The Virgin gets yo numba

#17 Never Have I Ever: Asked for a guy's number

Foreplay: Alright, so I'll be honest here. Part of the reason I started this blog was so that I could grow a pair when going out and meeting people. I was in a fantastic relationship for almost 3 years and when we amicably split, I simply forgot how to be single. And by "forgot how to be single" I really mean that I lack any sort of social grace when it comes to engaging with attractive strangers. What, Jesus jokes aren't appropriate?

I was self-deprecatingly ranting to Whiskey Sour on one occasion like I so often do: Why can't I be more confident when I go out? I'd like to be able to walk up to a guy and strike up a conversation. But what if he doesn't think I'm attractive or interesting? How about if I get rejected?! I was practically hyperventilating by this point.

But Whiskey Sour put things in a very blunt perspective as he so often does: Look, if a girl hits on a guy at a bar and she's cute, then that's great. If he doesn't find her attractive, then she's still a cool girl. Either way, he'll think she's awesome for having the balls to do that. 'Cause c'mon -- how often are we hit on?

That makes sense. But then a lot of things sound reasonable before they're put to the test... like girdles and lobotomies.

The Down and Dirty: It's a rain-soaked Saturday night in Hollywood but Kamikaze, Gemini, Daywalker, and I decide to brave the weather for a preposterous version of a girls' night out at my favorite neighborhood bar, The Woods. A table of four ladies seems like an impenetrable fortress of ego bruising so we were determined to take matters into our own hands.

A pair strolled through the door that caught my attention as they took their seats at the bar. My eyes passed right by the young Seth Rogan look alike and landed on his companion in a stylish black jacket. Now, I wouldn't say I have a type -- more like characteristics I favor over others. Tall, brunette, clean cut, a devastatingly defined jaw line... guh -- don't know what his type was but I was favoring it hardcore.

Daywalker relentlessly insisted that I march up to Blackjacket and charm his pants off but he was far too cute to even be talking to me and I wasn't on my game that night. Was this guy out of my league? Yes. Was I going to let that stop me? ...possibly. It wasn't like me to go up and -- hey, uh... where did Daywalker go?

I scanned the bar to find her chatting up Blackjacket. Oh god. A cold prickly sensation washed over me. What is she doing?! Don't tell me she's talking to him on my behalf! Oh god, he's coming over. I pretended to be intensely interested in whatever Kamikaze had to say as I downed the rest of my glass.

"Hi," I peered up with my best please-don't-think-I'm-some-hideous-nervous-wreck half-smile as Blackjacket and friend stood at our table, "I'm Blackjacket."

We all introduced ourselves before Blackjacket slid into the seat next to me and struck up a conversation. I was impressed by his cognizant rejection of religion. He knew his Oscar trivia and favored Katherine Bigelow. AND when I quipped that I loved the song that was playing he responded with, "Oh yeah, 'Crown of Love'. Arcade Fire's great." Um. Swoooooon.

But dudes -- when I said that I wasn't on game that night, I wasn't kidding. He mentioned that he was here for his friend's 31st birthday. I said that was a... respectable age and then asked how old he was.

"A respectable age."

Oh. Damn it.

My embarrassment finally subsided as the alcohol rushed through my veins like adrenaline, making me uh, bolder than usual. I made him list his favorite bands under a time limit. I interrogated him about Portuguese sex talk after learning he had lived in Brazil. I might have even ranted too... passionately about my bout with the psychic. I had finished an entire drink during the course of our initial conversation when I noticed that he not touched his at all. "So what are you having tonight?"

"Oh, I'm the DD. I'm not drinking."

Wait. So he's been stone cold sober this whole time that I've practically been making an ass of myself? Fueled by what was left of my liquid courage and my desperation to save face, I tried bullying him into getting a drink and even offered to buy him one. No dice. Ouch, my poor ego.

