Vibrations of a Vixen

…stories from under the sheets…

My Brazilian November 25, 2009

Filed under: dating,sex — vixations @ 5:34 am

I get my vagina waxed once every 4-6 weeks. I allow hot wax to be spread onto it and then ripped off, usually by an Asian or Eastern European woman. I started getting waxed when I moved to California for three reasons. 1. Shaving hurts way too much after the second day. 2. I’m at the beach way more that I was while living in NYC. 3. I feel way sexier when my muffin is hairless and not bushy. Am I allowed to call it a muffin or was that only in Mean Girls?

My Brazilian (and my love for sexual activities) has gotten me laid many times in the past, but my Brazilian has never gotten me laid BY a Brazilian. Until now.

I posted my roommate’s bed for $50 on Craigslist (she had already moved out and left me to deal with it), and Rodrigo was the first to call about buying it. I assumed he was a Latino father who lived in the ghetto like me and was buying a cheap bed for his kid. I didn’t care, I just needed the 50 bucks. His messy brown hair and light eyes attracted me immediately, but the accent got me to a place where I felt like taking my vibrator with me to the bathroom and listening to him talk about how comfortable the mattress is and how he can’t wait to lie on it… Ahem. Anyway.

All I knew was that he was taking car design classes in Pasadena and that he had a nice ass. Other than that, I had a bit too much dick in my life at the time (is that possible?) so I didn’t bother saving his number. A few weeks later I got a call from a 626 phone number. Pasadena. He was asking me to come to First Fridays on Abbot Kinney. It took me almost a year of being in L.A. to find out about First Fridays. He’s been here for 2 months and already knows about them. He must be cool. I told him I would call if I made it down there, but I was already drunk in Santa Monica so I knew I wouldn’t. I figured that was the end of Brazilian boy, so again I didn’t both saving his number.

Last Sunday afternoon, I got a text message from an unknown number: ‘Hey bed girl!’


This could mean so many things. Did I pass out in someone’s bed and leave them to sleep on the floor? Did I kick someone out of my bed because I was taking up too much room? Did I have sex in too many beds so someone decided to come up with the nickname ‘Bed Girl’??

I looked at the number. 626 area code again.  It’s Brazilian boy! He told me he wanted to see me again, but not to buy anything this time. Haha. Alright. So the actual date part wound up going something like this:

Leave for the Beechwood around 4:30. Happy Hour is the Best Hour after all. Get a text when I’m five minutes away saying he’s five minutes away. Park on the street and then find a seat outside by the fire. Decide it’s too cold and move inside to a table. Decide it’s too awkward because no one else is sitting at tables and move to the bar. Decide drinks come faster there anyway and wonder why I didn’t sit there in the first place. Order a four dollar glass of Pinot Grigio. Order another one. Wonder if the Brazilian walked in, took one look at me, and realized I wasn’t as hot as he remembered. Realize that I need to leave soon to go to the ex’s concert anyway. Order the best edamame ever. Continue drinking and waiting. See taller-than-I-remember Brazilian at the door. Fight the urge to run away. See that he’s not only taller, but also cuter-than-I-remember Brazilian. Decide that if I drink one more glass of wine I will definitely try to kiss him. Order another glass of wine.

One order of fig and truffle grilled cheese, two more glasses of wine, and a beer later, we decided to go over to the Other Room for some more wine. He’s open to wines I like, which is sexy. I need to be in charge sometimes. Start making out on the couch at the bar, but attempt to remind myself that going home alone will feel much better in the morning than waking up next to a naked Brazilian, no matter how cute he is, how good of a kisser he is, or how sexy his accent would sound in the bedroom.

Go home and get naked with the Brazilian after stopping at 7-11 for more wine.

