Don't Mince Words

In my next life, I want to come back as a gay addict.  The habit is TBD.  All I know is these 12-step meetings are one-part sobriety maintenance and three-parts hookup.  The gays in West Hollywood don’t need to online date.  When they have free time, they go to a “meeting.”

My Main Gay is constantly in and out of relationships.  I sit on the sidelines feeling tragically single and heterosexual as I hear about his exploits. Today we met for lunch and I got the ga-ga eyes and “oh, this one is for real” speech.

“This isn’t fair.  Is this another friends-of-bill hookup?” I whined.

“Yes, we met at a meeting.  We are so in love,” he proclaimed.  “He’s mine.”

I can’t even meet a straight man at the grocery store and Main Gay is seeking my advice on Valentine’s Day.  Fanfuckingtastic.   He’s thinking about a long, romantic weekend up in Santa Barbara.  I told him I wasn’t the girl to ask Valentine’s day advice from – it has probably been more than 15 years since a man planned more than a simple card and chocolates for me.

“Aw, my hag needs a real man,” he said.

Right.  We’ve seen how well that’s worked out for me in southern California.  I think it is easier to just plan on being gay in my next life – with a severe addiction to beer.

I think everyone has a love/hate relationship with New York. I have had three visits since leaving because I miss it so much, but need to stay away long enough to remember why I left six years ago. It’s getting harder to remember why.

Within 30 minutes of getting out of JFK, my incense-burning cab driver had me in the east Village for PubNight – a tradition I used to share weekly with my technology dotcom friends.  I was drinking drafts with a half-dozen old friends and another dozen acquaintances.  They all asked why I had left.

“I was committed to getting out before I was 40.  I didn’t want to become a bitter Woody Allen cliche,” I admitted.  But what I realized was I left a great social and professional network for a sun-infused lifestyle that leaves me feeling very isolated.

The next morning I attempted some early shopping at Century 21 until I could meet a Wall Street friend for beers at 10 a.m.  We talked business until I dashed uptown for a lunch meeting with a former LA friend.  In addition to tempting me with some freelance writing business, she rattled on all the benefits of getting out of LA and mentioned the isolation she felt as well.  After lunch, I walked 30 blocks just taking it all in.  I missed it.

What was most apparent to me during my visit was blatantly heterosexual men.  I saw men in bars and on the street that were quite obviously straight.  I suppose I’ve been tainted living in West Hollywood, but man it was nice to see real men talking business, not hair products and jeans.  Don’t laugh, but you know what else I miss?  Real Jews.  Seriously.  Not these Hollywood Jews-of-Convenience or my Russian Jews, but real, obnoxious Lox-loving Jews.  Smart, fast talking Jews.  God bless ‘em.
Straight guys and Jews aside, it’s still not the same New York for me.  I still have a habit of coming up subway stairs looking for the Towers to guide me.  Now I kind of resent having to travel underground.  I want to be above and see everything.  I don’t want to miss anything.  I’m not sure why I left.

Since I have a dog to walk, I’m outside a lot and have met many of my neighbors as a result. I’m in West Hollywood, so I can safely assume all my neighbors are gay. While it’s not a target-rich environment, I’m still my smiling, giggly self – a female minority in a sea of dripping hot homos.

A few weeks ago, two tremendously good looking guys walked out of a house five doors down as Tex and I were crossing their path. I smiled and said hi. They replied with the same back. Today, the same tall hot guy got in his car as I walked by. He drove north, turned around, and slowed down when he passed me. He made a u-turn and came back and parked in front of the house and jumped out his car. Tex and I were in the gate when he ran to the driveway.

“Hi, excuse me. I have a question I need to ask you,” tall hottie said. If I were in a straight neighborhood, this is when I could expect the “does the curtain match the drapes” question. But, in West Hollywood, I had no assumptions.

“Sure,” I said then we introduced ourselves.

“Do you have any satin pajama bottoms I can borrow? I have a party to go to and I’ve spent the day at the Abbey and I’m too fucked up to drive,” he explained.

Satin pajama party. That’s gay, right? The Abbey is a wonderful bar and restaurant, but it is the epicenter of queer in WeHo.

“I’m sorry, I don’t wear pajamas,” I responded.

“Oh, OK. Ah, do you have a light,” he asked holding his Parliments. He looked me up and down and followed-up with “you don’t smoke do you?”

We said our good byes and he got back in his car, turned around, and parked the car in front of his house.

A few minutes later there was a knock at my door while I was making Tex’ dinner.

“Hello again,” I said when I opened the door.

“Hey, so I’ll pay you to drive me to Ross to get the pajamas. I really can’t drive. Do you party?” he asked, pointing to his nose.

“I’m more of a wine girl. I actually have to meet a friend in a half hour for dinner, so I don’t think I can drive you,” I replied.

“I can tell you are a good, wholesome girl. Ok, no biggie, just thought I’d come back and ask,” he said.

“Where’s this pajama party?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s at my house. Why don’t you stop by 812 later when you get back,” he suggested with a raised eyebrow. His follow-up question was even more straight, “do you live alone?”

At this point, Tex had a very timely and audible where’s-my-dinner-bitch groan. I told tall hottie I had a house boy living with me right now doing chores and supervising contractors.

We hugged out and said goodbye.

It wasn’t until I put Tex’ pan of food on the floor that I realized that I had been hit on. I repeated the story for my girlfriends at dinner.

