A little about Las Vegas

I spent an inordinate amount of time in Las Vegas this year. Some of it was for work, but largely, it was for pleasure. I use the description of my time spent there as "pleasure" very loosely. My patience with Las Vegas wanes with every waking our (drunk or not) spent there. Las Vegas, by historical definitions of what made cities flourish, shouldn't exist. It most certainly shouldn't exist as the vapid and vacuous adult circus of fucking and financial instability. It's economy is built upon vices. Las Vegas' GDP is misery and weird plastic figurines of shitty architecture that already looks like acrylic painted styrofoam models of important wordly places.

Though there was one event that made all of the frustration and aesthetic and emotional inadequacy of Las Vegas a reasonable bargain.

The first night in town, my friends and I we were treated to a table at a club that shall remain nameless. Courtesy of a friend of his friend and his little Las Vegas socialite broski. I got properly smashed and was hanging out with the resident Las Vegas socialite whom I'll call Greg. Greg was dapper in a neo-dance kind of sense. He looked like he should be in the Klaxons, though he was missing the British accent, which ruined it a little bit for me. Oh well, it was still beyond acceptable. I could tell he was a man who can get any girl he wants. Thanks to the properties of 1) being good-looking 2) being a Las Vegas bourgeoisie and 3) living in Las Vegas.

**Men, here is a tip, live in Las Vegas for at least some portion of your life. You'll thank me when you've woken up in a bed full of condom wrappers, stripper pasties, and have a crusty pair of panties on your pillow.**

Greg, like a true socialite, well educated in the ways of Las Vegas club seduction, and asked me to dance with him. I was having a god damned great time. So great that I was sweating profusely and didn't give a shit. I was also doing my trademark "fist pump". The "fist pump" can only be done to dance music like Justice, Kavinsky, Sebastian, all those Ed Banger records guys that were extraordinarily popular in 2007 - 2008. It's a bit like an uppercut, but without the "upper". It's a straight jab. Well I was all pompus and feeling sexy and dancing about when Greg came to ask me to dance (I suppose he was asking my persmission to enter my dance-space). Instead of responding like a true lady with a, "oh yes darling, that would be lovely, would you like to lead?" My "fist pump" got a bit away from me and I punched him square in the nose. He was certainly taken aback by my unintentionally offensive gesture. I regrouped with massive apologies and some nurturing and coddling (I was still trying to train myself in this maternal art). It seems that he accepted my apology because then he led me outside the club to talk to me. He looked at me and asked, "so who is going to kiss who first?"

Charts and Graphics about Sex, Internet, and Liquor

MySpace.com/asta_charles readers are getting a major benefit that readers on blogspot are not: charts and graphs. I've taken to making charts regarding sex, promiscuity, and alcohol in order to describe some of my theories. This is because I am a geek. In any case geekiness + sex = hilarity. So you should check them out.

(I cannot post them on blogspot because they look all distorted).

Dancing is Like Sex but in a Giant Cotton Condom

Well, without actual defined penetration, anyhow.

For my birthday this year I was running around town with a group of random twenty-something straight Italians, and one Australian. One might think, as several of my friends did, that I was surely getting laid this evening. Without a doubt, the odds were quite good! This is an easy assumption, but sometimes my self-esteem gets a bit rusty and I can't emit one iota of charisma. Therefore no one likes me. Enter our good friend: alcohol.

It was my birthday and I had been kicking back these delicious libations (that will remain nameless to me as I do not want to destroy the sanctity of the name by creating a new one) that were essentially crushed strawberries with vodka. I was on number two or so when I moved onto gin and tonic. I cannot recount the number of those that I consumed, because the Italian men kept buying them for me. My drinking hand was never sans beverage (thank you, Italians).

We were at the Viceroy Hotel and moved on after a while to the Arsenal. This was a Thursday night and it was a bit quiet. I got into an argument with the Australian about the likelihood of another Geico gecko type creature being a mascot/spokesperson for another insurance company. I get quite irritated with people that have no sense of the reality that they live in. This chap was an "actor". How much he worked was unproven and unspoken. I reckon this meant he doesn't do shit except hang out at the gym and surf. Not all actors are waiters, I'll have you know. Many of them have discovered the myriad of opportunities being in the Screen Actors Guild provides (though it isn't exactly easy to get in), one of which is the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow - residuals. That's my guess with this Aussie. Consequently, he has a lot of time on his hands to come up with hairbrained schemes such as this one: "I should do the voice for another 'insurance character'!" With the powerful security guard that is alcohol backing me up every step of the way, I got a bit heated about the topic. "There is only room for one!" I kept asserting. "You cannot advertise with a character that's already been created! That's the worst plan! No one will ever buy into it. Ever." My volume was rising rapidly. I think, you could say, I was yelling. He didn't like me much after that. I can't recall what his rebuttals were because they were so obnoxiously devoid of strategy and thought.

After my upset, the boys wanted to dance, they wanted to go "sequel bar". This is what I was hearing anyway. In my state, and with the blind optimism that I often have, I thought this was a fabulous idea. I certainly wanted to learn of a new "dance spot" in Santa Monica where attractive men inhabit the space. Off we went.

As it turns out, I couldn't understand through the drunk and through the Italian accents that they were saying "Circle Bar". Now if you read my blog on my eve of birthday party, you know my feelings about Circle Bar. I was unsure what I was getting myself into, but I didn't care, because dear dear alcohol was on my side. Additionally, here I was with four young Italian men, and the Australian (who looked like a slightly older Daniel Radcliffe, I kept myself from making the obvious Equus jokes, since now I really wanted to get this guy's goat after his asinine "insurance character" idea). I would imagine that this would be the ultimate dickhead deturrent. I was wrong.

We had been dancing about to interminable remixes of top 40 songs that were in the top 40 about three years ago. There is a point at which old becomes new again and it is not three years. Three years is in this range of purgatory of unsavvy, in which the tired songs that KIIS FM only chooses to keep on life support exist. Again, I didn't care at the time. This is completely a post-analysis.

I kept dancing about, gyrating like an idiot on ecstasy, a gin and tonic in my hand that never seemed to empty. Though it was definitely finding its way into my stomach. Then a fairly charming, decently good looking, man came to talk to me and gyrate on me. I am certain that at some point he was humping my leg. The details are sketchy. Though I do recall being in that state that is a bit like getting buying something embarrassing at the drug store, like condoms or tampons. You stare at the ceiling, continuing on with your motions, all the while thinking, 'I'd very much like to not be here. If I think hard enough about time moving faster or being somewhere else, can I fool everyone else into envisioning the same? Can I control their thoughts? Yes. I am the master of illusion!' As I blew with the breeze of the evening and this silly bar, this boy that was dry-humping my leg asked me to go outside with him. It was quite hot and I was wearing an expensive dress that I did not want to sweat on. So I obliged.

Once we got outside I stood there and looked at him, waiting for a response regarding what he wanted. Nothing. He just looked at me. So I mumbled, "well uhh, why did we come out here?" He grabbed my waist and asked, in some unidentifiable accent that my drunk memory classified as "Spanish", " where is your car?" Erm, I don't know, I am completely not responsible for the operation of a motor vehicle at this time. Nor could I find my keys in my purse if I wanted to. I replied, "I have no idea where it is. I don't want to go there." The phraseology of a three year old. There was no strategy in this tactic. Then he asked, "well do you want to go to my car?" I replied, too inebriated to get his point, "um, no, I don't. I just want to sit here." I plopped my ass down on the curb in my expensive dress. Just then, my foreigners walked out the bar to fetch me. I didn't even say goodbye to this spanish fly, I just wandered off into the night.

So, in post-analysis of the evening, [post-analysis] which generally occurs while I go for a jog or a long walk after the night of the event (this is to burn off the alcohol so that I can start fresh the next night), I realized that fucker had been trying to get me to have sex with him in a car. I know, you all figured this out while reading the last paragraph. I am a bit slow on the uptake. I only assume that everyone thinks I am heinous, and remember, this night, I was having a lapse in self-esteem.

At least he didn't ask me via text message.

Follow Up to "Making a Deposit in the Amorous Memory 401k"

My second date with David, after the coffee shop, came very quickly. Only a short two days later. We had agreed, via text and instant messenger, that we could not wait to see each other again. So we went to the Hammer Museum to see an architecture exhibit. It was all raunchy with the sexual tension as thick as the exhaust from a '65 Lincoln Continental. We went to his house and did a bit of messing around, literally all messy and juicy and awful. It was no place for children. Though, I did not have sex with him.

The next morning I got an instant message on my phone from David. It said, "Spanking your ass last night was amazing." I was starting to feel confident enough for a brief shining moment to break out of my "submissive" role I'd been trying and / or coercing myself into playing. "Oh was it now? Is there anything else you liked?" I replied, pining for some real information about what he liked the evening other than my ass, my company perhaps? That would be swell.

"Everything was great, I had such an amazing time with you." David replied. My enquiry drummed up the desired result. I replied in agreement, "I had an amazing time a well, I can't wait to see you again." I had unknowingly and unwisely developed the dynamic of, "yes please abuse me, disrespect me, do whatever you please and I will always tell you I had a great time because I haven't yet realized that I am allowing you to be a right prick."

As far as our communication went, I had continued to let him contact me. The only time I had gone after him was with my initial drunken email on the match.com site. Given that he actually did persevere in contacting me, I believed this meant he liked me. Had I further analyzed it to reveal that the methods of communication he chose were all digital, and thereby did not force him to view me as a real person with feelings and personality, I would have added this into the equation and concluded that he must not have to like me all that much. I can just be an activity, like a video game or checking a website for news updates on the latest natural disaster in the East Indies.

I carried on with my day, talking to David every hour or so, which really is a lot for what I thought was a "new relationship". I was so hopeful and encouraged that this guy had so far stuck around to be in my life. This was longer than I had ever persevered with an online date. In hindsight, I really viewed it to be a multi-day date, rather than a relationship.

As we had no plans for the evening, I went to the normal Friday night watering hole with Trixie. It's an Italian restaurant and bar in Santa Monica "where the waiters are hot and so is the food." This particular evening, Trixie had called the staff ahead of time to see if a certain waiter that I had my eye on was working. She wisely advised me that even though I had a little something going on with an internet man, I had still better keep my options open. The management made certain that this waiter, whom we'll call Lars (because that name is fucking abnormal and Scandinavian) was serving the table that we sat at. I was getting proper attention from Lars, though I felt a bit like he felt forced into treating me like a special lil' lady by management because Trixie and I are two of their best customers. I was about three drinks away from turning this place into a brothel. Not without the management's help, of course.