Blackjacket excused himself to answer a call and I went to grab another drink but when I returned to the table, he was talking to a friend at the bar. Bummer. I sighed and resigned myself to the fact that the intoxicated girl who asked how to correctly say, "I'm coming" in Portuguese probably wasn't his type. By the way, I just cringed hardcore while typing that sentence. 'scuse me while I go die a little in the corner.

Just as Gemini handed me another drink, I heard a familiar voice ask, "So what's that you're drinking now?"

Blackjacket had sauntered back and we resumed talking as if we had never stopped. Conversation was in full swing when I pulled the biggest blogging taboo ever: I told him the premise of my blog and showed him my D.V. task list on my Droid. As we strolled through my list I innocently asked, "Hmm... so what can you help me cross off tonight?"

After scanning the page for a few moments, he silently and deliberately pointed to my screen:

• Ask for a guy's number

I nervously scoffed. He didn't laugh. I snorted back the rest of my Screwdriver. "Alright. So what's your number?"

The Afterglow: Holy shit, I did it! I asked for a guy's number! And not just any guy but a devastatingly cute guy.

I'm still petrified of rejection and am currently trying to convince myself that he wouldn't have given me his number if he wasn't interested. But this is what this blog is partly about: to not fear failure or rejection and to take action. If I text him and he doesn't respond, it's okay. He was nice enough to hang out with me for a good portion of the night and helped me cross something off my list. And if he does... I'm probably going to burst with giddiness.

The night ended up being a complete success for our intrepid group. Daywalker, the only one of us with a significant other, managed to attract a steady stream of admirers despite announcing her relationship status. A friendly fellow offered to buy Gemini a drink but she asked him if she could buy him one; his mind was totally blown.

Kamikaze, my favorite partner in crime, eyed a spectacular specimen but two girls engaged him before she could get a chance to make a move. She stewed in regret until she saw the girls walking away. She immediately sashayed over to him, "Hey, do you come here often?"

They immediately hit it off. Kamikaze admitted five minutes later, "Actually, I just wanted an excuse to talk to you." He laughed and told her he had been hoping she would come over.

I've got to hand it to Whiskey Sour. Ladies, take risks! I'm not saying to go get a girdle or lobotomy rather than to not fear rejection. After all, I'm sure men love to be hit on by women with curves and a brain.

The Virgin will make you her bitch

#16 Never Have I Ever: Been propositioned

Foreplay: First of all, I'd like to make it clear that I have NEVER wanted to be propositioned. Sure, I've joked about it a plethora of times, you know: College tuition is costing a freakin' fortune. Well, time to turn some tricks. Maybe even be a mail order bride (this statement was usually followed by the response of "Uh... we're already in America, dude").

But going with my set parameters, this was just a spontaneous experience I just couldn't not include.

The Down and Dirty: We're gathered at Speed Racer's abode in celebration of Hezekiah's brief visit to L.A. I don't know half the party but the free flowing booze quickly fixed that. A group of Speed Racer's hometown friends were in attendance and they seemed like generally awesome guys. One fed me drinks for most of the night. Another got low with me during a Flo Rida song. There was even a guy who looked exactly like Chris Martin from Coldplay. After a homoerotic dance party, an epic game of King's Cup, and taking shots of Deep Throat sans hands, the 10 or so of us settled down for a movie in Speed Racer's home theater.

During the movie I originally sat next to the makeshift bartender but when he went to grab a drink his seat was quickly swooped by another attendee who I will refer to as Skeezy Motherfucker from here on out -- you'll understand that moniker very soon. Now, Skeezy Motherfucker and I had been distantly cordial all night; he was a dry humor type and I was drawn to his more comical counterparts. So I thought it was odd but not out of bounds for drunk behavior when he started leaning over his seat to show me innocuous text messages he was going to send to his girlfriend during the movie.

