Dont Mince Words

You may not know this, but Los Angeles has a subway. It doesn’t go anywhere, so I’ve never been on it even though the stop is three avenues over and three streets up from my house. However, when my boss invited me to a fundraiser downtown at an Irish pub, I knew I should look into riding the subway in order to avoid parking fees. In addition, I could enjoy a couple extra Guinness.

My coworkers congratulated me on my maiden voyage and told me my Union Station transfer would be easy – nothing compared to a Times Square transfer tunnel maze. I was excited. I was doing my thing for the environment and I could get hammered in an Irish bar. Win-win.

I had my Black and Tans and my flirting and made my way back to the Pershing Square station without conflict (e.g. panhandlers, pimps). After transferring, I stood on the Union Station platform and looked at my watch. Nobody was around and it was only midnight.

In New York, this happens and you assume trains are running slow. But when no one is around, you suspect you missed a notice. One time I fell asleep in the Spring Street C station waiting for a train that had been diverted on the F tracks. In LA, I didn’t know what to expect, so I checked the schedule.

The last train north left the station at 11:52 p.m. on a Saturday night. It’s hard for me to stand by the MTA when they can’t even offer drunk service on a Saturday night. I left the platform and walked to the front of Union station where I caught a cab home for $30. My cab rides home to Brooklyn were cheaper.

And you wonder why people in LA like to drive.

I never believed that whole “sexual prime” business until shortly after my 30th birthday. I was horny all the time. Insanely unfair hormone levels. It hasn’t stopped. I went out with two friends Saturday night that are +/- 50. There’s no end in sight. I’ve learned the older you get, the more you really don’t care if people know how truly horny you are.

The night began innocently enough. We saw Hitchcock’s Vertigo at the Hollywood Forever cemetery. As the movie was projected on to the columbarium wall, we drank wine and beer, picnicked, people watched and played the gay-or-straight? game. Jimmy Stewart fueled our fires. By the time the movie was over, we were on a man hunt.

We ended up closing the bar at Yamashiro, a restaurant in the hills overlooking greater Los Angeles. My final green tea martini gave me the balls to “assist” J with a note we were going to pass to a young kid on the way out. In my best, near-sober handwriting I wrote, “If you ever want to have fun with more than one” beside J’s phone number. We chickened out passing the note when we left because we were just too scary a force to be reckoned with, and there was no room for him in the car.

The solution was to go to In-N-Out on Sunset. At 2 a.m., we were, for sure, the three oldest broads in the place. J made friends with the prom kids behind us in line. They were sober. Then she flirted with the cashier who mumbled “I think I’m a little young for you, ma’am.” We cackled and walked over to the waiting area where K and I made eye contact with every man or boy who wasn’t in a prom tux.

In the car back to J’s place we all whined about getting laid. Surely we could be cougars to some lucky, little boys. We made culinary love to our fast food instead. K enjoyed her burger and fries. J had two bites and passed out watching Some like it hot. I remembered I was a vegetarian. I had two bites and figured out I couldn’t handle the whole thing. I ripped the patty out, licked the cheese off, then shoved the beef in my mouth. For something I had not had in more than a year, it was OK.

I like sex more.

Going home and sleeping alone is always worth it when you have a great girl’s night out. May the horniness and laughter never subside.

I’ve never been one of those need-a-man girls. I barely dated in high school and college because I had so many other interests besides stupid assholes. When I announced I was engaged at the age of 26, my friends were in awe. The person least likely to… was. It was no shock to most when I separated. My mother consoled me by saying, “Your father and I were probably not good relationship role models.” Of course, two weeks later she was asking my brother if I was a lesbian.

My relationship with RC ended a couple weeks ago. It was another short-lived (but long in Hollywood dog years) connection that resulted in me reciting my mantra “trust your instincts.” I knew I shouldn’t of gone out with a man who was openly separated, but I figured that after nearly a year, the end had to be in sight. Unfortunately, the drama swirled. Being a great guy didn’t out weigh the obvious negatives: nutbag wife, little kid commitments, unavailability, and distance.

A great friend from college says, “Marna, men are all assholes, you just have to find one you can put up with.” It is so easy being single in LA because the choices are…limited, at least in my circles. Besides, a fresh crop of girls with perky tits turns 18 each year.

I’ve lived in LA nearly four years now and I haven’t had a relationship last longer than 80 days. It’s a hard place to date, but I’m also committed to not dating the wrong people. That means I’ll have a lot of trial and error. Relationships are hard work, especially if you are looking for the right asshole.

It’s been more than 12 years since my divorce was finalized and I’ve enjoyed dating a wide variety of men ever since. My mother still checks in with various people to determine if I’ve “gone gay” yet. Don’t worry mom, I’m still tragically heterosexual.