I was trashed and checked my phone for texts at around 9:30. David had texted me and simply said, "What are you up to?" Oh how boyfriend-esque! I was all a twitter and Trixie tried to calm me down. "Don't respond to him," she said, "you are out with me right now, respond to him when you are not drunk and when you are not busy." She was attempting to train me in the ways of seduction, but this is one of those times when I let my ideals of how a situation should play out overtake the sage advice of a dear friend. I wrote back and told David, "I am out getting drinks with a friend. What are you doing?" He told me that he had been out earlier, but would have rather been with me the whole time. My infantile little heart went pitter-patter, pitter-patter for this bullshit. His charisma was a barbed hook in my heart, dragging me every which way he liked. He was so lucky to have come upon an attractive girl devoid of self-esteem and wits like me.

I put the phone away and went on with my evening with Trixie, and due to the handsome waiter serving me, got properly piss drunk with some very potent gin and tonics.

Trixie drove me home and again reminded me not to call David. Ignoring this priceless advice, I did exactly that as soon as I walked through my door. The conversation went a like this and lasted less than thirty seconds:

Me: Hey there, what are you up to?

David: Nothing much, you wanna come over?

Me: No, I can't, I'm in no condition to drive a car.

David: Well, I guess I could come over to your house.

Me: Yeah, that would be great.

David: Okay, I'll be over soon, text me your address.

Me: Okay, I will when I hang up, see you soon, babe.

The offer was enticing at the time. Though now when I examine it, it is a straight out of the book recipe for a booty call. I was all drunk and vulnerable, feeling special that this man had chosen "me" in all my personality and uniqueness. David was at my door in less than ten minutes, with a backpack of clothes and sundries. Not a bit drunk. He hugged me and kissed me, then asked for a tour. I recall the "tour" much differently than he recounted it to me. My apartment is quite small, so there isn't much to show. I walked towards the kitchen, pointed to it and said, "that's the kitchen, it has a rad floor" (it is black and white checkered linoleum). Then I stood in the living room with my arms outstretched like a painting of St. Mary of Guadalupe and stated, "this is the living room." At this point I realized I was being a bit of an ass, but it wasn't out of spite for David, it was out of spite for having such a tiny living space even though I have quite a good job. He wasn't informed of this inside dialogue though, because I was shithoused I conveniently forgot to tell him. "This is the bathroom…" I pointed at the bathroom, which was directly across from my bedroom. (David told me in the morning that my tour involved me pointing at something and then wandering off into the kitchen, clearly, I remember much more detail than he does, perhaps I created my own memories). "Hmm…I've been in this situation before," I thought, "me, attempting to avoid my own bedroom, even though I so badly want to be in there with this chap on top of me."

At the moment I thought I could be so clever as to lure him back into my living room, avoiding the idea of being in my bedroom, fucking out of delicious lasciviousness. So I never entered my bedroom and just stood in my living room asking him to come back out. I was wrong to doubt the fervor of the male libido.

I sat on my couch, David sat next me, I properly mounted him like the skillful lap dancer that I am not. We necked fervently and my attempt at chaste was finally thwarted, not as though I didn't want it to be. My body wanted it, my mind was trying to tell it that it was wrong. David picked me up, carried me into my room, and threw me down on my bed, like he was some mighty Greek about to bed his new wife for the first time since returning from a sexless war (this is presuming that the war is not like the movie Troy and hot women sometimes have sex with warriors like Brad Pitt on the battlefield).

We stripped. We got down. The sex was good, in a way, a bit imbalanced I think. Imbalanced in that I felt like I wasn't allowed to do much of the work, which I liked to. I like all sexual endeavors to be equitable, it's just my way. Afterwards, David did cuddle with me. He tucked me under his arm like a truly affectionate man that doesn't regret the sex, or despises the girl, does. He even kissed me on my forehead. I felt confident that this event wasn't one of my many mistakes with men that I liked. I had waited until the third "date" (I had convinced myself that this was a date, obviously, it wasn't really) which was a great feat for me.

We fell asleep and I woke up removed from David's arms. His back was turned towards me. I was immediately offended by this gesture in his slumber. That was ridiculous, I quelled my frustration and got back to reality. I did a girl move, that I thought was acceptable because he had done it to me, I kissed him on the back of his head to get his attention. He rolled over and tucked me under his arm again. We smelled like rank sex. We proceeded to have sex again. I tried to make small talk and asked David what he was going to do that day. He said he was going to go for a motorcycle ride up to the Rock Shop on Mulholland. "I'd better go soon though, so that I don't hit traffic." That made sense to me. I got bundled up in my comfy black Maude Lebowski robe and bid David farewell with a post-coital kiss.

I was online, as I often am, cruising emails and chatting with friends, all those normal internet errands. Then David was online, shortly after he had left my house. I fought the urge to message him and ask, like a foolish controlling girl, "what are you doing at home? I thought you were going out for a ride." So I didn't. I just said, "Hey". He replied, "What up". I probably said something after that and tried to calmly make more small talk, but I was so pissed that I cannot recall what I said.

WHAT UP??? What was that bullshit question to the girl you just had sex with? WHAT UP??? Are you fucking kidding me? Yeah, I'm your good buddy, let's go get some brewskis and sit out by the beach and hope it's cold enough that our mountains stay blue.

Never, during our brief pre-fornication courtship did he ever say something so callous and nonchalant to me. All his greetings made me feel important, special, like I was really a woman with something to offer him and he clearly saw it. I didn't have to prove anything, he liked me for being a pleasant, intellectual, and engaging person. I had worked so hard my whole life to be blatantly important and I was tossed away, yet again, as I always am. I now knew this wasn't going anywhere, but didn't want to admit it to myself, so I sat in my apartment in my cozy black Maude Lebowski robe, all day long sulking.

I felt nearly catatonic. I felt like I had just attempted to assassinate Hitler and failed. I let evil continue to exist and get away unharmed. I had spent years trying to build my self-wroth to the cohesion and beauty that someone could see it, peeling away my own layers of my personality and intellect. I had not felt this duped since about six years earlier, which is exactly when I vowed to myself to shield my vulnerability with my great walls of glibness, sass, and savvy of the world. I thought I'd let it down and see if it earned me a real relationship finally, it did not.

Trixie called me to check on me. I was in a right state. I blubbered to her about the "What up" statement and she begged me not to worry. She advised that I was in emotional hangover and everything would be okay. She knows my neuroses better than anyone, she knew I needed reason to neutralize my fit of madness. She brought over loads of relationship books like "The Manual" and "Why Men Marry Bitches". I began to devour them in order to make sense of all of this. I bought into some of the theories, though like I do with everything, I refused to take the easy way out and I began to make my own theories. I blamed the internet, it was the only part of my equation that did not exist in any of the books (hey! This is why you're reading this today!)

I did not contact David for six days. My emotions were tumultuous as I was in a major let down. "Men are like rubber bands," Trixie told me, "they have to pull away in order to spring back, just wait." This time I listened. I didn't contact David in any manner, then he finally instant messaged me the next Thursday.

The instant message session was a real clencher. It went like this, word for word:

David: Hi, I wanted to to touch base with you and say that I've been going through some "personal issues" – and I'm not intentionally trying to be "cold" towards you, and please do not take it personally. I'm still not "over" my previous relationship and I didn't know how to react.

(Note all the "quotes", this indicates lack of confidence. If you don't think you're picking the right word, try again until you utilize the English language to properly express your feelings.)

Me: Thanks for letting me know. I have a pretty thick skin, but of course things like this don't make me happy.



(I had been told by close friends that I needed to work on expressing my feelings when upset instead of just "being a man about it" , so I was exercising this now.)




David: I've been on your side of things, never on "my" side of things.




Me: I have never been on your side of things :( Sorry to say




(Note the smiley face to indicate sarcasm. The sentence should really read, "I'm always on my side of things you fucking prick, now own up and be a man and start by speaking on the phone instead of using your screen name to pretend to be you on this god damned cathode ray machine".)




David: and it really has nothing to do with you, I just got out of an 8 month relationship and I think I still need time to grieve. When I msg'ed you I didn't know we would click so well, and it scared me, frankly.




(Pussy. Don't message people then.)




Me: Well how would you know? You gotta be ready to take chances for the good or bad.




(That was my nice way of saying, "Then you should stay off the fucking internet looking for dates if you want them all to be bad, you fucking slag.")



David: Neither had I, till now.




Me: You need to take care of what you need to do. Just go forth and prosper and so will I and if things change for you then let me know and we will just see what happens.




(I lost my grip and was hoping this rubber band would snap back to me.)




David: Exactly, thank you for that.




Me: No problem. I appreciate you contacting me. I thought you were long gone and I would never see my copy of Freakonomics again.




David: Oh, no – I have three projects I'm slammed with and I just kinda got caught up with that, and I ignored my personal matters. But I think I had to hip this in the bud and not leave you hanging.




(Oh yeah, clearly what I was thinking as well! I was hanging and I really needed to be cut loose, thanks and thumbs up!)




David: Heh, you're entitled to your book.




Me: it is great that we clicked so well, but bad timing. And if you wanna be friends, that's cool, but if you think it's too much for you, just say so.




(Wow, I am fucking nice. Although, I think I did this in a subversively manipulative manner in order to avoid the possible future confusion of dealing with this nutjob in the future.)




David: I think we can be friends. Right now I'm a lil' overwhelmed.




(We're not friends. As of writing this, I haven't heard from him in three months.)




Me: That's fine. Contact me when you want to. Otherwise I will leave you alone.




I saved this conversation on my phone as a kind of trophy. I actually showed it off to people, exclaiming, "can you believe this piece of shit? He just bailed on me! Via instnat messenger!" Then I'd show the saved conversation, on my phone, to whomever I was telling the story. For the sake of my own shame spiral, I left out the whole bit about how I had feral drunken sex with this manboy. I knew that was my problem.

Making a deposit in the "amorous memory 401k"

This is a continuation from the "What Not to Wear on a First Date and Men Who Ride Motorcycles" blog.

