Dont Mince Words

I used to look forward to Sunday nights to have an ocular orgy with David Duchovny in the X-Files. As I got older, Sunday nights became reserved for Tony Soprano and Carrie Bradshaw. Now I get to look forward to the kid drop off followed by divorced daddy sex with GC.

Last night’s pillow talk was a little different. I forgot, when dating a writer, there’s a chance he may actually read my blog. Dripping with sweat he said, “Oh, by the way, we’ve been dating for longer than 90 days.”

I’ve beat my LA relationship record. There must be a Hallmark gift for this. “Hey, so what do I get? Paper? A pen?” I asked

“You just got it,” he told me.

Oh yeah, that hot monkey sex with a real man instead of a machine. Yeah, that is the perfect gift. I’ve been paroled from bad LA dating.

Today a coworker changed his status on Facebook from single to “In relationship.” I realized, I still had my “Facebook is gonna get me laid” settings on. I changed it to “In relationship” looking to “network.” Holy crap, you would of thought there was a 7.0. I received one long distance call and dozens of emails and comments ranging from ‘congratulations” to “WTF.”

Everyone’s tragically heterosexual and single girl is now unavailable. Call the dogs off.

They say with age comes experience. In Los Angeles, with dating comes experiences.

A girlfriend recently had a male-variety dilemma. She actually stopped and asked herself, “What Would Marna Do?” I’m flattered that anyone would listen to my advice given my favorite four-lettered word is N-E-X-T and none of my dating experiences have lasted more than 90 days.

California has good lemon laws. So do I.

I’m not that inhibited when it comes to my body. Well, I’m not porn-star confident, so you won’t see me flashing my tits in a girls-gone-wild way. My college days are over. But when I’m scheduled for a deep tissue massage, and given a choice, I select a male because, you know, they are usually stronger and can really get in there.

Andre was a giant – very Rocky IV Russian. Exactly what I’d expect from a spa in my Little Odessa neighborhood. He was probably 24 with a square face and a firm handshake. I knew he could get me straightened out from six weeks of hobbling in a cast.

I was head-down in the doughnut. My mashed boobs spilled into my armpits. He came into the room, pulled down the sheet to my crack and oiled me up. Within 30 seconds, I got a string of questions I’d never been asked while lying on a massage table.

“Are you married?” he asked.

“Do you have any children?” was his follow-up question. Do I look like a single mother? I told him no, I had a rescued dog.

“Are you from LA?” was his third question. Oddly, I began to realize, his questions were no different from when I’m screening people, except I start with LA first. I told him I had lived in LA for five years, but I was from Virginia. “Oh, that’s the accent.”

I decided to change the subject to NYC Russians and my experiences at the Russian Vodka Room. He then suggested, after my massage, I meet him next door at Bar Lubitsch.

“I’m serious. If you live around the corner, go home, change, and meet me,” he encouraged.

He worked my back over and got the knots out. When we finished and I was re-robed and outside the door, I thanked him again. “You see what your aunt feels like doing and try to come have vodka with me,” he said.

I suppose a shot of vodka was a more professional approach to getting to know me; however, the whole time I was on the table, I wanted a happen ending, just to say I finally got one. But I’ll take getting hit on while naked. That’s a new one for me too.