Don't Mince Words

I’m not that inhibited when it comes to my body. Well, I’m not porn-star confident, so you won’t see me flashing my tits in a girls-gone-wild way. My college days are over. But when I’m scheduled for a deep tissue massage, and given a choice, I select a male because, you know, they are usually stronger and can really get in there.

Andre was a giant – very Rocky IV Russian. Exactly what I’d expect from a spa in my Little Odessa neighborhood. He was probably 24 with a square face and a firm handshake. I knew he could get me straightened out from six weeks of hobbling in a cast.

I was head-down in the doughnut. My mashed boobs spilled into my armpits. He came into the room, pulled down the sheet to my crack and oiled me up. Within 30 seconds, I got a string of questions I’d never been asked while lying on a massage table.

“Are you married?” he asked.

“Do you have any children?” was his follow-up question. Do I look like a single mother? I told him no, I had a rescued dog.

“Are you from LA?” was his third question. Oddly, I began to realize, his questions were no different from when I’m screening people, except I start with LA first. I told him I had lived in LA for five years, but I was from Virginia. “Oh, that’s the accent.”

I decided to change the subject to NYC Russians and my experiences at the Russian Vodka Room. He then suggested, after my massage, I meet him next door at Bar Lubitsch.

“I’m serious. If you live around the corner, go home, change, and meet me,” he encouraged.

He worked my back over and got the knots out. When we finished and I was re-robed and outside the door, I thanked him again. “You see what your aunt feels like doing and try to come have vodka with me,” he said.

I suppose a shot of vodka was a more professional approach to getting to know me; however, the whole time I was on the table, I wanted a happen ending, just to say I finally got one. But I’ll take getting hit on while naked. That’s a new one for me too.

I joined Myspace years ago as another possible dating channel. After several attractive offers from Nigerian contractors, I set my profile on private and rarely went to myspace.com.

In June, the kids in the office convinced me to join Facebook. “The only social marketing I do is the kind that will get me laid,” I told them. They said it might be possible if I had the right kind of friends.

So, 200 friends later, Facebook hasn’t proven to be a good pimp. Ironically, I met my boyfriend through a friend. You know, the old school type of friend that you actually know well enough to email and phone directly.

Am I the only person who opens those annual Social Security statements and gets pissed? I discovered a way to redirect my hatred for all the geezers that get a paycheck thanks to me. It’s called disability.

“If you become disabled right now your payment amount would be about $1,924 a month,” my estimated benefits tell me. That’s tempting, especially since I’ve had a taste of “disability” during the last six weeks while I was in a soft foot cast. It gets me seats on the bus. My Russian neighbors make room for me on the sidewalk. And, last night, the greatest perk: I got handicapped seating at The Wiltern to see The Breeders.

Now we all know I’d have to live in a trailer and eat dog food to survive on that monthly stipend. But it is tempting, especially if it gets me out of working with colossal tools. I’ve been working since 1979 and I’m tired. But I’m also frustrated knowing that these Studio 54-Woodstock nation boomers are retiring on my dime and I’ll be lucky if the favor is returned to my generation.

I could buy a mighty fine trailer with the $71,630 I’ve contributed so far, or 600 kegs of beer and 100 bags of dog food. Until I figure out how I can work the system, I’m going to keep my crutches and soft cast nearby. At least I know I’ll have good seats at restaurants and concerts.

My affinity for younger men began long before I fell into the “cougar” demographic. I was 30, newly divorced, and in that cruel “sexual prime.” I would try anything (one) once. In my Lewis & Clark-esque discoveries, I found disgruntled married-man sex was the best sex out there. Now, I’d like to revise that finding.

With another decade of experience under my belt, I’m here to tell you, the best sex out there is Divorced Daddy Sex (DDS). Find a man that has spent a week with his kid: painfully slow peewee baseball, why questions, action figures, and the ever-popular I-want-I-want, and I’ll show you a man that’s dying for adult contact one-minute after the drop off at mom’s.

So, for all the 20-something boys who think I’m so cool: I love your energy. It’s been nice trying you. For every married man who thinks I’m so vivacious: Go screw your wife or nut up and divorce her. For all the 30-something guys in general: Get your emotionally unevolved asses to therapy and stop dating until you know what you want.

In addition to a health glow, an ancillary benefit to DDS is weight loss. But, its nice to know with one kiss, I can flip a dad from provider to…. holy crazy batshit sex provider and emotionally evolved partner.

It’s about time. I was worried I’d be in menopause before I figured this out.

I heard Oprah once said that if you want a man in your life, you have to imagine him and create him in some sort of collage and then he will manifest. I got as far as buying magnum condoms. And you know me and condoms, I buy them and they often expire. In fact, my Aunt and I gave my last big batch of expirees away with our drink tips on a cruise a few years ago.

GC has been back in New York for five days. Tonight, in preparation for our reunion tomorrow night, he asked me if I had a condom preference. No guy has ever asked me that. Of course, my preference is a condom without holes, but most of all just having a real, live guy to fill one is preference enough for me.

But, wow, thanks for asking.