Halloween..

Friday, October 12, 2007

I haven't dressed up for halloween in a very long time. I always find it to me somewhat lame. I actually know a lot of people who go absolutely insane with costumes - buying the most extravagant dress to making it themselves from scratch.

This year, since I am going to some random Brooklyn-trendy-rich fucks party where if you don't wear a costume you have to pay 20 bucks. I am forced to wear one.

So, I have a few in mind...

This one my friends, is something I've always wanted to be on Halloween - a guidette.


The Guidette is the female version of the guido. She either resides in Staten Island or New Jersey. She is usually moderately pretty, with nice boob job or natural ginormous tits. She is usually a skank (please refer to the youtube video - my new fucking haircut), her accent is something foreign - like guido talk. her personality is so repulsive that no one pays attention to her. Some of them look like post-op trannies. She idolize the Sopranos or anything italian related. She believes she is God's gift to mankind.




I would have to stuff my bra, and wear a ton of eye makeup and wear those aweful looking shoes.









My next choice is a Hipster. Everyone thinks that I am already but seriously am not!

A hipster is someone who is living off their parents' money. Listen to indie bands no one outside of Williamsburg/Park Slope has heard of. Tattooed. most likely a vegan, a lesbian or gay. He/She dines at local coffee shops while reading the New York Times. artsy, or so he/she claims. He/She has this one shirt that they love and they wear it everywhere. all her/his friends are just like them. addicted to coffee, looking like they are poor (but they have more money than me and you COMBINED) cigarettes. They are usually complicated and fucking weird. they majored in writing, queer/gender studies, art...music. AND they always deny being a hipster.

This isn't hard at all. Skinny Jeans and some flats or my old converse sneaks and some old tee shirt. - SCORE!




My next all time "I wanted to be one for halloween" is a Hoodrat

A hoodrat is a girl who sleeps with a whole lot of men in the hood (ghetto). Usually noticeable via her slacking standards of personal care, hoochie outfits, big gold (fake) jewelry and hair extentions that can cover the whole island of Manhattan.


All the girls on Flavor of Love were all Hoodrats!

Will I get a prize with that one? I dont think so...

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Two reasons why being single is depressing

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Reason #1

Since I am in the entertainment industry (no I am not a stripper) I get invited to a lot of those super show off events that are filled with gorgeous celebrities and heiresses dressed to impressed in lovely evening gowns designed by I don’t know who and Men in stunning tux but rather generic. Anyway, this particular event is an award show and to top it all – a black tie affair.

I really want to go. The problem really is that I am not going to know a large amount of people there. Ok fine. I wont know anyone. Every single event that I get invited to, I naturally bring my platonic female friend, The Writer (remember the Sex Museum Gala?). She is always perfect at these shindigs. She’s pretty, elegant and extremely pleasant. If we’d gone together, we would’ve met a ton of people and gotten involved in all kinds of interesting conversations. We would’ve had slightly too much to drink but still remain poised, laughed ourselves silly and just had a good time.

But, She will not be in town this week.

It even crossed my mind to ask The Pearl. It would’ve been fun for her and she too, has certain flair. But, she is not someone I would bring to a black tie. I dont really know the real reason...Plus, after what she recently did to me, I scratched the idea immediately.There are a few other potentials, but they just wouldn’t be a great fit – we wouldn’t look great together you know?

And that awful blind date that I had a couple of weeks ago emailed me. She recently renovated her apartment, and wants me to come over to see it on Saturday night. I considered telling her that I had moved to Indonesia. But then I decided I just couldn’t be bothered to type the name of a country with that many letters in it. So I just didn’t answer.

Which means that, if I want to go, I'll have to attend solo. I just don’t like walking into parties alone. It sets a bad precedent for the rest of the night.

Reason #2

One nice thing among many about being in a couple is that you watch each other’s backs. Support one another. Look out for the well being of your partner. Make sure important things don’t slip through the cracks.

