Thursday, March 29, 2012

Normal Guy vs. My Honey Pot

Once, when Rachel still worked at Doggie Daycare, she saw me fawning over a young male dog named Alex. Alex, who I refer to as ‘My Brindle Prince’, is a bit of an asshole. He growls at other people, and other dogs and now occasionally bites the new people.

When I started working there, Alex was a puppy on the small side, and for the last year and a half, we have raised him while his two daddies were away.

I stare into his eyes, and compliment him, stroke his coat and nuzzle him despite the moments he shows his teeth in irritation. Somehow, he was spoiled on the way, go figure.

Rachel said to me, “You like the assholes, huh?”

I said, “I like all sorts of men. I have had erotic dreams about Michael Cera and Eminem. I don’t know what type I am attracted to.”

I am not sure if those qualify as erotic dreams; two dreams of Michael Cera peaked when we held hands.

And my last dream of Eminem was just me washing his hair, he stopped me and then washed my hair.

My last “erotic” dream was holding hands with Joel McHale and taking an escalator through a waterfall.

Rachel said, “I will tell you who I have had an erotic dream about that’s really weird, George W. Bush.”
I recoiled, “Ew.”

She shrugged her shoulders and said, “And Bill Clinton.”

I said, “I have full on masturbated to Bill Clinton.”

In a hushed voice, she leaned over and said, “We all have.”

So, when Buddy kept interviewing me about what men I found attractive, I threw out all sorts of names, “Elvis and Cary Grant.”

He said, “Old School. Anyone recent?”

I said, “I can’t deny I am in love with Leonardo DiCaprio.”

Truth be told, I don’t see the point in interviewing the girl you are seeing about what men she is attracted to unless you were going to use it as some kind of strategy- and lets face it, all the men that have won over my sexual psyche have done so through effortlessly being themselves. That would be the only way to win my heart and honey pot.

That week, I had gotten tested at Planned Parenthood since it had been officially 7 months since my last test. 
Do I trust Alan and Abe to be honest about their sexual activity? Hm . . . if I have to think about it, I have to get tested.

So I did. The medic said, “Today we are testing you for chlamydia, gonorrhea, syphilis and HIV.”
While drawing my blood, she said, “Are you alright?”

I said, “Yeah, it's just now, you have me thinking, could I have syphilis?”

She laughed and said, “It happens to all of us when we are taking the test. All those scenarios run through our head.”

I said, “I don’t know why I thought syphilis was . . . you know, eradicated.”

She said, “Nope. Still around.”

My sister says it’s making a comeback.

During email banter with Buddy, I told him: “Never google  ‘Famous People Who Died Of Syphilis"

Buddy: “Done. Should I be concerned about your sudden interest in Syphilis?

So far, work has been good. I went to a long lunch to watch college basketball (March Madness) with our Saatchi basketball team. It was a delightfully manly outing. Now I'm back at it. Hopefully this afternoon proves better on my soul than the last two.”

Me:  “This morning, I went into the Planned Parenthood Express (that is the actual name) and was tested since, you know, it seems like a good time.

They brought up the syphilis test which opened up a world of curiosity for me.


Sounds like a good Thurs. 6 hours and all I have to worry about is which bikini to wear and what pizza to bring you.”

Buddy: "All I have to worry about is which bikini to wear and what pizza to bring you."
This might be the sexist thing any woman has ever said to any man. Ever. And that fact it was said to me has me on all aflutter.

P.s. I'm a simple man when it comes to pizza. Any cheap pepperoni will do.

P.p.s. "My right boob misses you" was pretty rockin' too. Close second.

I thought about how bikini and pizza assembled in one sentence equated to sexy. I was wondering if I was depicting myself as some kind of Spring Break Sorority girl. He knows me, he noted my “ticks” and my quirks. He must know that is not who I am. So I played along and wrote, “And I am sure I can do better than that.”


Friday night, I was coming over.

I texted I was going to be late because I was getting waxed.

When I arrived to his apartment, I told myself not to be nervous. All things considered, I wasn’t.

The afternoon was spent with my dogs at the beach and now I was ready to settle in with a movie and a hot tub.

In great spirits, I said, “Two phenomenally lucky things happened to me today. I lost my keys at the beach, and a surfer found them and fished them out of the tide for me. Then, I forgot to bring my make-up since it was still in my clutch from the concert, I stop at Whole Foods for our pizzas and right outside the bathroom door, there is a make-up sample counter, with a vanity and everything. Pretty amazing, huh?”

He politely chuckled and then popped our pizzas in. He asked if I brought champagne too. I said I didn’t.

I deliberately didn’t bring alcohol because A) I already bought the pizzas B) I was already driving across Los Angeles with high gas prices C) I didn’t need to get drunk with him this early on

He opened a cabinet and asked what I liked to drink. I saw the amaretto and asked for an amaretto sour.

I said, “I like those because I can enjoy a few and not get sloppy, like I do with shots of tequila or something.”

He said, “Nevermind then. Can I get you shots of tequila?”

Then I politely chuckled.

He said, as he mixed my drink and brought it over to me, “So traffic was bad.”

I said, “Yeah, it took me an hour and a half to get here, but I smoked some ganj so it wasn’t so bad.”

He said, “Why did you have a migraine?”

I laughed.

He said, “You shouldn’t be smoking pot and driving in heavy traffic.”

I said, “Please, you can’t drive in heavy Los Angeles without smoking pot. Trust me, I did everyone a favor.”

He was quiet.

Then I continued, “Its not a problem. My prescribing doctor said car accidents only happen when you mix alcohol with your pot- so if I drive to just drive stoned.”

Buddy said in strained surprise, “Your doctor said that?”

I forgot, he is new to town.

“Christine” was playing on the television.

Buddy, “Do you want to watch something else? I just turned this on-”

Me, “No. (I waved my hand and took a big sip of my drink) I am already invested.”

He started a game of Scrabble on his iPad and I was kind of really happy. I took off my shoes, sipped more of my sour and played Scrabble in between scenes of an old car killing people.

He suggested the hot tub, so I asked to pause the movie. He said, “Its near the end, anyway.”

I felt like he was rushing things a bit.

I said, “Does the girlfriend live?”

He said, “Yeah.”

I said, “Ok, that’s all I need to know.”

It was cold, and before disrobing and slowly descending into a hot tub where my date was, I squealed. I am an actress, and being naked in front of strangers is easier. I was practically naked and walking towards him . . . I don’t know. It was awkward and I wanted to keep things light.

So I said, “The famous people who had syphilis are Nietzsche, Henry the VII, Lenin, Hitler, Mussolini and Napoleon. They said arsenic was commonly used as treatment for syphilis but then why would Napoleon write about being slowly poisoned if he knew?”


I continued, “And George Washington, but my Mom says she believes all of them but George Washington because (finger quotes here) ‘he was a good man’ and (more finger quotes) ‘loyal to his wife.’ I said, ‘Mom, he had slaves. Come on.’ She said, ‘No, I refuse to believe it. He was a moral person.”

Buddy, “Yeah . . . slaves. Can you imagine . . .?”

I finished the sentence, “Wood teeth? No. I can’t.”

Then he said, “Where is that kink in your neck?”

Truth be told, I wanted to sit in the hot tub because I had a kink in my neck. I needed someone to rub it out and the idea of that combined with someone’s hot tub seemed like a really good idea at the time. I have been waking up with back and neck pain- probably because my dogs dominate the bed. Often I wake up, curled at the foot of my bed, or hanging off the side.

