Times are rough right now, what with the high unemployment rates, health care debates, worries of swine f -oops I mean N1H1 virus, and for us single ladies, the lack of good-looking, fun, honest men who just want to find their best friend to spend the rest of their lives with climbing pyramids, laughing at each other's lame attempts at real humor, having crazy wine-induced sex while vacationing in Spain before coming home to our fabulous flat in the city where our extremely intellectual and amazingly cultured friends come to enjoy a fabulous night of conversation...okay, I went too far, but I think you get the point. Anyways, after little consideration, I have decided to go gay.
I am not writing off all men in favor of the female-persuasion, don't get me wrong, but I am utilizing my gay male friends a lot more, what with my stream of unfortunates lately. I'm not giving up though, I do believe that there is someone out there for me, I just need a little pit stop on that eventual road to bliss. It just so happens that my pit-stop involves being made to feel like you are the hottest chica in the room, late night cuddle sessions, romantic comedies, hot men, and great dance clubs. I'm not pulling a total Will & Grace here, but a little dose of cheeky, neurotic behavior can't be that bad for my single soul.
Showing posts with label nightlife. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nightlife. Show all posts
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Friday, August 7, 2009
Hola, how much?
As many of you may know, I am currently seeking a job beyond honing my fabulous cooking skills, reliance on government funding and being a damn good social (and highly educated I might add) butterfly. So when I ventured out last night to down a few at the local pub my buddy works at I was expecting a night of bad karaoke, strong drinks, local drunks and non-thought provoking conversion - not an unconventional, albeit slightly enticing, job offer.
The older I get the less I am shocked by people, so when a very middle-aged Latino entered the bar, we'll call him Señor Suave for fun, I wasn't at all shocked that he wanted to talk to me. I was however a wee bit shocked at what he wanted to talk to me about. What started out as a very interesting conversation about his family history (his family lived in the Los Angeles area when it still belonged to Mexico, kinda cool) and the general bar-friendly chit-chat that means nothing really, was very quickly turning into the very first solicitation for my services.
Apparently my slight interest in Señor Suave's life translated to him thinking I would actually consider being taken on as an, um, personal assistant of sorts. Thankfully since the conversation was all taking place in Spanish I was the only one privy to my being cheapened. So according to my dark, wrinkly suitor, I was to be outfitted in all the expensive clothes I would want, have use of his Mercedes convertible and even get a flat in the Pearl. I don't know what offended me more, the fact that he thinks I would actually want to live in the fakeness and un-authenticity that is the Pearl District, or that I appeared to be someone that would consider such a thing as being "paid" for sleeping with a man. Oh but wait, I wouldn't have to sleep with him, he promised me, he was just looking for beautiful (aw shucks), young woman to have good conversation with. Ha, yeah right, what am I stupid? I could forsee the requests for a junior high school style hand job in exchange for the new Hermès scarf I would have never before looked twice at, before becomming a kept-woman that is.
Funny thing is, beyond my getting asked to be a hooker of course, that when I told my mother about this her first question was "Well was he at least good looking?" Really? Really mom? As if that would make a difference and then maybe, just maybe, I should have at least considered the poor guy. Okay, maybe it would have, I can't lie.
The older I get the less I am shocked by people, so when a very middle-aged Latino entered the bar, we'll call him Señor Suave for fun, I wasn't at all shocked that he wanted to talk to me. I was however a wee bit shocked at what he wanted to talk to me about. What started out as a very interesting conversation about his family history (his family lived in the Los Angeles area when it still belonged to Mexico, kinda cool) and the general bar-friendly chit-chat that means nothing really, was very quickly turning into the very first solicitation for my services.
Apparently my slight interest in Señor Suave's life translated to him thinking I would actually consider being taken on as an, um, personal assistant of sorts. Thankfully since the conversation was all taking place in Spanish I was the only one privy to my being cheapened. So according to my dark, wrinkly suitor, I was to be outfitted in all the expensive clothes I would want, have use of his Mercedes convertible and even get a flat in the Pearl. I don't know what offended me more, the fact that he thinks I would actually want to live in the fakeness and un-authenticity that is the Pearl District, or that I appeared to be someone that would consider such a thing as being "paid" for sleeping with a man. Oh but wait, I wouldn't have to sleep with him, he promised me, he was just looking for beautiful (aw shucks), young woman to have good conversation with. Ha, yeah right, what am I stupid? I could forsee the requests for a junior high school style hand job in exchange for the new Hermès scarf I would have never before looked twice at, before becomming a kept-woman that is.
Funny thing is, beyond my getting asked to be a hooker of course, that when I told my mother about this her first question was "Well was he at least good looking?" Really? Really mom? As if that would make a difference and then maybe, just maybe, I should have at least considered the poor guy. Okay, maybe it would have, I can't lie.
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