F U, F Me

Sometimes, when you try to get someone else fucked, someone will want to fuck you: it’s called good karma.

Although this blog does center on our own gains and losses, Courtney and I are not totally self-centered when it comes to love. Sometimes, we try to help other people find love, too. (This is especially true when helping someone involves a trip to a gay bar because these places are a straight girl’s wet dream: free vodka shots and shirtless men who compliment your outfit.)

In order to help Courtney’s shy gay friend—we’ll call him “Rob”—find someone, we decided to hit up FU Bar, a WeHo (West Hollywood) watering hole with a wide variety of, well, wildlife. We had been there under twenty minutes before our first prospect came ‘a knockin,’ a handsome man in his Botox 30’s (real age: approximately 42). He asked us about our friend and why we had come.

As we were talking, Courtney and I couldn’t stop stealing glances at the even more attractive go-go dancer behind him. His skin was oiled like a turkey out of the oven, tiny black suspenders holding every muscle in place—and did I mention bikini briefs? He threw over a few provocative glances, and while half of me wanted to believe him, the other half had to keep remembering that I was in a gay bar.

Meanwhile, our hopes to unite Botox with Rob died when Botox’s long-standing boyfriend of 15 years joined our circle. Luckily, we soon met two other men—one of whom had a definite interest in our “project.”  They could not have been more friendly, funny, or better dancers (as it turns out one was a back-up dancer and the other was a choreographer for an iconic musician).

As things were heating up with Rob and the backup dancer, Botox returned holding several single bills. “Here,” he said, gesturing towards the greased bird on stage. “Go give it to him.”

“What? No. I can’t,” I said in a mix of horror and laughter.

“Yes, you can.” He shoved one bill in my hand and the other in Courtney’s.

“It’s weird. He almost doesn’t even seem gay,” I yelled to Botox over M.J.’s Thriller.

“I don’t think he is.”

It was the wrong thing to tell two girls who wished that he really wasn’t gay. Courtney held the bill for a minute and then marched towards the stage. She waved it over her head and then confidently reached towards him, tucking the paper between his skin and Fruit of the Loom.

I examined my target and made my approach while the dollar was absorbing the sweat from my palms. I waited for just the right angle and then extended my hand. I meant to grab his skivvies, but he grabbed my hand instead. He bent down so our faces were a few inches apart. “Hi,” he yelled.

“Hi.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“What is it?”

“Are you gay?”

“No, I’m here with my gay friend.”

“Me neither. So, what are you doing after this?”

***

I could have gone with him. Half of me wanted to, but the other half remembered where I was. Knowing that I had lived out a tiny straight girl fantasy was enough: discovering that your gay friend isn’t really gay.

 

Getting it “Up in the Air”: How George Clooney makes me want to be a man

As the credits rolled for Up in the Air, I should have been thankful that I was not the film’s central character Ryan Bingham (George Clooney), a man who is so preoccupied with traveling for business that he never establishes any meaningful relationships. I wasn’t. I should have been grateful that my whole life (ties, toothbrush, computer) was not contained in one tiny carry-on bag. But I wasn’t. I was jealous.

That single piece of luggage highlighted a difference between the sexes, a difference that no movement or committee or government can ever fix. Simply put, I was jealous because men need less. I was jealous because no matter how efficient or organized women are, they can never compete with the intrinsic minimalism of men and the freedom that it affords them.

Even the most careful women, the best packers, the least fussy travelers come with baggage: hair dryers, high heels, under-eye cream. No, you say: not all women need the trappings of store-bought beauty. Well, ask yourself when was the last time you heard an attractive woman described as “ruggedly handsome.” Even tomboys cannot get away with such minimalism: a box of tampons is still bulky.

Thanks in part to nature and in part to society’s concept of beauty, women are still the less free sex.  Even after winning the right to vote, semi-equal wages, and the right to hold open our own door, we are still tethered by that which adorns our bodies.  We are tangled up with it, physically and emotionally. Our self esteem, our very concept of femininity are somehow attached to those lackluster purchases. Perhaps it is an inescapable part of our biology—men leave things; women collect them.

***

The film ends with George Clooney taking yet another flight. The final scene contains the sadness of isolation, as well as a hint of relief (a subtle wink to fellow men) that he is still free—from both things and women. No affinities. No attachments. Even the title echoes Freud: men are able to get it “up,” women aren’t. Ultimately, it is a film that leaves women with one more piece of baggage to lug home—penis envy.

