What we do in the privacy of our own home is no one's business but our own and that of our nosy neighbors!
After spending Thanksgiving, my only favorite holiday, in bed, with a swollen left cheek that made me look like Alvin and the chipmunks' red headed stepchild, I took up a virtual sport that I was left in the dark about: SKYPE-SEXING!
I am thinking I have just coined a new term. Although, 'SEXskyping' does offer a sibilant tongue twisting fiesta in articulation parlance. Indeed, I do have a self-aggrandizing view of myself. My sense of humor is what keeps me bravely polishing an entire bottle of red wine every night. My liver needs the exercise.
Armed with a webcam, I found me a forty- year- old youthful virgin. He's had sex before, just never with a dark berry. He would like to take a mini-tour on the wild side but he's been warned by his ancestors, he may never go back. Besides, he knows what happened to Adam when he took a bite of the forbidden fruit. Sidebar- that apple that Eve reportedly seduced Adam with, was actually a pomegranate. Ironically, a pomegranate is at its sweetest when it's at it's darkest. Yes, methinks my SkypeSEXING partner should do well if he never goes there. The tribe should not lose another member.
We swap stories. He is witty, cute, charming, clever, a bit of a misanthrope and a cynic. He won't take his shirt off but his screen name is "Eightpacks-Abe". He looks like a six-packer is a probability which can only mean the "david" is a definite possibility. If you are a woman reading this, can I get a squeal? I know that visual just sent you to "goony-goo-goo-land".
He doesn't ask me to remove anything. He's more curious about...Hair. African Hair? How can I have an afro one day (he's not a fan) and pressed out hair the next? (more to his liking, perhaps it makes me seem softer, less militant, safer or even better, closer to the people from his tribe) Which one is real? Is any of it real? Am I a master of disguise? Why was my hair a lighter shade of brown in an old picture and now it's black and fuller? He's never heard of hair coloring! or maybe that African hair can't be colored, highlighted?
The virtual interrogation is a mood killer, I keep drinking to stave off feeling like all 103 lbs of me is now representative of an entire race known as "African-American". He must know, I did not clear this with them, I was not elected in a democratic manner.
My tribe is from the Carribbean, Haiti by way of Africa, Cuba and France. But somehow, I must represent, defend, protect, answer and educate about....AA Hair.
My SkypeSEXING partner inspires me to rent that documentary by Chris Rock about HAIR. I will surely get the education I need in order to best represent my AA tribe or at least make a good case for myself as to my qualifications for such a task. One more thing to add to the complexities of human relationships! Thanks a lot SKYPE!
EightpacksABE should just take his virtual shirt off when we Skypesex again and show me his darn virtual Davids!
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Friday, November 11, 2011
In Search of an Eating Dis-order
I am on the verge of developing a serious body image disorder in this "business of showing". Not by choice but because folks in the biz feel this need to incessantly comment on how "great (read "skinny- thin and fit") you look". I get that a lot especially from fellow actor-esses.
After awhile in Hollywood, one develops a false sense of knowing and being sympatico with tons of people. Kind of like the Facebook phenomenon. I mean, can anyone really claim to know over 500 people personally? I doubt it. And if you do, drop everything and please open up a PR firm. I would hire you ASAP.
When you go on auditions, eventually you begin to run into the same small select crew of friendly competitors. The crew thins out, some new members join, but at the core, there is often a solid handful that you eventually nod to, say hi to, work with and might even wait around for after an audition and go grab a double soy green tea latte with and chew the fat with. Others, you meet in a belly dancing, pure bar ballet class, a gym setting, acting class or workshop.
Well, one such gal, Mai Lhing Luz, feels this need to greet me with a pointed remark on how skinny I am. I met Mai-Lhing Luz during a very brief stint at the famed "Groundlings School". We were in a Level 1 class together. She is from Canada, and was brilliant at using her own ethnicity as the butt of her punch lines. "It's because I'm Chinese! " was her favorite refrain.
So we endure six weeks of bi-weekly improv classes, where everyone comes in believing that they will be a SNL cast member by the end of the six weeks and if that does NOT happen, it was clearly the person they were paired off with to improv's fault. This workshop took place during what we Southern Californians think of as "winter" February through Mid-March. Months where temperatures drop below 65 and we Angelinos, break out mittens, scarves, coats and gloves. Although I am a proud Brooklyn Girl, my body got acclimated to this coast and when temps hit below 65, every orifice of my person where heat can be emitted, is covered in wool.
I attended most of these biweekly morning classes wearing turtlenecks under sweaters, ugg boots, gloves and a coat. By noon, when class was over, I looked pretty darn stupid holding my coat and sweater in hand walking the eight blocks back to my humble abode.
