how not to have sex with an incubus

Phone conversation with  Paul:

PAUL: Why are you whispering?

ME: Because I’m hiding in my bathroom and I don’t want him to hear me. Do you think my tub is cast iron? (I climb in – fully clothed)… Better?

PAUL: I don’t know what I’m suppose to be comparing it to – sounds the same.

ME: (closing the shower curtain) Now?

PAUL: SAME.

ME: How ’bout now? (lying down in tub)

PAUL. Same, but with reverb. You need to stop with the whole cat thing – it’s border line psycho. I know you think he understands what you are saying, but Italian is his first language, followed by German, Russian and then English. Things get lost in translation, that’s why you need to leave the TV on when you go out and don’t start spelling stuff. He can read.

ME: HE’S HERE!

PAUL: Who? The creepy repair man? How many times do I have to tell you that vacuuming in heels and lingerie, channeling your inner Maggie The Cat*, is weird. People will ask you about it.

(*Some people dress as their favorite superhero, I prefer to dress as my favorite damaged Tennessee Williams’ character  - alternating with Alfred Hitchcock’s icy blondes.)

ME: Nooooooo. Six-Feet-of-Shoulders is here. In. My. Bed.

PAUL: WHAT?!?!

ME: Shuuuuuuushhh…he’ll hear you.

PAUL: Why the fuck are you on the phone with me and why isn’t he inside of you?

ME: If an Incubus was in your bed – you’d better call me too.

….pause…..

ME: Paul?

PAUL: What?

ME: I’m not dreaming am I? Like Inception but with you, me, the Incubus that is a sleeping Six-Feet-of-Shoulders and a bathtub? Tell me something I don’t know so I know this isn’t a dream.

PAUL: How am I suppose to know what you know and what you don’t know?

ME: Tell me something I don’t know about you that only you know and then I’ll say it back when you come over.

PAUL: I woke up this morning being spooned by Wentworth Miller, it wasn’t until I reached back to grab his ass that I realized it was just a pillow.

ME: You thought Wentworth Miller would fit in your twin bed?

PAUL: I thought he was the pillow!

ME: Maybe obsessively watching old episodes of Prison Break on Netflix does more harm than good; it’s why I limit my consumption of the Jane Austen BBC stuff.

PAUL: The real problem is his name, it’s just not conducive to hot sex. Like am I suppose to say Oh God, Yes – give it to me Wentworth?!?! It sounds too formal and don’t even think of coming back with “Wenty” or “Mr. Miller”.

ME: What about “Baby”? It’s universal – just in case you’re thinking of someone else.

PAUL: Why would I be thinking of someone else when I have Wentworth fucking Miller in my twin bed?

ME: Maybe things have grown stale, the kids are driving you nuts, he doesn’t take out the trash unless you ask him and the guy fixing the Porsche is driving you crazy.

PAUL: You know I only drive cars that can fit a dead body in the trunk.

ME: That’s just it, it’s Wentworth’s Porsche. It’s another reason you are pissed. He’s treating you like an errand boy, not the devoted husband of 10 years, all the more reason to let the mechanic throw you up against the hood of Wenty’s Porsche and make you feel like a man.

PAUL: Do you think Wentworth Miller could love me?

ME: I don’t see how he couldn’t, although him being straight might be a complication.

PAUL: I’ve flipped the best of them.

ME: Are you gonna come over so I can find out if I am dreaming?

PAUL: What about sex with Incubus?

ME: What if it’s all in my head and I end up having sex with a ghost?  I don’t think you come back from that… you get pregnant with Satan’s love child like Rosemary’s Baby or make pottery with a half naked Patrick Swayze – either way it’s not pretty.

PAUL: I have no idea what you are talking about.

sex toy phone home

“Is that a sex toy in your purse?” Hoops asks.

For once in my life why can’t I be the girl that has a nine inch bright pink dildo stashed in her purse at half past noon on a Thursday?

Instead I am the girl that believes she is going to get a tumor on the side of her face due to the amount of time logged on my cell phone.