The big posh award dinner that I got invited to?

It’s tomorrow night.Which means I won’t be going. Not enough time to find a fabulous dress, or to find somebody to accompany me. I don't know what happened. I got the invite in the mail, glanced at it quickly and figured that I had plenty of time to deal with it and respond. So I tossed it into my ever growing, already enormous Papers to Deal With pile.

And then quickly forgot about it.If it hadn’t been for one of the party’s organizers emailing me yesterday to ask if I was coming or not, I would’ve totally spaced on it. I'm just so busy and overextended that a few things are bound to slip through the cracks here and there. Even though I carefully record all appointments, meetings and obligations on my blackberry. I feel like I need a week to just do paperwork and get back on track.

My thinking is, if I was in a relationship, my girlfriend might’ve said to me, What about that party on Thursday night? We still going?

To which I would’ve replied, Why yes, of course. Looking forward to spending a glamorous night out together.

And she might’ve then coyly said, After I am done doing yoga, which I do six nights a week to make myself super flexible and limber, I’ll go dress to the nines in my fancy evening gown. Though I won’t be wearing any underwear underneath, of course.

Hey, give me a break. If I’m not going to get to go to the party, at least allow me this one daydream.

There’s no harm in that. Right?

And, of course, next week I have to attend an Off-Broadway play that one friend is directing and another is acting in. Which means this whole dilemma begins again very soon. I guess I can always just ask a random friend to go with me, but it's never quite as much fun to bring a random woman who probably would not enjoy herself.

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My Mother's Best-Friend

Friday, October 5, 2007

My mother’s best-friend, Melissa is a woman who terrifies me. She is a brilliant, petite blonde who is a total firecracker. She runs marathons; she has written articles for magazines; she has owned a boutique on the Champs E. in Paris...and not to be a total namedropper, but she also dated some pretty famous dudes before they became famous. Melissa works out with a trainer three days a week at Equinox; she owns a spectacular apartment with panoramic city views; and her closet could easily be mistaken as an outpost of Bergdorf Goodman...filled with more Roberto C. and Chloe than you could shake a stick at. She finishes the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle every weekend with nary a mistake. She has a wicked sense of humor and is universally adored by all of our clients and co-workers alike. Melissa comes from a wonderful family who gave her the best education money could buy - along with frequent trips around the globe...to hone her shopping, skiing, and scuba diving skills to boot. Did I mention that she is always perfectly plucked, groomed, and manicured at all times as well?

The problem, you wonder? She is 45-years old and single. She has never been married, never had a child, and hasn't even had a serious boyfriend in the past three years. Melissa goes home every night and watches television alone; she cooks a healthy dinner for one to eat at her dining table by herself; and at bed-time, she crawls solo into her Frette-laden bed wondering things like "Is it too late to freeze my eggs?" and "Why aren't Russian mail order grooms available?"

Melissa’s three dating options are as follows: 1) Going to bars in a low cut top (she has fake tits) 2) Paying a match maker $10,000 to find her a husband 3) Putting her photo up on every online dating service known to the world wide web. She chose option three and is thus an active member of Match, J-Date, and e-Harmony. In the past three years, she has endured countless blind dates and over time her desired age range has gone from 35 to 45, to 30 to 50, and now I think she is somewhere between 24 and 67 years of age for her "ideal match." God help her...another couple years of single hood and Melissa might end up as the only girl on a dating website willing to date any man between the ages of 18 to 99, of any race, any religion, any income...with the sole requirement being a pulse.

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Thursday, October 4, 2007

Since I am sincerely inattentive at work today, I figured I would write a little something about me. I compiled the most important facts about me. Enjoy.

1. I get a steady pay check every two weeks from a magazine company. No no. I do not write my friends – my day consist of making endless and meaningless (to me) phone calls to people, writing emails and confirming things and dates and I get paid to look good. I basically ended up where I am by default, which is how I make most of my important life decisions. Yes.