With the workshop commitment over, I began to run into Mai Lhing Luz at random commercial auditions where all the Advertising execs knew, was that they were willing to hire one non-caucasian actor-ess for a role. When that happens, it means that everyone last named Luz, Cruz, Perez, Ping, Ming, Chong, Anderson, Brookes, Smith, Black and August shows up. Without fail, Mai Lhing Luz would greet me with a "OMG, you are soooo skinny...now!"I pointed out to her that when we met it was winter and therefore, I was layered and as a one who barely towers at 5'2" and is a size 0/XS anything layered on me makes me look like a butterball. Therefore, during our tenure at the 'pretend we are SNL cast members -school', I, perhaps appeared to be a chubster, a fatty, pleasantly plump chiquita. But in fact, my wardrobe is the same size it's been for as long as I have consciously been dressing me.
Mai Lhing Luz, shakes her head incredulously and insists that I got 'sooo skinny...you look GREAT!!!" and the latter half of the comment is where the possibility of an eating disorder comes in. Why should I get praised, however unjustified, because I am "sooo skinny"? It's horrible! I feel guilty now when I actually feel satiated.
Mai Lhing Luz, is now a dirty greasy voice in my head. Mai Lhing Luz, wants me to walk around with as little as possible on, at all times, proving to the world that I am not only petite in stature but sooo skinny too.
I never payed much attention to Mai Lhing Luz's body before she became a greasy voice in my head. I ran into her a week ago for the first time since July 2011. She was wider-hipped then I thought, and her rear looked like an African man would want her to have his descendants. I happily approached Mai Lhing Luz and greeted her with Congratulations. She had a successful back-to-school Walmart commercial running. She was brilliant in it. Her response was: "Thank you, but you, ARE soooo skinny, you look GREAT!!!"
I took a deep breath, walked away from her, convinced that I needed to run three miles EVERY day instead of every OTHER day. I don't want the day to ever come when Mai Lhing Luz will stop brushing me off with "you are sooo skinny... you look GREAT!!!".
I was once so heart broken, that my own body saw it fit to reject every morsel of food I tried to feed it. I would literally upchuck after after every meal. The loss of the only man who probably ever adored and handled me with great care was much too great for me. Somehow, my body was listening to my subconscious command of wanting to disappear from the sheer loss of my "greatest love" to date. I got to a point where, at the tender age of 26, I weighed 89 lbs. I don't need any expert to tell me that, that was not healthy. In a panic, I went to a doctor and mentioned that my weight was a concern. Doctor's reply: " You can NEVER be too skinny in Hollywood!"
Maybe this doctor is now Mai Lhing Luz's doctor. Meanwhile, I wonder which eating disorder would best suit me? The only saving grace in this whole saga is that I can name that greasy voice in my head that wants to see food as an enemy. It's name is Mai Lhing Luz. Thanks for the support Sister!
After awhile in Hollywood, one develops a false sense of knowing and being sympatico with tons of people. Kind of like the Facebook phenomenon. I mean, can anyone really claim to know over 500 people personally? I doubt it. And if you do, drop everything and please open up a PR firm. I would hire you ASAP.
When you go on auditions, eventually you begin to run into the same small select crew of friendly competitors. The crew thins out, some new members join, but at the core, there is often a solid handful that you eventually nod to, say hi to, work with and might even wait around for after an audition and go grab a double soy green tea latte with and chew the fat with. Others, you meet in a belly dancing, pure bar ballet class, a gym setting, acting class or workshop.
Well, one such gal, Mai Lhing Luz, feels this need to greet me with a pointed remark on how skinny I am. I met Mai-Lhing Luz during a very brief stint at the famed "Groundlings School". We were in a Level 1 class together. She is from Canada, and was brilliant at using her own ethnicity as the butt of her punch lines. "It's because I'm Chinese! " was her favorite refrain.
So we endure six weeks of bi-weekly improv classes, where everyone comes in believing that they will be a SNL cast member by the end of the six weeks and if that does NOT happen, it was clearly the person they were paired off with to improv's fault. This workshop took place during what we Southern Californians think of as "winter" February through Mid-March. Months where temperatures drop below 65 and we Angelinos, break out mittens, scarves, coats and gloves. Although I am a proud Brooklyn Girl, my body got acclimated to this coast and when temps hit below 65, every orifice of my person where heat can be emitted, is covered in wool.
I attended most of these biweekly morning classes wearing turtlenecks under sweaters, ugg boots, gloves and a coat. By noon, when class was over, I looked pretty darn stupid holding my coat and sweater in hand walking the eight blocks back to my humble abode.
With the workshop commitment over, I began to run into Mai Lhing Luz at random commercial auditions where all the Advertising execs knew, was that they were willing to hire one non-caucasian actor-ess for a role. When that happens, it means that everyone last named Luz, Cruz, Perez, Ping, Ming, Chong, Anderson, Brookes, Smith, Black and August shows up. Without fail, Mai Lhing Luz would greet me with a "OMG, you are soooo skinny...now!"I pointed out to her that when we met it was winter and therefore, I was layered and as a one who barely towers at 5'2" and is a size 0/XS anything layered on me makes me look like a butterball. Therefore, during our tenure at the 'pretend we are SNL cast members -school', I, perhaps appeared to be a chubster, a fatty, pleasantly plump chiquita. But in fact, my wardrobe is the same size it's been for as long as I have consciously been dressing me.