 

Pulling a Charlotte

Last week I did something I never thought I was capable of doing.  No, I didn’t go sky diving, kill a spider, or even waltz on beat (sorry Mom).  I pulled a Charlotte.

For those who need a bit of a refresher, Charlotte is a character from Sex and the City who in Season 2 Episode 14, crunched for time, naively booked back-to-back dates on the same night, only to have the situation blow up in her face when both men discovered her philandering ways.

Watching it for the first time as a freshman in college, alone yet again on a Friday night, I was jealous (to say the least).  While I was still having problems securing one date, Charlotte easily screwed over two perfect gentlemen with her lack of basic time management skills.  What a shmuck!  I furiously shook my fist at the TV and promised myself that I would always have the common courtesy to never double book when it came to my romantic schedule.

I’ve never had a single problem keeping this oath until the latest holiday season.  Somewhere between job applications and present shopping, visiting old friends on winter vacation and the 49ers losing any chance of going to the Super Bowl, and celebrating Christmas Eve with my family and Christmas day with Kelly’s, I discovered that I only had one free night the week of the 25^th.

The trouble was that I had carelessly promised two different men I would go on dates that week without checking my calendar.  The first contestant on my own personal version of “The Bachelorette” was Dan, a 26 year old satellite engineer who I’d already been seeing for two weeks.  The second was Glen, a park ranger from Virginia I met while drunk at a club the previous weekend.  Although I barely new him, realizing how much my parents would disapprove of Glen for being 15 years older than me and decidedly not Jewish only made him that much more attractive.  But, that is a digression better suited for another post…

In what could only be classified as a Christmas miracle, I worked out a feasible schedule.  I would meet Glen at 7:45 for coffee in one city, and then excuse myself at 9 for “family reasons” in order to rush over to a different city to meet Dan for dinner by 9:15.

My Starbucks date with Glen was rather uneventful.  The only emotion I felt during our brief hour together was fear…of being late for my next date.  And for all of the pep talks I had given myself in preparation, I had definitely over-hyped the excitement from my elicit back-to-back date.  This wasn’t a sitcom; my two suitors wouldn’t cross paths to spice up the story line or boost the show’s ratings.

Still, I was proud when my date with Glen ended and I successfully left as scheduled and drove to my dinner rendezvous.  I was better than Charlotte!  I had a watch and I knew how to use it!!!

Walking out of my car towards the restaurant, I could spot Dan pacing the waiting area through the glass doors.  Dressed in a button down shirt from his tiring day at work, he was the most attractive I had ever seen him.  As I paused to study him, it hit me: I had already started to like Dan.

Glen never stood a chance and I was well aware of that fact before I even relented in giving that park ranger my phone number.  So, why had I?  And moreover, why had I placed myself in such a pointlessly stressful situation?  To sabotage myself.

I’m so accustomed to putting up with guys that aren’t worth my time, who I could drop at my earliest convenience, that I don’t even know how to handle someone with whom I could see having a future.  Somewhere in my subconscious, I tried to turn my relationship with Dan into something I could understand: one that completely failed.  But, no matter what stunts I pull, I can’t avoid the one obvious fact.

I’m really starting to like Dan.

 

10 Resolutions for 2010

2009 has had some ups and downs.  Let’s face it…mostly downs.  Thankfully, once you’ve hit rock bottom, the only place to go is up.  We have a clean slate and a new year ahead of us.

We’ve had a long, long time to reflect on what we can do better in 2010.  So here they are, our resolutions for the coming year.  Hopefully, 2010 will be a vast improvement over 2009.  And if not, well…at least we’ll have more material for our blog.

Remember…

1.  Being single does not equal being alone.

2.  Never date people when discounts are at stake.

3.  Don’t drink more so that your date will become more attractive.

4.  Don’t drink even more so that you make out with said unattractive date.

5.  Listen to your gut.  The second time around with him will not be better.

6.  When it comes to what a man is willing to spend on you, there is a fine line between recession chic and just plain cheap.

7.  Don’t “Facebook friend” anyone that you’ve dated in case they read this blog.

8.  Be more aware.  Don’t find yourself on an accidental date…again.

9.  If you’re dating a guy with eyeliner and/or botox, you’re not dating him.  Trust us.

10.  Give love a chance.

 

I Have a Secret

I finally did it. The big “it.” No…wait…not that “it,” but I did join an on-line dating site…

Although it is a close cousin of the dreaded personal ad, (the only real difference is a higher word count) the online dating scene does have a few perks. For one, you can meet people without the risk of getting beer spilled on your new shirt. You can talk to someone without having to yell over a bad techno remix. You don’t have to spend money on new clothes, or hours getting ready. Your breath can be disgusting and it doesn’t even matter.