“It’s my headset.” I say.

Which sounds as sexy as admitting that I sleep with a mouth guard. Which brings me to the next question: when do you break out the mouth guard? All this… let’s sleep over – not have sex and let me not wear my mouth guard is causing dental guilt. See how I totally need to be Dildo Girl? Dildo Girl wouldn’t be talking about dental hygiene.

I blame my mother for this. She bought me the pink Barbie headset  and look what she uses for her land line:

revirginized

I have an obsessive need to make lists spurned on by my addiction to office supplies. This is a two prong inter-related problem similar to prostitution and meth.

Don’t believe me?

Back when I was with my ex-hunk of a fiance – let’s call him Mr. Right-But-We-Went-Wrong, he happened to “borrow” Clicky – ( yes I name my pens – don’t act like you don’t) and lost him. I cried. I put up posters, filed a report…nothing.

Mr. Right-But-We-Went-Wrong bought me a replacement:

Clicky 2.0. It wasn’t the same. Like The Godfather Pt. 3

I have a serious thing for office supplies – all kinds – I am an equal office supply junkie offender.

Still not getting it?

Okay, look – you know the people that have a hundred different kinds of plastic surgery and start looking like a cat or Michael Jackson or a Michael Jackson cat?

well this situation is the same thing. I blame back to school shopping for the addictive feeling of wiping the slate clean – a new Trapper Keeper is the same as having the fat sucked from underneath one’s eyes sockets.

For example my eighth grade heart knew my marbleized notebook was going to save me from the terror that was trigonometry even if I had failed seventh grade math – my past was irrelevant – so said my fresh start of a new notebook. The same feeling must be what drives Joan Rivers to the knife. It has to be.

*please note the artistic cat drawing on cover -the parallels between office supply junkies and plastic surgery cat addicts united way back then.

This brings me to my point – list making – I do it obsessively and about everything- I have the office supplies to keep this going times infinity.

On today’s docket:

THINGS THAT CAN BE VIRGINIZED:

  1. cocktails (but really what is the point isn’t that just juice?)
  2. wool
  3. unfertilized gamets
  4. computer systems
  5. unalloyed metal
  6. homo sapiens (if they never mated)
  7. olive oil – The Jordon of virgins due to its bad ass category of Extra Virgin
  8. me?*

*I wish I was joking.

**Does this list make me look desperate? highly selective?

***Desperate would have been the countdown widget thingy similar to the national debt crisis counter I was contemplating adding to the home page of the blog. Number of days without sex______ and just have the number escalating by the minute. (Idea tabled- to be revisited at a later date).

****BG22QFJVEV47 – these are not my home coordinates (I AM NOT THAT DESPERATE) it’s something the blog cyber bots requested – when cyber bots speak I listen.

***** Clicky if you read this  - Mommy loves you baby!

skeleton in the closet? please god let it be asian

It’s no secret that my Mother hates that I live in Los Angeles and like any proper New Yorker believes the amount of sunshine, plastic and pastels I am exposed to on a daily basis will eventually result in:

  1. Scientology (I have been jumping on my couch a lot lately)
  2. a set of Double Ds (the fun bag version not the batteries)
  3. reality show fame (the bad Chaotic kind – not the uplifting kind like The Real Housewives of Orange County)

My Mom and I often play the game where she sends me articles documenting the fabulousness that is NYC:

and I retaliate by texting pictures of LA sunshine:

MOM: You look lovely although a little cult-like. Is there a messiah leader behind you?

ME: How did you guess? I am all peace and love and nudity over here. Next week we are going to braid each other’s hair.

ME: Last photo only because I look Asian:

I have always wanted to be Asian like my Japanese cousins who grew up with wall-to-wall white carpeting – which makes you perfect. We had brown carpeting which makes you roll around the house on a wooden skate board aka the space ship (hence my nickname Space Cadet). My Japanese cousins have exotic names, names that say they will do great things…I got stuck with Tracy which in case you didn’t know doesn’t sound Asian at all.

