(it's just bits and pieces so far. i hope some of it is funny.)

Okay, so I was talking about my version of the rules. Over time I developed Rules for dating and for sex. Certain patterns began to emerge as I went out and about. One night at the Crush Club, my girlfriend and I were ecstatically dancing to Shout. "A little bit faster now…", just having a blast. Very young men kept cutting in and my gal pal began to notice a pattern.
“The guys that like you keep getting younger and shorter. Does Michael J. Fox have younger brothers?”

Hence, My Rules: Older men and even some around my age didn’t have much stamina or ability, so the rule was that they had to invest in Viagra when things were not looking up, shit, if it was even around back then. And older guys were always looking for my goddamn G-spot. As close as I could figure it, my G-spot was in Mexico somewhere, having lunch. Taking a long vacation. It STILL calls me occasionally, from the Yucatan Peninsula, just to say hello. I say, "Hi, G. How's it going? Use sunscreen."

The much younger men did have energy and it certainly was flattering (although some of it was just about my being 5'3" and them being shortish -- ditto with some older guys, of course.), but many of them didn't know anything about female anatomy (the non-G-spot spot), and I was no Dr. Ruth. Not to mention that I had another strict rule: I wouldn’t date anyone I could have given birth to, no one who could have been my son. That just seemed very tacky.

My other rule, it being L.A. and the film and tv industries and all, was that I wouldn’t date anyone prettier than me. Please, I did not want anyone using the mirror more than I did. I broke this one more than I'd like to admit. I enjoy beauty as much as the next person. Well, maybe even a bit more, and there were so many pretty pretty men back then and there. (More about this later. Probably in Part Three. I know, I'm a huge tease.)

                                                ******

All of the dating and sex and sharing my space crap brought up for me the sanctity of sleeping alone. My bed was my favorite place in the world and still is. It wasn’t a safe or secure one for me when I was a kid. Too much chaos in the house. It was more of a target zone – a place where they could find me and flip out about whatever or do whatever. Since then, it’s been a major refuge and hang-out. It’s got to feel like home with a capital H.

I got one of those foam mattress pads with the indentations; the ones that look like a bed of nails designed by Disney. It felt like heaven. I bought those wonderful T-shirt sheets in magenta and cobalt blue. The ones that Oprah recommended many years ago. Like sleeping inside a worn-to-silk giant undershirt. Thread count was not my thing, I don't think it was yet a huge deal back then. Thank God for small blessings. T-shirt sheets were affordable and my Companions seemed to enjoy them.

The number of men whom I liked enough to attempt a rela-tionship with who also liked me was statistically insignificant. 'Hos are not that into settling down. It's too bad I'd been alone so long between the being divorced and then being around too many gay men and Much Bigger Assholes because I had "mad skills", as the kids say now, and it would have been kind of cool to share my whipped cream, chocolate sauce, flavored edible body lotions, crotchless panties, garter belts and fishnet stockings with someone I might have actually loved a little. Remember, my body was awesome back then. Even the pretty men thought so, although one asshole, young of course, told me that I must have had a hellacious body when I was 16. I told him, "Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. No woman over 10 wants to be compared to her former body."

There were brief times in my six years in L.A. during which I had twinges about being so "active", especially when I had a bladder infection from too vigorous f---ing or from someone being a bit too well-endowed -- there truly is such a thing, boys. I even went to Sex Addicts Anonymous a few times because a 12-stepper I know kept nagging me, but it was mostly gay men back then, who were literally afraid for their lives, so it was clear it wasn't my problem. 

I considered other options at those times. One day I saw a gang of contented looking and very large dykes at Home Depot -- I was thinking, shit, I could eat what I like and wouldn't have to wear make-up. -- and was propositioned by a cute gay women who called herself Uncle Mary. So I decided to become a lesbian. Didn’t really think it through all the way though, I’m afraid. After two weeks I realized that I’d forgotten to be attracted to any women. Kind of missed the little man in the boat, so to speak. So it turned out I was a complete failure at being a lesbian.

Then there were just the periods during which I didn't meet anyone I desired or vice versa. Thank goodness I believed in being my own best friend, or I'd have turned into one of those nasty bitches whom everyone says just needs a good f--- since I was in heat much of that time. (See paragraph about pretty men. )

Instead I developed a great relationship with my vibrator. We disagreed about politics -- he was a republican and it got really old after a while, but other than that we got along just fine. My poor vibrator. I bought it at the Pleasure Chest on Santa Monica Boulevard when I was researching a screenplay about a woman MBA inheriting a legal brothel in Nevada. Too bad I was never able to sell that piece -- HIV and AIDs were rampant, but shit, the legal places had the girls checked every week. It was pretty clever.

My new best pal was bright red and not anatomically correct. The top was always falling off even though one of my companions supposedly glued it back on. He prided himself on his skill with electronics, among other things.

I've always been very environmentally correct, so I had re-chargeable C batteries. I had to constantly recharge the damn things. And you had to wait until they completely ran out of energy to recharge them, so I was often left to my own devices, so to speak, while that was happening. I should have stopped being so cheap and gotten another set of recharge-ables, but I was in major denial about how much I used the damn thing. I kept musing about Mr. Right: an adorable (not more than me, of course) blind 30-year-old -- I could tell him I was a Perfect Blond and he wouldn't know the difference -- old enough to not be my son, of course, with an exquisite sense of touch and an oral fixation. He'd have had a seeing eye dog, too, of course. I’d loved dogs since I'd known Shady Lady, my childhood pal, even though she got sprayed by every skunk she ever met.

The thing I wasn’t factoring in was the whole Age and Looks issue popping up overnight. I was pushing 40, as my cop brother so daintily put it to me. Fuck him though. I was 36. Then a good friend of mine from back east came to see me , primped her Prada (was there Prada back then?-encased brow-listed-self in the hallway mirror, and announced, “It’s too bad we’re losing our looks."

Fuckin’ A! We? I was not 40. I had not resorted to facial surgery, except for my desperately needed nose job. Plus I was thin, for me, sexy and youthful since I've always been very very immature. (Not to mention that she’d said the same thing to me when we were turning 30; this was getting a little old.)

My friend saying that we were losing our looks could not have come at a worse time. I was enjoying my physical self immensely, for Christ's sake. So I said to my Pucci’d Gucci’d friend, more testily than I’d planned, “I am not remotely ready to lose my looks. Shit, man, I just found them recently!  So you go ahead and “lose your looks” if you want. Just f---ing do it without me.” She just stared at me. Apparently liking myself and the work I was doing and my activities gave me a bit of an attitude.

The truth is I wasn’t kidding about enjoying my looks before I lost them. I will always be bitter I had them for such a relatively short time (people still tell me that I'm cute/pretty/beautiful, gorgeous (those visually impaired characters again) but after fifty no one gives you a second glance. Actually, it's even sadder than that. I was walking down the street the other day with my stunningly adorable little service dogs and a guy came by and smiled the smile I used to enjoy so much. I smiled back and then quickly realized that he was smiling at my dogs! God can be such a shithead sometimes. I'd asked him for some attention from single Grandpas.

So the having my looks not so long was another bone of contention between me and God. We are always bickering about one thing or another. After the Pucci'd encounter, I felt like asking everyone I saw, “Have you seen my looks anywhere? Please let me know if spot them.” The way things have always gone between me and God, my Looks were and are probably in Mexico somewhere, having lunch with my G-spot.