I should explain how I met David: I got shithoused one night and got on Match.com. I began emailing hordes of poor victims an email that went like this:

"Hey I'm drunk, you're cute. You'll probably never write me back because of this. - Asta"

Well, David did write me back. The only one of my victims to do so.

On our first date we went to a coffee shop. Nothing formal, no big fucking production about expressing how we want our lives to be on a first date. I am not drawn into the concept of going to some three-hundred-dollar dinner on a first date, or ever, in order to express the value of a man's sperm. The coffee It was quite a nice little place. We both had mango iced teas.

The table next to us was getting a bit raucous. They looked like stale hippies that never really left their camp near Muscle Beach and hadn’t bathed since either, yet their clothing was remarkable bright, much like a Clorox color-safe bleach advert. The pair kicked over a chair which nearly careened into my leg had David not stopped it. “Oooh swoon. How quick and agile and careful,” my foolish little femme heart thought. I try as hard as I can to quell these kinds of gender-stereotypical twinges of thought, but this one passed through the filter and was absorbed into my conscious. I said, “oh thanks…that could have been painful!” I finally didn’t have to try to be girly, I was genuinely feeling that way. “Oh, well, I just wanted to rub your leg,” David chuckled and at that moment literally did give my shin a little rub as if he were rubbing Tarnex on a silver plate. This statement briefly turned my swoon into a wall that was my biological “protect my uterus!” instinct that this guy was out to take me down. As women we all have this instinct. Some of us get a greater thrill than fear out of it, but it is a biological weapon, designed to keep the dangerous, unkempt, and undeserving out of our birth canals. I have a rather fucked up reaction that all occurs in less then one second: fear, then discomfort, then realization of affection, then desperate clinging to that affection. I skip over a very necessary thought, which is, ‘let me see what he has to offer’. I believe I skip over this part because I think that I am all-providing of emotional and physical needs and I can do anything. Well, guess-fucking-what? I can’t, that’s why I am on this great and hellish journey.

Now I was all a twitter and titillated with the conviction that David really was interested in me. This was proof! He said he wanted to rub my leg. How infantile. So I attempted to be outwardly aloof and continue on. I don’t remember what all we yakked about after that. My thought process was shot, my juice was gone, and I was getting a bit tired of running my mouth. Though David was doing a great deal of talking. I remembered a conversation point: his recent trip to the east coast for a friend’s wedding. That story was apparently slightly daft but ultimately unfulfilling for David. He didn’t speak much of it, other than he was shithoused the whole time. I finally looked at my clock and realized it was 10:30 pm. “Wow, we’ve actually been out here for two hours!” I remarked, sincerely to my astonishment, I really couldn’t believe we’d been talking in front of a coffee shop for that long, and likely about nothing of consequence, just banter. I could not recall any conversation topics other than the few I just described above. I wish at this point I could exclaim with all sincerity, “I was just getting lost in the deep pools that are David’s eyes! Oh how glorious they were!” No. I was getting lost in thoughts of getting in his pants, while all the while contemplating how I’d avoid such a situation. I know myself well enough to know that again, my will would be tested, and it would fail against the battalion that was David’s excessive attractiveness. He said to me, “well two hours isn’t all that long, it’s understandable, we were having a great time.” Yes, we were. I imagine he was probably thinking about what lurks lusciously inside my tight black pants as well.

We got up. My legs were killing me, I can’t sit that long and pretend that I am comfortable. I am a creature intended to be in motion. I limped down the street for a bit, walking a little bit behind the stride of David’s gait. I caught up and we crossed the street, he was walking me to my car. The sidewalks in Venice are sometimes quite narrow. I made a comment about needing to get home to take a shower, I felt like that would be very nice. I would, in the throws of imagination, attempt to create a luxurious Vichy shower in my shitty apartment. I didn’t mean anything amorous or inviting by it at all, but this was lost on David. He said, “oh well, I didn’t really think that was a first date kind of thing.” Insert chuckle here. I’m sure to an observer this would have been hilarious, but my mind went back to my swoon, yet again. I had to attempt to match the swoon to this instance: it was a square peg in a round hole. Peculiar. I just laughed. “Oh no,” I exclaimed in a slurred laugh, ”definitely not a first date activity!” There, I demonstrated that I am aware of social norms.

I could begin to smell the inevitable on the air rife with sexual tension. ‘Is he going to try to kiss me? What do I do? Rehearse scene. You know this one, champ, you’ve done this dozens of times!’ I thought of all the possible combinations of moves and attitudes, body language, that is in flux at the moment. Do I put my arms around his neck? He’s tall, I don’t know if I can reach. I can pet the back of his head, all sweetly, like a very nice girl would do, not a slutty prom date. A slutty prom date would just grab his cock. That’s the equivalent of going all Britney Spears sans panties style with a skirt so short your twat is all over your bar stool.

I considered all of these options carefully because I wanted so heartily for this to be a fond memory for David’s own “amorous memory 401k”. I wanted him to associate feeling special, masculine, and wanted, with me and only me. One shot, one kill. My instinct as a man-eater came back to me a little bit and I was no longer afraid of what the sexuality in the air told me was about to happen, but not just yet. David preempted the glorious moment of a first kiss by cupping my ass as I stood waiting for traffic to clear so that I could cross the street to get to my car. I attempted a delightful and flirty laugh, as opposed to my typical jocular cackle, and asked,” did you just grab my ass?” “No!” David retorted without hesitation or laughter, he was dead fucking serious, he really thought he had not just grabbed my ass. Perhaps my oddly shaped posterior and generous hips had been confusing to his hand and he mistook my ass for my hip. That would be a bizarre way to compute the human figure, especially for an artist, wouldn’t it? My mind couldn’t waste time. I had to regroup my thoughts and my first-kiss plan of action. The Armada was coming, I needed to win this battle. I quickly recalled my plan: hands around neck, but don’t go in for the kiss first.

Although I was eager, each step I took across the street to my car was like a walk off the plank of a ship. Each symbolizing a step that had about a ninety-percent chance (given my track record) of turning into a great beacon of hope that would quickly be bombed to bits by the blitz of reality and male revocation of my affection and adoration. And so I stepped off the plank to accept my fate. I did at about-face at my car and came groin-to-groin with David. I looked up at him through my specs and said, “I had a really great time, his really was fun.” He didn’t speak a word, but we both knew what was to happen. He craned his neck down towards me, I crept upwards on my tippy toes (men seem to think this is adorable, I have references), and met his lips in the middle of this previously uncomfortable space that neither of us had occupied. It wasn’t too much, it wasn’t too little, it was, lest I say, perfect. Then once I became acquainted with perfect I acknowledge how bothersome my handbag was and how badly I wished David would put his damn helmet down on the ground for two brief shining moments so that we and our kiss could have this time together, properly. It wasn’t going to happen, I suffered through it and enjoyed our kiss. Ka-ching, credit scored in the amorous memory 401k.

Stay tuned for how this story ends...

An unsolicited response to a Dave Glenn blog

I quite enjoy the blogs of fellow writers who happen to be men on the prowl. They are unassumingly out to start the royal fuckathon conga that is our twenties, thirties, and sometimes forties. This may carry on until the phallus has been worn down to a nub and then hence, "ah, it's time for marriage. This beautiful, dutiful, formerly slutty, woman will never want to fuck me, so I won't have to worry about this cursed impotence. What? Am I drooling on myself? Oh yes, time for another shot of Old Overholt."

Right, so anyway, I enjoy these blogs (Dave Glenn, Grant Howard, Tucker Max) because they're clearly hilarious and I can't help but vehemently empathize with them. Though also because these writers sometimes ask questions that I can easily answer. One might think, from reading my work, that I am completely fed up with men. Not so! I am equally fed up with the women that allow much despicable behavior to continue. Allowance breeds eventual contempt. Observe...

Question: Why is it that women avoid the men that they are obviously attracted to?

I was once this woman. In fact, I'll probably do it again because I am kind of cunty. We like to think ourselves as the choosers, not men. We own our vaginas dammit, some of us are just better at keeping them away from you than others. If you're attractive, clearly, we want your P in our V. Wildly. Some can pretend they don't, others get the dopey look slathered all over their faces.

We know we'll have to give in. It's only a matter of time. If you have isolated your target (woman) in an area in which you'll probably never see her again, your likelihood of fucking her is much higher than if you will see her again. This is where women get stuck in what I like to call "the shitstorm of hope". We begin to rationalize, "well if I go home with him, he'll surely think I'm so great that he'll talk to me again!" No. Men, back me up on this, as much as I hate to admit it: the man will probably not talk to you again. It takes longer than three hours to prove that you're a worthy mental opponent. As my father used to tell me, "shit in one hand and hope in the other, see which one gets full first."

In summation, we avoid those we're attracted to in time-sensitive situations because we know we're likely to give it up. As we all know, the level of susceptibility varies woman to woman. Sluts either don't care, or they care so much they get stuck in "the shitstorm of hope." Good, clever, girls just don't look like they're interested and they can drag you around by a hook they sunk in your taint all night long and possibly for days and weeks after.

Vodka Red Bulls are No One's Friend

I went out to Urth Cafe with my friend Josh whom I'd not seen in ages. I met Josh earlier this year at an art show in Eagle Rock (here is where I plug MySpace.com/JonasNever). An adorable, manly but joyous chap, who wore stellar spectacles. I was quite keen on him. He was an unknown comfort to me. Also a transplant to Los Angeles. He didn't even yet have a job. We got on fabulously, but were regrettably terrible at keeping in touch and getting together. That being the case, when we did, we went big.

At Urth we enjoyed some pastries, chocolates, coffees, etc. Those kinds of things that yuppies eat in order to consumer calories for looks and flavor rather than actual function. It would be fabulous if after indulging in 1000 calories of sugar, fat, and other goodness, we actually had to sprint go go spear a caribou in the dead of winter in order to ensure we'd eat for the next three months. Sadly, not the case, this is why we all get fat.

But I digress...

Josh suggested that we go to "gay karaoke" after snacking at Urth. I felt it was a bit early for said "gay karaoke", as Josh claimed that it didn't "get good" until around 10 PM. So we wandered around West Hollywood, poking about in posh bars and such. We went to one of my favorite and most remarkably classy haunts, Dominick's. They give you free cigarettes there. Josh was very happy. We giggled and talked of work while I tried to flirt with the bartender. This is the major drawback of hanging out with ridiculously good-looking gay men: good-looking straight men don't pick up on the gay overtones and thusly ignore my randy hetero-posterior. Perhaps some day they'll evolve to pick up on this. I'd like to think that it would have been undeniably complimentary to the rejection of Prop 8. Though I would be wrong on both counts.