MOM: uhm I think we need to talk about the night I spent in Chinatown while your father was at a race…I had a very nice time.

So what’s a girl to do when paternity comes into question? You head over to myheritage.com for a systems check using facial recognition.

The result: I am a 97% match to Matsushima Nanako.

Need further proof? You can watch me morph into Ms. Nanako by clicking HERE.

Now that I have evidence that either my mom gets around or I have a super hero powered brain – I am flummoxed.

I have wanted to be many different things – on my ninth birthday I made people call me Tina in honor of the goddess that is Tina “Private Dancer” Turner.

Free parenting tip: “Private Dancer” is totally an appropriate song to sing when one is entering her tween years.

Then I went through the Jerry Orbach stage, but that is a no brainer, who hasn’t wanted to be Jerry Orbach at least once in their life?

Recently I wanted to take form as Gloria Steinem’s tramp stamp. (Please see her interview in Time where she stated for her 70th birthday she was going to get a tramp stamp – I wanna be that stamp.)

…but through out the years there has been one constant – I have always wanted to be Asian.

Have I finally willed myself Asian or did my mom make the ultimate sacrifice? I wouldn’t put  it past her because my mom is awesome like that. Although she is still cagey about the whole thing:

MOM: Hey, rather than all the work of being a Tiger Mom – just get me some Asian genes into the mix was my thinking. Well, also thinking that I could handle eight Singapore Slings…

True, us Lane women are known to be light weights when it comes to liquor especially exotic blends.

Clearly the paternity debate will go on until I can swab the inside of my father’s cheek, so for now I’d like to say it’s not easy being a mom, especially when you got yourself a kid that pushes the boundary of ordinary into the odd.  Happy Mother’s Day to my mom – who allows me to be as weird and inappropriate as humanly possible. I am so glad I chose you.

*I’m the blonde Asian looking kid on the right.

reader’s email: fisticuff and tucking edition

Yesterday I received an email from a Concerned Citizen regarding my latest post:

“some guys are worth waiting for EXCEPT the ones who disrespected you and will never change because they feel entitled and are users.

Now here’s the thing – Concerned Citizen is a friend of Six-Feet-of-Shoulders…I wasn’t even referring to Six-Feet-of-Shoulders when I was writing that post, but it got my crazy train fired up – was SIX-FEET-OF-SHOULDERS TALKING SHIT ABOUT ME?!? Did he “use” me like a toilet seat cover?

Suddenly I am all let’s meet after school Mr. Six Feet of Nothing – you bring your crew and I’ll bring mine (which would consist of me and my cat and his pink mouse).

Showdown on!… possible dance off?…totally…knife fight? – Why the fuck not. I start humming When you’re a Jet, You’re a Jet all the way …the second you go West Side Story you are legally required to do a little “Somewhere“…Sondheim and Bernstein knew how to throw down. I am half way through the first chorus when I feel West Side Story guilt – we didn’t have to cross the boundaries of culture and race –  Six-Feet-of-Shoulders lives within walking distance to my house – the worse thing that could happen is he’d get a jay walking ticket. (LA is serious about that shit.)…hmmm…okay…so clearly fisticuffs in the high school parking lot is out of the question.

How bout I three-way call his ass?…go a little Sweet Valley High on him!

…although the only way that works would be if he had a crush on someone and said something stupid on the phone while his crush was secretly listening…was that how it worked? I forget. Fuck. I suck at retribution – retro or otherwise…

…but seriously dude – wasn’t it enough to disappear on me and give me a mean case of the reds…but now you gotta brag to your friends how you made origami dog shit out of my heart?

Was my innocent naive love just a lotioned up, starving,  abducted girl stuck in a well while you danced around it with your dick tucked between your legs like the dude from Silence of the Lambs when he is making the dress of flesh?

…or…..

…um….

Concerned Citizen could have just been talking in general. Like how people do when talking weather or white toast or The Price Is Right…it’s like using an “old saying”, it wasn’t specific to anything – more of a life lesson sort of thing and had nothing to do with anyone directly.