Mai Lhing Luz, shakes her head incredulously and insists that I got 'sooo skinny...you look GREAT!!!" and the latter half of the comment is where the possibility of an eating disorder comes in. Why should I get praised, however unjustified, because I am "sooo skinny"? It's horrible! I feel guilty now when I actually feel satiated.
Mai Lhing Luz, is now a dirty greasy voice in my head. Mai Lhing Luz, wants me to walk around with as little as possible on, at all times, proving to the world that I am not only petite in stature but sooo skinny too.
I never payed much attention to Mai Lhing Luz's body before she became a greasy voice in my head. I ran into her a week ago for the first time since July 2011. She was wider-hipped then I thought, and her rear looked like an African man would want her to have his descendants. I happily approached Mai Lhing Luz and greeted her with Congratulations. She had a successful back-to-school Walmart commercial running. She was brilliant in it. Her response was: "Thank you, but you, ARE soooo skinny, you look GREAT!!!"
I took a deep breath, walked away from her, convinced that I needed to run three miles EVERY day instead of every OTHER day. I don't want the day to ever come when Mai Lhing Luz will stop brushing me off with "you are sooo skinny... you look GREAT!!!".
I was once so heart broken, that my own body saw it fit to reject every morsel of food I tried to feed it. I would literally upchuck after after every meal. The loss of the only man who probably ever adored and handled me with great care was much too great for me. Somehow, my body was listening to my subconscious command of wanting to disappear from the sheer loss of my "greatest love" to date. I got to a point where, at the tender age of 26, I weighed 89 lbs. I don't need any expert to tell me that, that was not healthy. In a panic, I went to a doctor and mentioned that my weight was a concern. Doctor's reply: " You can NEVER be too skinny in Hollywood!"
Maybe this doctor is now Mai Lhing Luz's doctor. Meanwhile, I wonder which eating disorder would best suit me? The only saving grace in this whole saga is that I can name that greasy voice in my head that wants to see food as an enemy. It's name is Mai Lhing Luz. Thanks for the support Sister!
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Guess Who's Back?
Average Penis Guy! He is trying to get a spin-off deal from his very short lived series
“Whipped out the little head”. (see August 26 blog)
He reminds me of David Caruso’s career.
After behaving badly and being banned from ever performing for the Nadège Network again, Average Penis Guy began an email and text campaign to get a meeting with Ms. Prude, the aptly-named CEO.
Average Penis Guy would text at the exact same time, three times per day, every day for seven days. Breakfast, 9:06 am. Lunch, 2:11-3:00 PM and dinner for him, (cocktail hours for me) 7-10 pm.
It got to the point where I actually looked forward to the harassment.
He would text incredulous statements like:
“Are you seriously never going to talk to me again!”
Or gems like: “ C’mon, don’t be like that!” and “I deserve an explanation.”
WHAT! Seriously? Really!
My favorite text was on day four, during my favorite hour, the cock-tail hour. I roll over, freshly laid from my service provider’s first lackluster performance and reach for my cell phone. Average Penis Guy is now resorting to pouty threats.
“Fine, I am now deleting your contact info!” and, part 2 of text screen “I will leave you alone from now, I get it.”
I let out an involuntary chuckle. It’s about freaking time, considering I never replied to any of the texts!
Service provider is being nosy. “Curiosity kills the schlong”, I remind him purringly “and speaking of schlongs, I am so ready for another cock-tail”. He was too.
Privacy coupled with a service provision only agreement, has its definite advantages.
The next day, day five I get a traditional email. It’s an invitation to accompany Mr. Average Penis Guy to the screening of a film he was a DP on. Ignore.
Day six, I get a text. Wait, hadn’t he “deleted” me from his cellular life?
“ I got your number from that original email we exchanged way back, come with me to this screening, it’s at 7 Pm tonight, it might be good for you to network.” Ignore.
An opportunity for me to network? ‘Quel Moron, screenings are for the filmmakers, cast and crew, friends, family, supporters.’ I feel a soap-box moment attack, but I stave it off with some kegel exercises.
Lunch hour, instead of the usual text, the phone actually rings. He wants to confront me, face me as it were. I am tempted to let it go into voicemail just for the sheer pleasure of collecting material for a rant. He hangs up and robs me of this pleasure. Fine! Ignore.
How lucky am I? Here is an opportunity for me to get an answer to “What would possess a seemingly mentally stable, attractive, educated, formerly charming 39 year old man to whip out his cock at the end of what could have been the beginning of an adventurous 13 week cycle dramedy?!”
Final day, day seven. I call, after the stupidest text ever:
”You missed a great screening last night”, and I, pointedly, ask:
“Why did you do whip out your little head at the end of our date?!”
“I was immensely attracted to you, we were together all day, you were looking so hot...it was like dangling a steak in front of a starving man. What would you expect him to do, not take it?”
“Thank you...” I manage to get out, as I feel the non-existent hairs on my back rise.