After posting up at Dominick's for a good while, neither of us having any luck getting the attention of the attractive waiter (I suppose we could deduce from that that he is not a queer either - because Josh is undeniably delectable), we moved on to "gay karaoke".

I reckon that if you are a homosexual and you are reading this and you also happen to live in Los Angeles, you know exactly what I mean when I say "gay karaoke". For those that don't, it's a bar called Fiesta Cantina in boys' town on Santa Monica Boulevard. Every Wednesday night happy hour starts at 10 pm. Happy hour consists of $3 tall boys. For LA, this is the cheapest fucking liquor you can get at a legitimate bar. This is downright unheard of. The tall boys are not a cop out either, no sir. These libations are a solid 70% alcohol. I didn't realize this until it was far too late.

By the time we arrived at Fiesta Cantina I was already two martinis and a glass of pinot grigio deep. Though, due to the pastries, I thought I was pacing myself quite well. As soon as gay karaoke happy hour got going, I ordered a vodka red bull. I had signed up to sing a Johnny Cash song, "Folsom Prison Blues" to be exact. I quickly realized that I didn't know the song as well as I thought I had and also that no one in the room was drunk enough yet to think that I was funny. So I pounded down my vodka red bull like it was the last one on the planet. Josh and I were tag-teaming on jokes about Sarah Palin in the breaks of the song. This was when jokes like, "hey there, you look like a moose, I'm gonna shoot ya!" were still new, fresh, and therefore funny. They aren't anymore, so I will spare you the remainder of the quips that I invented on stage that night.

I sucked down another vodka red bull. This is the last one that I remember consuming. I immediately became slutty. This is a frustrating realization when you are in a room full of gay men. I immediately jumped on a quest that I developed, "sleuth out the straight one." I hung out at the DJ booth for a while, perusing songs. The guy looking at the song book next to me was Australian. My vagina's will collapsed right there. Oh I should mention, he was also of harrowing attractiveness. A young Russell Crowe, he was. We bantered a bit about what songs we'd choose. I kept pretending to look at artists that I thought would make me look "fun" and "cultured". Like Van Halen. This made sense at the time. Now, I can't explain how browsing Van Halen songs might make me appear psychographically "cultured".

Young Russell Crowe said he wanted to sing a song with me. He complimented me on my earlier performance and comedic routine. I didn't think anyone had noticed. We decided to sing "Panama". That's a good duo song if I've ever heard one.

At this point the alcohol started to take over my directional skills. I tend to wander and lose my sense of geography, or even who I am supposed to be with, at a certain point. Random patrons kept buying me vodka red bulls. I would guess at this point in the story I am on VRB (vodka red bull, for you dullards) number four or so. Let's also remember that these are tall boys that are filled to the brim with vodka-goodness.

I grabbed drink after drink. I was the life of the party. Then a tranny walked in. I love trannies.

She was bouffant and beautiful, 6'3" of tantalizing chocolate love. The thing that I enjoy most about transvestites is their utter lack of concern for what society thinks. They have been living their entire lives wanting to be someone else in personality and in sexuality, the tantra that must exist in one's mind to take hold of this and not allow it to lash out on all us "normal" folk is astounding to me. I was immediately drawn to her and she to me. I was making her laugh. That's all I know. I kept hugging her and kissing her. She wouldn't let me kiss her on the mouth, for probably one of two reasons: 1) she did not want to mess up her lipstick or 2) she has herpes. In either case, I suppose the avoidance of my kisses was courteous of her.

I should explain, as a disclaimer, I didn't want to make out with the tranny in a romantic sense at all. I just genuinely enjoyed her. She was germane to my enjoyment of the entire evening.

So I found someone else to kiss.

My drunk hetero-Ouija board directed me to a cute, smaller boy. He was a young brooding Elliot Smith type. His style indicated that he was typically pensive, but was going off duty for one night to have a good time. His sexuality could not be indicated at this time. All I know is that I did make out with him. Who indicated the making out I cannot explain. This is one of the many beautiful features of being drunk: it removes all awkwardness of initiating the making out or the sex. I am certain that it was a very cinematic moment, all graceful and without pause or worry. I'll just continue to believe that anyway. I got his number, but I forgot his name. It's in my phone to this day, floating around to this day without a name to assign to it.

Then the bar closed. All of this seemed like it happened in a half an hour, but actually it must have been four hours. When all is said in done, in four hours, I probably drank six VBRs. I was right out of my skull.

I dragged myself over to Josh, sad that I never got to sing "Panama" with the cute Australian boy (I was convinced he was flirting with me). We mustered all the momentum we could to get ourselves out of the bar. I forgot where my car was, so in order to bide time so that I could remember, and hopefully sober up, we went to the park. Josh began screaming, "I WANNA GET NAKED!!!" I encouraged this with a rowdy, "YEAH!!! NAKED!!! YEAH!!! BEING NAKED IS AWESOME!!!"

This particular park had swings. It was a warm night. I started to get naked but gave up. It was too much work as drunk as I was. I didn't get past my sweater. Though Josh went all the way. All the way. All the way down to his pink American Apparel briefs. He hopped on the swings and went apeshit. Inebriated as all hell, I was cackling at the thought that he would probably fall down. That's mean. Though at this point, I wasn't "me" anymore. I was definitely someone else. Someone, who had to drive home.

Josh tired of the swings, probably at my insistence to get to my car, and we walked down to the Urth Cafe. I had remembered where my car was, that was a step in the right direction.

I drove home. This doesn't classify as the stupidest thing I've ever done, but it's way up there on the totem of retarded ideas and choices. I remember thinking to myself, "you're an idiot, you're gonna die, you're an idiot, you stupid bitch." Ugh. This is nothing to be proud of, really.

I stumbled home and when I got to my room, threw off my clothes and in this haste to rest my weary head did not set my alarm. I woke up the next day, a Thursday, at 10:22 am. Of course the first thing I did was reach for my phone to call my boss. As it turns out, she had not slept in, but had gotten distracted watching "Office Space". So she was not at work yet either. She is awesome.

As I began my day, I started to find a series of items that indicated what had gone on the night before. Many of the parts of the evening that I wrote out, above, were completely wiped from my memory initially. Though these trinkets helped them return.

On my bedside table there were two rings. Cheesy as hell. The metal was plastic with chome paint on it. The decorum on both included pink and purple plastic jewels. Lots of them. Mounds of them. I still have one of the rings. As I examined the rings more closely, I remember my friend the tranny: she gave them to me. She put them on my fingers. What a kind tranny.

I continued about my day and wanted to wear my black sweater. It was no where to be found. "The park!" I exclaimed. God dammit, I had most certainly left my black sweater in the park. There goes $50.

Then I snagged my purse from my desk chair in my living room. I peeked inside to find my keys. I found a piece of paper. A wadded up Del Taco receipt. Inside it, in shitty capital letter chicken scratch it read:

DIVA DANA
818-XXX-XXXX
CALL ME SOON!!!!

Wow. She really did want to hang out.

Straight men that possess the "gay voice"

I communicated via email with two fellows, around the same time, for roughly one month. They were laggers. They traveled, they were slow on the responses, they also seemed to avoid phone calls like the Ebola virus. I kept pushing and pushing for both of them to call me. One, was in the musical: Jersey Boys. The other was some marketing guru at Google. Both of these professions do warrant a bit of an assumption: these people could be a little off. But I in my great retarded tenacity and optimism, continued pursuit.

Our emails were boring. With the Jersey Boy, I talked about billiards, dancing, school, and some other dross that didn't spark any chemistry whatsoever.

With the Google guy, we discussed hiking, the Pacific Northwest, and some other dull unappreciable topics. No chemistry, again.

Though no chemistry was sparked online, I thought that real life was worth a go. Again demonstrating my demented and mentally retarded need for challenges and ignorance for the fucking obvious.

The first step to face to face interaction is the telephone!

On the same day, both called me and left voicemails. Both sounded balls to the wall fucking queer. I have gay friends who do not sound that much like they weren't able to remove the cockring from their balls from the night before. Perhaps they had lost circulation and really had lost physical connection with their testicles.

What creates the gay voice? I believe it has a lot to do with environment, as each one of us tends to absorb and reinterpret and utilize speech patterns of those around us in our formative years of development. It likely has little to do with actually being gay, until one immerses oneself in the gay subculture. Inside each of us we create our own accents and tones to project what we want to be thought of through our voices. I recently asked a good friend of mine to try to "talk straight". Because he is gay, it was difficult for him to come up with topics that straight men would talk about as well as remove the "gay" from his voice at the same time. The experiment really went afoul when he started talking like an Evangenical Bible thumper from Colorado and saying things like, "yuh know those women, they sure love their tampons, god dammit."


Now, the gay voice, it is a bit of a sexuality signifier. It is the iron fist behind my hetereo-Ouija. Why would a straight man willingly project homosexuality through his voice? I haven't a clue. Maybe they're trying to challenge straight women. "Oh yes, yes, yes, the ladeeeesz, they love the gays, so what if I, like, pretend to be one? Maybe then also if I hike up the crotch of my pants to show some testicular sac camel-toe they'd much enjoy that as well! That's attractive, right?"

(No).

I've known people from the south that have tried like the devil to remove the twang from their monemes and phonemes, because they thought the twang made them sound like a country bumpkin (sometimes it does). I'd like to know how long the "gay voice" has been in circulation. What if King George had such an effeminate tone? I'd like to see that. Maybe that is why he couldn't pronounce "Thames".

In real life I may have been able to get over meeting a handsome fella with the gay voice. Via phone, I could not. I never called either of them back. They were right to avoid phone calls, but you gotta buck up and show your true colors sometime. The world of the internet is like East Germany and there's gonna be a Reagan to break down the wall sometime.

Weird nonsensical statements that men text me

This isn't going in the book. No sir. It's just really for all of us to laugh at.

Texts from the Miniature Russell Brand that I Met in a Douche-ish Bar in Thousand Oaks

Source: I slept with this chap twice. I tried a new manipulative tactic, "please don't fuck me if you don't actually like me". Um, oddly, it worked. The one time I didn't want it to.

