Don't Mince Words

I spent the first four years in Los Angeles dating voraciously, trying to make up for my career-first East coast days. I’m now a dog owner, which has kind of changed my outlook on dating. You are going to have to be better than my dog and my vibrator to get me out of the house.

That rule quickly changed on Thursday for the veep debate. I had a gentleman caller (GC) over for drink Palin Bingo. GC and I were re-introduced a few months ago by a mutual friend and have had a great time bitching about dating in LA, getting fit, writing, and everything in between. It was nice to have a man over. I didn’t have to leave my dog.

But Tex quickly established who was top dog when he crawled on to the sofa and pressed his nose up to GC’s hip. I was permitted to sit sideways beside the boys. After a few “mavericks” and “main streets,” Tex realized this guy was ok and he demoted himself down to his day bed on the floor. GC was approved.

Tex is the big brother I never had. He watches my back. Thankfully, he leaves the room when he hears the vibrator.

There are times I miss Brooklyn. Good bagels. Real pizza. Funny Jews. It was very apparent last week I wasn’t anywhere near Brooklyn when I went to my corner market.

I’ve been a shut-in since my foot surgery, but felt strong enough to venture out, primarily for fruit and human interaction. I put my backpack on, grabbed the leash, and Tex and I crutched up to Santa Monica Boulevard. I tied him to the tree in front of the market and I went in.

Bodegas in NY have everything. Sewing kits, beer, cheese, you name it. The markets in my neighborhood are run by Russian Jews. All food labels are in Russian. Their customers are stereotypical sad Russians sporting scowls. My gimpy WASPY self was happy to be around the old world Jews, just for a change of pace. I grabbed some tomatoes, grapes, dark rye and waited in line and stared at the deli case which had a variety of beet dishes. I suppose Russians like their root vegetables.

When I finally got to the register the woman before me was almost out the door, but was speaking very loud and pointing. I realized it was Tex. I hobbled to the door as she continued to speak her Russian blah-blah to me. I smiled and said, “He’s old and very, very friendly.”

She seemed surprised I wasn’t a native speaker. Maybe my bed head made me look more Russian. “Oh, he is beautiful dog. You see he is very old soul,” my rectangular-shaped neighbor in a polyester dress told me.

Back at the register, the owner tried to up-sell with potato pancakes and other bakery items. She then went to the meat case and pulled out what looked like a one-inch diameter Slim Jim dipped in battery acid. I can’t begin to tell you how many un-nameable cow parts I saw there. “It will make you well,” she told me. I thanked her and stuffed my backpack.

I’m now doing much better and Tex and I can make it the four short blocks to Whole Foods with one crutch. I may go back and visit my Russians, but for now, I’m back to English-speaking WeHo gays and Hollywood Jews. These are my people. Besides, Whole Foods has bagels.

When you haven’t had good sex in a very long time, you hit that point where you become OK without it. You get used to it. Or you get a dog to keep your mind off it. But there is that fear, like a diabetic having a small slice of cake, that when you do finally have sex, you are going to crave the whole cake all the time.

It had been a long time for GC as well, so I don’t think either one of us were in a hurry to go there. When we did, it was exactly as I suspected it would be: great and, damn it, great. The sweat wasn’t dry yet and I was the proverbial addict slapping my wrist looking for a vein. I was ready for round two and his eyes were still rolled to the back of his head.

Several days later, he paid me the ultimate compliment. “You have the sex drive of a small latin country.” Not bad considering my primary source of pleasure has been walking my dog. Now I can obsess about the next time I get “walked.”