And who can deny the strangely seductive commercials? Deliciously average couples, oozing perfect imperfections—freckles, unusual smiles, and endearing accents—all subtly hinting at one thing: true love is acceptance, flaws and all. Add to that the ease and accessibility of the internet and you have a dangerously tempting proposition.

Last week I opted to give it a shot. After filling out a rather extensive questionnaire and an “about me” page, I decided to relinquish my fate to some higher power—the computer. It took exactly three matches before I started having doubts. All were IT guys. All enjoyed “coding” for fun.

I decided to take matters into my own hands. I grabbed my mouse and went out on the prowl.  I “winked” at a cute blonde who held a job in “Corporate America” but was, “not defined by it.” I responded to a message from a guy from Northern Ireland who coached six girls’ soccer teams. I received an inquiry from a fellow writer who asked me what I liked to write. As I started to respond, it hit me: Nowhere in my profile did I mention that I liked to write or that I wanted to be a writer. How did he know? And more importantly, why hadn’t I mentioned it?

Maybe I feared that no one would want a starving artist on their shoulder? Perhaps, I did not want my profile to stink of empty promises? However, when I visited the musician/composer’s page and noticed that he conveniently left the favorite music section blank, it began to make sense. How could a composer neglect his deepest inspirations? How could a writer deny that she wanted to write? It seemed odd, given that we all joined this site to get to know each other; yet, the only details we were willing to share were the insignificant ones.

The significant, by default, is whatever is too precious to say.  It is the burning, gaseous center around which all other trapped particles orbit. Although it is shapeless and intangible, it is also finite; so, we guard it. It is easy to give away the details that never belonged to us, the bits we collected or attracted over the years, but it is quite different to suck away a bit of the center because on some level we know it will never fully be ours again. It might seem strange, or even selfish, but we hold back our essence in order to have something left.

I always knew there was false advertising in personal ads (and their cousins), but I assumed it would be exaggeration, even straight fiction—not omission. I was counting on the kind of lie that I could detect, not the kind that could slip through the cracks—or, rather, the lines. It seems, for most of us, the real false advertising is to put up a profile at all, to create an expectation of disclosure, when in reality the most we are willing to disclose are a few unanswered questions.

 

Warmth

Furiously rubbing my hands together, I sighed and watched white wisps of warmth escape my lips, momentarily hovering in the surrounding air before dissolving into the patchy night sky.

The stars were scattered and abundant, seemingly reflecting my thoughts.  The cold weighed on me like the week’s problems, and I considered escaping to the cozy familiarity of my bed.  I nestled my hands back inside my sweatshirt pockets, unsure that it would make any difference.

Around me five boisterous male friends ecstatically let out resounding yawps as they trekked onwards towards the unknown, anticipating the excitement of streets softly glowing by lamplight and neglected buildings crumbling into shadows.  I marveled at my companions’ unwavering certainty, their faith that darkness could make the familiar new.

More friends, more voices.  Much like a snowball precariously rolling down a mountain, the collection of acquaintances expanded as we ambled together along Bancroft Avenue.  I quickened my pace in an effort to break free from the overbearing pack.

Then I felt it—a spark, a sudden jolt to my pulse and a fleeting moment of warmth.

Slowly and unsteadily, I turned my head to come face to face with an enigma.  Tall and upright like the surrounding skyscrapers, but perhaps more fragile; the biting wind, which had left the other edifices untouched, had left trails of raw, pink skin along his cheek bones—cracks in a white foundation.  It was unclear if these were merely superficial imperfections, or evidence of deeper structural inadequacies.

I hesitated.  Would this feeling turn out to be a charade, nothing more than the Sirens’ Song luring me in to their dangerous landing, only to have my heart smashed up against the rocks of rejection and cold indifference?

Or…Maybe this was no enigma at all, but rather a man who too was hoping to uncover something magical in the promising hours ahead.

“Hi,” I  stammered.  “I’m Courtney.”

I took my hand out of the comfort and safety of my warm pocket and extended it towards him.

 

Pathetic Introductions Are Pathetic

I might be a city-loving, word-obsessed, formerly-crazed Leo DiCaprio fan (circa the Titanic years). I might be an accident prone, commitment-phobic aspiring writer who is allergic to Christmas trees and lacks common boundaries (I once slept on a fellow tourist during a bus ride from Normandy to Paris and drooled on his shoulder). I might be a lot of things…but boring?