“What for? ” he asks, salaciously. I can just hear a stupid grin of victory on his face.
“For that analogy, dude! It must be what rapists think!”
Silence. He hangs up.
Unlike David Caruso, Mr. Average Penis Guy will not get a comeback.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Damn it, He's RIGHT!
My service provider won’t commit!
It appears that this time the joke might very well be on me. I had cut off all other possibilities of meeting anyone new, even trimmed my repertoire by half. Why would I be so foolish you ask? Because I felt the freest I’d been in months with this service provider. We laugh hard, play hard, mate even harder and fall asleep with our bodies completely intertwined. He holds me all night. Even when I roll away, he finds a way to pull me back in. I melt. We like each other as people too, and the added bonus of finding each other clothes rippingly desirable only adds to the belief that there is more than just service provision going on.
He is a pure violation of the top 5 lifestyle choices I swore I would never be with. I shall only share the one most relevant to this rant.
- Never, ever, ever date an actor!
They tend to be narcissists and manage to both be in love and in-lust with themselves. If you’ve ever copulated with an actor in front of a mirror, odds are, he is spending 95% of the time studying his own performance. The remaining 5% is spent asking you to confirm that he is indeed delivering the goods for your pleasure.
My natural instinct leans toward self-protection. I quickly agree to be set up on a semi-blind date. Semi, because said date, has seen pictures of me on line. Pictures of him on google are nonexistent. He is a powerful young corporate attorney, drives a Maserati and has an ego the size of Mount Rushmore. Damn!
He offers to pick me up. I opt to drive myself in case I would need to put the pedal to the metal and race away from Mount Rushmore. Dinner is at a high end spot, worthy of a curve flattering dress and the kind of killer pumps that a drag queen would try to steal off your feet.
Maserati man is seated at the bar and takes it upon himself to order what he assumes I will enjoy as a cocktail. Burning Mandarine Martini. He’s right!
The waitress saunters over to let us know that our table is ready, and attempts to hold his gaze but he is staring at my thighs as I uncross my legs. He’s right again. Damn!
The conversation at dinner flows freely. I tell him about this blog. He dreads landing in here. He wonders how I would feel if I knew “that someone was writing about me.” “Flattered, of course!” I answer, but he’s right again. Damn it!
The evening comes to a bit of a screeching halt. This blog is better than mace. He is so well behaved after this news, I'll have nothing to rant or rave about. The burning mandarine martini was rave-worthy.
Outside he waits for the valet to bring my car around. We bid our adieus and part ways. I get home and receive a text from him: “Great body, great looks, I even like your brain..Too bad you kiss and tell!”
He’s right again! Damn it!
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Morbid Provisions
A dismal decade is coming to a half-way mark and I am tempted to celebrate it in a below average manner. I would like to stay under the covers, chase a few legally prescribed muscle relaxants with a bottle of Dom. The Dom would be the celebratory aspect of this brilliant plan. With my luck, it will probably be another spectacular day in smog-filled Los Angeles and all my body will want to do is Carpe Diem it by going for an exhausting 3.2 mile run in Franklyn Canyon. I could test my precision driving skills by taking a joy ride on Mulholland at 3 am when the fog is at it's thickest. But, tandem sky diving at Lake Elsinore seems more thrilling especially if the lever that opens up the parachute got jammed. My instructor and I would have to miraculously grow a pair of wings to land safely. That wasn't very morbid, I hope. Could this be a cry for help?
I took on a new service provider to have some semblance of normalcy, a reliable source of relaxation as it were. But lately he's been coming over for a good nights rest and not exactly delivering on the plan I signed up for. It probably has to do with the age difference. What I must praise are his skills. What an older man lacks in endurance, he makes up for in technique. It's my uneducated guess based on this sole experience with one sleepy provider. Should I conduct an unscientific experiment to support this claim?
I had a friend, Bea, who fell in love and, last I heard, had a child with a man 30 years older than she was. I ran into them at LACMA when King Tut was in town and earnestly chastised her for not telling me her "father" was in town. Awkward? Yes! Will Beatrice call me to wish me a Happy Birthday later? No. She hasn't done so since she helped me throw my favorite birthday party ever. It was my 25th and I had never had a real birthday party before then. For that I am eternally grateful and will always remember that about Bea. I wish she'd warn me that her new beau had more in common with our fathers than she and he did. She claimed he was the greatest lover she'd ever had. If you'd seen this man next to her, the images that your mind would conjure up would surely curb your appetite. Clearly, she was happy. The fact that he showered her with lavish presents and nights at the opera made him that much more attractive I'm sure.
Sleepy service provider, Mullholand, Lake Elsinore, wings....I think this is really a cry for lavish gifts on my end.
I took on a new service provider to have some semblance of normalcy, a reliable source of relaxation as it were. But lately he's been coming over for a good nights rest and not exactly delivering on the plan I signed up for. It probably has to do with the age difference. What I must praise are his skills. What an older man lacks in endurance, he makes up for in technique. It's my uneducated guess based on this sole experience with one sleepy provider. Should I conduct an unscientific experiment to support this claim?