I figured since I was honest about my feelings on sex already, this wouldn't be confusing.

Buddy volunteered to work on my neck, so he went behind me and rubbed it lightly. It just wasn’t up to my Little Thai Woman standards.

His hands fell down over my breasts, and I let him massage them but was put on edge. We hadn’t kissed yet.

He leaned in and we kissed for a bit. I interrupted with, “Oh, AND Christopher Columbus also had syphilis.”

He grabbed the back of my hair, gently and said, “I don’t want to hear about who had syphilis. I want to kiss you.”

We kissed some more. It was hard making out in a hot tub, because I kept losing my footing and floating away. I kept talking, mostly about my dogs.

He said, “I don’t want to argue but I could never trust a pit bull. They might be sweet, and I am sure yours is a real sweetheart, but they can snap at any minute.”

I said, “Animals are unpredictable. Do you know which breed causes the most human fatalities? St. Bernards.”

He kind of nodded his head and offered a mild, “Really?”

He then suggested we leave the hot tub.

Buddy, “But when we leave we can’t be loud or make squealing noises, because of my neighbors.”

I said, “Did I make squealing noises when I came in?”

He flatly said, “Yes.”

Well, there were just two reasons I would feel slightly uncomfortable with him for the rest of the night.

We went inside and he asked what movie I wanted to watch, so I suggested “Hobo with a Shot Gun.” He said, “I have to warn you, movies with me involve snuggling.”

He asked me to stop playing Scrabble. I did. Reluctantly.

We watched the movie and cuddled a little. Its hard on a couch, both length-wise, watching a movie, especially one about a post-apocalyptic world where people’s heads are dragged off their bodies by trucks, there is a santa claus child molester running amuck and people must resort to listening to music out of boom boxes.

Quote from Hobo with a Shot Gun “You look so hot, I just want to cut off my dick and rub it against your titties!"

It was a fascinating movie- I mean, the tone was campy, but it was fairly graphic and disturbing as well. I just wanted to sit in its filth. Not make out.

Hobo: [to a group of newborn babies] I used to be like you... a long time ago. All brand new and perfect. No mistakes, no regrets. People look at you and think of how wonderful your future will be. They want you to be something special... like a doctor or a lawyer. I hate to tell you this, but if you grow up here, you're more likely to wind up selling your bodies on the streets, or shooting dope from dirty needles in a bus stop. And if you're successful, you'll make money selling junk to crackheads. And don't think twice about killing someone's wife, because you won't even know it's wrong in the first place. Maybe... you'll end up like me. A hobo with a shotgun.

After the movie, we started petting heavily.

He grabbed my hand, stood up and said, “Lets go to my bedroom and see what happens.”

I said, “No. I told you  . . . I don’t have casual sex.”

He sat back down, then laid next to me and said, “I was really looking forward to tearing you apart tonight.”

Me, “Tearing me apart? The implication being .  . . my vagina?”

Buddy, “I guess, kinda.”

Me, “That’s an unpleasant arrangement of words.”


Me, “Do you watch a lot of on-line porn? Just out of curiosity.”

Buddy, “Um. Yeah. A couple times a week, whenever. Why?”

Me, “I wonder if that influences how you talk to me. I mean . . . where’s the romance?”


Buddy, “So, you don’t believe in casual sex, except with Axl Rose.”

I said, “Yes, of course, except for Axl Rose.”

He held me, his arm now heavy and loose around my shoulder and I said, “Look, I have been involved with two men this year. One left when my roommate killed himself and the other came in and things got . . . confused. It just had to stop. And so I am just coming out of that, you know?”

He said, “But, you just got tested and got the wax.”

I said, “Oh, well, I am sorry I mislead you but I got tested because its been 6 months and I got waxed because I was wearing a bikini tonight. Have you been tested for STDs recently?”

Buddy said, “No.”

I said, “Well then.”

Buddy, “So, what time do you have to get back?”

I said, “Would you like me to leave now that I am not having intercourse with you?”

Buddy, “(low at first) Of course not.”

I nuzzled with him and said, “I wasn’t going to tell you about my problems. I want to be a normal girl with normal problems.”

He said, “Oh those girls who look normal are worse train wrecks.” Then he shook my shoulder and said, “I think you had to tell me. I am glad you did. I don’t think you are ready for an ‘us’ yet.”

I said, “Of course I am not ready. I thought we would just . . . hang out.”


He said, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

I cut him off, “You can’t hurt me. The only thing you could do is make me feel used, and you couldn’t make me feel more used than my ex did.”

I rubbed myself against him. The irony of this whole situation was the more I told him, the closer and more comfortable I was sharing my body with him.

From his perspective, he was just shot down, and he didn’t want to get any more intimate with me.

I waited for him to say, “Let’s take our time” “Whenever you’re comfortable” or “I like you too” but nothing like that as said. He was quiet. As my friend Jerry explained later, there is a natural progression with physical touch expected date-to-date. When I broke the progression, it was over for him.

He said, “I think, if this makes sense . . . you have to like you first.”

I said, “I do like me.”

He said, “You come across as . . . uncomfortable with yourself.”

I took this in and thought about it. I just ate pizza, had a drink and watched ‘Hobo with a Shotgun.’ How much more comfortable could I get?

I said, “I kinda work better on stage. I think sometimes people are uncomfortable with me when it’s just one-on-one.”

I meant to say “Normal People are uncomfortable with me”

There in the dark, it was just after two am and I started rubbing up against him like a cat post.

I hotly whispered, “I don’t believe in casual sex, but its a really bad time to be celibate. I am in my sexual peak.”

He grabbed my breasts and kissed them as I brought myself close to orgasm twice. Then I dismounted.

He said, “Were you close?”

I said, “Yeah, but I don’t want to feel great regret after an orgasm.”

The sweat on the back of my neck tickled when I stood up in his cold, undecorated apartment. He smelled faintly of cheap detergent and kitty litter.

As I waited for him to put on his shoes and coat, I checked my iPhone, smiled then said, “I would provide you with an orgasm (he stopped dead in his tracks) but if I am not going to have one, then I won’t let you. I am kind of sick that way.”

He didn’t laugh.

He walked me to my car and I said, “Well, it was great meeting you.”

Buddy said, “Take care.”

I bought a pack of cigarettes, smoked two and then called Abe.

He picked up. It was almost 3am.

I said, “Look, I hate you. You are shitty boyfriend, but unfortunately, you are my best friend too, so I have to tell you what just happened.”


Abe, “Alright.”

I told him. When I got to the “I was really looking forward to tearing you apart” bit, he chuckled and said, dryly, “Suave.”

I said, “I just don’t get it. He told me about his parents and how they are still crazy about each other.”

Abe, “Well that is the past, not the future. Men think they can have any woman they want because of the internet. They think they have their choice of 10 women all the time.”

I said, “They don’t.”

He continued, “But they think they do. Its illusion. But its the future. Its now.”

I said, “We deserve to die out and not repopulate our own species then.”

He said, “Maybe.”

I said, “How is OKCupid treating you?”

He said, “I deleted it.”

I said, “Why?”

He said, “Eh, I saw you deleted yours.”


He said, “Can I tell you about the wedding?”

I said, “Not unless you were alone and miserable the entire time.”

