Tuesday, March 10, 2009



The following will explain why 99.9% of the time I’m only down to fuck.

Dating. I’d rather have five root canals, undergo Chinese water torture and take a hot load to the eye… flushing immediately, of course. Dating fucking blows, mainly because no one is normal, present writer included. But there are times when I see a tasty morsel and I simply must have it, even if it means going through all the awkward bullshit of a first date and the “getting to know you” crapshoot. I mean, I know there isn’t a straight man (or gay one, for that matter) out there who doesn’t appreciate a good, hot, dirty slut, but it’s kind of hard to use those tactics on the street (unless, of course, you’re a streetwalker) as opposed to in a bar where it’s the name of the game… and everyone is three sheets to the mothafucking wind.

Last week, I was coming out of Rice Things (awesome lean teriyaki chicken dish by the way) and I passed a jaw-droppingly HOT piece of man ass on his way in. My mouth was running and I was hitting on him before my brain could even process what the hell was going on. He was on the phone, this didn’t matter to me one iota. I waited by my car, leaning, one-foot-up style, lookin’ pretty bad ass, for him to come back out of the restaurant. He bee-lined toward me. Big titties - works every time. Cue the flirting, giggling and number exchanging. He’s a fireman. I wanted him to spray me with his hose right then and there. Instantly the tingling of horniness and excitement danced through my body. Why I was excited I have no damn clue. When are dates ever awesome… or fun… or worth it? In my case, fecking NEV-ER! Peter Pan can fucking suck it, I said NEVER, fucking EVER.

We had a couple phone convos before the weekend and there weren’t any awkward pauses and I didn’t have to do the high school bullshit and have my roommate call me on the other line, so I could make an excuse to get off the damn phone. We set a date for Saturday. Turns out, randomly, a mutual friend of ours is having a party at his restaurant. Sa-weet.

One red flag was tossed on the field, though.

His voicemail, on his cell phone by the way, says “You’ve reached *Hot Fireman,* Michelle and Lisa.” Huh? Who has more than one name on their cell phone; do people actually share the same one? They cost like ten dollars these days. And these were female names, unless he’s living a Jack Tripper lifestyle, this is no good. Since us two kids were gettin’ along pretty well thus far, I decided to remain Positive Patty. Patty was about to get bitch-slapped… hard.

Saturday night rolls around. It’s go time. I’ve got everything shaved, smell like a whore factory from all the perfume and have on a new outfit, so I’m feelin’ fine as wine and confident. At about 5:00pm the text messages start to roll in:

Hot Fireman: You around to go to the party tonight?

We’d already discussed this a few times and I agreed to go more than once, but I guess there’s nothing wrong with a little quadruple checking.

Me: Yes, of course. What time should I expect you?

Hot Fireman: Need to do some things first then off to the races. Will call u what time can u be ready

Me: Whenever you want me to be, what time will you be done so I know

About twenty minutes go by…

Hot Fireman: What time u going

Me: Huh? I thought we were going together?

Hot Fireman: Need to get my friend an outfit first change then go can cum by after that around seven thirty give me and address. But going somewhere right after. Don’t want you to get stranded so if u want to drive there and then we can take it from there. Ok.

Two more red flags are thrown on the field, this guy is now trying to get out of the date altogether. And now his friend is coming along. Although this is a mutual friend’s party, I didn’t know about it until Hot Fireman invited me, so it’d be weird to show up alone and it’d be weird anyway since this is, or was, supposed to be a date.

*Stranded is in bold because this is not a word you want to throw out when you’re about to take a girl out. Stranded is what happens when your car breaks down, or your boat gets caught in a storm and is marooned on a deserted Island, or your flight gets canceled in some foreign city. Not something you should expect from someone who, as of less than twelve hours ago, couldn’t wait to hang out with you - unless you’re a real fucking bitch or dude was obliterated when you met and you’re a complete hose-beast – even then it would still be lame.

