I’ve somehow convinced a handful of rich Manhattan Beach homeowners to pay me generously for simply going about my day as usual and, at night, heading to their place to sleep in their comfy ass guest bed and snuggle with their dog whenever they’re on vacation.
It’s like a rotating door of beachside Airbnbs way outside my price range that people venmo me to stay at. That happen to come with a free dog.
“What if there are creepy hidden cameras? I bet they’re spying on you.”
Meh. Again, sounds like an Airbnb.
I’m not worried. These people could easily afford high end escorts. Paid porn subscriptions. The good shit on OF. Nobody wants to spy on my slouchy, unevenly tanned body doing boring shit like change from a ratty, oversized t-shirt into a rattier, even more oversized t-shirt when it’s time for bed.
The only time I’ve ever made money from sleeping with a human is that one time someone gave me cash for a cab home and I got to keep the change.
1 point for dogs.
But maybe I just like hanging with dogs more because it’s something I do all the time. And also they don’t talk.
There’s comfort in familiarity. In predictability. Which is why I’m now also into country music and reality TV. The same words and stories are repeated 100 times. Perfect for anyone whose brain needs to cruise on autopilot.
Getting laid is novel. The only time it happens anymore is when I’m out with my single girlfriends. And man are they dwindling. For the past few years, I’ve gotten so used to going out with the same group of platonic guy friends I don’t even remember how to approach a dude in the wild with horny intentions.
A couple weekends ago I trekked down to San Diego prepared for a relaxing, quiet Sunday by the pool. Just margs, takeout, and catching up with a few college girlfriends.
10 minutes from my destination, I get a text.
The dreaded fucking text that, back in college, meant we’d quickly down a shot of Burnett’s, strap on our 6-inch, open-toed heels and hike 0.7 miles through all varieties of inclement weather to whichever frat house was throwing a kegger.
“Wanna go meet boys?”
Honestly, not really.
They’re just..rowdy and sweaty and none of them wash their hands after they pee.
But..if everyone else wants to…
..then La Jolla house party it is.
Ugh. How did I meet boys before the pandemic? No clue. I can’t even remember the last time I put on makeup to go out. Guess I’ll have to drink enough to morph into my alter ego and let Drunk Me figure it out.
In the Before Times, I’d hobble out of my cave every fall for football Saturdays at the bar. But again, usually with dudes. And any guy who hits on a girl when she’s out with guys he doesn’t know deserves to be commended. It’s ballsy. And, from my own experience, very rare.
Probably for the best.
Last month I went out to a karaoke bar with my guy roomies, the 3 of us many drinks in and unsure of how we ended up so far from the neighborhood dives we usually jaywalk to.
This spiky-haired rando kept following me around. Which was fine. But he also kept talking. And if there’s one thing I don’t want on a Friday night, it’s random people talking to me.
“But you’re out at a bar!”
Yes. A karaoke bar.
Scream lyrics in my face. Attempt to rap off-beat. Just don’t make me have to make small talk. My brain’s fried from the week and this Rumple Minz (I think that’s what it is) is frying it even more. It’s like..deep-fried brain. Zombie junk food.
I’m just trying to finish whatever’s in this glass and loudly bellow out lyrics I barely know and at this point can’t read fast enough on the prompter to keep up with.
I decided he crossed the line when he almost walked in on me peeing. Almost. And I should mention this was in the men’s bathroom. Still his fault.
God, I know I’m drunk when I voluntarily set foot in a men’s public restroom without setting fire to my shoes at the end of the night.
When he asked for my number I gave him my roommate’s, and this poor guy had no idea he was enthusiastically sexting two hairy, giggling straight dudes the whole night, whom, in a fit of creative inspiration, sent him to pick up Taco Bell before directing his Uber to a For Sale house down the street from ours and ghosting.
We’re all going to hell.
My only regret is spending $25 on McDonald’s after the bar when this guy offered to bring me Taco Bell for free.
“Free”. We know he meant to exchange those Crunchwrap Supremes for about $25 worth of sex.
Back to the San Diego house party.
We’re 6 hours in. We’d taken numerous pulls of Tito’s (ew). Witnessed a glorious sunset through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Downed tequila shots that ranged in color from light brown to backwash. My girlfriends are off making out with guys they met somewhere in this bajillion dollar mansion (success!). I’m hovering in the kitchen wondering how many more Costco turkey rolls I can eat before I puke all over the pristine, manicured front lawn.
Hmm. He’s hot?
If the DJ turns off the strobe light and I manage to uncross my eyeballs I can tell for sure.
We make small talk. It’s a Sunday so this is ok.
We head somewhere quieter to keep making small talk.
Wtf were we talking about?
Then- these words, crystal-clearly punctuated in my otherwise hazy memory.
“I was really awkward-looking a few years ago. I would never have had the confidence to approach you.”
A Fellow Childhood Uggo.
And just like that, we’re slammed up against the wall of the empty basement shower/sauna combo, butt ass naked, two formerly whack-looking fuggos who woke up one day to a very different reception from the world and years later still have no idea how to process or respond.
Shout out to the guy who Princess Diary-d his way straight into my guts.
Everyone loves a good glow up tale.
If you’ve never hooked up in a sauna, I wouldn’t recommend it.
It was fun, yes, do it for the novelty, and no, it wasn’t on, Jesus-I’m-not-a-sadist. But wooden planks don’t exactly make for a comfortable surface.
I holed up in my room for 3 days after that, chugging water, nursing my bruises, eating pizza off a plate on my chest while watching Jeopardy reruns.
The great thing about having a flat chest is that it functions perfectly as a table when you’re too sore to pick up food with your hands.
I still can’t decide whether I’d rather sleep with dogs or boys. Don’t say both. It’s not happening when neither has any regard for how much space they take up in the bed.
My phone dings.
“HH? A new coworker’s coming and he’s cute and single 😉👅”
The mini bernedoodle snuggled in my armpit smiles up at me, rolls over for belly rubs, then scampers off to the kitchen, leaving me alone in silence save for the steady, repetitive, gentle crashing of ocean waves.
“Nah,” I text back. “I think I’m good right here.”