Don't Mince Words

I try to participate in the public transportation experience in LA as often as I can; however, in nearly five years, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve had the thrill of a bus or subway ride. It’s usually because my car is in the shop or I have jury duty.

If you admit to riding the bus in LA, you’ll usually hear the backwards scream followed by, “but why?” My first ride was on the Venice Boulevard line. I was a very white girl on a very brown bus. My Spanish is still limited to nachos, burrito, cervasa, mommasita bonita (which my college dishwashers told me described me), and whatever total Sesame Street recall I may still have. Wouldn’t you know, some guy on the bus called me a mommasita bonita probably figuring I didn’t know what it meant. I looked at him and said, “GrassEous.”

On Monday, I dropped the car off and rode home on the Santa Monica line with the trannie hookers, the “help”, and stoner musicians. At this point in LA public transportation experience, I can usually count on a verbal interruption, especially on St. Patrick’s day. This time it was, “hey red, nice hair and Chuck Taylor’s.” I smiled thankful it was something nice in English.

This morning I got on an empty bus. Just me and an older woman. I sat two rows behind her. Once the bus pulled out, she turned to me and said with a Russian accent, “Are you awake?”

“Barely. Do I look that bad?” I replied.

“No, no,” she said holding a pamphlet with an image of Jesus praying on the cover.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t do Jesus this early in the morning. Do you have any Red Bull?” I said, securing firm placement stoking the fires of hell.

When I got to the office, I asked a few coworkers if I looked like I needed to be saved. The consensus was I just need a haircut and I need to get laid.

I came home early to have lunch with my new boyfriend, Tex, who is on canine anti-inflammatories for his back (I wear him out). He greeted me with the usual dose of unconditional love (snout in the crotch). What happened after that was pure coincidence (there are no coincidences, just damned good timing).

The Spitzer press conference had just started and I was sucked in. Great, another middle-aged white guy sex scandal. Yippee. Please take my mind off the campaign antics, the economy, and my love life.

There was a knock at the door. I cocked my head. Tex cocked his. Then we heard, “UPS.” I signed for my package only to discover the Cadillac of all vibrators had arrived.

What can brown do for you? Today, apparently, a lot. I toyed with the idea of a test drive prior to going back to work, but the Spitzer coverage distracted me. This was my most expensive self-pleasuring apparatus ever – my high-priced call girl/new boyfriend.

After work, I called my girlfriend who recommended the product. “There are nine attachments, where the hell do I begin,” I asked.

She recommended the grape head attachment and asked me what I was going to name my device. “I call mine Brutus,” she admitted.

In the past, I always called my vibrator “Her-man.” Today, I think the most obvious choice is to call my “new boyfriend” Client Number Nine.

The pleasure was worth every penny and I won’t lose my job.