Don't Mince Words

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.

Ever notice how geezers will wax nostalgic about some car they used to have decades before? Last night, as my life flashed before me, I fondly thought of my Jetta and nearly shed a tear.

That five-speed was spunky and the turning radius could have been envied by the NYPD. What I loved most about it was the sunroof. When I moved to Manhattan, keeping the car was impractical between garage fees and insurance. Regretfully, I sold the Jetta.

Last night I was coming down Fountain near Highland in my stodgy, unfun Honda Accord when some dumb bitch in a fucking LANCER decided to pull out of the left lane and in front of me. Not really the smart thing to do in Friday traffic in a construction zone with gravel.

I slammed on my breaks and fishtailed like a pickup truck on black ice. I did something else Angelinos don’t do often. I honked. I laid on that thing until the smell of burnt rubber dissipated. Miss Lancer gave me the whoops wave. That’s when I began my gesturing. Both hands in the air, I looked like an Italian flipping pizza dough.

This is the moment I missed my Jetta. Because that’s when the sunroof would open and my middle finger would be in the periscope up position. Sometimes I’d wave it side to side through the roof for minor infractions. However, Miss Lancer would have deserved the vertical up/down fuck-you-dumb-female-driver-giving-us-all-a-bad name gesture.

Ah, those were the Jetta days.

Since I have no sunroof in the Accord, I high beamed Miss Lancer until she took the 101 off ramp. That’s when I gave her one final honk. Hopefully she’s learned her lesson: during rush hour in Hollywood, there’s going to be someone in the other lane. I learned you can never be too young to remember great cars.