*Last time spoken to: one and a half months prior to message
We're having a beach party at Zuma today. Join us and wear that black bikini.
(I do not own a black bikini, nor had he ever seen my stash of swim wear).

*Last time spoken to: two months prior to message
I got fired from my job. Can you get me another one?

*Last time spoken to: three months prior message
Message: The wind in Hollywood blows warmly today. How do you blow?

*Last time spoken to: four months prior to message
Message: I got an apartment in Hollywood today!
(This last message is fucking weird because why would I care at this juncture? Clearly, I've moved along quite nicely, and I still have a job).

The Guy I Met in a Restaurant Bar in Santa Monica with my Friend Trixie

Source: Man that spoke to us while pompously displaying a thumb ring. (Thumb rings are the second generation, slightly mentally dismantled, kin of ear piercing. They tend to find their way onto men that are older than 35 and think they're just dripping with so much "cool" that it might as well be the semen from their most recent bar restroom onanism). He was a research mathematician from Melbourne, Australia. *Special note* Australian and British accents are my kryptonite.

*Last time spoken to: previous evening
So if you were a super hero, which one would you be?

It should also be noted that in this encounter, prior to texting, he asked Trixie and I which kinds of shampoo we used and then asked me if I was the "leader". This offended Trixie. Men: don't ask assumptive questions to which the answer utterly implies the girl's friend's mental impotence.

Friend I Had a Long Time Ago

Source: Post desert concert. I was in a hotel room.

*Text at 8:30 am: Please come get me, I am in the desert and I am not wearing a shirt.

On Anonymity

There is a very basic reason why I have chosen to embark on this literary work and online “get the word out” effort anonymously: work. My career is in a very conservative industry. Should any of my colleagues find out that this is how I live my private life, and I am broadcasting it online under my real name, which other colleagues outside of work could find and read about said real life - I would be in heaps of trouble. I probably would not be fired, however, I would be reprimanded and forced to stop doing this. I think these ideas that we’re all discussing and experiencing are far too important in a “big picture” sense to just delete. So, let’s not have that happen. I’ll keep my anonymity for this purpose, and if I am lucky, some day I’ll get to show my face.

Some of you probably wonder, “is Asta heinous or something? Is she a fucking ogre? Has she got a lazy eye hanging out of her ocular cavity?”

Well no, I am not. In fact, the first chapter of the book is a dossier of myself to describe that I am in fact a very decent looking and normal woman. I am educated, I have a solid career (one that I don’t want to destroy with my stories and judgements), and I spend gobs of cash on dying my hair a perfect burgundy with perfect lowlights. I care very much about what I look like, though I do not subscribe to the vanity that Los Angeles instills in each and every one of us. I don’t have fake tits, I am a pasty white (I refuse to tan artificially or otherwise), and I wear thick black eyeliner (I also refuse to wear a macabre palate of eye shadow, as many of my peers elect to).

In addition to the practical reason for my anonymity, there is also the idealistic and symbolic one: we are all anonymous on the internet. I could be anyone, you could have hit on me in a bar before, you could have slept with me before, I could have babysat your child, but you will never know, because you will never see my face. By virtue of this fact as well you must be aware that anyone in your environment could be Asta Charles. They could think and feel as I do, and your communicative methods and actions as a friend, a lover, an acquaintance could impact them as much as I write about them impacting me.

The veil of secrecy has been a gift bestowed upon our generation by the magic of the internet. We must choose wisely how we use it. It is not a hall pass to slut it up all over town. Think about what you would or would not do if you had to own up to it face to face. You might have to be on heroin to admit, face to face, to some of the atrocities you’ve inflicted upon people in your online life. Think about how badly you may feel if you had to cancel a date with someone by actually speaking to them, rather than texting them. You might be less likely to do it, wouldn’t you?

I’m not some absolute deity professing this from a mountain top (though I wish I was – get me a God damned toga and some Socrates sandals and film me like I am in 300). I’ve done all this shit too. I’ve ignored people’s texts because I don’t want to deal with their bullshit. I’ve ignored calls and texts and written mean things back because I am a snide bitch (though I am getting better). I’m not alright with this. Without this technology, this would be real, we would be honest.

We’ve lost respect for each other because of two things: the veil of anonymity and supermarket of people (as friends, sex objects, boyfriends, girlfriends, etc.) available through digital communication.

I’m calling for a revolution in communication.

Yes, I realize the irony of doing this all on MySpace and on Blogger. The reality of the situation is that if I did literally get on the top of a hill and start yelling all this shit, no one would listen. In fact, I’d get tossed in the slammer, then it would all be for naught and my parents would have to pay a lot of green to bail my blowhard-ass out. One time I tried giving this lecture in a bar, to anyone that would listen. A guy named Mike later told my friend Linda (regarding me), “hey your friend is really fucked up.” That’s what happens when you have ideas and you’re vocal about it. So I’ll ease my way in, thanks to the internet.

Anonymity poster located here: http://talk.bmc.com/blogs/blog-bohren/jeff-bohren/anon-poster

The Google and the Kiddos - "Is Technology Rewiring our Brains?"

Is technology rewiring our brains?

AP
Thursday, 4 December 2008

What does a teenage brain on Google look like? Do all those hours spent online rewire the circuitry? Could these kids even relate better to emoticons than to real people?

These sound like concerns from worried parents. But they're coming from brain scientists.

While violent video games have gotten a lot of public attention, some current concerns go well beyond that. Some scientists think the wired world may be changing the way we read, learn and interact with each other.

There are no firm answers yet. But Dr. Gary Small, a psychiatrist at UCLA, argues that daily exposure to digital technologies such as the internet and smart phones can alter how the brain works.

When the brain spends more time on technology-related tasks and less time exposed to other people, it drifts away from fundamental social skills like reading facial expressions during conversation, Small asserts.

So brain circuits involved in face-to-face contact can become weaker, he suggests. That may lead to social awkwardness, an inability to interpret nonverbal messages, isolation and less interest in traditional classroom learning.

Small says the effect is strongest in so-called digital natives - people in their teens and 20s who have been "digitally hard-wired since toddlerhood." He thinks it's important to help the digital natives improve their social skills and older people - digital immigrants - improve their technology skills.

At least one 19-year-old internet enthusiast gives Small's idea a mixed review. John Rowe, who lives near Pasadena, California, spends six to 12 hours online a day. He flits from instant messaging his friends to games like Cyber Nations and Galaxies Ablaze to online forums for game players and disc jockeys.

Social skills? Rowe figures he and his buddies are doing just fine in that department, thank you. But he thinks Small may have a point about some other people he knows.

"If I didn't actively go out and try to spend time with friends, I wouldn't have the social skills that I do," said Rowe, who reckons he spends three or four nights a week out with his pals. "You can't just give up on having normal friends that you see on a day-to-day basis."

More than 2,000 years ago, Socrates warned about a different information revolution - the rise of the written word, which he considered a more superficial way of learning than the oral tradition. More recently, the arrival of television sparked concerns that it would make children more violent or passive and interfere with their education.

Small, who describes his modern-day concerns in a new book called iBrain: Surviving the Technological Alteration of the Modern Mind, acknowledges he doesn't have an open-and-shut case that digital technology is changing brain circuitry.

Still, his argument is "pretty interesting and certainly provocative," although difficult to prove, says brain scientist Tracey Shors of Rutgers University.

Others are sceptical. Robert Kurzban, a University of Pennsylvania psychologist, said scientists still have a lot to learn about how a person's experiences affect the way the brain is wired to deal with social interaction.

Life in the age of Google may even change how we read.

Normally, as a child learns to read, the brain builds pathways that gradually allow for more sophisticated analysis and comprehension, says Maryanne Wolf of Tufts University, author of Proust and the Squid: The Story and Science of the Reading Brain."

She calls that analysis and comprehension "deep reading." But that takes time, even if it's just a fraction of a second, and today's wired world is all about speed, gathering a lot of superficial information fast.

Wolf asks what will happen as young children do more and more early reading online. Will their brains respond by short-circuiting parts of the normal reading pathways that lead to deeper reading but which also take more time? And will that harm their ability to reflect on what they've read?

Those questions deserve to be studied, Wolf says. She thinks kids will need instruction tailored to gaining reading comprehension in the digital world.

Some research suggests the brain actually benefits from internet use.

A large study led by Mizuko Ito of the University of California, Irvine, recently concluded that by hanging out online with friends - sending instant messages, for example - teens learn valuable skills they'll need to use at work and socially in the digital age. That includes lessons about issues like online privacy and what's appropriate to post and communicate on the internet, Ito said.

Rowe, the 19-year-old, said he and his buddies often debate whether technology might actually be bad for you. That includes kicking around the argument that computer use makes people socially inept.

Of course, he added, "we spend a lot of time on the computer and still have totally normal and perfect social lives."

I went on a date with a guy that drove a Maserati

This guy's lawyer (with whom, he informed me, he spends over $100,000 a year) gave him tickets to a Kings game. Second row seats. He took me. This is some of what happened.

I was watching a lot less hockey than I wish I was. There was much more talking about business, again, than I had cared for. As I explained my own personal hopes and dreams for success in business, Nishan jumped in with the lecture regarding how I should get my MBA. “Yeah, a lot of people have told me that, but I really don’t feel like it’s the right time.” Is any time the right time to spend $100,000 on grad school? I’m still not sure. I don’t appreciate when people that don’t know me give me this lecture. It feels like someone trying to fit me in an expensive dress that I don’t care to wear. “Erm, that’s very nice. Do I have to wear it often?” “Yes, for the rest of your life.” “But it doesn’t feel like something I’d wear, you’ve just slapped it on me like a uniform.” “Yup, that’s what I’ve done, now pay up.” Bastards.

To any outsider, this may seem like a great date so far. Discussion about hopes and dreams, business, childhood, all while watching a Kings game practically on the ice. To me, it lacked any intimacy, as I was immediately put off by a lot of fashion choices and selection of discussion topics. These things are criteria that get filtered. I begin to craft who you are and how you could fit into my persona by the criteria that do or do not match requirements in my brain. It’s all very analytical. I should win the Nobel Prize for it.

At some point in the conversation, Nishan had mentioned how people make snide remarks about his car. I asked what kind of car it was. That was what I was supposed to do, right? He did not respond to me.