“You wholesome?” they said doubled over laughing. “He obviously was on drugs.”

And those drugs delivered the best and most convoluted pickup line/strategy of the year. Now that I know there are some token straights in the hood, I’ll have to start working other blocks. Hopefully Tex can pimp out his wholesome mommy to some sober guys.

For all you breeders who have received gifts from me during the past 20 odd years, I’ve got one thing to say. Ante up bitches, I’m a mother.

Tex, my farting geezer foster American bulldog, has adopted me. Our six-week courtship was a blast and the experience made me realize I could handle going to the next level. While no dog will ever meet the hilarity and insanity of Kramer, my former funky hipster doophus schnauzer, Tex does fit my current lifestyle. He loves hiking, sleeping, and eating. The bonus is the old guy doesn’t bark. He is also quickly becoming the mayor of West Hollywood. Neighbors come outside to say hi to him when he goes on walks. The kids at Pinkberry give him yogurt samples. The trannie nurse in the mobile AIDS testing station jumps out of her RV to say hi. He’s just that special.

In lieu of stork presents, please make a donation in Tex’ name.

I promise the next three to five years will be good times for Tex and will also mark the longest LA relationship I’ve ever had! I no longer have to date bad dogs.

When you hit a certain age, you realize there’s no great place to live. You are either in the ‘burbs with the marrieds, or in the cheap area surrounded by young ones and Bud. What’s that leave me? West Hollywood.

I live in the least target-rich environment on earth. But the view is great. At least SOMEONE in LA has a relationship. I love the ‘moes. They do have the best neighborhoods. I’m several doors down from barely-yogurt Pinkberry as well as a one-stop leather shop. And, if I hit bottom, the 12-Step store is right next door.

However, when you live and work amongst the gays, you forget what straight men are. Tonight my libido was resuscitated in Barney’s Beanery, five blocks from my house. There were sports games on and men were watching. As I ate dinner with a girlfriend, I felt like horny teen girl again.

“Look at that one over there with the broad shoulders. He’s not gay either.”

On my way out, I was so dazed by the spectacle, I walked over to an age-appropriate guy, handed him my card and said, “Hi, if you are single and straight, give me a call and let’s get a beer sometime. I live in a gay neighborhood and I don’t see real men often.”

He smiled, introduced himself and said sure. He made my day. Maybe I made his.

After dinner, we walked another 1/2 mile to a work/movie party. There seemed to be an overabundance of straight men there, but they all had that homogeneous LA guy look: emo bedhead, 15 pounds underweight, trying too hard to look hip.

So who hits on me? A skinny, gay black guy with a Yankees cap on.

“Gurl, look at you. You got it going on with that hair. Who does your hair?” he asked.

What response could I give that would repulse him and make him go away, like tossing water on the Wicked Witch?

“Fantastic Sams,” I said.

I want to believe that gay guys have straight brothers or friends that I can go out with. But I think I’m going to stick with what I know: bars with pool tables and sports games are usually full of straight guys. Back to the Beanery I go.

I’m back on the subject of LA and cars, but before we go there, let me immediately digress.

I had the usual, traditional conflicted childhood. I was an individual who was different and didn’t blend in and yet I wanted to be like everyone else. And I didn’t. My parents’ delivered the usual fucked-up conflicted messages, “Why can’t you be like everyone else.” Or, “Why do you want to be like everyone else?” (That one they used during back-to-school clothes shopping season). All this was sorted out in college and grad school when I realized I got along with all types of people, but I was, indeed, very much an individual.

So here I am in LA. I’ve never really cared about fashion and usual err on the side of comfort. I’ve never been a conspicuous consumer. No bling-bling. No gottahaveit now. I’m pretty low maintenance. Cars in LA… that’s a subject a standup comic could analyze for days.

I am currently an owner of a 2001 Honda Accord. Is it the car I really wanted? Nah, not really, but I didn’t know what I wanted either. It is a reliable car and it will do for now. It is bigger than I’m used to (four scraped hubcaps to prove it) and CPA-conservative. When I open the trunk in the grocery store parking lot, I feel like I should be putting some cases of Similac in there too.

But I digress.

Today I went to a networking luncheon meeting for the International Association of Business Communicators in West Hollywood. I immediately bonded w/a graphic design agency sales guy named Joseph. I looked at his portfolio while I nibbled on my Mexican salad (“Would you like tofu or grilled chicken on that?” You know you are in Hollywood when tofu is first in the meat order). He’s also doing a short movie on the side about nuclear bomb testing in Utah. So, I immediately went into Pentagon mode and grilled him about the interviews and story line.

After we all paid the check, Joseph and I walked in the same direction together and he invited me to a rough cut screening of his film. We made it to my car and exchanged cards.

“Oh, this is you?” he said, looking deeply into my Honda’s headlights.

“Yes, as you can tell by my parking job, I’m relearning how to drive,” I said.

He walked away, promising to email when he knew the screening time. I knew he wasn’t going to email. I drove a Honda. He strikes me as the kind of guy that likes a girl that drives a Lexus SC430. When you see a woman in a 430, you think, “she must like anal sex.”

I drove down Santa Monica Boulevard chuckling when Joseph happened to pass me in his Cadillac Escalade. WITH A GOLD PACKAGE. A white guy with a gold package? Where I come from this means NO penis instead of small penis and you have a posse of “girls” working for you.

Do you think anyone will notice my new tires?