*Meep*

Maybe I just made a whole lot of nothing about something or something out of nothing – maybe Six-Feet-of-Shoulders doesn’t ever think of me, …wait…

isn’t that worse?

No, none of it matters if he wants to say I was a fool for loving him – for trusting him – for believing in him – let him. If he wants to keep going on pretending I was nothing – do it . I have no regrets. I played it clean and classy and always kept the truth.  That’s when I put on my sunglasses and take a bath and move onto more important matters like adults afflicted with Hello Kitty fever – creepy or genius?

can sex become an endangered species?

Question: Tracy Lane could you be more of a freak?

Answer: No. (especially when I talk to myself in the third person.)

But at least I have kept the mental lashing to a minimum in regards to the many which ways til tomorrow that I am a complete fuck-wit.

How not to be like me lesson #23: when an incredibly Cute Guy asks you out to dinner – you do what?

  • you say “yes”
  • “I’d love to.”
  • nod in an affirmative manner

Or you could say:

  • “sorry, joining the peace corps tomorrow.”
  • “can’t, brain surgery in the morning”
  • “nope, sorry, I am watching The Pauly D Project”. It’s crazy crack.

Dude’s got a tanning bed in his living room! I had to replay 3x because who the fuck has their own tanning bed? Oh, right DJ Pauly D…and then I had to consider the fact that I watch The Pauly D Project, not really watch more like fast forward and stop if he is:

  1. doing his hair
  2. using safety clips to pin his T-shirts tighter in order to emphasize his arm muscles – he calls this “tailoring”
  3. The Pauly D creepy hyper laugh
  4. anything involving his sneakers including but not limited to lining them up in perfectly straight lines

Pauly D is a lab rat for my OCD obession.  Must google OCD of OCD because I might have that. Can one be obsessed with another’s obsessive behavior?…whatever…Pauly D is not the point.

The point is when Cute Guy asks you out to dinner YOU SAY SOMETHING!! You don’t just stare awkwardly at him and then walk away. Well, I guess you do if you are me. Argh!

That’s it. I am going to be single forever and my vagina will be placed in plaster of paris or decoupaged…people will visit it like a museum – like a T-Rex exhibit – there will be benefit concerts, similar to Live Aid, honoring my vagina, because sex with Tracy will soon be on the endangered species list…can sex be an endangered species like the Spix’s Macaw?

Okay, probably not, more like going the way of holding up a lighter during a power ballad or looking up a number in the phone book – it’ll become an activity that slowly fades away.

Stop….I will not go down the self pity sex-less path. I am picking the other road less traveled. The road that says it is just too soon. My heart is still locked down in loyality to another.

That’s why I can’t say yes to dinner with Cute Guy, not yet, maybe soon, maybe next week, maybe next month…and when I do I won’t show up with a certain man still roaming around in my heart and God help me, I won’t be wishing I was home watching Pauly D.

A wise woman once said “you can’t hurry love..” damn straight. sometimes you just have to wait.

the love of great nipples

Sometimes when you find yourself head over feet in a new relationship and your insecurities are raging and you just can’t pull the I-am-so-fucking-awesome-card by yourself – you need a helping hand. My hand is Paul.

Paul is the reason I am still floating face up. This is how we do:

“I used to have bigger boobs. The second he kissed me I swear to God they went down a size.” I confess. “Don’t look at me like I am crazy. They used to be bigger! I swear!”

“Well at least you have deliciously kissable nipples.”

“I do?”

“Yeah, you totally have awesome nipples.”

“Huh…I never thought about my nipples. Who thinks about their nipples? Do men think about nipples or is it just the overall breast size? It’s not like I sit around thinking about ball size  - it’s kind of last on my list, not that I have a list, but if I did, a guy’s ball sack and its size wouldn’t be on it. I am a “brain” person. Do you think there are “ball sack” people – like a foot fetish sort of thing?”

“I shave my balls. Who wants to put a hairy ball in their mouth?”