However, according to one man at the Edison bar, I am just that. After demonstrating his own conversational shortcomings and humorless repartee, he had the nerve to call me “boring.” I don’t advocate name-calling but, if you must, at least make it accurate. He mistook the suffix. He should have called me “bored.”

Someone once told me that 90 percent of what you say does not come out of your mouth. Why then did this guy have such trouble reading my body language? Arms crossed. Eyes glazed over. (Anything more obvious and I would have rented a sandwich board.) This was not code for “try harder,” unless, I could have amended it to say, “Try harder to be more interesting.”

The truth is: this guy never stood a chance. I was over him after the first sentence he uttered. He engaged in my biggest bete noir when it comes to introductions. Allow me to set the scene:

I am standing at the bar holding a drink. A dark-haired man approaches.

Man: You need to loosen up.

K: No I don’t. But, thanks anyway.

It comes from the genome of accusatory lines including “what are you afraid of” most popularly invoked by high school boys in the backseats of cars. It is always an amateur move. It is always equal parts cheesy and uncomfortable. Mostly because the people who use it presume to know what’s best for you without actually knowing you. When I hear this line from a guy, I know he’s got nothing. He puts me on the defensive and demonstrates that he is desperate. His whole night could have been different if he had started out with a question like, “So what do I have to do to get you to dance with me?” Or, better still, a simple “hello.”

The bottom line is that rudeness is never the way to a girl’s heart (unless you are playing the irresistible bad boy, which I will save for another installment). However, it is an excellent way to remain alone.

 

Lust on the Cheap: Getting the most for your body in the post-recession age

Admit it. Most of us got bitch-slapped by the recession. On the bright side, after the banks collapsed and credit dried up, after housing plummeted and people stopped spending, our world started to change—it started to resemble a bargain basement clearance sale: a grab bag of deals and discounts, a plethora of at-cost merchandise. However, before you rent a van to cart home all of your great finds, let me remind you about one tiny problem:  the less something costs, the less it is worth.

It is a concept that extends far beyond finely crafted luggage. The question of worth applies to us in more delicate, far more intimate ways. The recent recession may be just the thing to shine some light on the otherwise dimly-lit markets of human interaction. Like any market there are long-term buyers and short-term sellers, those who are risk loving and those who buy gold; but here mathematical equations and set variables do not hold, market indicators are subtle and often fleeting. At some point, most of us have held something too long, sold too soon, or become trapped in a web of complicated emotional derivatives.

We cannot necessarily expect the same deals in relationships that we can expect at the mall. It is not as simple as women offering a lesbian fling with any three dinner dates or men offering commitment packages in return for fewer free drinks…although we can dream. However, when it come to a durable good like love, one basic principle remains: to expect great returns on your relationship investment, you first have to save.

It is a word that has fallen out of vogue, out of print, and nearly out of our collective conscience. It is contrary to the very fabric of our nation—a nation of consumers. We consume toilet paper, electronics, fashion trends, and television series, so why should people be different? After all, isn’t the divorce rate (hovering around 50%) the ultimate expression of consumer economics? We are not accustomed to making things last or fixing them. We are afraid of old things, and of growing old ourselves; therefore, we have been conditioned to buy new.

We are so conditioned to spend, that we cannot save any part of ourselves, even for the ones we love. We do not save any details of our lives—our stories, fears, preferences or dreams. We publish them all, post them to the world, and shamelessly indulge ourselves in learning those of others. There is no mystery left. No chance to discover.

Sex has become both a commodity and a currency; a product to be sold and a service to be purchased.  It is from our consumption fervor that we bargain away our bodies—not just physically, although that is one facet of the underlying problem. We are not only unaccustomed to saving, we are afraid of it. We sell ourselves short because we are afraid to wait, afraid to hold out, afraid to be alone. We give ourselves to people who do not deserve us, who do not understand our value. But we should not be afraid because sometimes waiting is the best remedy during a recession. And in the meantime, maybe we can learn how to save.

 

Mediocre Makeover (The C.R.E.E.P. Plan)

As a girl who grew up watching romantic fairytales like Aladdin and Sleeping Beauty, where the love of my life was one magic carpet ride away, I always assumed that, someday, my prince would come.  However, time has taught me the cruel lesson that real life barely resembles the Disney movies I adored.  Most men in the real world are barely earning a C average when it comes to matters of the heart.  That’s why I came up with the C.R.E.E.P. Plan: the foolproof method to attract so many losers that once someone mediocre comes along again, any common man will, in comparison, be transformed into the greatest thing since George Clooney.

