So yeah, this is my first blog. I started setting it up at least a year ago but didn’t know where I wanted to begin (story of my life). What am I going to say? Who will listen? What’s my angle?
So I thought about all these things and decided this: I’m a thirty-ish single Latina woman in Los Angeles, zero children, zero pregnancies, zero abortions, that’s right – not even one unwanted baby (cut & paste straight from my OkCupid profile, don’t know why I’m single?)…the struggle is real. Not exactly what I envisioned at twenty.
So I’ll start there. Here. The other night was another story for the sloppy single books. Definitely not the kind I’ll ever tell my grandchildren (from my adopted children cuz this broad is gettin’ older & it just might be adoption).
Let me tell you about, The Brandons. I should preface that this story begins with two single girls on a Saturday night. One is me, and the other is my bad ass Scorpio girlfriend who just became single because her man wouldn’t put a ring on it. Shot out to my ladies who say ‘fuck that’ after nine years and decide they’d rather be alone. Not easy to do. Masturbating gets old and so does loveless sex. So yeah, I’m her wing woman. Like two hoe birds we took flight. I being the more experienced of the birds try to welcome her back into the wild animal kingdom. The scene has changed so much; it’s a whole new world with apps & swiping.
Anyway, in hindsight I realize I wasn’t playing wing woman – I was kind of looking for prey myself. Quick backstory on that : You see I had just hooked up with an old crush who was in town visiting his LA friends, me included obviously. But all we did was make out heavily like three times (days/ dates?), which is a record for me. I hardly get passed a second date. Anyway, we’ll call him Mr. Texas for now and we’ll save him for another story. That being said, I basically felt compelled to make out with another man immediately to prove to myself that I wasn’t taking Mr. Texas too seriously. Like he’s in another time zone, relax. Anyway, this is about The Brandons.
For the sake of my girl, we’ll call her G Dizzle? Sure, that works. Saturday night was off to a beautiful start with some chilled rosé wine, you know because by now my girls and I are sophisticated AF, or maybe we were just out of Bud Light. It’s hard to remember now. We drink a bottle and a half of wine before we even leave G Dog’s little apartment on the far Eastside of the recently gentrified Highland Park. Also, we hop in the Uber with rosé popsicles because why not? So we’re feeling pretty saucy by the time we get to La Cuevita (The Little Cove). Like the classy broads we are, we decide to upgrade to vodka sodas, the skinny white girl drank. By the way, if you haven’t been to this bar, go. You’re welcome.
So there we are – checking the scene. The first group of guys we meet are beautiful, well dressed, fun, sweet guys, yeah… totally gay. Typical. Also typical, they were our best friends after like two ‘okaaayyys’ and three screechy-pitched high fives. By the end of the convo we promised to see one of them in a drag show a couple weeks later. Anyway, just another example of men we love that are unavailable. At this point we’ve crushed our first round and are pretty lit, so naturally I head to the bar to grab another. This is where I meet Brandon. Let’s call him Brandon #1, possibly the love of my life. Probably because he had an accent. What is it about accents? Talk about a panty dropper.
Brandon #1 was from Spain, well dressed and now talking to me. Of course I started the conversation…What’s that you’re drinking? Ps – I know what you’re drinking, I’m a bartender (humble brag). Remember, we’re in a kind of dive bar so all I need is one guess because I can pretty much tell by the color: whiskey or vodka. It’s vodka, he tells me. Like I care, that’s right sometimes women pretend to care about things men say. Like when you talk about sports. Check it, I’ll get a team and watch sports when I get a man. Until then, I’m just running game. Me: “uh, what’s the score?” Followed by an unnecessary hair flip.
Now, let’s check in here. At this point, I’m pretty tipsy, possibly swirly but in my mind I’m oh, soooo charming. Also checking in with G Bone who is now the hot Weho boys’ biggest cheerleader and now fruit fly. I glance over my shoulder. Is she showing off by doing the splits? Classic G Dizzle. Back to Brandon. I sometimes do this thing where I immediately friend zone a guy, which is sometimes mistaken for me being a lesbian. Which I’m not…yet. So somehow Brandon and I end up walking over to another group of chicks. Did I just become his wing woman? Either that or I’ve maybe given him the impression we’re now looking for a threesome. I like to think the latter..? I think. But that’s not what I wanted. I wanted his undivided attention. I’m just not sure how to do that, exactly. Speaking of attention, where’s G Breezy? So her name has changed a few times, that’s how you know you’re old friends. Also how you know your old friends, you realize that it’s time to walk away from this accent spewing Spaniard, Brandon. This part of the night gets blurry. I give him my number even though he doesn’t ask for it. And in my wobbly pop mind I just know that he will be mine some day. Adios, Brandon #1! G Dog and I roll out to do what we always like to do at the end of a night of drinking…drink some more and dance our faces off until we shut the bar down..in this case, The Offbeat. It’s all in the name – describing the people, not the music. Here’s where we meet Brandon #2.
I met Brandon #2 on the dance floor. You see, I like to bust a move when I drink. No dance floor? No way. Make one, is what I say. And I’m not just doing your classic two step, Lord no. This broad here, swears she’s John Travolta’s dance partner. Or better, teacher. I’m doing mash ups of salsa dancing meets pop-lock-and-dropping-it. Then picking it up again just to twerk and finish off with a few shimmys. What is this a wedding? Picture these moves in a divey, sticky floored, dark-lit bar that should be in a strip mall but still has disco lights likely purchased in a strip mall blinding my eyesight (the alcohol doing enough to blind my judgement). I dance with him because, well to be honest he was the only guy on the dance floor at 1:30am. At one point, G Bone and I dance on the stage like two clothed strippers, which is usually occupied by some local band. I’m spinning, dancing, spinning, dancing, spinning like Selena in that movie… Selena, duh. And out of nowhere Brandon #2 grabs me between the spins and plants one right on my lips. And I let him for like 3 seconds before he does this creepy waist grab and pulls me closer to his little skeleton body and back into reality. I pulled away. I was done. Enough humoring this guy. Boy bye. The night was over. The bar was closing, lights came up and it’s time to go. Most likely to Jack in the Box. What a night!!!
I wake up the next morning on G Ride’s couch and we recap last night’s adventure, laughing and checking our bank accounts. Boom! In comes a text. Message reads: Hey Marina, had a great time with you last night. We should hang again soon. – Brendan. Wait, Brendan? Who the fuck is Brendan? I thought they were both Brandons! Which one was Brendan? In one hand it could have been the first guy, I mean he did have an accent. And in the other hand, I was much more lit at the second bar plus the music was pretty loud. Who the FUCK is Brendan?
Sure, I could just text him back very directly to figure out which bar we met at…but that would be too easy. And if you can’t tell already, if I liked easy I would tell shorter stories. This is where my investigative reporter skills kick in. Uber rides!!! I decided to make a timeline. So G Thang and I discover that we left the first bar at 1am which would put us at the second bar maybe ten minutes after. Then taking one last uber ride at 2am. As I’m trying to deduce which one is Brendan, I notice that I also have a voicemail from this Brendan guy from the night before. The call was made at 1:15am. It’s this info that leads me to believe that the Spanish suitor was Brendan because what kind of loser would call me while he’s essentially still hanging out with me, right? You think about it and I’ll let you know which B Man it was next blog because naturally I took a leap and said “fuck it” and confirmed a date for Thai food. Sounds fun, huh? We’ll see.
~ Lady Q