That is until he slowly and deliberately typed out a text and glanced at me a few times before leaning over to let me read the screen. Meet me outside

Do you know the saying "to wear your heart of your sleeve"? Well, I wear my emotions on my face. And I'm pretty sure my face conveyed a convincing feeling of ?!

He gave me a pointed look with his bleary eyes and nudged my arm suggestively. All I could do was frantically shake my head and excuse myself to bathroom to collect my thoughts. Who the hell does this guy think he is? Who the hell does he think I am?! Okay, I thought, maybe he's drunker than I thought or maybe this is just a joke.

I washed my hands, flicked off the light, and exited the bathroom. But something didn't feel right. While my eyes were adjusting in the pitch dark hallway, I felt like someone's presence. "Hey," came a deep voice 6 inches to my left.

GAH!! I wanted to tell him that I wasn't interested or to get away from me or to insult his style of seduction but nothing I could say could have stopped the onslaught of what-the-fuckery that was about to spew from his mouth.

"Can I kiss your feet?"

Um. Excuse me? But there was no hesitation in his question.

"You're very beautiful and I just want to kiss your feet."

WHAT. As I stood there dumbstruck by his request, he grabbed my hand and pulled me into the nearest room. At this point, I was ready to scream bloody murder and deliver a swift kick to his manly region but he sat down on the floor and gestured at a nearby seat. I gingerly perched on the edge of the bed, prepared to bolt if necessary.

"Can I please kiss your feet? And could you be mean to me while I do it?" Before I could stammer out an answer or even quirk a judgmental eyebrow, he reached for my foot and placed a chaste kiss on it. GAAAAAHHHHH!!

I recoiled in pure shock and all but ran back to the home theater. I began chugging water in an effort to sober up and get the fuck out of there. This was probably one of the handful of times I've ever regretted my last drink.

Skeezy Motherfucker slinked back to the room. Oh, maybe he's embarrassed and we can pretend that never happened. But no. Dude kept looking at me -- not sly, sideways glances but bonafide lean-over-his-seat-and-into-mine-full-on-stare-for-30-seconds-at-a-time looking. I wondered if it would be a party foul to scream, "Dude, get the fuck away from me!" in the middle of the movie.

He then poked my arm and leaned over to whisper, "Can I pay you to beat me?"

This emoticon best describes my face at the time: o_O

At that point his girlfriend called and after quietly chatting for a minute, he passed it off to my dance partner who happened to be her flatmate. As soon as the phone left his hand, he was back at my side, whispering dirty nonsense in my ear. Skeezy Motherfucker was growing increasingly desperate. Name your price. I just really want you to beat me. Seriously, I'll pay you.

Finally, Speed Racer turned around at all the whispering. I mouthed SAVE ME and he quirked an eyebrow but quickly gestured for me to follow him. He locked us in his bedroom and only then did I let out a strangled scream of horror.

The Afterglow: I cried sanctuary in Speed Racer's bedroom for a good 15 minutes, ranting about my potential career as a dominatrix, before feeling safe enough to venture back outside. We discovered Skeezy Motherfucker passed out on a couch, snoring like a storm was coming. Having sobered up, I hightailed it out of there while I still had a chance.

Part of me wishes I would've handled it differently but I honestly wonder what else could I have said.

Yes, I want to kick you in the balls but I'm afraid you'll like it.

The Virgin writes Hemingway style

#15 Never Have I Ever: Written a song

Foreplay: I can write poetic prose. I can write piquant blog posts (I hope...). I can even write coherent text messages to my mom while 6 drinks deep into my weekend.

But you know what I can't do? Write a song that doesn't involve shouting bastardized rap into my phone to the phrase of, "Get yo' drunk jacket on!" Not that I've ever done that or anything...

I don't know how musicians do it. Do lyrics come first? Or does the melody? Does the guitarist simply wiggle his nose and a completed CD magically pops out of his ass? Well, does it?! How am I supposed to know?!

The Down and Dirty: Last week Hermosa emailed me a short guitar track and asked me to "apply those word skills of [mine]".