C – Conversation Skills
Of these, he should have none.  I like to seek out guys who respond to my questions in three words or less, preferably all monosyllabic.  Bonus points if he speaks in generics, throwing out one platitude after another.  If you’re still not sure if you’ve found yourself a true C.R.E.E.P. candidate, I posted a sample conversation below.

You: Congratulations on your promotion!

Him: Well, you know what they say: the early bird gets the worm.

You: Oh, so you must get to work super early then?

Him: No

Riveting!

R – Roaming Eyes

“Excuse me.  Are these your eyes?  I found them in my cleavage.”  Find a guy who’s only interested in assets that are found in pairs in the body (and no, I’m not referring to your kidneys).  A true C.R.E.E.P.’s gaze will wander so much that he will make you wonder if he has two lazy eyes.

EE – Extremely Eager
The Eager Beaver comes in many breeds.  The most common is Mouth-to-Mouth Beaver, who thinks that after just 10 minutes of knowing each other you would like nothing more than for him to stick his tongue down your throat.  Then there’s Jump-the-Gun Beaver, who is already making plans for your 3 month anniversary on your first date.  The Eager Beaver can most commonly be identified by his repetitions about any or all of the following from the moment he makes your acquaintance: how lucky he is to have met you, how beautiful you are (“Girl, do you know how beautiful you are?”), and how you are so much better than his ex-girlfriend.  Physical signs include eating mints a box at a time and constant chapstick reapplication.

P – Persistent
You look away.  You won’t respond to his questions.  But he won’t take “no” for an answer?  Perfect!  I prefer guys who call me multiple times a day begging for me to see them, even if I had just declined the invitation a few minutes ago.  And if you do choose to stop taking his phone calls, he should leave a message at least once a month to remind you of that one magical night you had together.

Just follow these four simple criteria when choosing your next few dates, and soon you too can happily be in a relationship with a somewhat balding, middle-management fellow ten years your senior with almost no sense of humor!

Warning: Some followers of the C.R.E.E.P. Plan have suffered from mild cases of stalking, sober beer goggles, extremely lowered standards, and depression.



 

Double Trouble

Imagine having a gorgeous man sweep you off your feet.  Wouldn’t the picture be even better with a second, equally debonair gentleman involved?  No, I’m not talking about a threesome (well, at least not today anyway…).  One of my greatest childhood fantasies was to have two knights in shining armor vie for my affections.  However, like most of my deepest desires, the reality was never as enjoyable as I had imagined.

*     *     *     *     *

It was approximately 11:38 on September 10^th and I was taking my friend Carrie out for birthday drinks.  We sat ourselves down at the bar preparing to count down the minutes until midnight, when she would finally turn 21 and could legally drink.  We barely had time to adjust ourselves on the stools when I felt a tap on my back.

“Excuse me,” a voice from behind me purred, “but I couldn’t help but notice what a beautiful back you have.”

I turned around to come face to face with a somewhat attractive Spaniard.  “I was right: your front is even more gorgeous.  I’m Diego.”  In a decision I would immediately regret, I told him my real name.

Once again, my knowledge of the Spanish language came in handy.  Thinking he was speaking in a code that no American girl could possibly decipher, Diego turned to his friends and exclaimed what a fine ass I had.

I turned my body and my attention back to Carrie in disgust.  Diego enjoyed that view better anyway.

*     *     *     *     *

It was 11:55.  Carrie and I were preoccupied with an intensifying game of shun, shag, or marry when I heard someone slur from my left, “Don’t deny it: you were checking us out from across the bar.”

I looked up into the faces of a two strangers who seemed overly smug for a pickup line that would have even made James Bond cringe.  I was annoyed.

“Who the fuck are you?”

With a brief hint of clarity that was only belied by the smell of alcohol on his breath, one of these Don Juan wannabes lowered his voice and tried to whisper sexily, “Don’t deny it.”  He was not to be deterred.

“Why are you talking with these boys?” a voice from behind me demanded.

I had forgotten about my Iberian interloper, but apparently Diego had not forgotten about me.  This unwanted encounter had hit a machismo nerve with him, and he was fuming.

“You chose these boys over me?”

Before I could comprehend what was happening, Diego had ushered off one of the suitors to the nearest corner to have some menacing words with him.

The fantasy I had always dreamed about was playing out right before my eyes!  Two men were fighting over my attention, my favor, and the right to fawn over me!  Too bad these knights in tarnished armor were nowhere near the ideal of what I had imagined.

At midnight on September 11^th, Carrie turned 21.  By 12:01, my lifelong romantic fantasy was reduced to rubble.