I guess some people might be uncomfortable with this sort of conversation, but this is actually a step up for us. Normally we have this type of talk at work. I’ve learned all sorts of things about penises from Paul, usually while standing behind a steaming chaffing dish, spatula in hand and a long line of Bar Mitzvah guests with empty plates waiting across the buffet from us.

Those are the boys I work with…cater waitering at its finest  (just in case you were wondering what the guy that served you a pig in a blanket was really like).

…anyway back to the crisis at hand and the case of the incredible shrinking boobs.

“Every time he touches them they shrink in size, soon they are going to be concave!” I say.

“You should suck them.” Paul says.

“Suck my own nipples?”

“Yup.”

“Have you been hitting google again?” I ask.

Paul’s mind is a weird storage unit of odd facts, mostly sexual in nature, involving the human body and animals – bees in particular.

“What? Did you google how to increase my girlfriend’s breast size? I ask.

“Sort of.”

“Why would you do that?” knowing Paul is strictly dickly.

He shrugs.

“I don’t think I could even reach my nipple if I wanted to and that just seems, I don’t know  - all sorts of weird – I mean I like him and stuff but-”

Paul shoots me a look like he doesn’t buy what I am selling.

“Okay, I am crazy about him-”

Paul continues with the lie detector stare.

“I don’t think sucking my own nipple is something that I want to take on.” I say firmly, hoping this puts an end to it and by “it” I mean to me admitting out loud how far I have fallen for the new guy.

“Then just embrace the beauty that is your nipple and stop being such a size queen.” he says.

So when you are struggling to love the whole breast – call your friend – the one that will remind you of the awesomeness that is your nipple, the one that holds up a mirror to you and lets you know just how incredible you are.

I love you Paul.  The real love. Like some Golden Girls type of shit.

to live and date in la: praise jesus edition

ME: I dreamt that I had stigmata of the hands.

HER: You should put that on your profile.

ME: I don’t do that.

HER: What?

ME:  On-line dating and fundamentalists.

HER: Oh.

ME: Why?

HER: I joined Christian Singles.

ME: I thought you were doing Ashton Kutcher’s Kabbalah?

HER: Well since he cheated and Demi had the whole whippet and Red Bull breakdown – I found it’s not all cracked up to what Madonna preached.

ME: Oh.

HER: I am super excited about it! I bought one of those Jesus waffle makers so I can give him the body of Christ.

sex in numbers

After Six-Feet of Shoulders set off an atomic bomb in my chest I started “hanging out” with a guy – let’s call him “Hoops”.

Hoops and I had The Talk, you know the one, the one that either makes or breaks a new relationship. The Talk happened like it always does when cuddling in bed and went something like this:

“Sooo…how many people have you been with?” he asks.

“I thought you didn’t want to know.” I say

“I changed my mind.”

“You first.”

“Nine.”

“Really? That’s it?”

“Yeah.”

Hoops is devastatingly handsome, the kind of handsome that inspire high numbers. His magnetic green eyes waiting…waiting for MY number…

“Three.”

“Three?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re lying.”

“No, I am not.  I don’t lie…My high school boyfriend, my college boyfriend, and my post-college boyfriend.” I say.

The look on his face is best described as SHOCK.

“I’ve never had a one night-stand. I am a relationship girl.”

Proving yet again I should have been born when a corset was part of the dress code. I resist the urge to grab the freak label that is sitting on the bed next to me, the I-am-a-girl-that-only-fucks-guys-I-love type of freak.

“I lied.” Hoops says, lifting his head up from resting on my chest. “My number is over a hundred,” he admits, guilt and shame flood his face…”but remember I played pro-ball.”

My mind starts to fill his bedroom with a hundred bodies, a hundred different vaginas – hmmm, maybe I should invest in a full body condom…wait, he said ‘over a hundred’ which probably means close to two hundred.

“Out of those hundred plus how many did you love?”

“One.”

“Oh.”

“And none of them spent the night.” he says, giving me a sly smile because I had just spent the night.

“So afterwards you would say what to them?”

“Do you want me to walk you to your car?”

