensual fantasies, which her artist’s imagination could usually foster without the aid of external resources. Her visions were somewhat traditional despite the occasional kink ; she immersed herself in simulated scenes of corporal and emotional union, the ethereal sensation of being consumed by another person’s mutual desire. Once her fantasies reached a climax, she typically felt a mixture of hope and emptiness; how could any real human compete with such imaginary perfection?

***

“Are you ever envious of asexual people?” Sarah asked her therapist Marcia during one rather boring session of “I hear you, I hear you;” even therapists sometimes ran out of wise things to say. 

“In what way?”

“Like, they don’t feel the pressure to find good sex or true romance like most of us do. They can just enjoy their lives and love themselves without any other person involved.”

“I’m not so sure that’s true. Just because they don’t feel much sexual desire doesn’t mean they don’t crave love from another person. I think they have it just as hard.”

“If you say so.” Sarah didn’t feel like playing devil’s advocate; in fact, she wanted to wrap up this dead-end therapy session even quicker than usual. “Got any spare advice for my love life?”

“Sarah, we’ve gone over this before. I don’t know you well enough to give you good advice about that.”

“You don’t know that. Sometimes the best love-life advice comes from people you don’t know very well.” 

“I suppose. Well, I know how you feel about the apps. Have you tried going to a speed dating event?”

“I did once, and it was super cringe. I think I was the youngest person there.”

“Okay, scratch that then. How about randomly approaching a guy you find attractive?”

“I’ve never had the courage for that.”

“Then just sit back and let them come to you.”

“Most guys don’t have the courage for that either.” 

“Fair point. Well, it’ll happen when you least expect it.”

“Please don’t say that. That’s, like, the most condescending cliche ever invented.” 

Marcia blushed. “Sorry, I didn’t know you felt that way.”

“It’s okay.” Sarah felt bad for trolling her therapist; she should really just stop going altogether. 

“Then it’ll happen when you most expect it.”

“That’s just as bad.” 

“Then why do you keep coming here, Sarah?”

Sarah didn’t really have a good answer. She felt even more guilty but tried not to show it. “I know you’re a good therapist, Marcia. And I need a good therapist. But I’m also very stubborn.”

“That’s an understatement.” 

“Okay, prideful too. But pride is essential to human dignity, right?”

“That’s a bit too philosophical for me. But I see your point.” Marcia paused for a moment, trying not to let her own pride overcome her professionalism. “Anything else you’d like to share?”

“Not really.” 

“Well, then I hope you enjoy the rest of your day.”

“Thank you.” Sarah stood up and then got out of there as fast as she could, not planning to return. She stopped for a coffee on the way back to her apartment and then started to cry, suddenly overcome by the desire for someone to turn on a Keurig machine just for her. This had never happened in her life, not even when she visited her parents; she’d only started liking coffee a year or two ago, and most people tended to remember their first impressions of her, which meant she would forever be doomed to anti-espresso assumptions. But was there any act of love more genuine than someone spontaneously offering to make a caffeinated drink for you and only you?

The Starbucks vanilla latte tasted more like sugar than espresso, and she instantly regretted buying it after her first sip. But she wasn’t about to waste $7, so she suffered through the rest of it and then bought some saltine crackers as a palate cleanser. It was seeming like Tinder-o’clock despite her principled objections; what was the point of having values and convictions anyway? Everyone compromised them eventually; selling one’s soul was often necessary to keep one’s body functioning. Making what was probably her 100th profile in 6 months, she typed in “short term, open to long” just to expand her options and then began swiping like her life depended on it. There were a few promising faces and a smattering of genuinely witty bios, but overall she felt the way she always did after swiping for an hour: empty and sick of mediocrity. If achieved, an average orgasm lasted for what, 30 seconds? Was a half a minute’s pleasure really worth faking interest in a disinterested stranger whose penis might be the most interesting thing about him?