2. I was born in a country far far away – one of the poorest countries in the western hemisphere to parents who were doctors without borders. I was shipped to boarding school in France and since we were a big happy family, we moved to NY. (though, I rarely admit where I was born, but I thought I’d share because a friendship is built cautiously selected moments of honesy.)

3. There were two things that I wanted to accomplish since I was a teeny weeny child – 1. I wanted to be a professional tennis player (scratch that now, I am too fat and slow) and 2. I wanted to be an actress. After all, I grew up with Pretty Woman (romantically challenged during my teen years, I wanted to be rescued by a rich man and I would never have to worry about anything but blowing him. My second all time favorite was The Goonies. Who didn’t want to explore old pirate ships and fight bad guys?)

4. None of my childhood dreams ended up working.

5. I went away to college and discovered that yes, all those years I was clearly gay. It took me a number of women to figure that out. As if wearing my brother’s ninja turtle shirts and his jeans didn’t ring a bell to my parents.

6. truth be told, my parents told me they knew before I even figured it out myself. Made sense? Hold on let me re-read that. Ok yep. It did.

7. lastly, I enjoy long walks on the beach, playing the piano and striking the chords of my lovely yamaha guitar. I paint and I wouldn’t mind re-filming the body paint scene from Better Than Chocolate with me as the lead and Jennifer Beal as my bitch. I enjoy a good conversation and women.

Call me.

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Truth be Told

As I am typing this, I am beating myself up because I really don’t want to finish the “It all began” chapters.

See, that is my problem. I get bored.

I get bored with people; hence the short terms relationships and so lack of commitment. I hate repetition. Other attractive ladies effortlessly distract me and my mind wanders while the person I am theoretically “getting to know better,” chats my ears off.

I hate hurting people; I hate to lead women on. I hate not being able to tell them that I am not interested. I don’t even know the best approach for these kinds of situations – so I shun them.

I know there may be a few people I’ve dated or hooked up with in the past who are avid readers of this confession space. Knowing that, sometimes limits the stories I want to write about; either they involve something that they did or it involves how I felt about them. I was serious I when I said I would not date any of my readers.

How can I when they would know all about me and judge me before I even got a chance to explain my Barbie experiments, the many girls I slept with, my social life, the parties I have to go to, the elaborate relationships I had in the past. How can I date someone who knows all about it?

Trust me, I am all about being truthful in a relationship. Sometimes, secrets are meant to be secrets. I like being anonymous. I like that some of my readers don’t know who I am. I like the anonymity.

I’d like to keep it that way.

There were times when I wanted to start all over, a new blog, a new mystery lady. But I just couldn’t retire Confessions of a NYC lezie. This is who I am. Some of you judge my life and others compliment my writing style. Thank you to both.

And so, if you know me – either you are my friend, and ex-lover or someone I was “getting to know better”; it is your choice to stop reading. My quest to confess will thrive.

Get ready. This is a carte blanche. No mercy.

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and it all began IV

Wednesday, October 3, 2007

I sat in the middle rows, not too far from the stage since I wanted to hear everyone loud and clear. The show started with a couple of artists who weren’t up to par with the next act.

The 5’2 young college student came on stage and belted, “his eye is on the sparrow”. My stomach dropped, my mouth watered, my eyes glued to her, my heart was melting and every hair on my body were as hard as a porcupine’s back. Not only was I amazed at her capability to sing but also I felt every note she was projecting and so began a long crush with Hope.

Hope had a girlfriend on campus and everyone was aware of it. I knew that my chances were extremely slim as they were utterly in love with each other. Whatever feelings I felt were there and obvious – I smiled and looked away when I saw her, I talked about her all the time and I’d ask people about her. It wasn’t something I could have avoided and buried. During the course of the semester, I would see her around campus with her friends and girlfriend in her arms and my heart would just ache. What I wanted more than anything was the happiness and the love they both shared.

The remaining of the semester I had given up on Hope and I had moved on and I was seeing The Tennis Player.

