Dont Mince Words

When times are tough, you begin to evaluate all your expenses. When you aren’t getting laid, you review the cost of pedicures, waxing, razors, and other associated items. I decided to go off birth control since there wasn’t anything to control. Instead, I restarted my NetFlix membership.

It seemed like a better use of $20.

When you have a good dog, and a good vibrator, is there any need to date in LA? Today I came to my senses and decided, ah, no thank you.

On Thursday night I was coaxed out of my canine enclave to see a 70’s-style punk band. When they opened with “I’m not your stepping stone” and closed with a Ramones song, I was happy I got out. Fat Tire on draft and I got a little pogoing in.

My girlfriend and I decided to hit the Rainbow Room on our way home. The last time I was there, I saw Lemmy from Motorhead (but I think he lives behind the bar). It’s a total rocker bar. If I were younger and dug guys that weighed less than me, I’d be in business. But it’s fun to see the leather and the Alice Cooper eyeliner and think, “see you in the corporate monkeyspank soup line in five years, novice.”

But my stance on musicians didn’t stop me from immediately noticing a Fabio longhair-type at the end of the patio wearing a white wife-beater.

“Hello 12 o’clock,” I said to my girlfriend after I had made the mandatory five-second hello-I’m-available-eye-contact.

I turned and she said, “Oh, he’s checking your ass out,”

Five minutes later, he passed us going to the bathroom and said hello to me. “That was a direct hit, right? I suck at this flirting shit,” I admitted to my girlfriend.

Not too long after that, Fabio and Friend sat down with us. I had a nice time talking and listening to the panty-melting south american accent. We know how the latins like me… Marnasita with the galaxy-sized hips and infectious laugh. Fabio was petite, but attractive and, more importantly, a great kisser.

I relinquished my phone number with the promise of a date in the near future. We chatted a couple times Friday when I discovered he worked part-time and he didn’t have a car. He requested I pick him up Saturday night for our date and we’d do something mellow.

On Saturday, after a spending Friday night with Tex barfing up his hip dysplasia meds, I decided Fabio wasn’t worth a commute. I’ve done underemployed musicians before.

I called and canceled the date. Afterwards, Tex approached me with his sad eyes and I told him he was still my main man. Later than evening I took him around the block for his mark-all-things-vertical walk. In our short spin, two people approached me and asked me if he was an American Bulldog and told me what a good-looking dog he was.

Yeah, I know, he’s hot. He’s the dood I stayed in for.

I continually run into my hot, straight neighbor on my dog walks. You know, the one that thinks I’m wholesome. We briefly chat about nothing, hug out, and I’m on my way. Our fakelationship has graduated. He rang the doorbell.

“Hi, are you doing anything. I’m lonely and want company,” he said when I opened the door. I explained that I was doing laundry and packing for the 4th weekend, so I wasn’t really doing anything.

I got him a beer, gave him the 10-cent tour, and took him out to the back porch. We chatted briefly and as we were coming back in the door, he turned, stared me down and kissed me.

“We’ve been flirting for months. I just wanted to get that out of the way,” he said.

It was a fabulous reminder that I am a woman with needs, but the needle on my internal creepy Reiter scale was twitching.

“That felt great and I agree, the flirting has been fun and you are a good looking guy, but I have to tell you right now, I’m not fucking you,” I said, trying to manage his expectations. The other reality was my legs were unshaved; I was in yoga pants, a big t-shirt, and a sport bra from my work out a few hours prior. I was just plain gross.

He said he understood and that was cool, then offered to give a tour of his place. I put the whites in the dryer and walked with him.

We made it to his bedroom where he asked me if I was OK with him doing coke. I told him it was his house and it wouldn’t make me uncomfortable, but I wasn’t interested in participating… EVER. Food remains my drug of choice. I sat there and got a first-hand drug education. This wasn’t like the disco coke the kids did when I was in high school. This was a ritual. He sprinkled the coke on tin foil, added some baking soda and water, let it dry, then burned the foil from the bottom and sucked the smoke through a three-inch glass straw. I guess the way Richard Pryor freebased was too old school for him.

Once the high hit, I immediately fired away with the questions.

“I see your car around a lot. Do you work?” I asked.

“Well….” , he responded which I knew was the prelude to a good unemployment story.

He used to be a contractor working in concrete (which would explain the body), but with the housing slump, and the abundance of cheap Mexicans, he hasn’t worked in a while. “I get help,” he said.

Now, where I come from “help” means public assistance or a trust fund. I cocked my head, looked confused and let him elaborate.

“I have a few lady friends that take care of me,” he admitted.

“Seriously? You are a 30 year-old gigolo?” I asked.

Indeed he was. Then he asked my age. He was dumbfounded and then said he loved older woman because we know what we want. Alas, I know what I don’t want, and that’s a young, cokehead gigolo.

The next morning, my doorbell rang and it was Cokie sweating in satin pajama bottoms and a Hugh Heffner robe.

“Let me guess, you’ve been up all night,” I said laughing at him.

“Yeah, what time is it?” he asked.

“It’s time for me to go to work and for you to go home,” I responded.

I liked our relationship when there was mystery about him and when he told me I had a nice ass. Now I’ve met yet another troubled LA guy with no direction.

NEXT.