Dont Mince Words

Ana and I were in the air, on our way to a photo shoot in Denver, when I told her I wanted to conduct an experiment. “I hear when you leave LA, guys pay attention to you. Let’s see if that’s true,” I said.

Little did I know I wouldn’t have the energy to get out after working 12-hour days. On our last night in Denver, we ventured two blocks from the hotel and hit a diner with the photographer and his assistant, Mike.

I sat on the outside edge of the booth which was a prime seat to view our waiter. He was very eager to serve us and had lots of flare and arm gestures. When Ana’s Mount Gay lime jumped out of her glass, the waiter promptly returned with two more and announced the new limes were asexual.

Everything the waiter did from here on out seemed really funny, but I finished a schooner of beer while waiting for my meal. My humor and body animation was ampted up and the whole table was roaring. The waiter continued to add to our good times.

By the time the check came, I was still sitting in the booth, but my head was on my pillow two blocks away. The waiter made one final comment as we got up. Mike, the youngest and gayest in the group, had his ‘dar tuned up and told me, “Girl, are you blind? Our waiter has been hitting on you.”

“Me?”

“Yes you. Didn’t you hear him mention that he was the MANAGER helping out. He wanted to make sure you didn’t see him as a middle-aged waiter,” Mike said.

“Crap. I didn’t notice. What do I do?” I asked, hopelessly clueless.

“Throw your business card down on the table. Maybe he’ll call,” Mike suggested.

I tossed my waterproof Don’t Mince Words card on the table and walked outside. Los Angeles to Denver makes for some geographically undesirable dating, but I realized I had just proved my inflight point – men are men outside of LA.

While walking back to the hotel, Mike and I doubled over laughing about the whole experience. I haven’t been with a real man in so long, it takes a gay man to point one out to me.

God help me and god bless my seeing eye queer.

My friends mean well. They look out for me. Last week was no different.

Wall Street Pete called about a $5,000 opportunity. He heard K-ROCK 92.3FM was having a “tramp stamp” contest. I began listening to him years ago when he suggested I pay attention to a pre-IPO biotech stock.

“You will win. You have to enter. That tattoo is hilarious,” he affirmed.

I had an opportunity to make money off my clothed body. With my winnings, I could make the max contribution to my IRA. I could make a Visa payment. I could go to Hawaii. I could also get the R in my tattoo retouched. It was fading.

I emailed Booker in the afternoon a digital pic. His intern replied to let me know the announcement would be made Monday. The only person that called Monday was Pete to see if I won.

My week progressed as normal until today. “We have to have you in the studio tomorrow afternoon with the other nine finalists. Your tattoo is great,” Booked called to tell me. He asked where I got it and didn’t seem thrilled when I said, “Key West during my friend’s 40th birthday celebration a few years ago.” The silence made it seem like I’d be the old fogey in the studio next to hot, dumb 20-something girls of questionable virtue.

My fate was sealed when I reminded Booker, as I did in my email, I live in Los Angeles.

“Oh.”

“I’d be happy to do a live remote with you. The tattoo is easy to describe to listeners,” I replied.

I found out afterwards, that couldn’t be an option. A tattoo shop in Jersey sponsored the contest. Anyone that knows me knows if I were in the New York region, I’d get a tattoo in the east Village before I’d go to northern New Jersey for ink.

Another 15 minutes of fame averted.

When it comes to direct hits, men of color have always been first responders to my looks. My almost blue-white creamy skin could guide planes in at LAX. The hair isn’t blond, which is a rarity in this town. The whole package is not what men are used to seeing, so they react.

Latin men love the Marnasita. Middle-eastern and Indian men enjoy my WASPy superwhiteness. Jews have always chased me because I am the shiksa from hell – the opposite of what their mother wants them to have. And black men. Well, they are the original admirers of The Marn.

This morning, I dropped my stash of NetFlix at the post office. As I was walking back around to my car, a 50-something black man with a jeweled fez pillbox hat looked me up and down 2.5 times and then smiled at me and said, “Mmmmm, mmmmm. Yes, I like everything big. Good morning to you.”

I smiled and said thank you but had to chuckle because the man spoke to me with a very Kentucky Fried Chicken finger-licking-good voice. But, at least he knows what he likes.

This was a nice Monday morning reminder to me to continue to be a tenacious communicator and to be exceptionally expressive. In a town where men want to be chased and won’t look you in the eyes, I’m going to continue to walk the talk, balls out swinging. I know what I like too.