When leaving the game, I was preparing to dart off in the Los Angeles evening and make my exit, never to be seen again. Like a raccoon trying to run away unseen after digging through the trash. To my dismay, Nishan was parked in the same lot that I was. We came to my car first. He asked if I would drive him to his car. Only in LA would someone ask this question, it’s 100 feet away. I obliged, like a spineless twit.

I make two quick right turns to a very large spot, that really shouldn’t be a parking spot. I see a midnight blue Maserati right in front of my face. I immediately think of the episode of Entourage called “My Maserati does 145” and I want to ask if we can take the car to Northridge and relinquish it to some teenagers. I held back, knowing naturally no good comes from taking a luxury vehicle to Northridge.

I pretend to ignore that this is a very nice car and clearly he either has a great capacity to acquire credit or simply has a lot of cash lying around. In either case, it is of no consequence to me and clearly he wouldn’t have asked me to drive him to his car if he didn’t want to show it off to me. So I ignore it.

I decided now was the best time to set up my “no expectations” rule. “You know, this is the first Match date I’ve gone on, so please give me some time.” Nishan countered, “That’s cool, I understand, but just so you know, I am probably the most quality guy you’re gonna find on there. Also, I have like this third date rule…if a girl doesn’t kiss me by the third date she’s obviously not into me.” I’m thinking to myself, “how quickly can I get him outta here, I’ve had enough with the fucking rules, this isn’t American Gladiator.”

“Alright, understood, well have a good night.” I was verbally giving him the boot on the ass to propel him with great velocity out of my car.

I sped off and immediately called my mother. She was definitely going to love that I just went on a date with a guy that owns his own business and drives a Maserati. What she wouldn’t love is how much I realized I truly can’t stand people like that.

When I say that I can’t stand “people like that” I mean those with the interminable poise to push a notion in tangible form onto others. It can be anything. It can be poor and degenerate by way of insisting on acting and looking poor and degenerate, rather than the beautiful human being that you could possibly be. Of course in this case I’m projecting my assumptions about a man who clearly is of great means. He projects them and makes it a bold point to disallow any observer to make the mistake of thinking him an unprivileged member of society. Why not fool everyone a little bit? Why not surprise people when they get to your inner beauty? I suppose it’s just my psyche. These things that make a man appear to be a catch drive me away, they are too obvious, I require something a bit more difficult to feel as though I’ve won a prize.

There is also the issue of goal setting. It’s with great clarity that this person has already reached his goals. Nishan did tell me at one point that he had philanthropic ambitions later in life. It looked to me like he’s already reached a point at which those ambitions would be easily fulfilled. The hungry kids in south central are crying into their Campbells soup cans and hamburger helper right now. Why did you have to spring for the Mas? It could have been a fine Audi A6 utilitarianism could have called it a win that day, sharing a good $100,000 with the disenfranchised inner-city youth. I guess an MBA can’t teach us all the philosophies of John Stuart Mill.

Before it all begins to seem like I can’t credit this guy with anything other than societal misdeeds, let me be clear, he was a perfect gentleman. This ends up being a rarity. These things I’m picking on are simply to express why I am not like most women – success doesn’t “do it for me”.

After this experience I decided to call off the internet dating for a while. Approximately two months after this, I got a MySpace message from Nishan expressing his affection for me and that he was very attracted to me. Attracted to what I couldn’t be certain because we had only met once and talked about business about the entire time. If he’s talking about my tits, then I can take it or leave it. I wasn’t feeling lonely or desperate yet.

The MySpace

Friend me at MySpace.com/Asta_Charles

Thanks a grip!

The Saddest Bar Epiphany Ever

This week I am fortunate to have a partner in crime in town: my BFFFFFF (isn't that what the kids are saying these days?), Becky Rebecky (who will henceforth be referred to as B.R.), is in town for a few days. She's never a hindrance to my adventures, as half-assed, or thoroughly thought through as they may be.

We were flouncing around Silverlake in a margarita haze (El Conquistador quickly stole my sobriety and consequently I left all these book there that I bought for Christmas presents, damned inebriation and a case of the giggles). We had invented some upper-echelante North Eastern United States accent that quickly just became British. It was so atrocious that we thought it best to stop yelling at each other in it before we got within earshot of the bar, as they might not let us in.

The words "cunt" and "bloody" and "fuck" were being used frequently in our repertoire.

We were roaming down Sunset Boulevard towards Akbar. Akbar existed in my mind as two things:

1. The place that I ate fried chicken from Ralph's in front of in order to ready myself for the Proposition 8 protest
2. A hipster mecca

I typically can't convince any of my crowd to go to a hipster mecca. I, however, am an admitted sucker of such an ether. I guess it's the presumed attractiveness and sense of humor of the crowd (the downside of the this, of course, is that sometimes they are completely bogus looking). The knowledge that I'll ultimately have something to talk to them about, even though they're all too pompous to actually talk to me, I guess I keep the hope. Oh and that thing that I'll be able to talk to them about: Morrissey.

Clearly, I have high hopes for Akbar.

We walk in, greeted by an non-chalant and generally disinterested bouncer. I suppose he hasn't been able to really "bounce" in a while.

I was pleased by what greeted us: a small bar, with cozy couches, filled with attractive men. I ordered a vodka tonic and meandered for a while. My drunk barometer was only beginning to lean towards "tanked" at this point. I wouldn't classify it as shithoused yet.

We started circling around the juke box. It would not take my dollar - because I was trying to put it in backwards. What a stickler that machine was. If it was a teacher it would be my most hated one, giving me homework every night, not letting me go to recess, making me write with my right hand when I am a lefty (I'm not).

While I was trying to put my dollar in the juke box, the lull afforded Becky the opportunity to eyeball the bar. She noticed that the two men sitting at the table next to the juke box were good-looking and one of them had been on some obscure VH1 or MTV show. B.R. is a human IMDB.com. She has a photographic memory for faces and never misses a celebrity. This is a talent that someone living in Los Angeles could capitalize off of greatly, yet, she cannot train me in this. I am horrific at it. Britney Spears could crash into my car then piss on my door handle and stare at me in the eye the whole time and I would not recognize her. Not a chance in hell. The two men left without us figuring out exactly how the one fellow was famous.

*Note to computer programmers: one of you should create a Shazam for celebrity faces. Credit me with the idea later. You're very welcome.*

We sat down at their table and observed more. B.R., in addition to having a photographic memory for human faces and other features, is far more observant of life in general than I am. She leaned over to me and said, "what the hell is it, gay date night?"

Instead of looking at each man in the bar individually, as a prospect for myself, I began to look at them in pairs. I had not put them in the proper context of being with each other and therefore had not realized that this was a gay bar, at least tonight, and this was fucking gay date night. I am completely socially retarded. This one slipped right past me.

I suppose a better tip off should have been the store Rough Trade that is down the street. We went in there looking for white elephant gifts for a xmas (I refuse to write the word "Christ"mas) party. We are the people who once made a care package, for a friend going on tour, that included the following: anal beads, strawberry lube, glow in the dark condoms, and a butt-plug. So a sex shop seems like a very normal place for us to go for presents. What we didn't know what quite how intense this store would be. Amongst the wares the following were included: medical examination tools, speculums, and cages. Humans are incredible when it comes to creating a breadth of kink.

Needless to say, we didn't find anything that we thought to be appropriate for a white elephant gift at an xmas party.

This leads me to a very important issue, which I feel needs some clarification: Why do you straight women love gay men so much? Why is it that we gravitate towards them and wish that our meat market of men were like them?

Largely it can be summed up by the fact that they care about being attractive. They acknowledge that sexual and biological competition is not only fought with brawn, but with brains and style and a myriad other issues. I imagine that this is because they feel the same competition amongst themselves and their peer group as women in a peer group feel. This competition is mental and subversive. It isn't all about big tits and a willing vagina. Most of us know this. There is a group that doesn't. They are called "women that go to Circle Bar".

The majority of straight men seem to not have the ability to sense this. It could be a combination of things that prevent them from venturing into the competitive method featuring things beyond strength and money. I think media is largely to blame. Rarely is it simply communicated that a man can win over a woman with smarts and good style. They also have to be wealthy and strong

Men, I am telling you this: be clever, be unique, have style (even if you copy it from some off fashion magazine, just make sure if it is GQ you don't skimp on designer labels, you'll end up looking like a douchebag), just be sure you can ascertain that it is your own. As John Mystery would say: "be a peacock".

What Not to Wear on a First Date and What it Means When Men Ride Motorcycles

This date was a bit like the the Testarossa that crashed on the Pacific Coast Highway a few years ago. A beautiful, majestic piece of machinery, careening into a wealth of disaster. Disaster so affluent that it could be spread amongst my psyche for months. This is only a very small piece of analysis from that date.

David and I walked into the coffee shop to order and I selected a mango tea. He ordered the same. He paid for me. Before ordering he looked down from his spire of a cranium at 6’2”, I am a mere 5’2”, and said, “why, what are you all dressed up all sexy for?” I squirmed with my words and a bit in my pants, “well, this is just how I dress! This is just me.”

This is true, this is how I dress on a daily basis in public. I already feared I had been pegged as a slut and I hadn’t done a thing to that tune. I also didn’t look slutty. Here is a full and unabashed description: demure black leather 2” heels, “skinny” black Levis, long black spaghetti strap American Apparel tank top, and a loose weave black cardigan. I showed little skin, except for the patch of my chest below my declite that most women, even Republican Presidential-nominees wives show (read: Cindy McCain’s micteration-yellow concession gown). I am defensive about this comment because I do know, oh and you could fill the Caspian Sea with what I don’t know about men, that it is a gaping hole in one’s judgment to wear something “sexy” to a first date. No matter how much of a mental connection you think you are guaranteed to have with the individual. Don’t wear your fuck me pumps, your fuck me skirt, your fuck me blouse, your fuck me tube top, whatever. If it says “fuck me” then just don’t wear it.

The neuroticism timer in my head told me that it was the moment to abandon this paranoid thought and move onto actually trying to have a conversation. I remembered something my boss told me, “just start asking questions, you’ll ultimately find something you have in common, then just go with that.” Wise words. Obviously, David wouldn’t have ridden his mechanical steed by the name of Honda if he had not wanted to discuss it.

