Singled Out: The Leading Lesbian

I spent most of my childhood and teenage years thinking "there’s got to be more to life than this." What “this” really translated to was the constant feeling that my life was splendidly boring. I would have absolutely nothing extraordinarily exciting to tell my kids when I would grow up to be an adult, have a dog, a house, a career, and potentially a husband- what can I say? I wasn’t thinking straight back then.

Ironically, as an adult, I am now spending most, if not all, of my time, trying to avoid, and run away from, the many outrageously extravagant, out-of-this-world crazy things that seem to naturally invade my highly entertaining, borderline exhausting life.

I’m not at all saying that I am a drama magnet. I’m just objectively observing how, in some uncanny law of attraction way, I keep finding myself in hysterically insane predicaments. If I thought back then that I didn’t have any newsworthy stories to tell my kids, today I certainly have more than I could have dreamed of. Most of which I would probably be too embarrassed to tell – surely an exemplary mother couldn’t own up to doing what I have done.

Interestingly enough, every time I tend to forget that my life is anything but boring and gracefully go into my bitching pity-party mode complaining that nothing exciting is happening, I am brutally reminded that my reality actually is unreal!  And of course, there’s no one better than your own family to perform the “earth-to-Mona” intervention.

As I singled out in last week’s column, my cousin and his boyfriend are currently visiting from Belgium and evidently staying with me for the entirety of their summer vacation.

Yes, I am in the company of men – my dog, George Michael, included – and I am loving every minute of it. The reason is, despite being in a predominantly high testosterone environment, I’m still the one wearing the pants! In true gay men fashion, my boys have decided to challenge themselves with the monumental mission to find me a girlfriend, as evidently, like the rest of my “in a relationship” friends, it bothers them that I am the only single energumen hanging with their lovey-dovey party of two, hence off-setting the natural harmonious balance of the group (whatever that means!).

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With that in mind and in light of the fact their search debut was disastrously non-conducive in West Hollywood, we took an urgent three-day mini trip. We went to the # 1 place where girls are pouring, champagne is bubbling, temperature is burning, and HOT is nothing short of a syntactic understatement… Palm Springs!

The plan was simple in a fabulously glamorous sort of way: hit the gym in the morning to keep our goddess-like shape, lounge by the pool at lunch to work on our tan, shop in the afternoon for a fashionably fierce outfit to wear in the evening, down a couple of refreshingly hydrating margaritas during happy hour for liquid courage, indulge in a gourmet dinner at some local joint on the main strip to nutritionally refuel our energy and finally – the piece de resistance – go nightclubbing and desperately hunt for my potential female bait until last call, if required.

As soon as we stepped foot in the first club and took over the dance floor, some loser maneuvered his way passed my boys, and successfully cornered me up against the DJ booth to perform some dirty dancing moves that hardly qualified as sexy and was veritably insupportable. I just want to know why, in the entire club on a night billed as “Ladies Only," I managed to attract the one straight guy mistakenly in attendance - and mind you, the most ghetto looking one too. Luckily my cousin and his boyfriend promptly came to the rescue, but even with my two bodyguards, hill-billy boy wouldn’t give up just yet. Since I was not particularly fancying an evening playing cat and mouse while being undressed by bozo’s perverted stare, we called it quits and moved to nightclub # 2.

When we made our majestic entrance into Toucans we immediately directed ourselves to the dance floor as, in true gay fashion, the contagiously irresistible “ma ma ma ma” of Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face” was calling us. What else can you expect when you’re clubbing with two Tony Maneros?  Suffice to say that seconds later, the quite deserted dance floor was instantly packed. I can’t help it if we have that certain magnetic je-ne-sais-quoi resulting in instant crowds around us! Sandwiched in a sea of dancing, sweaty bodies, I suddenly spotted a cute Latina-looking brunette standing a few feet away from me.

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Next thing I knew, with her index finger doing the come-hither gesture, she was imperiously motioning me to come over and dance with her. Intrigued and admittedly strangely turned on, I promptly obliged. Forgive me for being old fashion, but I was kind of expecting a little courtesy introduction a of “hi my name is blah blah blah.” Yet, instead she immediately pulled me close to her and locked me in her arms in some sort of full frontal hug position, not leave me much room to breathe and/or dance. When I tried to break away, she quickly spun me around, moved right behind me, then abruptly pulled me to her again, thrusting her hips up against my butt … That’s the part where she whispered something in my ear that my catholic upbringing prevents me from repeating.

What was slightly disconcerting to me wasn’t so much that she had quite a prolific R-rated vocabulary, or that she was wearing some cheap-ass, 99 cent store perfume. Instead, it was that she was taking the lead – I can’t have a twenty-something year old be in charge. I’m the older one here, I’m the boss! So I immediately made the executive decision to take command of the situation - and of her. I turned around to face her, firmly grabbed her by the wrists, and gently yet authoritatively slammed her up against the wall – helloooo, who’s got the power now?

But miss feisty apparently had plenty of tricks up her sleeve, including a fair amount of liquor up her nose, and didn’t want to abdicate that easily. I would have been up for the challenge, but what totally killed the deal for me was the blatantly obvious vulgarity oozing from her natural self. Thanks but no thanks, homie don’t play that! I subtly danced myself away from her and went back to resume my spot with my boys who, thank goodness, were at a safe distance from her alcohol-impaired vision.

I went home alone that night, and returned to LA even more single than I could ever fathom to be. It’s not that I am discouraged, I am just not desperate to be with anybody if they don’t live up to my standards and expectations. It’s not my fault if I am selective. Or maybe I’m just out of luck? Obviously the sunny oasis was just not hot enough for me. As for LA, the cute angels are already taken. So where do I go from here?

Well, the boys have decided to take the hunt up north. Yep, now we’re going to San Francisco this week. Meanwhile, I just don’t know how to tell them that, not to be difficult, I don’t do long distance relationship.

And I thought my life was boring?