He said, “Well, I sat alone for most of it.”

Me, “Good.”

He said, “I was miserable. No one was really happy. There was lots of tension.”

Me, “Oh.”

He said, “Well, there was dancing at the end, and that was kind of fun.”

Me (sarcastically) “Good, I hate dancing. I am so glad I didn’t go.”

He said, “But the majority of the time I was alone.”

Me, “Get used to it, you are going to die that way.”

Abe, “I thought about that.”

Me, “You and your brother can fight over your mother when your dad dies.”

Abe, “Geez.”

Me, “I hope you’re in pain.”

Abe, “Everyday the pain thickens.”

Me, “Good!”


Abe, “Well, thanks for calling me. Can I call you again some time?”

Me, “No. I have blocked you.”

Abe, “Oh . . . yeah, I called you a few times.”

Me, “I can’t see you again. Ever.”

Abe, “Oh. Well. I miss you.”

Me, “GOOD!”

Abe, “And . . . I love you.”

Me, “HA!”

Abe, “OK. Maybe you will call me again some time. Goodnight, (and he said my name the correct way)”

I lost reception.


The next morning, I met my sister on the Queen Mary. She was treating herself to a weekend on-board the stationary museum over St. Patrick’s Day weekend. The Hollywood Stones, a Rolling Stones cover band, was playing. She has been following them for nearly 15 years.

They are so good, they got me into the Rolling Stones. I never really listened to their music before that first visit to a Southern California bar, but hearing the Hollywood Stones, then called Sticky Fingers, play in a small venue triggered a personal romance with Stones music. Its more jovial than my other classic rock; it's almost like the lover you take to a party to flirt with your friends but go to bed with afterward or the one you call on your way home from a bar that closed too early. No weight, no confessions, no expectations- just romance.

It was rainy and windy that Saturday morning, when I juggled my cell phone, two bags of clothes and toiletries and a tray holding two lattes outside the ship. One cup flew off the roof of my car. The other cup tipped over when I called to find out where she was. By the time I climbed into the packed elevator, my hair was whipped around and coffee was dripping off of my sleeve.

Woman, “You look very  . . . hearty.”

I said, “Does it look like I have been through what I just went through?”

They all laughed.

Man, “Not . . . at  . . . all.”

The others laughed and someone said, “Smart answer.” Regular people. They never say anything especially witty.

I stepped out and gave my sister her latte and promptly told her the details of my date the night before.

I said, “I asked him if he was watching on-line porn.”

My Sister, “It's not the porn, its a communication issue. Men were already poor at communicating and its just going to shit now.”

She confided in me that she started monthly visits with her ex-boyfriend to satiate her lecherous desires. Dating for her is difficult, she isn’t a people person and has a thicker physique than me.

Falling back on this particular ex annoyed me because he was another Momma’s Boy who drifted through life and, at the same time, wasted 7 years of her life on empty promises.

I wish she could find romance. Every woman deserves romance.


We went on the paranormal tour of the ship before the show. The Queen Mary is well known for being a haunted ocean liner. I walked through a spiritual vortex in the, now closed, first class pool dressing room.

Then, we hit the show.

I danced.

I danced.

I danced and I sang my heart out.

God, it felt good.

Strangers started tapping me on the shoulder, I would turn around and be faced with someone holding a camera. People wanted to pose next to me. It happened about 7 or 8 times, so I must have been making a spectacle of myself.

I got close to the stage and just felt the music, anticipated every note, sang any back-up black lady vocals and just got lost. People were smiling at me. Looking back on this now, I am not sure why I was standing out. There were other girls singing, dancing, climbing on stage and grabbing at the lead singer. I stayed on the dance floor and just enjoyed the music.

My sister said later, “It must be because you look younger than you are. They like seeing a young person enjoy the Stones that much.”

Someone gave me a long leprechaun hat that fell over my face as I danced.

Steve Adler was in the crowd, smiled at me, then came over and pulled my hat over my face. (Steve Adler is the original drummer for Guns N Roses- so that was A W E S O M E!)

They ended by midnight with “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” which is kind of blah. I wanted “Midnight Rambler” so bad.

I kept shouting “Encore! ENCORE! MIDNIGHT RAMBLER!” But they were packing up their gear and walking off stage. I kicked the air off the ground and swiveled around to see the crowd dispersed.

Keith Richards (impersonator) came back on stage and bent down next to me.

I looked up at him hopeful, “Encore? Midnight Rambler?”

He took my hand and said, “You are our number one fan.”

I laughed.

Then he kissed my hand . . . twice.

I said, “We need your Keith solo. What's the one? On Sticky Fingers? The ballad?”

Keith, “You Got the Silver”

Me, “YES! You should do that.”

Keith, “Well . . . I need . . . to learn the vocals.”

Me, “And you need love in your life. Do you have some?”

Keith, “Of course. Don’t you?”

Me, “Um, I just broke up.”

Keith, “Why?”

Me, “He couldn’t commit.”

Keith, “I heard that story a thousand times.”

I leaned back and nodded my head. For once, I am unoriginal.

He took my hand again and said, “Next show, April 20th. Redondo.”

He rubbed the magic of his guitar fingers over my knuckles and smiled as he disappeared behind the curtain.

We left and my sister said, “You are on a lot of people’s video cameras.”

I walked back to the cabin, and then frantically tried to burn off the beer with a cigarette or two and more music. There was no more music playing on the ship. Two beautiful men stopped me to ask if I had fun, I said I did and kept looking for music. The night was over and I had to let it go.

So I got a bag of chips out of the vending machine, sat down in the hallway, outside our cabin door and thought, “Uncomfortable with myself . . . “

It spun around, he said “You seem uncomfortable with yourself” and then I thought, “Who would I rather be right now? If I could trade places with anyone, who would it be?”


“No one.”

Tuesday, March 27, 2012

Dating a Normal Guy

For a week after the Guns N Roses concert, those who worked with me and tried to enjoy my company were subjected to such crazy-isms as, “Could Axl Rose privately message me through Twitter?” or (while checking my phone) “Could Axl Rose be texting me from a 714 number?”

Baye (my co-worker), “How could Axl Rose get your phone number?”

Me, “I don’t know.”

Baye, “Then probably not.”

Me, “Maybe he hired a private investigator to find me, who knows.”

Amid my grieving over Abe and my lusting over Axl, I started dating someone I met from OkCupid, who appeared nice, decent looking, a bit dorky and, above all, normal.

Date #1: Martinis and Classic Rock

Our first date was during the planning phase of moving in with Abe. I told Abe, “I cancelled on this guy twice before because of you, I would feel like an asshole for cancelling again. Let me just meet him for a drink.”

We had connected before I started dating Alan and before moving to Sylmar. Then, we connected again after I discovered Abe dabbling on Craigslist. Both times, I cancelled a pending date. Now, I had to follow through.

We met at a martini bar in West LA called Liquid Kitty. It was there I crashed Jason Patric’s birthday party. I chatted with Abe on the drive over, locked my car door and walked into a dark bar then saw a 6ft tall white kid, with sandy blonde hair and white pants. How could I forget those white pants?

The DJ was spinning some old school rock, Doors, Bowie, Sugar Hill Gang, etc.

We ordered our over-priced specialty drinks and started chatting about who we are. I let him lead, since the longer it took for him to figure out I am a disaster, the more time it bought me. I could then build up his general affection towards my quirky eccentricities, really just distracting him from my loud history of bad decisions.

