Dont Mince Words

There’s probably a 12-step program for me somewhere. It wouldn’t be sexual addiction, but maybe it’s fun addiction or baggage avoidance. Whatever it is and no matter how much I try to date men my own age, I find myself going back to younger stock.

Last week, after I washed the gray right out of my hair, I shea buttered my skin, poured some ice tea, and sat in my Hugh Heffneresque robe while I went online and reactivated some of my online dating profiles. My fishing yielded a 30 year old who wrote me I was the hottest girl he’d seen on the site in a while.

Right, whatever. That may get you laid.

He asked for my phone number, which scored him points because I don’t do the back-and-forth local email. He opted to make his communication to me a text message. Then he emailed me to ask me if I received the text message.

This is the downside to dating babies. They have no old-school communication skills. I wrote him back, “I don’t believe in text messaging. If you want to reach me and talk to me, punch in my 10 digits and call me.” Five hours later, I got a phone call.

“Hey, ah, what are you doing? You want to hang out sometime?” he asked.

Hang out? What exactly is hang-out in the Gen Y lexicon? Where I come from, that would mean making popcorn, renting a Betamax movie, and playing foozball in someone’s basement. I said sure and he said he’d call me to organize something this weekend.

That call came Sunday morning. It was another one-minute conversation. I tried to assertain what hang-out was and suggested we meet for coffee or a beer.

“Oh, I’m kind of in the mood to just make-out. How about we do that,” he suggested.

I told him that was tempting, but generally the way dating worked with me was we’d meet a few times and get to know each other and determine chemistry/common interests before there would be any making out.

He called later in the afternoon and cancelled on me, but not before asking me what I was looking for. “I am looking for a man I connect with – who I can get to know, date and then evolve into a long-term relationship.”

“Whoa. You are the real deal,” he commented

Yeah, so ante-up baby, and ask me out so I can really blog your ass.

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.