It is a widely held belief amongst men-folk that women are more inclined to be attracted to them in they ride motorcycles. Men-folk: this is not true. It only shows that you’re kind of a gear head and you probably have a bit of a screw loose somewhere in the “daddy didn’t love me so I have no social connections to people” area of your emotions. Hoping I was wrong in my profiling of motorcycle riders, and that David’s real reasoning for selecting this as his mode of transportation truly was environmental sustainability, I did travel down this path of conversation. I asked blindly about the licensing process, which I do know about. “I didn’t really care what grades I got in the licensing course,” he told me. “But then when I finished, the instructor asked me if I wanted to know, I said ‘sure’, he told me I got the best grade in the class.” “Wow!” I smiled with great motherly warmth to show my pride in this boy I barely knew. “That’s something to be proud of!” In between Jacob and David I had been secretly scripting my methods of stroking the male ego with my words, rather than my hand.

The Eve of Birthday Story (Bandera's)

Perhaps I've got a new cut of my jib, a new strut, new perfume or something. Something's occurrin' because in less than 72 hours I was straight up asked to "go home" with three different men (this story is only about one of them, c'mon, I can't shoot my wad all at once).

Now it's not totally new to me to take someone home from a bar, meander around town to hunt down one of my own, or take a guy home from an internet date. Typically I have to work hard at it, especially to get one I might want. Of course part of the desire is attempting to obtain something I want. However, it is quite new to be propositioned myself, by a man (it's happened with dykes before, I must look lesbianesque).

On the eve of my 25th birthday, my dearest Trixie and I set out to Bandera's. For those of you unfamiliar, Bandera's is a posh yuppie infested bar / restaurant in West Los Angeles. The typical set include lawyers and executives, occasionally, individuals in the entertainment industry: essentially all jobs that you have to get shithoused on a nightly basis in order to keep the non-ethical nature of one's work from destroying the psyche.

Trixie and I post up at the end of the bar near the kitchen. There is one chair, I give it to her. We are pinned between a woman obviously on a date (and her date) and two men that look like the professional set, out for a good time after a day of slinging bullshit all over the fiber optics of the USA.

These two, the professional set, don't waste any time in speaking to us. One in a blue shirt, whose name I later learned is Brian, turns around and says to me, practically spitting in my face, "my friend likes girls in glasses." Yes, I wear glasses, quite noticable ones, they are part of my "look". I am quite proud of them. I said, "well, there, I wear glasses", and traced a circle in the air around my face to indicate that, yes, I was aware of this fact. In the passive aggressive way it was noted, I thought it to be a sarcastic bent on the conversation to note that, "yes, assholes, I realize you're talking about me, you're not smooth, you're about as stark as shitting out a piece of glass."

Trixie clearly has struck a liking for the fellow that started the conversation about my glasses. So I continued talking to them.

Note to doodz: We don't like it when you speak for your friends. If they're men, and want to prove that we should want their junk, they should speak for themselves. This note repeats itself later in this story.

In regards to the glasses, Trxie, in an effort to help keep the conversation going, told them of my dressing up as Sarah Palin. In late October and early November of this year, this is how I sought out all of my attention. I went around Santa Monica and west LA pretending to be Ms. Palin and mocking her extensively. I do bear a great likeness to her. Brian and his shy pal wanted to see photos of my "Palinization." I showed them. They were impressed. They thought I was intellectual and had a great sense of humor. Uh oh, you just plucked a trip wire.

If you tell me those things, I will put on my little one-on-one stand up comedy act that involves using big words no one knows but me. I recounted how clever and funny I was when I came to Bandera's dressed as Ms. Palin:

"I tried to order moose blood in a cup from the waitress." I told them as I moved into character:

Me as Palin: "Hi there, can I get a wine glass of moose blood please?"
Waitress: *chuckles* "No, we don't have that."
Me as Palin: "Caribou perhaps? You know, they call me caribou Barbie."
Waitress: *chuckles more loudly* "No we don't have that."
Me as Palin: "Deer, then?"
Waitress: "No..." *chuckles*
Me as Palin: "oh well alright then, can I just got out back in the parking lot and shoot my own moose? You got one dontcha?"

They laughed riotously. I felt vindicated by my performance and their acceptance and appreciation of it. Again Brian turned to his shy buddy and shy buddy mumbled something about me being really cute.

This doesn't happen. EVER.

Brian saw the photo of Trixie in a devil costume (also known as "a woman" and "Karl Rove") as her background on her phone. He asked if there were dirty pictures on there. I got protective.

"Don't you ask my friend for dirty pictures!" I grabbed the phone away from Brian.
"C'mon now, I know you've got some on your phone."
"No! I don't, just for that reason." This is true.

Brian goes through my phone and finds nothing of interest. I decided to try to switch topics before I got too pissed due to the overprotectiveness I feel for my friends. I decided to let Trixie talk to Brian more and I'd pay attention to the quiet guy who liked girls in glasses.

Though I must mention, that in the last five minutes, dude who likes girls in glasses has started talking to two women who I found to be far less attractive than I am. If I saw these two in a line up in a brothel I would have sneered, my dick would have shriveled, rolled my eyes back in my head and blurted an obnoxious, "PASS!"

Brian started paying attention to me again for a moment, seemingly puzzled by the fact that I have bangs in conjunction with glasses. He asked me, "why are you trying to hide your face?"

"Because I hate myself. I have warts all over my forehead." I replied. I consequently realized that this would only provide fuel to Brian's desire to see my entire face, rather than deter him.

He started trying to grab at my face to remove my glasses and part my bangs. I kept asking him to stop, but it wasn't working, so I decided I would turn it into a game. I started leaning back into the aisle, dodging his advances at my face. I suddenly realized that this was a great abdominal workout and thusly provided value to me. I am a bit obsessed with the concept of getting actual exercise out of a standard daily activity. I think this is common amongst us dullards who work in offices (in which I sit right this very moment). It allows us a sense of achievement for having done absolutely nothing out of the ordinary - which we rarely do anyway.

Brian quickly tired of this game. I opted to move along and speak to guy who likes girls in glasses.

Guy who likes girls in glasses was of questionable attractiveness. He was a solid fifteen to twenty years my senior. Now, understand that most of the females I socialize with her in this age bracket, however, I like to keep my men in my same age range. They are verile and I don't (generally) have to worry about them rolling over in a pool of their own semen after we fornicate. This is a concern because it is repulsive and can smell putrid after a period of time.

He was wearing a very nice suit. Though not too nice. Not to the "I'm gonna take you out back, shoot you, then haul your body away in my Maybach" level of "nice". It was about perfect. His hair was clearly thinning, but he was either of Jewish or Italian lineage. This made up for it.

"Do you live in Silverlake?" He asked me.

Thank you for the assumption that I am a hipster stereotype and have somehow gotten lost on my way to Cha Cha's and ended up stumbling into Bandera's, a quite daft land of clean tables and people with jobs that don't also live off of their parents. This guy hadn't been around in a while, because I didn't look a thing like a hipster stereotype. I looked like me. I wore a blue scarf with a paisly print, it was my grandmother's. Maybe he could smell the "vintage" on it and assumed it came from some unlaundered pin in the Silverlake Goodwill.

"No, I live up the street." I replied. Clearly unamused. I really tried to go into this with a good attitude. Though I was finding myself darting into my land of negativity towards men.

"What do you do?" He asked me. I enjoy inquisition, because I enjoy me.

I explained my profession (not to be noted here, as to avoid potential conflict).

More often than not, people are a bit put off by what I do. This is because I sum it up very succinctly with a twinge of my megalomania.

"I have a budget of about twelve million dollars with which I buy media." I said.

He was impressed, but not freaked out. I processed this and sided with, "oh yeah, that's because he's old."

Let's move on...

"Do you like your job and thus your life?" I asked him. I still didn't know the guy's name. I hadn't thought to ask. This is because I often transform into an asshole. Nevertheless, he was perplexed by my question.

"Are you asking me if I enjoy my life?" He retorted. I felt like I was about the fall over the cliff of an argument about ideals, emotions, careers, etc. He didn't understand the question.

"Since work is such a big part of most of our lives, I'm basically asking if you like what you do." Now the question was no longer interesting because I had to explain the inner-workings of it. Allow me to let out a guttural "ugh".

"Oh, well, so you're asking if I like my job? Well, I don't." Really? Shocker. You're in this rich-people-who-hate-themselves bar.

I'll spare you the details of what ensued, because it isn't valid to the point of the story, or exciting in any way shape or form. Though we just discussed how he likes snowboarding (I don't, I have no coordination, I just hurt myself) and wants to leave his place of employment and pursue the act of careening down mountains on a piece of fiberglass. I would like to know, why is it that men that are a complete mental clusterfuck so interested in talking to me? I don't think I'll ever know. Perhaps it has something to do with looking like I am in the hipster olympics.

My fancy, "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous", Mac and Cheese came, after a very long wait. I left my conversation without finding out the fellow's name or occupation. I would get to that later.

Brian kept picking Mac and Cheese off my plate. It wasn't that fucking big either. I had learned that he was a pro-golfer. Buy your own damn delicious cheese covered elbow macaroni you affluent club swinger (and he was a dick swinger).

I finished my half-scavenged snack and went back to talking to the older jewy man. By this time Brian had made his exit. Trixie was a little disappointed, and older jewy man that likes girls in glasses asked us if we wanted him to call Brian to come back. I preferred not, but I'd certainly put up with his Uncle Grabby Pants practices if she wanted him there. That's just the kind of friend I am.

Trixie had started talking with a very nice chap who is an investment analyst from my dear home town. That sure must be a pain in the ass right now. I'll stick to what I do, thank you kindly.

So I got into more conversation that I can't really recall with older jewy man, whose name I had now learned was Derrick and was a Real Estate Lawyer. My response, much like to the idea of being an investment analyst, was, "THAT MUST SUCK RIGHT NOW!"

I have no tact. That's sometimes what makes me a kick in the pants and equally as often, makes me a huge embarrassment. Everyone has their own superpower, particularly in bars, I was once told that mine is "saying something rude or inappropriate very loudly as soon as the music and noise stops." Fortunately this wasn't quite one of those times, but one will surely sneak up soon enough.

Derrick's response was, "well no, not really right now, I enjoy helping people not lose their homes." Then he excused himself.