What I learned about him is that he is from my home state of Washington and recruited from Seattle to work on a marketing campaign for Toyota. He wanted to be a writer, but didn’t believe he had the creative talent. His younger brother, a Benihana chef in Bellevue, does have the creative chops (har har) to be an artist. He doesn’t know what day it is, or what time it is but “can make a film or write something beautiful in less than a day.” His brother was his favorite person.

I also learned, dun dun dunnnnn . . . he was attacked by pit bulls when he was 8 yrs old. The story had been colored by time, so I took it with a grain of salt.

He threw his ball over into the neighbor’s yard, climbed on over to retrieve it and remembers being pulled down and shook from behind, then waking up in an ambulance with his mother holding his hand, repeating, “You are going to be alright.”

He was stitched up and sent home. The neighbor had to put down one of the dogs, and later reprimanded him for trespassing on his property.

Everyone is so evil in that story. The mean man with the mean dogs.

I said, “Well, my pit bulls let children ride them like horses.” And I offered a crooked grin as I sipped my large martini. 

He slowly nodded and I saw that wasn’t the reaction he was used to. Then he said, “I am sure your dogs are sweethearts.”

I know there are bad dogs, and there are good dogs . . . I could just volunteer that I was attacked by a person. Jump into that story on a first date in a low voice with dramatic pauses. What would that mean? Good people, bad people. Good times, bad times.

In the days of my youth, I was told what it means to be a man,
Now I've reached that age, I've tried to do all those things the best I can.
No matter how I try, I find my way into the same old jam.

Good Times, Bad Times, you know I had my share.

So, what happened?

I told him that I used to drive cars off the boats from Japan onto trains and trucks for distribution across the country. He said, “Wow, I guess that would have to be someone’s job. And now you work at a Doggie Daycare and model hair. I never met anyone that had any of those jobs, now I know one person that has done them all.”

I thought he was nice.

The music was very good, and he prodded me to make a request. So I did, and got a Doors song I had to dance to, which was followed by more great songs I had to dance to.

He said, “You have good energy.”

He danced with me, though I could see he wasn’t used to it. When he walked me outside to my car, he kissed me. There was a small spark, so I leaned in for another peck, absentmindedly. I liked him.

Date #2: The Derby Dolls

When I got in my car for the trek back to Sylmar, I called Abe and said, “Nice guy. Kind of a shame.”

So, when Abe fucking SHATTERED MY DREAMS AND BROKE MY HEART, I responded to a follow up text from Buddy.

(I am calling him ‘Buddy’ since it is the most popular name for male dogs)

I drove back from San Diego after having some half-hearted sex with Alan, still being too blind-sided to cry over losing the townhouse, the dress and the boy.

Buddy suggested Roller Derby for a second date, which was a really good call- since I happen to love roller derby.

I was wearing this black web dress over a tank top and skinny jeans.

We filed into the arena and he complimented my top. I said, “Yeah, its something new I am trying.”

He said, ‘What’s that, sexy?”

I said, “Tight.”

He said, “I don’t think that's new.”

I said, “This is really tight, that’s ok, I don’t need my boobs.”

He looked at me sideways and chuckled.

When we stood behind a single mom who looked like chunky, Hispanic lesbian, he bent down to tie his shoe. She turned around to say, “Oh, I was looking to see who was touching my butt.”

Buddy said, “It looks great by the way, I just needed a different angle.”

I laughed.

He kept bending down to tie his shoe, and Lesbian Mom shouted, “Double knot!!” over the women crashing on the rink.

The game was good, we double fisted two PBRs. He identified which women he thought were the most attractive and asked me to do the same. Its just an odd thing to ask of a date.

I wanted to keep an open mind. You see, I haven’t dated a “normal” guy in years and maybe that's how they find common ground with women. Maybe he hangs out with so many men he doesn’t know how to talk to women. Either way, I made an effort to hold judgement.

I liked him.

The second half of the game, he sat on the railing behind me and put his arms around me. I leaned into it, feeling awkward. Alan bent me over the edge of his couch that morning and Abe was still on my bed sheets. It feels slutty, doesn’t it? The thing is, it’s not slutty, at all. That’s what’s so fucked up about the whole thing, both men have an intimate connection. When they touch me it feels like warm water.

When Buddy touched me, it felt cold. I prickled and had to remember to relax.

It was rushed to be out with Buddy on this date so soon after everything. I just wanted to have a good time, to feel pretty, to laugh at someone’s jokes.

It was around this time, with his legs on either side of me and his hands rubbing my back, that I started getting nervous. I was talking fast. I was making self-deprecating jokes.

Buddy, “So you act?”

Me, “Yeah, but only because it's one of 4 things that I am good at.”

Buddy, “You are only good at four things?”

Me, “We can round up to five, I haven’t taken the time to really figure out what all four things are, so maybe there are five.”

Buddy, “You really don’t hold the punches back on yourself, do you?”

Me, “It's all part of the act. I throw things out, some things work and some things don’t.”

Buddy, “Where does the act stop and the person start?”

Me, “Ha, no one knows. Not even me. Its the same thing. They overlap, I guess.”

I asked him if he wanted to go to Thai food after, and he came.

I drove us and we found a place open late on Sunset near the rink.

Grabbing an empty Starbuck’s cup, I tossed it in the dumpster and said, “Sorry. I am trying something new out.”

Buddy, “What? Throwing things away?”

Me, "Yeah."

We ordered food and I enjoyed my plate so much, I hardly looked up to keep the conversation going. I could see he was yawning and leaning back. Something about him became cocky, as I became more self-deprecating.

We walked out and I opened the door, then paused and scratched my head.

Buddy, “Everything alright?”

Me, “Yeah, I am working on letting the man open the door for me. I forgot.”

As we proceeded through the parking lot . . .

Buddy, “Watch out for the-”

I tripped on a speed bump in the parking lot.

I laughed. He kinda didn’t.

Nervous energy. It was all my nervous energy, mixing up the dynamic.

Usually, I am confident and smart. Maybe I felt vulnerable on the heels of rejection. Maybe I just wanted to be normal, too.

I drove him to his car, a Beamer (of course) and said, “Whoa, this isn’t a Toyota.”

He said, “Ha. No.”

Then he sleepily leaned in for a kiss. We made out for a little less than a minute and said goodnight.

Date #3: Hot Dogs and Comedy

The third date, he suggested we go to burlesque club. I told him I was uncomfortable with over-sexualizing dates.

He then suggested we go to a comedy club. I thanked him for understanding, its just “people in LA can be very aggressive.” He said, “I imagine they would be with a beautiful woman.”

He agreed, to meet at Pink’s Hotdogs and then walk over to Groundlings for a show.

He was stuck in traffic, commuting from the west side on a Friday night. I was in a dress, alone in a patch of Hollywood. So I got in line to buy us hot dogs as he made his way towards me.

There is no freeway IN to Hollywood, so no matter which way you enter her, you have to work your way around and through her streets. It’s rough, I knew he would be frazzled. 

When he arrived, his hot dog burrito was plopped on the tray in front of us, next to my vegan dog.  We found a table and started eating.

I said, “You know who holds the world record for eating the most Pink’s Hot Dogs? Orson Welles. He ate 18 in one sitting.”