Oh man, I thought, how flattering is this! So I did what any lauded lady does. I left it practically untouched in my inbox for a week.

You guys, I don't think you understand my lack of creativity yet excess of performance anxiety. I don't know know what rhyme scheme I'm supposed to run with. Wait! Is it even supposed to rhyme?! This country-twanged folk song is super cute. I'd hate to mar it by adding lyrics about the social constructs of the word "slut" or urinating in alleyways or any of the other stuff I often write about.

So I took the Ernest Hemingway approach to writing: Drunk and indiscriminately. As I nursed my Fat Tire, I texted Whiskey Sour to whine about how pathetic I felt drinking alone while lacking inspiration. He rang me up for some pillow talk (on his end in Virginia), told me to go listen to "2 Atoms in a Molecule" by Noah and the Whale, and gave me 3 different writing topics. After we said our respective sleepy and buzzed farewells, I lit a candle, put on some Bright Eyes, and made intoxicated but determined love to my laptop.

Below are snippets strung together during my inebriated writing rampage based off each theme supplied by Whiskey Sour.

The morning after:
From my knees I kissed the seat, and spewed love from my lips

A crush (this topic spiraled into an aggravated rant on my part that involved the quote, "Fuck crushes; I'd rather just do it." What can I say? I'm one classy broad):
I don't need a friend, I need a warm body tonight

My first trip on uh... certain substances:
I only pray to God
Just to say that I was sorry
Just to prove I was right all along

The Afterglow: Definitely not of e.e. cummings grandeur but better than what I started with. Maybe I just needed a proper verbal ass-kick from Whiskey Sour and a stiff drink to loosen me up. To be honest, I'm still pretty buzzed. And it's not even midnight! This is either really awesome or really, really, really sad...

I'm going to go crack open another cold one before I'm forced to answer that question or text my mom back.

I think F. Scott Fitzgerald said it best: "First you take a drink, then the drink takes a drink, then the drink takes you." Cheers to that, old literary dude.

The Virgin can see the future

#14 Never Have I Ever: Had a palm reading and tarot card reading

Foreplay: Generally, I'd rather not waste money on entertainment akin to setting a pile of cash on fire.

Fortune telling is all mumbo-jumbo for the most part. I can get better advice by... oh, say a Magic 8 Ball or plucking petals off a daisy than shelling out hard earned cash to a professional con artist who believes she can talk to dead people. I've observed friends perform cold readings before and it astounds me how many people lap this psychic stuff up.

I'm not going preach from my pedestal though -- astrology, magic, and psychics used to intrigue me. A much more naive version of myself visited a psychic a few years ago on one of those whoo!-crazy-summer-with-college-friends-yeeeaaaah! nights. After the "energy reading" a little voice in the back of my head kept chirping That was so amazing! She knew that you had a boyfriend! And that you're a confused college student! Wooooow!!

That voice was swiftly squished by a science textbook (my roommate's at the time; not that I would actually have a science textbook in my possession -- pfft).

The Down and Dirty: Hermosa and I headed to what his iPhone deemed as the "Best Psychic in L.A.". Because true clairvoyants are located right off Sunset Blvd in Hollywood. In a tacky hovel of a home office. Obviously.


As soon as we stepped in we were immediately accosted by a mother-daughter team. Hermosa was totally gung-ho about the psychic reading but I was much more apprehensive. Even though they offered a palm & tarot card reading package for $20, I thought of taking that bill and using it towards... oh, I don't know... 10 boxes of Easy Mac and a pack of temporary tattoos. You know, something actually worthwhile.

The daughter piped up, "I already see a lot of big things coming towards you very soon. You should do the reading so I can tell you more about them." If her pupils had suddenly dilated with dollar signs, she wouldn't have been more obvious.