At this point, I am reminded why I hate this shit before I’ve even left the house. I’m trying to stay pumped, but really just want out of the whole thing. Good thing this fucker is smokin’ fuckin’ hot.

Me: Wasn’t really planning on driving, unless you’re really planning on stranding me.

Hot Fireman: Ok I’m in. Then I will be there around that time.

You’re in? I didn’t invite him to go out. He invited me. W-T-F.

I call his ass. Texting is some weird shit sometimes and I needed to know what the hell is going on here. He doesn’t answer. Instead:

Hot Fireman: Grilling dinner call u in forty min thx.

Thx? I promptly go downstairs and make a drink. The comfort of an old friend is exactly what I needed at this point... or a good fuck. Since I couldn’t get a booty call lined up quick enough. Sangria and I had a little tryst.

He calls.

I ask him if he still wants to do this. No pressure, just sensing a little resistance. I’m trying not to be drama, but shit is already frea-kay and he hasn’t even picked me up, or decided if he’s going to. He assures me all is good, he just has to go to another party with his buddy after the one he invited me to. He’ll have to tell me the whole story one day. Huh? I mean, fucking, what is he talking about? I let him know I’m just not really into being stranded tonight. I tell him I understand if, at the party afterward, he can’t bring sand to the beach, and if that’s the reason he was mentioning me driving I get it. But I’d rather he just drop me back off at home on the way to his other party. He tells me he’s sorry for all the confusion, can’t wait to see me and he’ll be there soon, and also apologizes for all the back and forth.

O-kay. I feel mildly better, mildly is a strong word.

Hot Fireman arrives with Buddy. I’ve been downgraded to a threesome friend date. I can roll with it. Fuck it. We go to the first party and have a really swell time. We’re getting along just fabulously and his friend is cool. It comes time to go to the next party, and H.F. and Buddy insist I come along. I guess I passed the “cool” test. That was a close one.

We get to the party. Walking up to the house H.F. is all over me, complimenting a bitch like a motherfucker. What I didn’t know at the time was that this was my Dead Man Walking moment. He was just buttering up the prisoner before they arrived to their ultimate doom. Inside everyone is nice. One older woman gets up and bolts toward me, “Hi, what’s your name?” I tell her. “Very nice to meet you, very nice.” Um, okay. Weird.

H.F. introduces me to the Owner of the house and a couple other people. As I’m talking to one of them, I think I hear Owner say “wife.” Nah, he couldn’t have. Right? Wrong! Sooooo God damn wrong. I was wrong like crimped hair in the 80’s, wrong like Two Girls, One Cup, wrong like Ehhhhh *buzzer* YOU’RE WRONG, LADY! H.F. and Buddy go to the kitchen to make drinks. Owner decides he wants to take me around and introduce me to some more people. Clear as crystal he introduces me as, “This is H.F.’s wife. H.F. is in what division of the fire department, again?”

All eyes are abruptly on me. I’m trying not to swallow my tongue, and pray to God my voice doesn’t crack when I answer, which will indicate just how thrown I am. “Uh, I’m not H.F.’s wife.”

The Owner looks like he could cry. “I’m so sorry. I’m going to try and remove the gigantic foot I just shoved in my mouth, although I’m pretty sure it’ll be impossible.”

The other people standing there are now looking at me like I’m some young, 20-something year old tart, who’s getting played, which pretty much sums up exactly what I was. H.F. was watching all this go down from a distance in the kitchen. I excuse myself to the bathroom.

Bathroom: I text two of my girls, telling them, reminding them, why I only like to fuck guys. I, literally, like some cheesy romantic comedy, look out the window to check the distance to the ground. This party is all of three blocks from my house. I could be home in ten minutes tops. I decide to breathe instead; I’ve been holding my breath for two straight minutes now. H.F. knocks on the door, “You okay in there?”

“Uh, huh. Dandy. Be right out.” I decide to remain cool; I’m not a scene-maker. This is H.F.’s deal, not mine. He’s the one still married and dating. I don’t want to get into it too much in front of a bunch of random people at a party, but I have a few simple little questions. I come out and H.F. is standing right outside the door.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, so you’re still married?”