That is the first piece of trivia that comes up on him through IMDB, by the way.  Even after making the greatest movie in film history, STILL hot dogs win.

Buddy needed ketchup for his dog.

I said, “Can I get it for you?”

He said, “Why would you get up for my ketchup?”

I thought about it and said, “You’re right. I don’t know why. Maybe I am just so used to working in the service industry, it felt natural for me.”

After working retail so much, I did have to train myself to not ask to assist fellow customers out with their bags when grocery shopping.

He said, "In the future, make a note that I don't like any vegetables on my food. Whatsoever. And no onions."

Geez . . . you're welcome!

We were in a rush to make it to the Groundlings show, and did.

He said, “They might not let us in, they close the doors once they start the show.”

So when we got up to the box office I said, “Sorry we were late. He is from Seattle.”

Another sideways chuckle, “Thanks, honey.”

We sat down and watched a great show. I was cold from the air conditioning and he put his arm around me, held my hand, and got closer to me.

After the show, we decided to go across the street to a bar called the DarkRoom for drinks. As we waited to cross the street, he came up behind me and bear hugged me.

He said, “Does that warm you up?”

I could feel his erection on my lower back.

Me, “No, but it stimulates other parts of my body.”

We crossed the street and ordered a few PBRs. ‘Fear and Loathing’ was playing on the television, and I had a hard time not watching it.

Buddy, “Fear and Loathing' is one of the few movies I saw in theaters more than once.”

I said, “I love Hunter S. Thompson.”

He looked confused. I repeated the name and he shook his head saying, “I wish it wasn’t so loud in here.”
I don’t think he knew who Hunter S. Thompson was. I am not going to be a snob about it. I will try not to anyway.

You see, on February 20, 2005 we both tried to commit suicide. Hunter S. Thompson succeeded. I failed, was institutionalized and put on suicide watch. I will never forget hearing about his death the following morning, when my knees were weak and I couldn’t walk right from too many sleeping pills. I felt like maybe things should have been the other way around.

Not a conversation for a third date, so I kept my mouth shut. Well, kind of, I whispered again, “Hunter S. Thompson.”

I asked him about his experience with drugs, he said, “I smoked pot once and didn’t feel anything. I am just not that interested in it, I guess.”

I said, “I highly recommend it.”

My goal was to date Buddy for as long as possible without letting on that I am bizarre or troubled. However, It wasn’t long before we discussed our past relationships.

He said, “My first relationship was with my high school sweetheart. I followed her all the way to the same University. And when I got there, she lost interest and I spent that first year chasing her. It’s that time when you should be making friends and discovering yourself, I was totally focused on her.

Then I dated a girl last year for 6 months or so.”

Me, “What happened there?”

Him, “We drifted, you know, lost interest. And then I was only sexual with one other person.”

Me, “May I ask how many dates?”

Him, “I don’t know, 4 or 5.”

Me, “Is that typical?”

He nodded.

Then I said, “I don’t have casual sex. I guess you should know that about me. I only have sex in monogamous relationships. One, because I am STD phobe. When you read up on the statistics, you really start to learn a lot of people have genital herpes. One in four.”

Buddy, motioning to the couple sharing the other side of our table, “So one of us at this table as it.”

Me, “Yeah. And Planned Parenthood won’t examine me as much as I want them to.”

Buddy, “Whoa. What?”

Me, “They won’t give me a free pelvic exam once a year anymore, it has to be three years unless there are symptoms of some kind. And they lectured me about how it’s pointless taking STD tests more than once in a 6 month period if I haven’t had any new partners.”

Buddy, “I see, there is a better way to put that than ‘They won’t examine me as much as I want.”

I held up my beer and cackled.

Me, “You’re right.” Sip. Then I continued, “The truth is . . . have you ever had casual sex? With that one girl you went on a few dates with?”

Buddy shrugged and nodded, kind of agreeing.

Me, “Well, its not very good. They don’t know how to touch your body, there isn’t time to learn how to make me orgasm, and there isn’t that build up of sexual tension that explodes when you finally come together. I love that. When you are casual with someone, its just flesh on flesh, dead connection. No chemistry. Its not worth the risk of disease or . . . other.”

He was taking it all in.

Buddy, “So what about your past relationships?”

I took a sip and got a pop up in my mind, ‘SMALL BITS OF INFORMATION’ . . . I told him about Abe and Alan, how one left and the other came back in. I saw him doing the math in his head and realize there was an overlap of our communication and relationships with both guys.

“Before that I had a five year affair with someone, and it just turned bad.”

He said, “Why?”

I said, “He was an alcoholic, and had a cocaine problem.”

He said, “You hang out with a lot of drug addicts?”

I said, “I guess I do. I don’t know why that is. My therapist and I are trying to figure it out.”

I laughed again.

He said, “So I am totally different.”

I nodded, “Yes, you are.”

He took my hands to keep them from picking at my eyebrow and fiddling with my hair.

Buddy, “You have a lot of ticks.”

Me, “I guess you make me nervous.”

He kissed my hands.

We walked back to my car and he said, “Why do I get the feeling I will never see your place?”

I said, “Because you won’t. It’s a disaster. Did I tell you we are infested with rats, now?”

He nodded.

I said, “It’s not dirty. Its just cluttered. You know, notes, I like to keep notes for writing and coffee mugs everywhere.”

Buddy, “That's kind of what your mind is like. Isn't it? Stream of consciousness-”

I laughed and said, “I like that. Yes.”

He continued, “It only serves a purpose to one person,  though . . . you.”

Me, “Yeah . . . and Virginia Woolf.”

I laughed and looked at him from the side of my eyes. Could this guy get me?

We got into his car and made out for a while. He was nervous to touch me, so I grabbed his hand and put it on my boob. At a certain point, my head went elsewhere. I thought about Abe and I missed the chemistry.

Buddy whispered, “Does that feel good?”

I said, “yeah.” Was he dirty talking me while we were making out? Or was I over-analyzing?


I know most people date this way. They go out and things physically escalate as you get to know each other, but something in traditional dating lacks romance.

My greatest romances were with friends, Eric (aka The Prophet) and Abe, even my ex-husband. I was immediately attracted to them, and got to know them from a distance before we consummated. Just like in an Austen novel. I feel lucky to have had those experiences. Some people meet and date once or twice a week- but when do they have the time to fall in love?

How did I fall for Alan? We had one amazing weekend. Then another. Perhaps that’s why I gravitate towards long distance relationships, so I can hold my rhythm of intense to absent. That tends to be my approach to life in general.

Was I being impatient? He was nice, he was kind of funny. Maybe I was being over-analytical.

My mother said, "That's how your father and I started. Just a date once a week."

Then they got engaged after 3 months, married and my father was shipped off to Vietnam. That's not normal either, is it?

How do normal people fall in love? I am very curious to understand.

Date 4: Hot Tub, Pizza and Horror Movie

Buddy and I emailed and texted throughout our day. I would send videos of my job and he would send a picture of his desk or a video of his cat.

He had two cats, “Bettie” and “Marilyn” . . . named for Bettie Page and Marilyn Monroe.

I texted, “Both fascinating women.”

He said, “As far as I am concerned, Bettie invented sex.”

I said, “Well, she invented S&M.”

He said, “S&M is inevitable once you start having sex. So I stand by what I said. Bettie Page invented sex.”

I asked him what his favorite Marilyn Monroe movie was.