But Hermosa hounded me into it and the mother relegated us to her two daughters, both in their early to mid 20s. We were led into their eerily clean living room where Hermosa was seated on the bleach-white sofa and I was taken to the glass dining table.

I seasoned her deck of tarot cards before she laid them out one by one in specific formations. My tarot card reading reeked of shit as she pulled it out of her ass. Oh, I've been working hard towards my career? Gee, don't know any other 20-something year old doing that. Sometimes I'm physically tired because of negative energy? You don't say.

The palm reading was even worse. She first opened by pointing between Hermosa and I and stating omnipotently, "I sense a connection between you two. Are you dating or friends?" What other options are there for two people who you saw walk in together no more than 15 minutes ago?!

And it just went downhill from there. She told me that I was closer to my dad than my mom; my mom is super affectionate while my dad responds to "I love you" with a nod in my general direction. Apparently, I'm worried about my younger sibling despite being the baby of the family. Oh, and then this lovely gem happened:

Back Alley Psychic: Someone who hurt you in the past is going to contact you soon if not already.
Daily Virgin: I've only ever had two boyfriends. One is now my best guy friend and I've hung out with the other on multiple occasions since amicably splitting.
BAP: Well, maybe a friend who you wanted something more with?
DV: Look, if I wanted something more with any of them, I would've gotten something more.
BAP: Perhaps a coworker? Are you sure?
DV: Please. Just... no.

At one point, she asked to change positions because the shadows cast on my palms were giving her an unclear reading. I would've given myself a facepalm had she not been holding my hands.

The Afterglow: Total waste of [Hermosa's] money. It was great dinner fodder for afterward but I could have gotten a more accurate reading from Panda Express' fortune cookies.

Hermosa had been so enthusiastic about his first tarot card reading that he asked his psychic about the significance of each card. Every. Single. One. Of them. As a result, she only dealt half of the deck and stashed away the rest. Subsequently, their readings ended far earlier than mine. So what did they do during this waiting period? The early-20-something year old psychic decided to go grab her infant and force Hermosa to play with it. For 20 minutes. WHAT.

I knew psychics were convincing scam artists but I didn't realize they were so skilled as to make Hermosa pay to be a babysitter. That little voice is in awe once again. Now, where the hell is a periodic table or flu pamphlet or something...

The Virgin is ridin' dirty

#13 Never Have I Ever: Ridden a mechanical bull

Foreplay: I don't think anything sticks out like a sore cowboy thumb in fabulously flamboyant West Hollywood more than Saddle Ranch Chop House. If Hell has an afterlife tailored to me, this is probably it.

It's a gimmicky magnet for every goateed tourist wearing Ed Hardy and local parties of women either christening a newly 21 year old or mourning for a future bride. They present Adios Motherfuckers in milk jugs, serve beach ball sized helpings of cotton candy, and have a resident mechanical bull to flaunt machismo and/or mammaries. Need I paint a more detailed picture?

The Down and Dirty: Watching tables of bros demolishing beer towers and listening to late 90s alt rock wasn't exactly how I expected to spend my Monday night but here I was, parked on a wooden bench and munching on corn bread. I had a mission: To mount that mechanical bull and ride it for all it's worth (its worth turned out to be $4 per ride).

All was quiet on the Western front until 10pm and then it turned into National Lampoon. Busty boozer after busty boozer mounted the machine only to grind with the motions for a few seconds before the operator compelled the bull to vibrate wildly. The rider would squawk as her bosom shook like seismisms and futilely place a hand over in false modesty. The operator would take this opportunity to toss her lumbering form onto the mats below.

I quickly noticed that women who lacked disclosed cleavage would be spared from the humiliating vibrations but were bucked off quicker than their exposed companions. I looked down at my own outfit: gray jeans, black tank top, slim-fit tuxedo jacket. Aw hell. There's nothing that screams I have A-cups! more than men's wear for women.