“How Jersey Shore of you.”

“It’s not like they didn’t know what they were getting into.”

“What were they getting into?”

His head collapses on my chest with a sigh and he says in a defeated sort of way, “Now you are never going to sleep with me.”

I guess some women when faced with this information would be shocked or disgusted, considering Hoops had just turned 27…but I am not. Everyone has warned me about playing in this part of the pool, but sometimes you just can’t help yourself.

I love his honesty, his ability to look me straight in the eye and come clean. I don’t give a shit about his past as long as they stay in the past and I become his present and hopefully his future.

The things that happened or didn’t happen before you meet your “one” is what makes you appreciate them – makes you see that this is someone special.  I am thankful to all 100+ girls that marched in here before me because without them he might not have been able to recognize that I am the real mother fucking deal.

I pull his head up off my chest and look him straight in the eye, “I will if I love you.”

Hoops kind of smiles, but I can still see the shame in his eyes.

“Just don’t fuck this up.” I warn.

It is true. I don’t lie. Hoops has got a chance…WE have got a chance.

Some might say that Hoops and I are from two different worlds, with two different pasts and there will never be a common ground…to them I say don’t judge a book by its cover or a lover by their number because you might miss out on one of the greatest stories you’ve ever read.

i stand before you naked

tracy lane

Today is the day! The day I have waited for, the day my new life begins…the day I get my car’s oil changed.

Say what?!?

Let me explain…

See there was this guy, let’s call him “Six Feet of Shoulders”, we exchanged words, me and Six Feet of Shoulders, the kind of words they make love songs out of and I was hooked. Bad. Like mainlining the pure stuff.

Then one day he took off without a word and I was left with just the ghost of him…even his abandoned six pack of beer laughed at me from inside of my fridge:

(insert Vincent Price’s cackle from Thriller)

I went through a brutal detox, it involved the ugly cry and Adele on repeat.

Out went his stuff, gone went my Facebook, up went the burning sage and I moved the F-on. Six Feet of Shoulders was just somebody I used to know.

Until I got my oil changed.

When I got into my freshly oiled machine of eco-goodness and looked up at the reminder sticker in the left corner of my windshield I exclaimed rather loudly and slightly demonically:

“MOTHER FUCKER!!!”

3/26/2012 – just happens to be Six Feet of Shoulders’ birthday – great. So am I suppose to go another 10,000 miles with his birthday branded like a forget-me-not note in my car?

A sensible non-neurotic car owner would have:

  • a) removed sticker
  • b) gotten over it and him
  • c) would have forgotten his b-day by now!
  • d) ditched car and moved to NYC
  • e)  all of the above

But I am the type of girl that:

  • a) won’t spend a lucky 2 dollar bill
  • b) won’t cut the tags off a mattress
  • c) doesn’t download pirated movies or music
  • d) has only gotten one traffic ticket and one parking ticket in my entire life

Rule breaker is not in my DNA, so the sticker stayed and it has been a daily reminder of what happened, until today…

I drove off the Toyota lot and looked up at the top corner of my windshield:

IT WAS SAME STICKER – SAME DATE!

The Tracy of before would have marched back into the garage and demanded that the scarlet letter of an oil change reminder be removed. But I am not that girl any more…four months of seeing his birthday made me realize that Six Feet of Shoulders is in my heart forever, no amount of lube jobs was gonna wash him from it.

I am a better woman for having loved and for loving him…and I dig it – I dig the aging of my heart, it tells the story of who I am.

And to my new man – whoever you are – I promise to stand before you naked, stripped bare of all the walls that hurt will build, with my battered, duct tapped, hot glue gunned, needle and threaded, but still beating heart ready to love…

…because I am worth it…I am one sick ass dope chick.

So if you find your heart busted up, drop kicked and left in a gutter. Remember it all starts with you. Love that bitch of self like no one else cause you are gonna walk with you forever. Some fortunate soul maybe lucky enough to catch a few beats of that incredible you – so stay open. Stay sexy. Stay true.