“Yeah, I’ll have to tell you the whole story sometime.”

So far this fucker will have to put me on his knee one day and share a whole weeks worth of tales. He, painfully, continues, “Yeah, she’s actually on a date right now, I don’t even want to think about it.”

Jealous husband. One of my all time favorite traits in a first date, I don’t know about the rest of you. This was going just swimmingly. I hoped it would never end.

“We’ve got a three year-old and it’s hard, you know.”

I nod, but no, I fucking don’t know. No clue. I’m not married, have no kids and generally don’t like to drown people in my Katrina-size flood of baggage and issues. I just ask him to assure me he hasn’t brought me into a hornet’s nest, which he does. Its 11pm, H.F. has already warned me he has to leave around midnight because he works early the next day. One hour, I can do this. I ask him to bring me another beer, fuck this; bitch is gettin’ a buzz on. No longer concerned with being the “little lady.”

He returns, and is now all over me, dialing the flirting up to Max. He’s hot, and I’m not gonna lie it was working. His phone, by the way, is BLOWING up hard. Wifey must be home from said date. An Asian woman approaches us, “Hey H.F., your wife is Japanese right? Do you speak Japanese? Blah, blah, blaaaah.”

I begin an inner-dialogue in my head. Japanese? How well do these people know H.F.? If you specifically meant to design a woman opposite of an Asian woman it would be me, in every sense and case of the design. I don’t consider myself insecure in the slightest, in fact I could do with some insecurity at times, because I’ve been told I can act cocky, but something about the White man/Asian fetish really gets me. It’s a fetish that always borderlines obsession and I know I can’t compete with it, ever. Unless I become like “Catwoman” and undergo some serious Nip/Tuck freak-style plastic surgery. I get it, Asian women are hot (not all, but most). White boys can catch themselves some serious Yellow Fever and the Great White Glory cannot under any circumstance cure it, only possibly Nuprin can, “Little, yellow, different.”

As they continue on about Japanese and wives, I, once again, excuse myself to the bathroom. My “sane” room. I don’t even give a shit if the whole party thinks I’m droppin’ deuces and blowin’ it up in there. I come out to find Buddy, “Hey how’s it goin’?”

“Just great! Awesome time.” He’ll always have to wonder, sarcastic or sincere? Since he doesn’t know me well enough to know its complete and utter sarcasm. I can’t help but try and get some insider information. “So, H.F. is still married I hear. “

He nods.

“But separated, right?” He gives me one of those faces like he’s just seen someone hit hard by something. I guess I wasn’t hiding it as well as I thought. He shakes his head, and pretty much gives me the impression that H.F. and wife have been having trouble for about three years now, but they have a kid so it’s been rough. As far as I can tell they still live together but date other people. I try not to preach, but without being able to control it I respond with, “Wow, that’s great for a kid to be around, for sure. I totally get it now.”

He gives me the, I-agree-but-he’s-my-buddy-and-I-know-a-lot-more-of-the-inside-story-so-I-get-it-more-than-you look. He has a very expressive face. I let him off the hook and continue to have the best time I can. Midnight is here, yay! I get to turn into a pumpkin. Never in my whole life have I been so excited to leave a party and sit alone in my house. He tells me everyone really likes me and I seem like I’m having fun so I’m more than welcome to stay, he checks his phone about three times as he tells me this. I go with, "I came with you and I’d like to leave with you." I think to myself, but thanks for the (fucking weird) offer.

He drops me off. I summon a booty call.

The moral of THIS story: No man in L.A. is single, but he will still shamelessly date you. He’ll tell you he’s single, but he’s definitely got a wife, fiancĂ©, girlfriend, someone he’s dating, mistress, dominatrix, hooker, or massage parlor somewhere. The ratio of single women versus single men in this town is 1,000,000,000 to 1. Dating rocks!
Easy Lover