American Sex Fiend

I hate flying. The second the plane is airborne I picture midair collisions, engines bursting into flames, exit doors ripping off and vertical nose dives into the ocean where killer sharks are waiting to devour me. Having an overactive imagination isn't always a good thing but, as I reach Row 11, Seat F and come face to face with an exotic creature of unknown origin...my flight is looking a lot better.

I have uncanny luck booking seats next to beautiful women. Capitalizing on the good fortune is another story. There was Bambi of Bel Air who vacationed with her family in St. Barts and winced when I told her I live in North Hollywood. There was Elizabeth the USC grad who was shocked I'd never read Jean-Paul Sartre. "Yes, I did go to college," I kept reminding her. Now I was getting another chance.

"Excuse me...I think that's my seat."

"Oh yes," she replies with a thick accent. "Let me take other seat."

I smile politely and push past her to the window seat. I always prefer the window seat so I can monitor the amount of fire pouring out of the engines during a disaster.

I introduce myself and she tells me her name is Sachlia.

"Beautiful name...I've never known anyone with that name."

She nods with no clue what I'm saying. The plane lifts off and I forget to imagine it bursting into flames. We reach cruising altitude but Sachlia passes out. Oh well, at least I have time to think of witty material.

Hours later I snap out of a deep coma, wiping drool away from my mouth, hoping she isn't looking. I glance over and see her smiling shyly. There's an awkward pause.

"So are you from Portland or just visiting?"

"I visit family there." Oh that accent. It must be Brazilian. I pray that it is.

"Where are you from...originally?"

"I live LA but I from Iran." Wow, I was only 8,000 miles off. It crosses my mind that I might need to convert to Islam just to get laid. Having never dated a Persian woman, my curiosity is piqued but my bladder is full. I desperately need to hit the can.

I squirm in my seat asking mundane questions a limited English speaker can grasp. 30 minutes later I decide to make a move for the laboratory until I look down and realize I have a massive erection.



Only three things give me uncontrollable erections: having to urinate, being nervous, and women with foreign accents. Dealing with all three issues, I yank my shirt down as far as I can but the outline of my cock is still clearly visible. She probably thinks I'm some sort of American sex fiend, I think. I move the belt buckle over my package, careful not to attract attention downward.

I shut my eyes and think about baseball but there's nothing sexual about this erection. My dick's just...being a dick. Out of control and evil in nature it's punishing me for all the coffee I drank at Starbucks.

"Are jou okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine, thanks. I just don't like flying." She has no idea what I'm saying and for some twisted reason that turns me on. Maybe I am a deranged sex fiend, damn it! No, no, block out those evil thoughts. Think of Jesus. He pops into my mind complete with beard and flowing robe but unfortunately he has a raging hard on too. Great, now I'm going to hell for sure.

Sachlia has a concerned look on her face. I'm no doubt scaring the hell out of her with an anxiety attack brought about from a massive rush of blood from my head to my...other head.

I grab a magazine, unbuckle the seatbelt and stand, using the periodical to hide my shame. I move past her then head towards the back of the plane. I get to the bathroom but there's a line of old ladies. I'm going to piss myself, I think. Then what will I do? I get to the bathroom and empty the content of my bladder in record time.

I make it back to my seat with renewed confidence and strike up more conversation. I manage to make her laugh and I'm starting to feel a boner-free connection with Sachlia. As the flight lands it's the moment of truth. Time to make a move but it has to be low key. This girl's probably been wearing a veil for most of her life. Giant erections might not be her thing. Luckily my penis is behaving once again.

"Hey have you ever been to LACMA?" I ask her. "The LA County Museum of Art?"

"Oh no but I love the art," she says.

"I go all the time," I say. (I've been once.) "They have a beautiful Persian art exhibit there." (Probably not.) "You should really see it," I suggest. "I'd be willing to take you."

"Really? I would like this."

"Well, let me get your number and we'll talk when you get back to town."

She writes down her number and hands me the piece of paper. I fold it in half, slip it into my pocket and smile.

The Perfect Drug

It's March and darkness is closing in. Get through December, I told myself. Time heals all wounds. Then I wrecked my shoulder snowboarding. No more triathlon, no more working out, plenty of Percocet.

Everyone needs an addiction, no matter what it is: writing a bad novel, training for triathlons, losing money in the stock market, taking powerfully addictive narcotics. Some obsessions are healthier than others. My most recent ex girlfriend Sloan is the hardest to quit. To know her, is to love her and to love her is a mistake.

Sitting in my car before work, I consider my self-destructive behavior: The erratic emotions. The reckless actions. It became obvious last night.

I was parallel parking when some asshole laid on his horn. It's true, I'm one of these maniacs that shouldn't be allowed to commute in Los Angeles. On a normal day I have road rage. Lately, when the Percocet wears off, I'm borderline homicidal.

I parked my car as the guy rolled up next to me. I looked past his chula girlfriend and prejudged him to be a Mexican gang banger, twice my size and three times angrier. "You gotta fucking problem guero?" he yelled. "I don't have a problem," I said calmly. "Sounds like you got a fucking problem puto."

