Dont Mince Words

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.

My little game of Cat and Doctor continued today as I returned to my plastic surgeon’s office with a Christmas card (“thanks for the great ass”) and my German apple bread (“because only a girl with good farm stock hips could bake like this”).

He came around the corner from another room and announced my presence.

“Marna’s here and today she’s in red and looks great,” he exclaimed.

“I clean up pretty well for someone who has been sponge bathing for two weeks,” I told everyone.

“Wow, look at those heels,” he said.

I reminded him I was a sugardaddy-less working girl and had to return to the corporate monkeyspank today so that I could collect vendor gifts, a bonus, and participate in general holiday fuckoffery (someone put a bottle of Grand Marnier on my desk for symbolic reasons).

I stripped down nekkid and was told again I’m still healing fabulously. My belly button was revealed and it’s cute, in a newborn crusty kind of way. My one remaining pussy pump was also removed which will increase my mobility as well as get the whole puss back on a healing path. The better news is…. I can shower. But not before I make a pit stop at Babeland on the way home to see about a new vibrator.

It’s the simple things like showers and masturbation that keep me going. But the Victoria Secret gift certificate for new panties is running a close third. HO, ho, ho.