I had a friend, Bea, who fell in love and, last I heard, had a child with a man 30 years older than she was. I ran into them at LACMA when King Tut was in town and earnestly chastised her for not telling me her "father" was in town. Awkward? Yes! Will Beatrice call me to wish me a Happy Birthday later? No. She hasn't done so since she helped me throw my favorite birthday party ever. It was my 25th and I had never had a real birthday party before then. For that I am eternally grateful and will always remember that about Bea. I wish she'd warn me that her new beau had more in common with our fathers than she and he did. She claimed he was the greatest lover she'd ever had. If you'd seen this man next to her, the images that your mind would conjure up would surely curb your appetite. Clearly, she was happy. The fact that he showered her with lavish presents and nights at the opera made him that much more attractive I'm sure.
Sleepy service provider, Mullholand, Lake Elsinore, wings....I think this is really a cry for lavish gifts on my end.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Whipped the little head out! Seriously?
Hard as it is to believe, neither "The Prude" nor "Ms. W", the vixen formerly known as "the Whore" believe in kissing on the first date.
To me, the kiss is so indelibly personal and intimate that when performed gratuitously can be the equivalent of an invasion of space, privacy and dare I say, trust. By the second date, a kiss becomes a prelude to possibilities.
In that spirit, I went on a second date with a certain behind the camera type of industry dude who shall henceforth only be referred as Mr. Average Penis Guy. Yes, you read right.
How does one jump from the possibilities of what a kiss can bring to being forever imbedded in my psyche as "Average penis guy"? Simple, but in the interest of decent storytelling, I must build.
Average Penis Guy and I met for Brunch on a Sunday at The Belmont Restaurant. He lives in "the valley". If you do not live in Los Angeles and plan to move here some day, stay away from "the valley".
His geographical placement alone, should have been my insight into things to come. I'm a Virgo, which means fastidious, crazy- pain in the 'arse' perfectionist. I hate being late because I respect my time. If I am to meet with you and you are late, you obviously do not respect your time. I made it a point to remind Average Penis Guy that he does not live a stones' throw away from civilization and should avoid the 101 freeway and take Laurel Canyon instead.
I text Mr. Average Penis Guy to let him know that the car wash I was going to pre-brunch was literally two blocks south of The Belmont. In true Virgoan form, just as the human car dryer was waving his towel toward my car signaling that it was ready, I sent a quick text to Average Penis Guy, stating that I was about to get in my car.
"That was fast! got caught up with an email. Be their ASAP!" was his reply.
I am disturbed by this direct affront and rebellion to my due diligence. I am slightly insulted too. I take a deep, deep breath and reply: "That sucks! I will start without you and if I am done before you get there, loose my number!" (Jackass! was the subtext but I thought I'd be polite and hold back some, it is only date number two after all)
"B there in 5", he texts back.
At the Belmont, Justin, my favorite and most charming waitperson greets me, I order a mimosa in honor of one of my favorite saints, 'Saint Sunday' and get preferred outdoor seating.
Average Penis Guy shows up 15 minutes late! He apologizes profusely, and showers me with expected slightly above-average pleasantries. In a passive-aggressive manner I sort of forgive him, but berate and dig at every possible turn. No matter, my mind is made up, no kiss and definitely no third date for Jackass! (Yes, I am doing him a favor! So quit judging!)
Justin, our waitperson, finds a way to both support me in being incensed and showing sympathy for Average Penis Guy. Three mimosas later, we combine cars. I hop in his and off we go to a rooftop poolside bar in a swanky joint in Beverly hills for Sunday afternoon cocktails.
We have growing up in New York City, NYU and our latest topic of the day, my nipples that appear to be in a perpetual state of arousal in common to discuss. I have now switched to vodka ginger berry martinis. He is sticking to white wine chardonnay (another insight into his virility I chose to ignore).
It is now seven in the evening and dinner time. We move our 'party of two' to one of my favorite reliably authentic Italian restaurants, Dominick's. They offer a Sunday night supper there, that makes you want to call the matriarch of your family and thank her for all of the comfort food that made home, a home. I am digressing. I guess I am letting my love for food creep in. We share a bottle of red wine, eggplant parmesan, escarole salad. (We'll agree that red wine is appropriate in this instance)
This date has now entered its eighth hour and should come to an end. To my car he takes me. In his car, parked in the street, we make out. The wrestling of the tongues, not quite in sync but manageable with some practice. I like him and could grow to like him even more in the future, provided he's on time. He asks me if he could come hang out with me in my home.
The term 'hang out' coming out of the mouth of a 39 year old leaves a strange taste in my mouth. I politely decline his self-invite to my 'casa'. My original instinct of no third date is quickly rearing its little head back.
As I prepare to hop out, he unzips his pants and shows me his- you predictably guessed- PENIS!!! My jaw drops as I hear myself exclaim: "THAT is SOOO.... AVERAGE!!!!" He looks at me with a crestfallen stare and mumbles pathetically "average?"
