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Singled Out: The Lesbian Who Thinks Like a Man

Singled Out: The Lesbian Who Thinks Like a Man

Entertainment Publicist Mona Elyafi makes a tightly guarded confession this week to thinking like a man but refusing to act on it. There's nothing like a lesbian with lurid thoughts who's too much of a lady to seal the deal.

For quite a while now I have been resisting the itch to write about a certain predicament I seem to have found myself trapped in -- perhaps permanently. Not that it's a taboo subject, but more because it is my, shall I say, inconvenient truth.

As time supposedly heals all woes and wounds, I left it alone certain it would simply dissipate and erode by itself becoming nothing but a distant remnant of an irrelevant vestige from my past. Unfortunately, I'm afraid my prediction was completely wrong.

This thing is like a little malignant tumor -- a beast -- that keeps growing bigger and bigger slowly morphing into a creature of its own. It's strangely giving me a sense of life as a soundtrack for a horror movie, what a medley of The Exorcist meets Poltergeist would sound like. I know it is imminently about to dangerously burst out of me and possibly cause some irreparable damages. 

So, since it's apparently not going away and I have come to pretty much obsess about it 24/7, I figured I might as well vomit it all in writing and get it over and done with once and for all. Hopefully my super sexy therapist is right in decreeing that publicly immortalizing this absurdly disturbing indisposition in indelible ink will help me find my much needed mental solace and personal therapeutic catharsis.

So without further ado and -- in Mona style -- to absolutely make this column a monument to it, I am unabashedly confessing out loud the sinful thought that silently resides inside of me....big elongatedsuspenseful drum-rolls.....I THINK LIKE A MAN.

Yes, being a ladies' woman trapped in a man's brain is the cross I have to bear.

Granted, it wouldn't be such a big deal if I were actually getting the ladies, but I don't merely act like a man, I just think like one. Ironically, I am everything short of the playboy womanizer type!

The problem is illogically simple: while my "brain sex" identity totally fits the stereotypical profile of the male specie, my behavioral pattern affirmatively remains consistent with the female prototype.  Simply put: my mind works like a man yet I act like a lady.

Evidently, the conflicting discrepancy between mind and body leaves me passively debilitated and absolutely worthless when it comes to capitalizing on the potential momentum of my dating opportunities. As much as I fabulously talk the talk, I even more grandiosely do not walk the walk.

Don't get me wrong, I am not at all having a gender crisis. I am very much aware that I am a woman and am perfectly comfortable in my own feminine skin with all the weapons of mass seduction that innately come with it. Rather, my present trepidation has everything to do with the very contradictive nature of my psychological indisposition -- which, needless to say, puts me in a total state of utter confusion. Did I lose you yet?

Here's what's at the core of the dyke'hotomy -- I mean dichotomy: while I absolutely do not look at a woman as a piece of meat or objectify her -- like most creatures of the male type are known to do -- I, on the other hand, affirmatively possess the ultimate cliché attribute of the male gender stereotype: I am a visually oriented and stimulated human being.

Call me shallow or superficial, but I can't deny that my # 1 selection criterion 99.99 percent relies on physical/visual appeal -- beauty turns me on, makes my head spin and sends my testosterone-driven body up the roof. God forgive me for this immoral confessional but I'm bad, I'm very, very bad and I can't help it!

Yet, in my defense, I don't so much degradingly undress the object of my attraction with my eyes as much as I respectfully visualize the infinite pleasurable possibilities that a night of passionate love could offer. Of course this whole cinematic scenario is only enfolding in my head and very much stays confined within the walls of my wishful-thinking mind, which evidently never leads to the anticipated "girl-gets-girl" happy Hollywood Gay ending. Picture a macho Shane trapped in a prude Dana body, the L Word then stands for Loser.

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Embarrassingly enough, this semi-epiphany a propos of my sexual impulses, exploded in my face about a week ago when I was attending an Oscar-related industry function with one of my clients. As I was driving to a secret West Hollywood location of some trendy Academy Awards gifting suites,  my eyes zoomed in on this jaw-dropping, smoking hot brunette walking down the Sunset Strip. I practically twisted my neck to keep this God's gift to women within my peripheral vision for as long as humanly possible -- barely avoiding a major car collision. 

My client, who was silently sitting in the passenger seat only drifted a nervous sarcastic smile before dropping the bomb on me: "My God Mona, you're such a dude!" she said quite aggravated

"What?" I answered feigning a state of shock and resentment.

"Give me a break, I saw that!" she replied in a "cut the bullshit" matter of fact voice.

"Saw what?" I proceeded to say determined to play dumb.

"Are you kidding me? You almost killed us to check out that girl's ass," she blurted out, now totally laughing at the ridiculously comedic element of the situation. "You so need to get laid. What's going on with that girl in Seattle by the way?"

"What's going on? Nothing is going on, that's what's going on!" I retorted sporting my best sense of humor tone.

It was right about then that I received my apocalyptic revelation -- i.e: my brain operates like a man. And evidently, the reason why I decreed that nothing was going on was because sadly I had sunk to the lowest form of male primate rituals. Yes, shamelessly, I had expected Seattle girl to put out after disbursing an exorbitant amount of money on a fancy romantic dinner at a posh four-star chi-chi restaurant. Of course, my original motive was to impress her with a fine wine-and-dine French style gourmet experience and although desert -- namely, getting in her pants -- was a second thought, I was hoping that shutting down the place was synonymous to a promissory little make out session as gratuity. Well, I was royally short-changed on the tip and got nothing ...nada ...zilch!

And that's just the tip of the iceberg, sheeesh!  Now I was turning down her hospitable invitations to go visit her up in Starbucks Central on the unwritten premise that I had no safe guarantee my airfare investment would materialize into a profitable return. But hear me out here... Would you blindingly place your capital on a deal without knowing what the interest rate is? As much as I can be audaciously daring and a bold risk-taker, I don't particularly fancy playing Russian roulette.  

What the heck was I supposed to tell my client when she nailed me up against the wall and total exposed my ass with her snarky remarks? I had to own up to the truth as seemingly demoralizing as it was.

But as my super sexy therapist always says: "the only way out is through."

So here's me being through with it -- because while I do secretly ogle my subject like a man, I also definitely keep my thoughts to myself ... like a lady!




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