IT’S A MATCH! The sparkling green words on the screen excited her, despite how pathetic she felt immediately afterwards. Apparently her hook had caught a tall, blue-eyed fish named Daryl with a bio that read, “Poet who loves cherishing the little details about you.” She crossed her fingers that he wasn’t a no-one’s-ever-really-understood-me-before “nice guy” and then decided to take the initiative. “What’s the first little detail you’d like to know about me?”

Daryl’s response came even quicker than she expected. “Hmm…What’s something about you that most people don’t know, but you wish they did?”

Wow, this was actually a good question! She had to think about it for a moment, then replied, “I hate words of affirmation. The nicer people are to me, the more quickly I resent them.”

“Duly noted. Why is that?”

“I guess I’ve always associated niceness with abandonment. As long as people are nice, they don’t have to legitimately care about you.”

“I can see that. I’ve experienced that from time to time. But people mean well.”

Ugh, Sarah hated it when people used “good intentions” as an excuse for all the emotional pain they caused. She almost unmatched with Daryl right away but decided to challenge him, “But who cares if people mean well? The impact is the only thing that matters, not the intent.” 

“I guess that makes sense.”

Sarah hated a man too overeager to agree. “You guess, or you know?”

“I mean, I’m not sure anyone can really know anything…”

Unmatched! Sarah simply did not want to waste her time; she then promptly deleted Tinder, took a shot of vodka, and attempted to entertain her favorite sexual fantasy but was overcome by sleepiness before she could climax. Maybe she’d be lucky and have a wet dream. Or maybe she’d be even luckier and wake up as an asexual person. 

The following morning, she walked to her favorite bookstore, not expecting to buy anything but looking forward to the bliss of aimlessly browsing. As soon as she walked in, she was greeted by a new bookseller named Mike, who looked about her age and was attractive in an unconventional sort of way. “Are you new here?” she immediately asked, having gotten to know all the other booksellers on a first-name basis.

“I am, this is my third day. Are you a regular?”

“Yeah, I come in at least once a week. It’s my favorite place in the city.”

“Aww, that’s awesome. I’m Mike.”

“I’m Sarah. Nice to meet you.”

“Same. What kind of books do you normally like to buy?”

“I actually don’t buy anything usually, just browse. But when I do, I enjoy biographies of people who inspire me.”

“Ooh, interesting, I don’t hear that very often. I like biographies too. Do you have a favorite one that you’ve read?”

“Well, it’s kind of a basic answer, but The Diary of Anne Frank. That girl’s the definition of a hero. I wish I was that mature at 13 years old.”

“Haha, agreed. I love that book too.” Mike smiled in a warm, grandfatherly way, as if he was a gentle old man trapped in a restless young person’s body. Sarah found it kinda hot, and she swiftly started imagining what kissing him would be like before grounding herself and continuing the small talk with virtuous detachment, even if she was anything but detached. 

“What made you want to work at a bookstore?”

“Well, as basic as it sounds in this city, I’m a writer, and I liked the idea of being surrounded by writing. It’s very inspirational.”

“That makes sense. I’m a writer too.”

“Oh really! I’d love to read some of your work.”

“Aww, that’s so sweet of you. But it’s not very good.” 

“I doubt that. You’re just too humble.”

“Maybe I am.” The rest of the conversation became a blur to Sarah; it was a pretty quiet day at the bookstore, and she soon realized she was the sole focus of Mike’s attention. After they had talked for what might have been an entire hour, Mike inquired:

“Would you like some coffee? We have a Keurig machine in the break room.”

Sarah smiled, then started to cry messy tears. “I… I’d love some.”

Sam Hendrian is a Los Angeles-based filmmaker, poet, and playwright striving to foster empathy through art. From writing personalized poems for passersby outside of LA's oldest independent bookstore every Sunday, to making Chaplin-esque silent films about loneliness and human connection once a month, Sam lives to make other people feel seen and validated. More poems and films can be found on Instagram at @samhendrian143.