"Dude, are you kidding me with this? WTF did you expect? Am I suppose to squeal with sudden desire, lift up my skirt, shove my thong aside and jump on top of THAT!!! SERIOUSLY??? REALLY!!!"
With that, I urgently grab my jacket from his backseat, open the passenger side door, leap out and state: "Don't you ever call me again!" SLAM!
I am still not sure if I am offended by this bizarre come-on or disappointed by his average penis. I mean, if you are going to use that as a seduction tactic, can it at least be the most amazing looking appendage ever!
Seriously! Really!
To me, the kiss is so indelibly personal and intimate that when performed gratuitously can be the equivalent of an invasion of space, privacy and dare I say, trust. By the second date, a kiss becomes a prelude to possibilities.
In that spirit, I went on a second date with a certain behind the camera type of industry dude who shall henceforth only be referred as Mr. Average Penis Guy. Yes, you read right.
How does one jump from the possibilities of what a kiss can bring to being forever imbedded in my psyche as "Average penis guy"? Simple, but in the interest of decent storytelling, I must build.
Average Penis Guy and I met for Brunch on a Sunday at The Belmont Restaurant. He lives in "the valley". If you do not live in Los Angeles and plan to move here some day, stay away from "the valley".
His geographical placement alone, should have been my insight into things to come. I'm a Virgo, which means fastidious, crazy- pain in the 'arse' perfectionist. I hate being late because I respect my time. If I am to meet with you and you are late, you obviously do not respect your time. I made it a point to remind Average Penis Guy that he does not live a stones' throw away from civilization and should avoid the 101 freeway and take Laurel Canyon instead.
I text Mr. Average Penis Guy to let him know that the car wash I was going to pre-brunch was literally two blocks south of The Belmont. In true Virgoan form, just as the human car dryer was waving his towel toward my car signaling that it was ready, I sent a quick text to Average Penis Guy, stating that I was about to get in my car.
"That was fast! got caught up with an email. Be their ASAP!" was his reply.
I am disturbed by this direct affront and rebellion to my due diligence. I am slightly insulted too. I take a deep, deep breath and reply: "That sucks! I will start without you and if I am done before you get there, loose my number!" (Jackass! was the subtext but I thought I'd be polite and hold back some, it is only date number two after all)
"B there in 5", he texts back.
At the Belmont, Justin, my favorite and most charming waitperson greets me, I order a mimosa in honor of one of my favorite saints, 'Saint Sunday' and get preferred outdoor seating.
Average Penis Guy shows up 15 minutes late! He apologizes profusely, and showers me with expected slightly above-average pleasantries. In a passive-aggressive manner I sort of forgive him, but berate and dig at every possible turn. No matter, my mind is made up, no kiss and definitely no third date for Jackass! (Yes, I am doing him a favor! So quit judging!)
Justin, our waitperson, finds a way to both support me in being incensed and showing sympathy for Average Penis Guy. Three mimosas later, we combine cars. I hop in his and off we go to a rooftop poolside bar in a swanky joint in Beverly hills for Sunday afternoon cocktails.
We have growing up in New York City, NYU and our latest topic of the day, my nipples that appear to be in a perpetual state of arousal in common to discuss. I have now switched to vodka ginger berry martinis. He is sticking to white wine chardonnay (another insight into his virility I chose to ignore).
It is now seven in the evening and dinner time. We move our 'party of two' to one of my favorite reliably authentic Italian restaurants, Dominick's. They offer a Sunday night supper there, that makes you want to call the matriarch of your family and thank her for all of the comfort food that made home, a home. I am digressing. I guess I am letting my love for food creep in. We share a bottle of red wine, eggplant parmesan, escarole salad. (We'll agree that red wine is appropriate in this instance)
This date has now entered its eighth hour and should come to an end. To my car he takes me. In his car, parked in the street, we make out. The wrestling of the tongues, not quite in sync but manageable with some practice. I like him and could grow to like him even more in the future, provided he's on time. He asks me if he could come hang out with me in my home.
The term 'hang out' coming out of the mouth of a 39 year old leaves a strange taste in my mouth. I politely decline his self-invite to my 'casa'. My original instinct of no third date is quickly rearing its little head back.
As I prepare to hop out, he unzips his pants and shows me his- you predictably guessed- PENIS!!! My jaw drops as I hear myself exclaim: "THAT is SOOO.... AVERAGE!!!!" He looks at me with a crestfallen stare and mumbles pathetically "average?"
"Dude, are you kidding me with this? WTF did you expect? Am I suppose to squeal with sudden desire, lift up my skirt, shove my thong aside and jump on top of THAT!!! SERIOUSLY??? REALLY!!!"
With that, I urgently grab my jacket from his backseat, open the passenger side door, leap out and state: "Don't you ever call me again!" SLAM!
I am still not sure if I am offended by this bizarre come-on or disappointed by his average penis. I mean, if you are going to use that as a seduction tactic, can it at least be the most amazing looking appendage ever!
Seriously! Really!
