The Not-So-Secret Diary of an LA Single Girl

Coming to the Stage is our newest guest blogger.  Lady V is a curvy, curly-haired, once undocumented Latina who grew up to be a public interest lawyer in LA. She writes about dating and pushing the boundaries of feminine sexuality and relationships.  Show her some love!!
Chapter One: Tits and Brits

Unlike other major cities, LA poses several unique challenges for the single girl who longs to be partnered up. (Side note- I am SO thinking with a British accent while I write this, blame it on Diaries by London Call Girls, lol.)

First, there is the distance thing. Everything in LA is far from everything else, you have to drive to it and freeway routes, off-freeway routes and driving times must be factored in when making plans for every day things like Happy Hour. Which means, then, that Happy Hour is not an every day occurrence. In fact, they are rare unless you work downtown and your friends work downtown and none of you mind driving home with a couple of martinis under your belt. Happy Hours must also compete with yoga, grocery shopping, watching LOST and hiking, all of which must be driven to also and suddenly your ability to do as much as you can in say, NY, Boston or San Francisco is zapped.

Second, this is the land of Hollywood. The “Industry” as its called – is everywhere and infects everything. Not just because everyone is a writer, producer, or actor but because they are also the people who decal the cars for car chases, make sure the extras are in place when they are supposed to be, and cook for the stars on insane diets and on their insane schedules. ( And yes, I have dated each of these starting with writer on…)
The Industry has a secondary effect, especially when back lit by the sunshine and spritzed with ocean breeze. Everyone wants the shiniest boyfriend or girlfriend possible. This means that the dating pool is full of guys and girls who are unwilling to settle down for fear that they are, well, settling. It also means that there is a strict beauty code:

Thou may not be over 125 lbs if you are a woman.

So, since butch women are off the table, I don’t like femme women (do I wanna be her? do I wanna do her?), and I’m not inclined to risk a DUI just to bar crawl, I have turned to internet dating.

Which leads to characters like “Tits” and “the Brit.”

Tits is a successful artist, chosen mediums being oil on canvas and ink on skin. He is the embodiment of LA Inked and Ed Hardy – has a line of skateboards, creates paintings on commission, has done a few tv gigs, and has a small following of tattoo addicts. We started talking because, well, I appreciate art, like a little bit of bad boy ink, and he reached

But then we really started talking. And he said things like, Poor people commit more crime. (Um, I’m a poverty lawyer, hating on poor people is maybe not the best way to ingratiate yourself to me). And, Slavery wasn’t necessarily bad. (I don’t really have to comment on that one, do I?). I beg off the phone and decide to google him a little better – what on earth did I miss that would have warned me?

Oh! The picture of his left hand knuckles on which he has tattooed the word “TITS”. My friend says to me, you know that means he has “ASS” tattooed on the other hand right?

yeah. sigh.

And the Brit. I had no intention of really dating him, but his site described his jazz fusion type band that he said was playing at the Knitting Factory and I asked, when is the next show? He suggested tea, as I guess Brits are wont to do. Having no plans that night, because I was wearing fishnet stockings and because I am not above going on a date just to be oggled at and have my ego stroked, I said sure. I showed up at the trendy Los Feliz cafe (where, in a moment in which my lesbian inclinations clashed really hard with my childhood innocence, I inadvertently checked out a really hot black woman and realized only when my gaze turned from her amazing rack, her gorgeous hair and onto her face that it was

And he is hot. Six feet tall, baby blue eyes, salt and pepper hair, and a bassist. Now some of you know my love for Yo Yo Ma and how I once dreamed of being a cello. The bass is close enough and it reminds me of Me’Shell Ndegeocello so I was a little giddy when I find all this out. And he is charming, and funny as hell and – fast! Within the hour he was close up to me and smelling my neck while I reacted to some brit-accented witticism and my head was thrown back mid-laughter. He took me for a walk in the park. Grabbed my hand and held it. Then, somewhere after the swings, pulls my hair back and brings his lips just this close to hovering over mine for a good 30 seconds before swooping in to consummate. Wow. He walks me to my car and asks me when can he cook me a Moroccan curry. Double wow.

and… end of story. Seriously- that’s it. Nothing happened after that! He postpones curry from Thursday to Sat (he has a gig). I postpone curry from Sat to Monday (personal reasons). Late on Monday I call, he says can’t talk will call me back. 8pm comes and finally a message, hi, its me, just calling you back. As if I hadn’t just cleaned my kitchen so he could curry.

Double sigh.

This morning as I was driving to work, I saw a fo-ine (!) tall black woman with cornrows and almost broke my neck staring at her driving by. Where are those women???

And folks wonder why I’m considering a move to Chicago…

Seriously folks, I need some dating tips here. Or better yet, some introductions to your single friends. I’m a hot chick, very smart, lots of fun. But don’t send me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses. I’ll help them sue the city, but I want shiny in my bed.

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Related Posts:

1. The Not So Secret Life of An Single LA Girl: Chapter 2
2. Holding Hands in Public – Its A Big Deal
3. If You Didn’t Meet Him In College, Hang It Up
4. Talented Black Man Syndrome
5. Stop The Resume Ho’in