To the Beautiful Men of Hollywood
Mr. Pickup truck:
Why, every time I set off in the morning for the gym and a horn blares behind me as I walk down the sidewalk, I am reminded of why I moved here. Yes, baby, I want you too. This whole “walking to the gym” thing is just a guise. What could be more inviting than a dirty stranger in a pickup truck leaning out his window while grabbing his crotch and licking his lips?
I admit that sometimes when I’m walking around town, I avoid eye contact with people on the street. You however, were different. At about seventy years old, with thin grey hair and a stooping walk, you reminded me of my grandfather. I looked up at you as I walked past, and my warm smile was met with a delicious leer and a low, hissed, “mama mia.” I don’t usually date guys more than a few years older than I am, but…
Usually the eye rape from a total stranger is enough to get me really interested in a guy, but you did me one better. The eye rape combined with the loud “fffft” as I passed by was truly unique and I will never forget it. Too bad the light changed before I could give you my digits.
In a city like LA that can sometimes make you feel a bit lonely and disconnected, how nice to know that I have a friend. Especially a new friend, who walked up to me as I was on my way home from the grocery store and announced that you were, “a friend from God sent to me to walk me home.” I do love for strange men I meet on the street to follow me around, especially to my front door. No, really, I always walk that fast. Sorry you couldn’t keep up.
Mr. “Where else you gonna meet me?”
After walking through the blaring hot sun from Hollywood to the Grove one day, what a delight it was to encounter such a gentleman as yourself. I do tend to keep my eyes down as I walk, but it’s just to test your tenacity – how much do you REALLY want to meet me. It must’ve been a lot – thanks – because I saw you waiting for me about a block before I reached the K-Mart parking lot. I always love it when new people grab my arm as I’m walking by and tell me what a “fiiiine lookin’ woman” I “be”. I was only kidding when I told you that I don’t like to give my number out to men that I meet on the street. I really did appreciate you following me for the next block screaming about LA women and demanding to know how else I am going to meet a gem like you. If you had only followed me ALL THE WAY into the K-Mart, I would have totally given you my number.
I know I tend to walk fast. Especially when I’m leaving Runyon and hoofing the mile and a half home to get ready for work. It was awesome that you could keep pace with me, and entertain me on that long, early trek home. I could hardly believe my luck when you gave me your card (just the name Dave – Stand-up Comic and a phone number) as we parted ways, encouraging me to “give you a ring sometime.” Let me make sure I understand – you approached ME, talked MY ear off for five blocks, told me you find ME attractive, and now this onus is on me to call YOU. What a lucky, lucky girl I am. You really are funny.
Mr. Homeless Man:
I felt bad when you asked me for money outside of the Starbucks and I didn’t have any to give you (really, I had no cash at all). So bad, in fact, that I offered to buy you something to eat while I was getting my coffee. You looked at me blankly. I suggested a nice scone, you requested something, “not so whole-wheaty.” Um, ok, why not come in with me and pick something out. Chocolate chip scone? Lemon scone, maybe? Oh, will I get you both? I guess…What’s that? A bag of chips, too? You’re pushing it, but my mom’s coming in to town today and I’m in a great mood. Wait, is that a sandwich? Come on, I have to draw the line somewhere. No sandwich. Will I go out with you sometime? Are you sure that the bus stop I see you hanging in has enough room for two? All the scone talk made me late for work. That’s why I suddenly had to run so fast.
Lastly, how could I fail to acknowledge the men I pass on my daily trips around town who call softly to me as I pass, “Nice tits,” or “Shake that ass, baby.” Even the gentle catcall is not lost on me. And nothing is more flattering than being propositioned like a prostitute 10 feet from my front door. (Easy mistake to make though, since most of the prostitutes in the area are MEN and hang out looking for Johns with a 28 lb. carton of cat litter and 12-pack of toilet paper in tow.)
So, to the men of LA I have been lucky enough to meet around town; thank you. I now avoid eye contact with just about everyone, and tend to run the other direction if it looks like someone is about to approach me. My sole intention when I leave the house on foot is to be invisible until I reach my destination. I know that not every guy in LA is like this (spare me the e-mails) but far too many are. Every story above is true, and those are only the most original. Think LA women are bitchy? I wonder why.