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Dumped for wanting "it" too much or just "bad service"
I've had the pleasure of nearly avoiding being a spinster! I have been engaged, spoken for, promised to... thrice! Soon after my third engagement, I decided that the "prude" needed to be put on a well-deserved hiatus and only show up as a mid-season replacement if the "whore" made too many poor executive decisions.
Along comes Edward. A fairly new transplant from Raymond Alberta, a province in Canada. Edward at the ripe old age of 39, had apparently taken an improv class in Raymond, Alberta as part of his Narcotics Anonymous Art therapy. One night, he went up to improv and he "killed" the room.
Classmates, or more accurately, fellow addicts, were all doubled over in laughter the entire time. That single experience convinced Edward that "Hollywood" could simply not survive another minute without him. Armed with this one "five weeks" Narcotics Anonymous Art Therapy improv class, Edward entered our fair country with a visitors visa and kicked his cocaine habit for good. The white powder south of Alberta was not to Edward's liking. His standards sealed his recovery! Amen.
I meet this illegal Canadian, Edward at a nameless place where I donate my time. He was hired under the table to photograph said establishment. He wanted to use me as a model for a some-day-could-become a coffee table book he was "working on". Sure, the old "let me shoot you, I'm a photographer trick was laughable at best"- To Edward's credit, I probably still look like I just fell off a turnip truck on the 405 freeway.
We know who in the "prudish-whore" scenario was given permission to run the show, right? Our executive producer, let's call her Ms. W from now on. (I suspect I might be setting the feminist movement back a few decades by using the term "whore" so comfortably) Ms. W, quickly surmises that, in light of Edward's history, he would be the perfect service provider post break up.
A service provider is very different from a Friend with benefit. One actually cares about the daily happenings in a friends life. Problem was, Edward was surprisingly loquacious and soft-spoken - a horrible combination- and just not interesting. I could feel my brain cells dying as we'd speak.
The only thing Edward would possibly be good for, is to quench a certain level of deep physical longing. Ex-addicts had already proven themselves to be worth the panty removal.
Ms. W, the executive producer, hired Edward for the job with the caveat that only she goes to him when she is free. He is not to bore her with the details of his life, day, childhood memories in Raymond Alberta, family foibles, fables, dreams, hopes, aspirations and exasperations. The only thing she cared about knowing would be any scheduling conflict that might affect her being pleasured. Much like a cellular phone provider, she was signing up for a plan. The reception is expected to be available anywhere one goes within the United States.
The fact that we know where Edward is from, tells us that he violated his end of the plan. Edward talked way too much. True to form, Edward, an admitted ex-addict, provided explosive gratifyingly exhausting sex.
By week two of daily all-nighters, Edward decided, in classical cognitive behavior, to blame someone else for his inability to provide a service he agreed to. His addict rational was, and I quote: "You are sexually exhausting, you want it all the time and I simply have no energy left to shoot more models" for his some day might become a coffee table book.
The ratings went through the roof! I was unceremoniously dumped for "wanting it too much"! Just like your favorite tv series, sometimes a network just seems to obliterate it. If nothing else, just as an ego exercise. Let's face it, the Ms. W in me had way too much power and loser-ex addict- wanna be photographer wants to act as a network exec.
The "Prude" came back sooner than planned for a mid-season replacement! And to quote my most favorite tv show dysfunctional whore addict tv show character, Charlie played by Charlie Sheen on "Two and Half men", the "Prude" is totally " WINNING!"
Along comes Edward. A fairly new transplant from Raymond Alberta, a province in Canada. Edward at the ripe old age of 39, had apparently taken an improv class in Raymond, Alberta as part of his Narcotics Anonymous Art therapy. One night, he went up to improv and he "killed" the room.
Classmates, or more accurately, fellow addicts, were all doubled over in laughter the entire time. That single experience convinced Edward that "Hollywood" could simply not survive another minute without him. Armed with this one "five weeks" Narcotics Anonymous Art Therapy improv class, Edward entered our fair country with a visitors visa and kicked his cocaine habit for good. The white powder south of Alberta was not to Edward's liking. His standards sealed his recovery! Amen.
I meet this illegal Canadian, Edward at a nameless place where I donate my time. He was hired under the table to photograph said establishment. He wanted to use me as a model for a some-day-could-become a coffee table book he was "working on". Sure, the old "let me shoot you, I'm a photographer trick was laughable at best"- To Edward's credit, I probably still look like I just fell off a turnip truck on the 405 freeway.
We know who in the "prudish-whore" scenario was given permission to run the show, right? Our executive producer, let's call her Ms. W from now on. (I suspect I might be setting the feminist movement back a few decades by using the term "whore" so comfortably) Ms. W, quickly surmises that, in light of Edward's history, he would be the perfect service provider post break up.
A service provider is very different from a Friend with benefit. One actually cares about the daily happenings in a friends life. Problem was, Edward was surprisingly loquacious and soft-spoken - a horrible combination- and just not interesting. I could feel my brain cells dying as we'd speak.