As the words left my mouth, I flashed to my friend Tito explaining the cultural differences of calling a Puerto Rican a 'puto' versus a Mexican. In Puerto Rico it means 'asshole' and is often said among friends. In Mexico it means 'cowardly bitch' and is reserved for bitter enemies. Unfortunately I was in Van Nuys and about to get my ass kicked.

Mr. Gang Banger jumped out as his girlfriend tried to calm him down. It was too late. I had called him out in front of his woman. Now it was a matter of machismo pride. The thought of backing down never crossed my mind. I jumped out of the car and met him in the street. He swung wildly and I hit him in the face. I immediately felt bad. It was one thing to get my ass kicked by this guy but I didn't want to embarrass him in front of his girlfriend.

He grabbed my shirt, ripping it as he flung me to the ground. I sprung to my feet, avoiding his sluggish tackle. He landed a weak glancing blow to my cheek and I realized he wasn't much of a fighter. Still one solid punch from this guy could knock me out for good. My only chance was talking my way out of things. I had certainly talked my way into this mess.

I dodged his punches and threw some half-hearted shots. "Alright, are you done?" I finally asked. He unleashed a barrage of Spanish curse words (some probably worse than puto) and I threw my hands up indicating I was finished. Might as well let him be the hero tonight, I figured.

I'm late for work but I can't stop thinking about the fight. I wonder if I have a death wish. I could have messed with the wrong guy. A real gang banger, strapped, with no fear of life in prison. A drunk UFC fighter. A homeless meth head with superhuman drug strength. No match for a degenerate hydrocodone addict.

Something must change. The something is me. Of all the women I've labeled as crazy, perhaps I'm the one who's losing it. For a year Sloan was my drug. I depended on her. I took advantage of her. I needed her. Now I'm crashing hard.

I stare at the Percocet in my hand then pop the pill.

Intense Actress Chick

Samantha was a total whack job as most actresses are. I hated blind dates but I needed to get out there again and Samantha seemed desperate enough to end my dry spell. I sipped Jameson and Coke listening to her drone on about the latest part she nearly landed and the riveting extra work she'd done. How much can one man take? I thought.

She was 36 and still sexy. I was 27 and still clueless. I wondered if the younger girls at the bar were intrigued I was dating an older woman or knew I was a total loser in the midst of a dry spell.

I forced myself to believe the latter until Sexy Samantha leaned over, nearly falling off her bar stool, and stuck her tongue down my throat. I can't say I'm comfortable with public displays of affection but Samantha certainly was. She lapped at my face oblivious to my lack of participation.

Her bizarre straw hat poked me in the eye and I patted her on the shoulder to signal the make out session was over. She finally got the hint and broke away. Laughing hysterically she ordered another drink as I thought of excuses to get out of there.

"My roommate just got in a horrible car accident."

"I'm not feeling very well, I think it's food poisoning."

"I left the stove on and my apartment's on fire."

Then a horrible idea crossed my mind. "Hey, why don't we go back to your place and have sex?" I suggested, waiting for her to slap me. She stared at me for several seconds then burst out laughing. "Okay!" she replied, to my utter amazement. "I live just down the block anyway."

Wow, that wouldn't have worked on girls my age, I thought as Samantha downed a neat glass of Jameson like it was apple juice. "Let's get out of here," she said, as if it were a challenge. "Ah, okay," I replied, flinging the bartender cash as she dragged me out.

When we got to Samantha's apartment she could barely walk. She plopped down on a gaudy red velvet couch as I inspected the ancient relics of her place. From the decor of her living room I began to suspect she was 66 and not 36. The odor of antiquated perfume reminded me of my grandmother's car when she cranked up the AC and blasted pungent perfume in my face as a child. It was not a fond memory.

Samantha patted the couch, urging me to sit next to her. I walked over feeling as though I was about to be attacked by a wild cougar. Maybe she's a better kisser in her natural habitat, I reasoned. As she pounced on me and began frothing at the mouth, I knew I had to escape.

In less than a minute she rolled off the couch with a thud. I looked down, relieved she had passed out. I rushed for the door. Just as I was leaving it crossed my mind that she might be dead. I returned to check her pulse. She was alive, thank God. Without warning, her eyes flashed open like the final scene of a zombie movie. She smiled up at me. "I love you," she slurred. "I love you too sweetie, " I lied, "I'll call you."

The Shattered Window

It’s Sunday and it’s raining in Los Angeles, which is rare. I’m smoking a cigarette and it’s not even 10 am. I hate cigarettes but Sloan loves them and I feel like an idiot standing in a downpour without good reason. I go back inside.

Sloan packed last night. I didn’t even wake up. Now all that’s left for her to do is walk out of my life forever. She grabs her stuff, turns to look at me but there’s nothing left to say. It’s all been said. The door slams and Sloan’s gone. The roar of silence rings in my ears. It’s going to be a dark December.