He said, “Some Like it Hot, I guess. I don’t know. I just like them as pin-ups.”


He just likes them . . . as pin-ups. Even as I typed that, I had to crumple my brow and toss my eyes from side to side. He is talking about two of the most fascinating women in pop culture history, and .  .  . he just likes them as pin-ups.

Ok, once again. I tried not to judge.

Could you pick two more interesting women to be uninterested in?

I don't expect people to know everything about these wild characters of the past, but for someone who watched 'Fear and Loathing' several times, and named his cats after Marilyn Monroe and Bettie Page- I expected there to be some flare of knowledge about those people. The real people. But maybe normal people only like the glossy prints, not the dirty notes shoved underneath.


Later in the week, I texted, “My right boob misses you.”

Then …

“My left boob is still getting to know you.”

He texted back “My left hand misses you.” Then this picture:

It was cute. We had mild banter throughout the day. It kept me from thinking of Abe.

I told myself that I wouldn’t go over to his place for at least a month after we started dating. When I found out he had a hot tub and an ocean view, I revised my rule and offered to bring him a pizza in exchange for using his hot tub.

He thought that was a brilliant idea.

To be continued . . .

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

How do I sleep with Axl Rose? Guns N Roses, Jack N Coke, Rock N Roll

Guns N Roses had three “intimate” Los Angeles performances the second week of March.

Now, to define “Guns N Roses”: a music band including only two remaining members from the original group; Axl Rose and Dizzy Reed, the keyboardist from ‘Use Your Illusion I and II’ through the ‘Chinese Democracy.’ I use the word “original” loosely with Dizzy.

I bought the ticket knowing, no matter what, seeing Axl Rose was worth it. I heard the stories, he doesn’t perform until hours after the show is supposed to start, then belligerent, short tempered and a little sloppy. It didn’t matter. I wanted to see Axl before I died.

Here is a little back story on my love for Guns N Roses:

My sister is five years older than me. It is hard to bond with someone five years your elder, it is just old enough to live two totally separate lives but close enough in age to force you under the same roof for most of your childhood.

I idolized my sister. She was cool. She brought boys over to the house who made my hands sweaty. She unapologetically showed me horror movies that scared the living shit out of me. I liked her clothes and her toys, but most of all, out of everything, I loved her music.

In her room, there were large posters of Bon Jovi, Cinderella and Guns N Roses. 

You can imagine being 9 years old and hearing ‘Appetite for Destruction.’ It rattled my cage.

Down stairs, in my father’s study, I properly molested his vinyl collection of early Beatles, Bob Dylan, Linda Ronstadt and James Taylor. I can still smell the dust flying in the air off of polyvinyl with that sweet sound of paper sliding off the record.

Upstairs, in my sister’s room, there was something called a cassette tape. So, we pushed aside the Wham! and Boy George records and popped in this new, raw, angry sound called Guns N Roses and I fell in love.

I studied the art work on the album, there was a woman collapsed against a wall with her panties ripped down around her knees. A flying orange monster with daggers as teeth. I didn’t know what that meant, but it was provocative.

I remember the clatter of the tape inside the cassette just before three pops: slide into player (pop), slam player door shut (pop) and press down on play (pop) then ‘Welcome to the Jungle’ came on.

It was faster than the Monkees, who I was obsessed with 1st through 3rd grade, and the singer was furiously telling me something important.

I would have to sneak into my sister’s room to listen to the music over and over or wait for her to play the videos, which were doubly exciting. And that is when I saw Axl Rose move. He was so pretty.

That year, I was sent off to Girl Scout camp . . . often I was sent off to one camp or another. I wore my handkerchief headband around my head like Axl and asked the girls to draw a Guns N Roses tattoo on my arm. They thought it was amusing at the time, later they would ignore or ridicule me when we started school again in the Fall.

A year later, they performed at the outside concert grounds near our house in Wisconsin and there was no way I could go, being only 10. But, I laid in bed and listened very carefully to hear the echo of music drift into my open bedroom window under the ice cream orders announced over megaphone from Gilles, the local custard shop.

You’re fucking crazy! Crazy! Oh my . . .”
“Order number 55, 55, you’re order is ready.”

I was so eager to grow up so I could see all the great music and movies that were being kept from me, little did I know, by the time I grew up, rock would be dying and my legends would be fading.


It was my night for GnR, so I dressed in a black and pink pin-striped skirt, a GnR tank top, fishnet stockings with arm stockings to match. Heavy eye liner. And red lipstick that always fades before I remember to touch it up.

I picked up my ticket at the Wiltern’s will call when the box office opened. A friend told me that wrist bands for the pit were given to the first group of people to pick up tickets, but this show required specifically pit tickets to stand close to the stage.

No one was friendly, waiting in line. A group of fans lined the first half of the block blasting vintage Guns N Roses music off a boombox.

My drug of choice for the evening: whiskey.

First, I grabbed a veggie burger at a cafe next door and sat next to an old man, hiding behind a book. And by hiding, I mean every time I looked over he hunched down to cover most of his face with the book.

I ate, and eventually he asked to use my phone to call his daughter.

He would be home in an hour and was wondering if she could make yams tonight.

Handing my phone back, he thanked me. I said, “Sure. So . . . yams tonight, huh?”

I was lonely. It was 3 1/2 hours til the show and I was looking for a friend.

He asked me what I was up to, and I told him. He said he heard of Guns N Roses, then asked if I liked to read.

I could tell just from the way he asked a question and then cowered behind his book cover before I could answer that he suffered from some kind of mental illness.

I said I loved to read.

He asked what type of books I liked. Cowered.

I said, “James Baldwin is my favorite, have you heard of him?”

He said, “Yeah, black guy from the 60s, right?”

Hall-le-fucking-lu-jah.  Someone other than my mother knows who James Baldwin is.

He talked a lot, as I drank my first pint of beer. Sometimes I like letting people just talk to see what floats out of them from seemingly nowhere.

Old Guy, “Five years ago, I almost died of a stroke. Then a year and a half ago, I almost died of diabetes. Now, they tell me I have cancer.”

The first words to escape me was a sarcastic, “Oh good!” from the Sascha School of Sarcasm. You work around under paid, over worked, hilarious cynics and you forget conversation etiquette.

Jesus. That was rude.

But he laughed.

I apologized, and said, “I’m sorry.”

He said, “Eh, whatever.”

I got the feeling he was kind of done. Now he was reading his final days away and that made him happy.

He said, “Am I bothering you? They told me not to talk to the customers because I might bother them.”

I said, “Are you kidding? You are the first nice person I have met all night.”

He smiled.

I told him I had to go get tanked on whiskey. He asked me to be careful. I said I knew what I was doing. I hoped I did, after all, I was dressed like a whore.

I smiled and left him with his book.

Jerry, my friend/guardian angel, texted me that there was a bar very close to the Wiltern called Frank N Hank’s. I was there a couple years ago when my wallet was stolen.  The rumor about Frank N Hank’s is that Charles Bukowski used to hang out there. When I walked in and sat down, I saw the small illustration hanging of Charles behind the bar. I forgot about his little shrine.

I ordered a beer and a shot of whiskey. The City of Angels indeed. My rock stars and writers might be dead, but their ghosts are still hovering over in little corners of the city.

Cue drunk, middle-aged Hispanic guy sitting next to me. I guess they come with every dive bar . . . ?