The only thing Edward would possibly be good for, is to quench a certain level of deep physical longing. Ex-addicts had already proven themselves to be worth the panty removal.
Ms. W, the executive producer, hired Edward for the job with the caveat that only she goes to him when she is free. He is not to bore her with the details of his life, day, childhood memories in Raymond Alberta, family foibles, fables, dreams, hopes, aspirations and exasperations. The only thing she cared about knowing would be any scheduling conflict that might affect her being pleasured. Much like a cellular phone provider, she was signing up for a plan. The reception is expected to be available anywhere one goes within the United States.
The fact that we know where Edward is from, tells us that he violated his end of the plan. Edward talked way too much. True to form, Edward, an admitted ex-addict, provided explosive gratifyingly exhausting sex.
By week two of daily all-nighters, Edward decided, in classical cognitive behavior, to blame someone else for his inability to provide a service he agreed to. His addict rational was, and I quote: "You are sexually exhausting, you want it all the time and I simply have no energy left to shoot more models" for his some day might become a coffee table book.
The ratings went through the roof! I was unceremoniously dumped for "wanting it too much"! Just like your favorite tv series, sometimes a network just seems to obliterate it. If nothing else, just as an ego exercise. Let's face it, the Ms. W in me had way too much power and loser-ex addict- wanna be photographer wants to act as a network exec.
The "Prude" came back sooner than planned for a mid-season replacement! And to quote my most favorite tv show dysfunctional whore addict tv show character, Charlie played by Charlie Sheen on "Two and Half men", the "Prude" is totally " WINNING!"
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Loneliness has made a Prudish-Whore out of me.
confesses and inquires a little too quickly for the prude in me.
"Because if you're talking to me, odds are you are an ex-addict or addict.", I confidently reply.
That tends to be the story of my life. I can be in Boise, Idaho on a potato farm, and the one man who will gravitate to me as bees do to honey will be the ex-ADDICT.
Please, don't get me wrong. I fully support and encourage a descent into the depths of hell, fighting and facing your demons, and emerging the Victor. Robert Downey, Jr. is a great example of that sort of chutzpah. He's also one of my many "types" (but I digress). What I've learned about The ex-ADDICT is that he is an AMAZING lover! I mean, he will bite you, literally try to snort you, drink you, hold on to the high you give. Then, he will be filled with so much remorse after hours of rocking your planet, that he'll call his sponsor.
Simply put, the receiver of his passions, become his substitute drug. I have spoken to many women who've had unhealthy relationships with this type and sure enough the consensus has been "AMAZING LOVER! BEST SEX EVER! VERY GENEROUS! INSATIABLE! and my personal favorite comes from a new kindred spirited gal-pal Nikki. She finished the sentence :"they will bite you"with "and CHOKE you!"
So how does this story and completely unscientific theory of mine apply to the Nadegeism "Prudish-whore"? Well, as Mr. ex-tv star- super handsome- chiseled -face- now sober -trying to get back in the game, walked me to my car at the end of the evening, I had a decision to make. Flashes of my theory came at me as if I was about to take my last breath. Will he prove or disprove my theory? There's only one way to find out? Do I find out? A few hours of being someone's unadulterated pleasure chest would allow my theory some bragging rights. I should take one for team Nadege...
The Prude won! I coyly offered him my business card with the admonition to "use it wisely!"
Better luck next time, "Whore!"
"Because if you're talking to me, odds are you are an ex-addict or addict.", I confidently reply.
That tends to be the story of my life. I can be in Boise, Idaho on a potato farm, and the one man who will gravitate to me as bees do to honey will be the ex-ADDICT.
Please, don't get me wrong. I fully support and encourage a descent into the depths of hell, fighting and facing your demons, and emerging the Victor. Robert Downey, Jr. is a great example of that sort of chutzpah. He's also one of my many "types" (but I digress). What I've learned about The ex-ADDICT is that he is an AMAZING lover! I mean, he will bite you, literally try to snort you, drink you, hold on to the high you give. Then, he will be filled with so much remorse after hours of rocking your planet, that he'll call his sponsor.
Simply put, the receiver of his passions, become his substitute drug. I have spoken to many women who've had unhealthy relationships with this type and sure enough the consensus has been "AMAZING LOVER! BEST SEX EVER! VERY GENEROUS! INSATIABLE! and my personal favorite comes from a new kindred spirited gal-pal Nikki. She finished the sentence :"they will bite you"with "and CHOKE you!"
So how does this story and completely unscientific theory of mine apply to the Nadegeism "Prudish-whore"? Well, as Mr. ex-tv star- super handsome- chiseled -face- now sober -trying to get back in the game, walked me to my car at the end of the evening, I had a decision to make. Flashes of my theory came at me as if I was about to take my last breath. Will he prove or disprove my theory? There's only one way to find out? Do I find out? A few hours of being someone's unadulterated pleasure chest would allow my theory some bragging rights. I should take one for team Nadege...
The Prude won! I coyly offered him my business card with the admonition to "use it wisely!"
Better luck next time, "Whore!"
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