Wake up at 7:43 the next morning. Almost cry when I see the broken condom on the floor. Go through all the worst scenario thoughts in my head. Do I have HIV now? Or is it just chlamydia? Do they have herpes in Brazil? Do I have those too? Remember that he’s still in my bed. Close my eyes and think about rainbows and sunshine. Wake up at 11:35 and look through my entire purse and apartment for my cell phone, trying to figure out what time we got home, how we got home, where my car is, and how many inappropriate text messages I sent. Notice my cell phone is missing, but that my keys are out on the table. Wander outside to find my car. See it across the street in a legal spot. Realize I drove drunk and didn’t get pulled over OR crash into anything. Slap myself on the wrist for being SO STUPID. Look for my phone on the street, in the grass, and under the seats of the car. Go back in the house to look up the nearest Verizon store while also updating Facebook and Gmail to tell everyone that my phone is gone and that I’m sorry in advance for raucous text messages I may or may not have sent last night.

Complain to my new roommate about how wine makes me a whore. Evaluate his reaction, and think that maybe it’s not the wine that makes me a whore, but that I actually just am a whore. Discard that thought immediately.

Wait for the Brazilian to wake up, and decide that he actually may be a guy that I want to see again. Go to the Verizon store to buy a new phone. Find my phone in the front pocket of my purse, where it had been the entire time. Text Rodrigo and let him know that if he ever wants to see me again he needs to get tested (in America) for all STDs including HIV and herpes. Receive a text saying that he will let me know when he gets the results and that he misses me already. Sigh. Call my Eastern European woman to schedule my next Brazilian wax.


Do You Have Five Bucks? November 23, 2009

Filed under: dating,relationships — vixations @ 11:27 pm

I have a part time job at this restaurant where blonde 40-something women with fat lips and fake titties come in to spend their husbands’ money and talk about the new face cream they bought yesterday. The place gets clients like The Governator, Jamie Lee Curtis, and that skinny girl that was in Knocked Up and Funny People. Most of the time my plastered-on smile rewards me with good tips, but not much else.

One Saturday morning I made small talk with an older, scruffy guy who called the restaurant ten minutes after he left to get my phone number. After a few weeks of playful texting, he asked to take me out. A short ride in his brand new Audi left me a bit concerned, and by the time we got to the sushi restaurant on Abbott Kinney, I didn’t know how many glasses of wine it would take to make his brash nature tolerable. The second he got out of the car he started smoking a cigarette and blowing it in my face, not on purpose of course. As I learn the rules of dating, I also learn what I just cannot fucking handle at all, and cigarette smokers are number one on my no-no list. Great.

The hostess didn’t really want to seat us at a table without a reservation, but Mr. Pompous Asshole insisted we sit at a large table in the back. As soon as the menus were placed in front of us, he took the drink list down and put it at the end of the table. The hostess took it away, thinking we didn’t want drinks at all. Maybe he had a plan for what we were drinking? That’s romantic. Oops no, spoke too soon. He’s having scotch on the rocks. I’m having a LARGE glass of Cabernet please. Maybe two glasses. Also a glass of Pinot Grigio. Thank you very much.

Our conversation was lame and forced, but he kept laughing and talking with his hands and asking if pieces of my face were really there. ‘Are those your real eyelashes?? They’re incredible!’ and ‘You have really great lips,’ and ‘Why don’t you part your hair on this side?’ Yes, he actually touched my hair from across the table, insisting he was ‘an amazing hair dresser.’ I thought he worked in real estate.

And so we started to get drunk and he started making racist comments and spilling his bottled sparkling water all over me.

When the server asked if we’d like any dessert and ‘you can take half to go if you want,’ he brushed her off saying, ‘I don’t take things to go.’ Jeez. We finally finished, he paid the bill, and we went to get the car from the valet. ‘Oh, I don’t have any cash,’ he says. ‘Do you have five bucks?’

Umm, NO, I don’t have five bucks, and I wouldn’t give it to you even if I did because who parks valet knowing they don’t have any money to pay for it??? And we could have parked at the meter across the street for free but you are clearly too lazy to walk that far. So he paid for the valet in quarters. Five dollars worth of quarters. No tip of course.

Is this really what the dating scene has in store for me? Will I start to develop an alcohol problem as a result? At least times like these make for good stories. I will continue to date sleezy old racists if for no other reason than to have funny stories for you!