We spoke a little. He was trying to feel out if I had a boyfriend. I told him about my ex- and we had a circular conversation about how I should get over it, when I kept stating that I was.

Man in broken English, "You are very beautiful, anyway."

Me, "Beautiful anyway?"

Man, "Yeah."

Me, "Beautiful despite what?"

Man, "Exactly! Hahahaha!!"

I rolled my eyes and waited for my free drink. Call me unethical, I call me poor.

First there was an older guy who smelled of cigarettes and hadn’t seen a dentist in 20 years at the end of the bar, watching me. He came by to chat with me a little. He offered to buy me a drink. I took it.

Someone was playing great tunes on the juke box, “Indian Summer” by the Doors.

I complimented him and said I didn’t have to put any money in because his choices were stellar. Then he bought me a drink.

I was ready to go. It was almost 11 and thought the band was supposed to be on around then, but knew they would be late.

I thanked everyone for the drinks and Cigarettes approached me and said, “What do you say we sell your ticket and you spend the rest of the night with me?”


Axl Rose was calling. I said Goodnight, Mr. Bukowski and jogged a block back to the Wiltern in the freezing cold.

I walked in with my cheeks burning from cold Los Angeles air and alcohol. The opening band was some over-medicated, droning version of pop. I got as close to the pit as possible, flirted with security, he smiled and said I couldn’t come in.

I found the first opening I could before the pit on the landing and met two Irish-American guys taller than me. I said, “Can I stand here?”

They said, “PLEASE! This is gonna be awesome!” Ra ra ra. Yada yada yada.

I said, “Ok, hold my spot while I go get a drink.”

Dancing up the steps to the small bar, I got Robert’s attention, a bartender. He liked my name and made me the best Jack n Coke of my life.

I danced back down the steps and returned to my two thick, white American boys. We were talking to a small, twenty something, Indian guy with a cute (by all standards of proportion and general aesthetics) cute, blond petite girl.

She left and somehow we got started on how he wanted to have sex with the girl. The Indian guy gladly threw himself into the conversation, leaning in, shouting and slurring, wildly moving his arms in the air out of sexual frustration.

He said, in a full American accent, “I asked her if she would be more than a friend and she said she doesn’t have those feelings for me.”

I said, “Don’t be discouraged, just touch her. Put your arm around her. Kiss her. She might change her mind.”

Thick Guy #1, “Yeah man, get out of the friend zone.”

He said, “I bought her this ticket. I BOUGHT her this ticket! And she says she still just wants to be friends.”

Thick Guy #2, “Chicks want money, man. Its all about the money.”

Indian Guy, “I’m a FUCKING doctor! I make a shit load of money! Ok.  WHAT THE FUCK!?”

We were laughing our asses off.

The girl came back as the lights dimmed, and I took his arm and dropped it around her waist. She looked over right at me and gave me a look of poison. Then shrugged her shoulders and stepped away from the Indian. He turned around to exchange a look of frustration and threw his arms up in the air.

I noticed a joint in Thick Guy #2’s ear, and said, “Hey, can I get a hit off of that?”

He said, “Yeah, we will share . . . the three of us, after . . . you know, things get started.”

Around this time, I accidentally spilled my drink all over my tank top. The men stepped back and said, “Ohhhhh!”

I looked up and said, “NOW, I am really ready for rock n roll.”

Thick Guy #1 gave me some money and said I should go replenish my drink.

I approached the bar, and the other bartender approached me first. I said Robert made me the best Jack N Coke of my life- the other bartender tossed his hand up in the air to Robert and walked away from me like I had somehow rejected him.

Robert said, “This one’s on me. Keep your money.”

I said, “Robert, are you involved with someone?”

He smiled and nodded.

I said, “Is it serious?”

He said, “Well, we are living together.”

I said, “Damn it, I need a man like you to make me drinks like this.”

He handed me a drink and smiled. Men. Jesus. I hate them, I mean, they drive me insane with their stupidity . . . but they are God damn beautiful creatures.

I found my spot and the lights went black. We screamed.

Axl came on and I saw him. I saw my love. Handle bar mustache, cowboy hat, sunglasses  . . . that was him . . . the man I lusted for before I was even capable of making children.

He opened with Chinese Democracy. Then ‘Welcome to the Jungle’ came on. My mantra.

Welcome to the jungle we've got fun and games,
We got everything you want, honey, we know the names,
We are the people that can find whatever you may need.
If you got the money, honey, we got your disease.

Jesus. Talk about a prophetic song from my childhood. He was singing about Los Angeles. I learned the words before I could ever realize what the song was about, and understand, eventually, the song would be about my life. A hard life here, but a life I love.

And you're a very sexy girl,
That's very hard to please.
You can taste the bright lights but you won't get there for free.
In the jungle,
Welcome to the jungle . . .

I stopped dancing and I stared at him.  I thought about everything, how I was killing myself to stay here, killing myself for a career and all the men who ordered a slice of my body like it was a pie on display at the local diner.

Welcome to the jungle,
It gets worse here every day,
Ya learn to live like an animal in the jungle where we play.
If you hunger for what you see
You'll take it eventually.
You can have everything you want but you better not take it from me.

In the jungle,
Welcome to the jungle . . .

Watch it bring you to your knees, knees.

Everyone was singing and dancing. The words fell out of their mouths without taste. They all had jobs, wives and homes to go back to the next morning.

I stood silently in the song until it ended. That song was written for me.

The lights dropped and the guitar for “It’s So Easy” came on, I sang word for word happily, and didn’t miss a beat to “Mr. Brownstone.”

People around me were happy. Eventually, hands came on my body from various directions. I felt a hand on my hip, then a hand on my butt . . . hands sliding up the side of my bosom.

It felt good. It was Guns N Roses. I didn’t mind.

The hands tried to go up my skirt, that is where I stopped them, only about three or four times before they withdrew entirely.

I do remember making out with the guy next to me around “Used to Love Her” briefly. When “Nightrain” came on, I couldn’t be bothered. Whoever he was, he slipped away for the rest of the night and I didn’t see him again.

Axl did piano on “Another Brick in the Wall” and a version of “Yellow Brick Road/Someone Saved My Life Tonight.”

His energy was unwavering. He danced, slithering around his microphone stand, using it to balance as his hips and shoulders wrapped around the music.

Axl would stomp in a circle, moving his head with the steps and I realized he was borrowing from Native American War dances. Its something Jim Morrison did, as well. Its a rare sight now, amid the guitar solos and screaming vocals.

He had control of the show. In between chorus, he would stand on stage and move his hands with the swells of music, like he was conducting a grand orchestra. He was inside the music he made, like a whole new world of Fantasia was in front of me.

No matter what they say about the temper tantrums, the drugs, the band, the cornrows . . . never doubt, Axl Rose is brilliant.

He ended with “Rocket Queen”, that is what I remember anyway.

I see you standin'
Standin' on your own
It's such a lonely place for you
For you to be.
If you need a shoulder
Or if you need a friend
I'll be here standing
Until the bitter end.

(change here to higher pitch)
No one needs the sorrow
No one needs the pain
I hate to see you
Walking out there
Out in the rain

So don't chastise me
Or think I, I mean you harm
Of those that take you
Leave you strung out.
Much too far

He does vociferate with the instruments, kind of like a hard rock scat:

Oh oh oh oh oh
Nanahow nanahow nanahow nanahow nonononono
Oh oh oh
Oh oh oh oh, whoa whoa
Oh oh oh-oooh, baby yeah.

