Ever since I moved to L.A. my sex life has dropped dead. And not because nobody wants to have sex with me, but rather because – EVERYBODY wants to have sex with me. And it’s not because I look like a model from Brazil with major league big-time titties and a tight ass, since none of those characteristics apply to me, but more or less because everybody has sex with everybody here – or so it seems. You’d think this city was a college campus during the 1960s sexual revolution. Then again this is Hollywood, not the Midwest. What was I expecting, really?
Truthfully I wasn’t expecting anything. I lived in a mountainous community in Lake Arrowhead, California for two and a half years as a semi-recluse amongst a lot of retirees, a few hippies and possibly a couple of serial killers (I mean it’s the woods, an obvious place for a felon to hide). You don’t get a lot of attention in that type of environment.
Where sex in L.A. is concerned, you can pretty much apply the six degrees of separation theory. Chances are you know someone who knows someone who had sex with the someone who is trying to have sex with you now. Extreme Example: I was in a relationship with someone who has shared history with Anne Heche. (NOTE: Do I need to say ALLEGEDLY so I don’t get sued by a celebrity? Okay. ALLEGEDLY. Even though I know it’s true. Aaaagghhh! ALLEGEDLY. I can’t afford to get sued by celebrities). That relationship lasted awhile, so imagine how much common ground I would be sharing with this city if I volunteered myself for promiscuity and one night-stands.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not enjoying this sudden dry spell. I like sex. But the last thing I want to do is have sex with a friend or the same person that a friend of mine had sex with last weekend. I have dignity, Damn it! And I’ve observed men closely enough to know what they say about girls who give it up too easily.
Recent example at a local club: MAN HOAR: “First date, I scored man. Home run!”
The only thing you will be scoring from me A-hole is a pointy high-heel through your ball sack.
Actors in particular appear to operate on a rotational roster. My latest night out with an actor reached its climactic point with his sex-count, or lack of, rather. He confessed he had stuck it in more than 200 vaginas, but he doesn’t know the exact number because, well, I suppose a vagina is a vagina from his P.O.V. Seriously, how do you even find time for that? Get a part-time job or take up a new hobby. Get your pilot’s license, join a band.
I think my face must have contorted into some strange expression because he tried to justify it with, “It’s L.A.”I don’t know, I don’t think you can blame L.A. for everything, Buddy. It sounds like a potential case of somatic narcissism or misogyny to me.
Initially I was taking some of the advances towards me seriously because as always I learn the hard way. Last year, for instance, this man plopped himself at my table at the local coffee shop and somehow convinced me to have dinner with him the following night. Turns out he was trying to recruit me for midget porn. Yep, you read that correctly. MIDGET PORN. So I downed the rest of my martini and left. As I was waiting for the valet guy to get my car, he emerged from the elevator flustered, proclaiming no one had ever done that to him before. What?! Because most women have a natural tendency to participate in porn movies if the opportunity presents itself? My parting words: “You messed with the wrong bitch!”
One of my all time favorite stories is how I ended up at the “hooker hotel” on Hollywood Boulevard. My former lover slash the guy who hooked up with Heche (Allegedly) had a gig down in L.A. and I tagged along because I was going crazy in Lake Arrowhead like Jack Nicholson in “The Shining.” We had been snowed in several times and I couldn’t be left alone for fear that I would kill something, possibly myself. So we stayed at this hotel, which is part of a reputable chain. At some point I struck up a conversation with a couple in the lobby and as they were leaving, the guy said, “I’ll get you next time.” I was like, huh? The following morning we noticed a pimp counting out hundreds. Eww. So the guy must have assumed I was a prostitute because this particular motel hotel was a front for a hoar house. Awesome. I guess now all I have to do is develop a crack addiction and walk my mutilated heart down the Boulevard of Broken Dreams…all the way to hell.
In more recent news, a guy who I considered my friend (not even. More like an acquaintance) attempted to proposition me via text. References to my pussy and popsicles. Fuck off! Sex is the end result, not the intro. And I take my vagina seriously. My vagina is a Holy Grail, not a truck stop, ASSHOLE. Though random sex texts are probably not as bad as the time an anonymous source jerked off on the door knob to my apartment. What was that?! Was I to supposed to be flattered or offended?
BOTTOM LINE: I just can’t take sex seriously in this city. Unless Justin Timberlake brings sexy back alongside Urethra Franklin’s R.E.S.P.E.C.T. and something shifts or the planets realign, I’m remaining sexless and STD free.
UPDATE: A week after I wrote this post I ended up giving Rod Stewart’s godson a blow-job. I was beyond drunk…and feeling generous. He owns the local hipster bar on Melrose Ave and works very hard. He seemed like he needed one. Still. Save Me! I’m getting sucked into the vortex.