Should I Change My Facebook Status to "In a Relationship" With My Dildo?

I think this was suggested in that book "The Rules" somewhere. Pretty sure about that, guys.

Aug 29, 2012 at 11:00am | Leave a comment

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It's complicated.

I am sitting at Del Frisco’s, this sexy power business-dinner restaurant where I used to have a recurring fantasy of a man having a drink with me and ever-so-inappropriately touching my leg, creeping slightly up under my skirt as I pretended nothing was happening, just smiling and enjoying our little secret.

Oh yes.

Except it’s just me here. Alone. With my laptop.

And I can’t even get online as I enjoy this very sensual evening with my juiceless laptop and the Say Media benefits packet. Across the bar, I’m watching Creeper McOldalot who’s giving me weird furtive eyebrow-lifting, everything-implying glances and Baldy McHawaiianshirtsabunch and Handsome McSociodick as they fight over the 40-year-old women all clamoring for some airtime.

I’m just sitting. Typing. Nursing the sugary ice melted into my diet Coke. Realizing I will be 40 soon. In three years and fifty-six days.

And 8 hours. And 34 minutes.

My plan was to take concrete don’t-just-complain-about-it action steps for my life tonight. Join OkCupid, Match, Nerve, eHarmony, PleaseFuckingMarryMe and DontWanttoThinkAboutItAnymore as I enjoy my burger and gourmet-spiced potato chips. But the Wi-Fi isn’t working here and so instead I tell the cute 36-year-old manager all about my inappropriate leg move fantasy and he looks at me with a new glimmer of recognition in his eyes.

Oh. Hello there. Hi. What’s your name?

I promised my mom that I will be safe in New York when I return. I am. I will. I am. I’m not drinking. I’m not trying to hook up. I’m just typing and eating this orgasmic burger that has melted pepperjack cheese and lightly seasoned potato chips on the side and then I’m occasionally dipping it in Tabasco sauce and sipping on my diet Coke and appreciating how succulent my sweet boyfriend New York City is. Later, I will fuck myself with a dildo. Life is good.

The cute manager comes by. I show him this.

“It’ll win the Pulitzer,” I giggle, using my hackneyed over-played joke I make far too often. He looks at it, eyes growing ever wider and says, “Outstanding. Pulitzer for sure.” But he seems a little freaked.

I point to a blue-shirted business guy across the table from me. “This guy’s interested in me,” I say. “I could definitely get lucky with him.”

But fascinatingly, like the sick Woody Allen paraphrase of Groucho, blue shirt’s appeal is deflating by the second. It’s not the “any club that would have me as a member” bit. Honestly. I think it’s just his overall zombie normalness. I have this thing with business guys. Any time the tepid shitty rock music starts playing in the background and they full on really get their jam on, bro, I just want to vom all over my tits. Which is not such a good look. Or maybe it is. If you’re into that sort of thing.

I guess I’m destined to die alone? Is what I’m trying to say here?

Blue shirt is moving closer. God I haven’t made out with someone in forever. Forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and I have made eye contact with him a few times. This is what is known in the biz as an “indicator of interest.” An IOI. I am friends with Neil Strauss. Ish. He’s one of my transactional relationships. That’s OK. I think blue shirt just whispered, half coughed, half choked, “Writing?” to me by way of a conversation starter.

He might as well have just grinned and said, “Flaccid? I might be? Problem? Is it? Can you? Be my? Mommy?”

So yeah.

Men are kind of intimidated by me. I’ll have to write sometime about my Classic Summer of Impotence. I had a superhero-like dick-wilting ability everywhere I moved around Manhattan. I was like the She-Ra of boner-killing. Oh, and I do realize “intimidated” is the arrogant way to put my X factor. But I do think I can be emasculating compared to the average woman. Men squirm around funny chicks. It’s a threat.

Blue shirt is now having a good time with a Facebook update on his smartphone. Isn't life wacky like that. He is standing two feet from me. I’ve made several IOI’s. If you don’t even have the balls to confidently approach me at a bar, how are you ever going to throw me around in bed? You know?

Fine. I know what you’re thinking.

Do I want a loving partner or amazing sex? How about the third bubble on the Scantron, chief? All of the above. You see, the bigger problem here -- the macroeconomic Plato and the cave problem -- is that there’s something in blue shirt’s eyes that is overwhelmingly, waterboardingly dull. That’s what kills me. Who cares about the how they are in bed part? It’s the profound wracking spiraling into an aching scream of dullness soul rot that is the real issue at hand. Yes, I am a snob. I want to be brain-fucked. Not mind-fucked. But just intellectually caressed.

You know I had a whole fantasy when I was leaving San Diego, after having lived with my parents as a nun for two months, about doing what happens in the pilot to “Six Feet Under,” where two of the characters have nasty dirty reckless ridiculous carefree pushed up against a broom and a bucket in the janitor’s closet sex before catching their flights at the airport. But I didn’t do that, of course. Thought about it. Adrenaline pumped in my bod. Panties felt lubricated. Pitter patter, pitter patter. But I don’t do stuff like that anymore. Instead I type. I make plans. I do action steps.

Blue shirt is gone now.

I ask for my burger and chips to be wrapped up, can’t find my debit card, pull out a Magnum condom and ask, “Will this get me anything?” People like jokes.

I need to go home to Queens now. Yes, yes, I realize that you are supposed to write none of these things I have written in this post if you “want to find a man.” I know that. I’m just so bored of it all. I’m so bored with the games and the cardboard you get through playing them. I couldn't care less if I appear “desperate.” Any man who had that thought even cross their mind would appear like a dipshit to me, quite honestly. I’d be much more embarrassed for his pussy-wilted hair-up-in-curlers ass. I want a protector. I want a real man. I want someone who doesn't give a shit but is smart like a fox and good-hearted like a dog.

And I don’t think I’d want to be with any man who didn’t enjoy my writing, anyway. Who asked, durrr, “Why would you write that? We’ve talked about this, Mandy. Public and private.” Durr. I have a vagina, Mandy. Durr durr durr.

So, work with me. I’m just spitballing now, but maybe an intermediary solution is closer than I realize. Maybe before my online dating spree really takes off, I could actually, like, bring my dildo out on dates with me? Say, at Del Frisco's! Like, put it in the chair across from mine? The dildo could enjoy a nice fine wine, while I abstained and made small talk about all of the joys of sobriety and pooh-poohed, “Really, I don’t mind, Rabbit. No, you go ahead. Drink up, sweetie. Yes, rotate around and around. Oh, how you do amuse me, Rabs.”

And maybe I could even try spooning with my dildo at night? Hugging it tight and whispering my hopes and dreams. Maybe we could eventually apply to adopt a child. Start with the responsibility of a small dog first. And definitely, obviously: really get involved in the local community.

I hear improv classes are a great way to meet new friends.

I’m going to join some dating sites now. Hopefully, this will be the first thing all those men will read when they Google me.

The manager at Del Frisco's has just come over to me one last time. He reads this all. He shakes my hand. He squeezes it.

"Don’t be a stranger.”     

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