Then he climbed the highest point of stage against the pit, looked up to the lights for the final note.

And when that last sound escaped his mouth, the lights flared up and lit up his face. His eyes were wide, his mouth agape. It looked for a moment like he saw God. Then the lights spilled to darkness with red confetti. 

I had to make love to him.

The house lights went up and I stood there as fans fought down to the pit for memorabilia from the band, and others got on their hands and knees to collect the red confetti like dollar bills.

I stood there.

This show was everything I could have wanted. Ideally, I would have seen them all on some reunion tour. Slash said that probably wasn’t going to happen unless Axl issued an apology. Jesus Christ.

I thought about how the Doors at the Whiskey A-Go Go in August was the exact opposite musical experience. I was oddly disappointed. Jim was the music in the most important way. You need the front man to usher the audience to the music.

Now, without Slash and Duff, God Bless them, still . . . Axl brought the music to us in a way Velvet Revolver just can’t. The front man is the face, the arms and the legs of the music. The heart is still there in the band, but the singer needs to combine the godliness of sound with flesh. What the Pope is supposed to do for Catholics, Axl Rose did for me.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I am not saying that . . .

Ya get nothin' for nothin',
If that's what ya do,
Turn around bitch I got a use for you,
Besides you ain't got nothin' better to do.
And I'm bored.

. . . is divine lyricism. I am saying that his voice and that music taps into the beast, whatever it is as a whole, I may never know. This music will survive us.


A security guard smiled and leaned up against the railing. I approached him.

Me, “Would Axl Rose require any lady company for the night?”

Security Guard, “I am sure. He is Axl fucking Rose.”

Me, “May I . . . volunteer my services?”

He said, “Yeah. Just go behind the building and look for a Black Tahoe. He should be out in about an hour.”

Well, that was easy.

So I went back to my car to smoke a cigarette or two as the radio stations played Guns N Roses for all the fans, walking off the booze and magic. It was 3:15am in Koreatown and it was fucking cold out. Not to mention, I was half naked.

An hour. Sigh. What to do . . .

So, around 4am, I strolled behind the building and saw that about 30 other people had the same idea. My competition was crap. Most of the girls were overweight, too much make-up, and older. What were they eating? I was skinny, and my make-up was smudging under my eyes, my bangs were hanging over my eyes, flat from the sweat and my stockings were sliding down my thighs towards my knees.

I wore a black hoodie, with the hood over my head to keep warm. That’s all I had. Nothing to sign, just my milky, white thighs.

TMZ was there, present in two assholes holding records for Axl to sign. They were complaining.

TMZ Douche #1, “He makes us wait on purpose. He loves doing this to us. Its a power thing.”

The dude just played almost 4 straight hours of music for us, let him have a drink of water and collect his shit. Jesus. FUCK YOU!

One drunk guy lit up a smoke too close to TMZ Douche #1, and he turned to confront him, “Hey, can you smoke closer to the street, your smoke is blowing in my face.”

He furiously fanned over his mouth and nose.

Drunk, “I am just chillin’ man, why can’t you?”

TMZ turned to get in his face, “Because you’re making me breathe in your smoke?”

Drunk, “What are you going to do about it?”

I backed up behind a group of men and watched as the two guys waited for someone to step in and break it up. No one did. So TMZ turned back towards the Wiltern, and the Drunk smoked his cigarette closer to the curb.

He looked at me and said, “Did you see that?”

I said, “Too much testosterone. Just take it easy. Its only the chemicals in your brain.”

His girlfriend turned to me and said, “That’s what I think!”

He said, “Its not like I was bothering anybody.”

I said, “Dude, how are you still drunk? Its 4:30am?”

He said, “Didn’t you drink in there?”

I said, “Yeah, I was drunk. Now I am hung over.”

He said, “Well, you didn’t drink enough.”

The guitarist came out and the security told everyone to relax. I backed away. WHY is he wearing a top hat? I am sorry you have to follow Slash, which is fucking impossible to do unless you are one of the top five guitarists in the world, but a top hat ain’t gonna get you any closer.

We waited some more. I saw the Tahoe pull out, engine running. I walked towards it to feel the heat against my legs. The security guard spotted me and smiled, he waved me away. I wrapped my legs around each other like I was a standing vine and pleaded. I was hoping I could just slide into the back seat when Axl came out.

He said, “Sorry, I know you’re cold. I am cold and wearing pants.”

I slowly walked back towards the barricade. Someone saw a small dog and said, “That’s Axl’s dog!! See it!! He is coming!!”

Wait . . . Axl has a small dog? This little brown fluffy thing came prancing out with a smile and happily jumped into the back seat where I was supposed to go.

Axl came out, lifted his water bottle and we all cheered.

As he approached the barricade, everyone shoved vinyls in his face. Some didn’t say anything.

Others said, with perfunctory tone, “Great show, Axl.”

“New Mexico misses you, Axl.”

“Great show, Axl.”

“Love you, Axl.”

I could see as more things were shoved in his face, his eyes widened and that porcelain face of his turned to the side in overwhelmed exhaustion. It was after 5am and people just wanted his signature. Well, I can tell you I wanted something else.

In a moment when the crowd was quiet, I stepped forward and said, “May I offer you my body in thanks?”

I didn’t know how else to go about this in a short amount of time. I, too, was dead pan. We were all tired, but I was pretty sure with a bottle of water and a disposable razor, I could do something amazing for him in the next two hours.

So, again, there I was. There he was. My voice rang out, “May I offer you my body in thanks?”

His head was down, signing something, and he smiled then chuckled.

Then he lifted his head, looked and me and cackled for what felt like a full minute. Other people started chuckling. He was looking at me. I smiled and stepped forward again just as the crowd collapsed on top of me. TMZ douche elbowed me in the side of the head and I slipped backward.

Axl quickly surrendered the moment to finish a few more signatures.

Shit. TMZ just cockblocked me.

As the crowd won, and I was pushed backward in the tide, the drunk said, “Did you hear what he said?”

Me, “You mean when I offered my body? No. What?”

Drunk, “He took one look at you and said, ‘Yeahhh’”

I smiled, clapped my hands over and over, gave a showgirl kick and said  “Alright, how do I make this happen?”

The car pulled up and he backed away with a wave to the crowd and got inside. He rolled down the window to raise a glass of something to us. I did a little twirl curtsy, making my skirt fly up a little and smiled.

He drove away.


At least I made him laugh.

A laugh from the gut like that is second best to an orgasm. And, lets be honest, if I did have intercourse with Axl, a number of scenarios could play out where I could be offended, objectified, or otherwise disappointed.

Someone mentioned he left the Friday night show with eight girls. If anyone is a nesting ground for STDs, it would be someone like Axl Rose. Would I risk genital herpes for a night with Axl? Um . . . I think I would.

He truly is the last rock star.

I walked away and another security guard said, “How did it go?”

I said, “I offered him my body. He laughed.”

He said, “That’s not good.”

I said, “Well, I made it sound funny. I guess I make everything sound funny. Oh well, what was he going to do, sweep me up off the street and take me away?”

Security Guard, “Stranger things have happened.”

I smiled and crossed the street, “Oh well.”

I climbed in my car and smiled . . . for a week. I finally got to see Guns N Roses. I made a little girl’s dream come true . . . mine.