The story of Sloan is complicated. A smart 23-year-old psych major at UCLA, we met at a bookstore in Pasadena. Which means we really met on the Internet. From the moment I met her she was a walking disaster. A tornado of issues, distractions and neurosis…she seemed like the perfect candidate to become a future ex-girlfriend.

She flaked on the first three dates. Then one evening, she called and said, “I’m in your neighborhood.” Odd since I didn’t realize she knew where I lived. We went to a wine bar, hit it off and before I knew it we were spending a lot of time together. I told myself it was just a fling but each day after work, Sloan was there in my apartment flashing a million-watt smile and cooking some delicious experimental dish without a recipe.

Sloan’s eccentricities drove me crazy at first; like dumping the contents of her purse onto my floor to find misplaced items. Or trying to fix things by breaking them even worse. Until one day, after locking myself out of my apartment, Sloan tried to pry my window open and knocked it out instead. The window fell and shattered into a thousand pieces and I fell for Sloan. She was a helpless lost cause but her effort to make things right was irresistible. She looked up at me with sad eyes and said, “I’m so sorry…I’m just…not good…at life.” So blunt and so true. That was all it took to cement an unhealthy co-dependent relationship.

She moved in the same day and it crossed my mind briefly that she might be homeless. There are no background checks for relationships in Los Angeles but there should be. Sloan would have failed every portion of the screening process.

The Confidence Booster

I'm in a 6-month dating slump in need of a confidence booster. My friend Reynard and I are ordering lunch at Pit Fire Pizza Company in North Hollywood and the cute brunette behind the counter is laughing at my smart ass remarks.

"Hey, you know that girl was flirting with you?" Reynard says, as we sit down outside. "She was just being friendly," I reply. Reynard rolls his eyes in disagreement. He urges me to get her phone number and I reluctantly agree to try.

I walk up to the counter, glancing at the cute brunette's name tag as she answers the phone. Rebecca. I like that name. A good sign. A woman appears behind me and I wave her ahead of me. The last thing I need is an audience. Several more people get in line and I'm ready to abort the mission. I quickly remove an ATM receipt from my wallet, write down my name and number, then step in front of Rebecca. She smiles. I lean over the counter, noticing my embarrassingly low checking account balance just as I hand her the receipt.

"I know this is out of nowhere," I say, in almost a whisper, "But I think you're really cute and I was wondering if you might want to get a drink sometime." Her jaw drops as she says, "Seeing as I have a boyfriend that's probably not going to happen." I nod and smile. "Maybe he's not the right guy for you," I reply, with pseudo confidence. "Call me sometime," I add.

A wave of relief washes over me as I return to the table, content I tried. Despite the lack of success, Reynard is impressed. We eat our meal, cracking jokes about our slumps then Reynard drops me off at my apartment. The second I enter my place my cell phone lights up with a call. 818 area code. It's Rebecca, I think, calling to tell me I'm the guy she's been waiting for all her life. I clear my throat, answering the phone in a voice several octaves too deep.

"Ryan, hey this is Rebecca, we just met." Man, Reynard was right. "You left your wallet on the counter," she says. "So I guess it's a good thing you gave me your number right?" "Hello, are you there?" she asks. "Yeah I'm here. Thanks Rebecca, I'll come get the wallet," I manage to say. No confidence booster today.

Emotional Masochist

I'm in the frozen food section of the Trader Joe's and a beautiful red head is smiling at me. She's obviously flirting as she brushes past me, daring me to strike up a conversation. My vocal cords tighten, paralyzed with fear, and I say nothing. Then Ms. Gorgeous Red Head walks out of my life forever. Fucking idiot.

For the rest of the day I'm going to hate myself...more than usual even. The crushing feeling of shattered self esteem is getting old. Why do women have this effect on me? I know the answer the moment I think it. It's my past choices of girlfriends coming back to haunt me. I always fall for complicated women. After 32 years, women are still a mystery to me and the source of all my misery.

Dating in Los Angeles is like being a contestant on a fake reality show where you're the only one not in on the joke. If you meet someone down-to-earth they probably haven't been here long. See, there are two types of people in LA; people born here who grew up crazy and people who moved here and became crazy. I'm the latter. I've been here 6 years and I finally feel at home. That's the first sign you've lost your mind. Unfortunately the second sign is wandering Hollywood Boulevard screaming obscenities at the top of your lungs. There's no in between.

I don't want to give you the wrong impression. I'm not one of these chronic LA haters. In fact I love it . The creative energy, the frenetic pace of life, the smog, the traffic, the earthquakes...what's not to like? I even love the women. They're just the type of neurotic narcissist I find so endearing.

Even before I moved to LA, I was a sucker for mentally disturbed women. Bi-polar, borderline personality disorder, delusional psychosis...we're talking beyond daddy issues. The most obvious reason I fall for them is a fear of commitment. The more fucked up theory...I'm an emotional masochist who secretly enjoys having his heart ripped out. Either way, I must stop this vicious cycle before I wake up a lonely middle-aged man. The clock is ticking.