Even though I was not particularly enchanted by the idea of being in his pants, I had been talking to him, I had invested some time. I do care what people think of me, even random strangers in bars, so I was upset and decided to go to the toilet. I'm not saying I was massively upset, nothing of the sort. I was just frustrated by the concept that my good looks and charming personality (and apparently tonight was an exception, I didn't even know what a real estate lawyer did on a regular basis) couldn't even allow a man to forget that I had no tact. Ugh, the nerve!

So I tromped back to the can. I picked up my feet very high with each step so as to not slip on the polished concrete floor. Oh and who do I spy standing in the shadows in the hallway by the loo? Derrick!

"Oh hello there," I made a sneer and looped (it wasn't a curve, or a turn to the left) my body weight into the bathroom. Much like I had just been hooked by the large cane cartoon characters use to get other cartoon characters off the stage when they perform horribly.

"Oh hello..." I heard Derrick reply as I swooped in the bathroom door.

As I returned to the bar. I expected him to be gone. Of course, losing the interest of a man whom you don't find particularly attractive, is a huge blow to the ol' feminine ego. I think men forget how complicated and impactful the female ego can be. It an make you do terrible things, like key cars, throw paint on things, throw televisions out of windows, and so on. For the record, I have not done things these. Though would you be able to prove if I had not? Right.

I plopped down on the cushy leather bar stool (it was likely stuffed with the carcasses of seal pups or pandas or something) and tried to talk to Derrick some more. He was becoming a smidge more entertaining. Though I did not get very far.

"So, would you like to go home with me?" He had propped his elbow up on the bar and was staring in my my eyes. I waited for a twitter of laugher, or an uncomfortable jostle in his stance. Nothing of the sort. He had done this many times before. This was standard seduction. Wait...God dammit...I hadn't been seduced at all.

Men, here is your lesson: always flirt, always seduce. Now I am no spring chicken, nor am I a genius in the ways of romance and the cock, I am nothing like that. However, I will tell you, ALWAYS seduce, ALWAYS flirt. Never assume that by not entrenching a woman in your imagined "cloak of love" that you have earned the presence or enjoyment of her body and her vagina (her personality doesn't count, she likely does not have one of those that is worth enjoying, yes I am a bit of a misogynist sometimes). If you do succeed in bringing a woman home after not attempting to seduce her you have a new situation on your hands. It's called a whore.

Up a skirt, in a skirt, between some thighs

Women, and some very intriguing men (that I would like to meet), take great arousing pleasure in wearing skirts. Though we must acknowledge that we take a great risk in doing so. The vulnerability of this clothing choice is massive: just go to flickr.com and search for the term "upskirt". Taking photos of womens', and some very young girls', crotches up their skirts with cell phones and small digital cameras is a massively influential fetish. It's never gone away. Seventh-grade boys have sat under the bleachers in the field while girls walked mirthfully above them, fully exposing the flesh beneath their skirts. It's all in good fun really, I'm just sensationalizing it.

I think if I was "upskirted" I wouldn't care. My face isn't associated with my crotch at that juncture, on flickr, in its little thumbnail home for oglers. However, I have felt as though I've been interpreted as "easier" when wearing a skirt. Sometimes this is gravy, when us ladies are on a mission to fuck every physically viable man in sight (yup, doodz, it happens). Other times, it just creates confusion.

Here is a brief tale and analysis of wearing a skirt around a man that I didn't know, and what it prompted me to consider.

I once went on an internet date with a chap named Nathan. We drank loads of wine and ate hanger steak (for my first time in eight years, I was a dutiful vegetarian until I simply lost control of my life and got very lazy about my diet). He was an extremely attractive boy, one whom I would eye from afar if only I had met him in real life, by pure luck. He was a dapper dresser, most men can't figure this out. Polo shirts and khakis are not an outfit, remember this. Unfortunately, I found him on the internet and coaxed him into meeting me one evening.

We retired to his apartment after drinking and decided to watch episodes of Arrested Development. A TV show of choice and a one quite palatable for my picky brain.

Nathan popped in the DVD and I took a seat at the edge of the bed. Not quite sure what to do I just made myself cozy and propped up against the headboard. I grabbed a pillow and hugged it close on my lap for a false sense of security. I could also then pick at my fingernails nervously without him noticing. Nathan walked over my legs to sit on my right side, close to the wall. I expected this to be an awkward move intended to create his personal space, but it was not. He put his left arm around my shoulders and let me sink my head into his chest. It had been a long time since I felt like that around a man. A feeling of comfort left as quickly as it came to me. Nathan now was leaning in towards me, sinking me further into his chest, and the arm that once was on my shoulder was now on my thigh. I was wearing a skirt. Skirts are a liability that men (well, other than Scotsmen) will never understand. It leaves you feeling sexy, sheltering any extra baggage you may be carrying on your thighs, but vulnerable at the same time. Should that baggage ever be discovered, my hideousness will be unveiled! Likewise, the accessibility to a girl’s cooter is augmented. I’ve always thought that this was the real reason for society forcing women to wear skirts and dresses in the first place, hundreds of years ago: easier to have sex with! If I were a man that liked to force myself upon women, I can’t imagine the anger that I would have felt at a woman wearing pants. ‘My God, you’re making it a physical and mental challenge to have sex with you. Now I have to have this damn bimbo’s help in actually removing an article of clothing, I can’t just get my phallus right up in there? Curse progressive society.’

Now Nathan is rubbing my thigh. In a slight manner, like how you might pet a small woodland creature. I was not uncomfortable with this, but wondering why you do this and consequently try to approach sex. A true swordsmen would have gone for it by now. We had been watching Arrested Development for about two hours at this point. Not feeling pressured into anything, I began to think that perhaps Nathan is just a nice guy. It was 2 am on a Tuesday night, time for me to get some drunken sleep (the best sleep ever) and wake up all hung over for work.

“I really want to watch more, but I’ve got to get home and get some sleep, I need my brain at work,” I Announced. I hit the head and then Nathan walked me out. Again with his arm around me, leading me out of the apartment and down to the car. I had sobered up a great deal by this point and was definitely fit to drive. We made small talk about what we were doing for the next week, that type of talk is so dull and just feels like a space holder that just doesn’t fit correctly in a span of time that is spent waiting for the inevitable attempt at physical contact. I pretended that I wasn’t thinking this or acknowledging it at all. That’s the only way to get through this kind of knotty notion.

It seemed as though my car arrived at me, I didn’t arrive at my car. I felt completely out of control of the situation even though nothing was actually happening. Maybe this is my version of clairvoyance, because a second later Nathan was pushing me up against my car making out with me. I recall most situations like this preceded by a great deal of anticipation in my loins and in my head. This instance had none of this, but I went with it, like I do with everything. We kept kissing with passion and intensity. It was good stuff. The stuff wet dreams are made of (or so I imagine). His hands were on my ass for a lot of the time, my hands were on his back and then around his neck. I got caught up in this, assuming that he must have felt some kind of connection with me that I might not yet be aware of. I was still stuck on my neurosis stemming from fearing I didn’t have enough conversation material with this attractive man. One can make the argument that it doesn’t matter if I had anything to talk about, all you need is a pretty face. I’d like to know that men truly aren’t this simple. “I wish I didn’t have to go…” I whispered in this ear. “I know, “ he replied. “I had a great time.” Nathan reassured me. I concurred. With that I gave him a final smooch and got in my car. I drove home listening to Amy Winehouse for some reason. I opened the sunroof, rolled down the windows, and sang “Back to Black” at the top of my lungs. Judge my taste however you must, I realize the Winehouse is a polarizing figure, especially if you have strong feelings regarding hairstyles and drug use. I personally feel that “Back to Black” is just a stellar song. Especially if you feel as though you may be on the cusp of something good, but could also likely end in disaster.

Given how the evening had panned out, the feeling of lust and enthusiasm created by myself and Nathan, I hardly thought the “Back to Black” was providing any foreshadowing. I felt confident and relaxed, and perhaps a little bit optimistic. With that, at around noon the next day, I texted Nathan a nonchalant “Hey how is your day going?” I received no response until much later in the evening.

I was seeing Pineapple Express (no I am not intending to plug that film over and over again, it just keeps appearing in my life) with my friend Stephany when I received a reply, in text form, from Nathan. It went a little something like this:

“I think I may have been sending you mixed messages last night. I think we’d be better as friends.”

I realize that I am attempting to write a story here, but words cannot express my confusion and shock. I disrupted the film watching experience of those around me with a klaxon shout of, “WHAT?!” “Stephany, you are not going to fucking believe this.” I said to my now alarmed companion. I handed her my phone so that she could read the text herself. “WHAT THE FUCK?” She replied, equally shocked and probably a bit dismayed for me. Let’s analyze this:

1. HE invited me back to his house
2. HE initiated cuddling
3. HE initiated making out
4. HE proclaims that he was sending mixed messages

My reply to Nathan: “Yeah. They sure didn’t seem mixed last night.”
Nathan: “Heh, there must have been some kind of aphrodisiac in Arrested Development.”
Me: “Do me a favor, don’t ever do this to another female again.”

Even now as I look back on this incident, it was months ago at this point, I am still perplexed. Why on earth would anyone project such gratuitous affection upon someone only to tell them 24 hours later that they were “mixed messages”? The only reason at this point that I can think of is that he thought I would have sex with him. This realization had led to some of my worst decisions in the past.

I can't just leave this at being perplexed, so I must ask myself: what did I DO in this situation to manipulate it to result this way? Was it the fucking skirt? I was convinced that it must be. My legs all tucked under me, channeling Snow
white, all toned but untouched. Being chained to a male libido must be like being attached to a hungry wolf. I can only imagined what illusions I concocted in his brain. Still, his response was a performance in douchebaggery with all the luster of the Times Square Christmas Tree lighting.

It's been said that much eroticism is packed into a skirt, much like a high heeled shoe. Britney Spears has famously been photographed flashing her crotched while wearing said device of fashion, Marilyn Monroe coaxed this imagery of her own crotch into our heads in the infamous "The Legend - White Dress Blowing" photo. Hemlines heightened into miniskirts in the 1960s symbolizing the economic success of the developing world. I am almost prepared to say that the skirt is responsible for human reproductive prosperity - but let's not give it too much credit (our libidos help a lot).

Where did the skirt come from? It's the second oldest article of clothing next to a loin cloth . Apparently, women wore skirts to express "modesty and prestige". I disagree. They showed a luxury of hips and ass and the prowess and financial capacity of the men who possessed these women (I mean that in purely the marital sense). Plus, they made women easier to fuck.