I remember the first time we met like it was yesterday. I was up late one night in bed, alone, summer before senior year of college, contemplating why I was alone, and having fun remembering all of the reasons why I should be alone. I was a twenty year old virgin.
Racing through the channels on my television, I stumble upon “The Red Shoe Diaries” movie on Showtime. The click that launched a thousand ships. Our first date. There you were, clean cut and handsome, bemoaning the loss of your love, who, as it turns out, was a really big slut. I wanted to be your really big slut. I liked the look about you; you were handsome, and had that whiny, East Coast, know it all voice that I swoon for.

You were like my boyfriend, you know, like Jesus is to the nuns. Would not have survived my nearly entire decade of celibacy, alternately referred to as my "twenties," without you, and our, "nights together."

When the "X-Files" movie, based on the successful tv show, was finally released, I was there on opening day, of course. When Duchovny's celibate character, FBI Agent Fox Mulder, and the also celibate, FBI Agent Dana Scully, finally kissed, I felt, vindicated.

“Come on, let’s go.” The thirty year old boy I was with told me. It was our second date.

“I’m staying, I’m seeing it again. I have to see them…kiss again. I can’t wait for the DVD.”

“It’s not that good of a movie.”

“Not that good of a movie? Who do you think you are; Pauline Kael? Okay, this relationship will never work. Goodbye.” I say guiltlessly, turning back to the concession stand for another bag of popcorn. I mean, I had already worked out twice that day. I didn’t feel like I was letting go of much, with the boy. Our first date was at a five dollar falafel restaurant where he insisted on tap water and separate checks. I would live…to see David Duchovny again.

“I feel like…I have a chance,” I told my girlfriend over coffee,
“He has already proven that he can fall in love with an Italian American woman, like his wife Tea Leoni, and he is a nymphomanic. He’s indiscriminate with his lovers, this ups my odds.”

“I just saw David Duchovny on the treadmill yesterday,” her friend interjects. This is the friend who likes to walk around naked in the locker room and bend over while talking to you. Fine, you’ve had electrolysis! Some of us are destined for a life time of waxing, so what?

“He’s in town shooting a film with Minnie Driver.” the friend continues. I hated Minnie Driver, too. She deserved to be dumped by Matt Damon live on Oprah.

“You know David Duchovny is just like me; half Scottish, half Jewish. I feel like we are destined to be together, like we have a connection” the hairless bitch stammers.

“Not on my watch!” I yell back. “And put some panties on in the locker room!” I finish, stomping away from the table, leaving without paying my share of the bill, just to punish her, for even trying to infiltrate my territory.

I had almost met David Duchovny countless times; at a Malibu Dr.'s office, the Dodgers Skybox, when he hosted "Regis and Kelly" - twice.

If he could love "Larry Sanders," then, why not me?

When we finally meet at St. Mark’s Bookshop in the Village, Duchovny sits in a corner reading an US Magazine eating Kale soup. His hair looks amazing. He's not wearing that ridiculous earring like Harrison Ford. Thank God.

“David,” I begin, “I’m Cece. Your agent told me I would find you here.”

“Hi, Cece. Care for some soup?"

“No thanks”

“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 sleep 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. “My anti-anxiety medication keeps me pretty limp though, fyi.”

“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 gong to have a literary battle at some point I want to dig my feet deep down into the trenches and get my fists pumped up.

“You’re nothing like the man I love. I hate you, DAVID DUCHOVNY!” I yell.

I grab my Agent Provacateur 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, annoyed.

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, and held tightly to, on my first trip solo across the Atlantic, while nearly overdosing on sleeping pills, 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 is 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.
“You will?”
“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, 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 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 is 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.”

Goddam timing.

“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?”

“I…guess so.”

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 had bribed his academic advisor 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!”

Then 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.

“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 Duchovny’s warm lap.

“I heard you were the most well read actor in Hollywood.”

He reads me – the whole book – downing two bottles of Chateau Margaux and 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:
For some minutes, before she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, she just lay quiet, smiling at the ceiling…

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. He “gets" me, for Crissake. 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 my writing. 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 Hollywood Hash. He's got me singing like Ethel Merman here.

David walks me out front in his flip flops at dawn to catch a taxi back home. I make sure to put his new IPhone 4s in my purse; 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.

“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 wiscracking, 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, all I hear is the engine running and the radio.

I turn my head to listen, "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 "Californication.” I say.

“Do you want to see it?” he asks coyly.
“Me?” he confirms.
“Um, yes?”

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.

My mouth starts watering, but I blame the THC.

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 prominent from the bottle of lube thrown at his face, hours earlier, now that the sun is rising.

“Goodnight, Cece!”
“Goodnight, Asshole!” I yell back, out the cab window. My chest still flushed in anticipation. The cab screeches off onto First Ave.

One day…story of my life…

Goddam anti-anxiety meds…
Goddam Club Med Whores…

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