She and I met through mutual friends and immediately clicked. We exchanged AIM and phone numbers and thus began a week of constant text messages, emails and long phone conversations. And by the second or third day, they started to get pretty smutty. And Tennis Player said she wanted to see me. And so I decided to visit to her– about an hour from where I went to school. And we went over our schedules together, and decided that two weekends from now worked out perfectly for both of us. We were both really excited, and I began to plan our weekend. What we’d do during the day. Like any new juvenile “getting to know you” relationship, we opt for a movie at her place. We talked for hours about how much we liked each other.


And then they just stopped. And the text messages and emails no longer came in. And I was puzzled, but just thought that maybe she was busy at school. And one night, I decided to go to her AIM profile. Which were just photos of her and friends goofing off, getting drunk, driving around and that kind of thing.

And the most recent entry was four days old. It consisted of photos from a party at her School. And in almost all of them, Tennis Player and some girl who looked to be over thirty had their arms around each other. The girl had wrinkles and looked like she smoked for years. And her clothes looked old and cheap. And I didn’t hear from Tennis Player for several days after that. And one day, I clicked on her profile and she had written about being in a relationship. I knew then, I wouldn’t be welcomed at her place for a fun, sex filled weekend. Out of the blue, she messages me to tell me that she had met somebody and it had gotten serious pretty quickly and she hoped that I wouldn’t be mad.

And that was that.

My sophomore year began, Hope had broken up with her girlfriend over the summer and her and I began to chat…

To be continued

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And it all began...Part III

Tuesday, October 2, 2007

My first year of college was total chaos. I partied like it was my last days on earth before meeting the devil for a lust fest. I met Turkish around the end of my first semester. She was one of the prettiest girls I have ever met. Long flowing dark hair with very deep olive –green eyes, her skin so soft and with a touch of caramel – a rich Turkish Mediterranean color with an alluring body dressed very hipster-ish/trendy. She had an infectious smile and great laugh, which were to die for.

Turkish and I met at one of the local college bars down in the East Village. I noticed her staring at me and since I was young, drunk and ballsy I marched right up to her and said:

“I know you are interested, I’m interested.”

And she replied, “I know.”

The Turkish took my hand and lead it to her neck, which forced me to caress her cheek, and we kissed.

And kissed more and more…

Just writing this makes me quiver. See, that was Turkish. She was beautiful and super sexual but not a lesbian. It didn’t bother me too much since I wasn’t too much into the gay scene anyway – how can someone say that they are gay and hooking up with guys. It wasn’t right for me. Especially when I was in the stage where I was discovering myself. I knew I was gay but I didn’t know until I replayed all the memory videos in my head – the Barbie situation, the best friend and the touching, how I felt when I saw a girl. It all added up at that point. Accepting myself was a different story.

I went home one weekend, and when I came back to school, everyone knew who I was. It was fine because I didn’t have to deal with saying “I’m a lesbian” – people knew.

My second semester was a new beginning, Turkish had left the country to study at Oxford and I stayed in NY. Since everyone knew I was a little lezie, all the girls had the occasion to experiment with me. I became the big dyke on campus. I was okay with that, since I didn’t make any commitments with anyone.

My weeknights and my weekends were spent boozing – don’t ask how I managed to graduate. But there was one night when I really didn’t want to go off campus. All I really wanted to do was stay in and I read a flyer about talent show on campus. It was far more interesting to me than going out to a college dive bar.

Before I go on, I should state that I'm a creature of habit in many ways. Despite my intense wanderlust for far off places and my tendency to become involved with glamorous yet troubled women, I like a certain bit of stability in my routine. Boozing was habitual, but it wasn’t something I couldn’t live without. My friends didn’t understand that.

It was right after my tennis practice, I rushed to my room, dropped my gym bag and headed straight to the auditorium.

That night I heard the most amazing voice and for the first time I said to myself:

“She is absolutely perfect”

To be continued….

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