I nursed a couple of Blue Moons to treat my performance anxiety before finally stepping up to the gate. I kicked off my shoes and mounted the machine. The operator wasn't as skeezy as I thought and advised me to grip with my thighs before letting 'er go.

Clutching with my left hand and balancing with my right, I rode that sucker like Annie freakin' Oakley. At that point I was thankful for the miracle pelvis-relaxer that is alcohol. The operator refrained from any unnecessary vibrations but cranked up the level once I managed to stay put for more than 10 seconds. An iPhone video of my spin documented that I lasted 32 seconds before finally sliding off.

The Afterglow: I WANT TO DO IT AGAIN!! Yes, my thighs were sore and I ended up with my legs in the air, but MAN that was the most fun I could have with my pants on in that sort of situation.

My next mission: To stay on the bull for the entire ride. I guess Hell isn't so bad after all -- at least they serve beer.

Giddy up, cowboy!

The Virgin walks a mile in her shoes

#12 Never Have I Ever: Spent a whole day in high heels

Foreplay: Although I can understand a crippling shoe addiction, I can't exactly say that I fancy footwear superfluously. Except for that time I ran through 10 different shoe stores on Melrose to hunt down an outrageous pair of Jeffrey Campbell flats that look like pencils. And once I remedied a brain-frying finals week by rewarding myself with metallic silver oxfords which I deemed my "Michael Jackson shoes". And I should probably mention that my fierce purple oil Via Spiga peep toe pumps are currently the most expensive piece in my wardrobe.

Alright, so I'm fairly infatuated with shoes but nowhere near Carrie Bradshaw status. I could never imagine blowing a whole paycheck on things that are meant for the ground nor could I ever subject myself to cosmetic foot surgery -- unfortunately, I'm much too familiar with my budget and my pain threshold. How can anyone live in those?!

However, I always ogle statuesque women sashaying down the street, equipped with sky high stilettos, looking like they own the whole sidewalk. I own a good number of pumps, why aren't I wearing them? Why can't I look as kick-ass on a daily basis? Gee, wonder if those shoes are comfortable?

The Down and Dirty: In our haste to a birthday celebration in Long Beach, Kamikaze and I managed to pack a handle of Bacardi and a fifth of Grey Goose but not a change of shoes (we all have different priorities, okay!?). I wore my brand new Naturalizer pumps for a good 28 hours this weekend. I'll let my foot notes tell the story:

1 hour - So far, so good. We just got to the club but the DJ sucks and Kamikaze told him so. We refuse to dance in protest of his bad taste. I'm convinced a couple Long Island Ice Teas will cheer us up.

3 hours - A Long Island Ice Tea, a Screwdriver, a pineapple vodka, and a vodka Red Bull later and we're putting our hands up to "Single Ladies". Feet are frolicking away.

6 hours - Stumbling back to the car while stuffing my face with a green burrito. I'm not wearing a jacket. Everything is numb except for my very happy taste buds. I take this as a good sign.

14 hours - I wake up at my parents' house in Long Beach to perfectly poised feet and no signs of a hangover. I call it a successful night.

18 hours - Kamikaze and I go shopping. Every outfit I try on looks freakin' fabulous with my heels. I'm convinced that every dressing room should come equipped with a pair of stilettos. I guarantee sales would double by the end of the week.

21 hours - Toes are pinching, balls are balding, and bunions are budding. My shoes have turned against me.

24 hours - I meet with Hitchcock to work on his film. First on the agenda: painfully extricating my poor feet from my traitor footwear for the duration of the meeting.

28 hours - As I limp towards my car, I concede that I will never speak ill of flip flops again.

The Afterglow: Here is the conclusion I've reached based on my notes and the slow return of sensations to my feet:

Pro: My natural pony legs look absolutely spectacular. My body almost looks proportional.
Con: My cowboy gait. And I guess the grimace on my face sort of detracts from the whole looking hot thing I had going on.

Old woman who lived in her shoes -- my ass. Bitch probably died in them.