Wednesday, February 4, 2015

Rent a Sunday Night Boyfriend, TPSF Style


A few weekends ago some friends and I ventured into Mauna Loa, a Marina dive bar known for it's Pop-A-Shot and gel-heads frat boys.  I was excited to be visiting my old stomping grounds - it had been a while since I'd disgraced myself in front of 60 fellow patrons played Duck Hunter whilst balancing a glass of Stella on my head (I'm a multi-tasker).  About an hour into the night I found myself in between conversations with a drunken sailor who was likely 9 years my junior (judging from his mild case of adult acne and the occasional voice crack), and a guy who looked identical to Kevin Bacon.  The Kevin Bacon clone was a staunch proponent of orgies and had recently joined an organization in the Mission centered around group sex and freedom of sexual expression.  He maintained that gangbanging had brought him spiritual enlightenment and encouraged me to "get on board."  At that point in our conversation I decided to fake an ankle injury and hobble to the bathroom.

Soon after I'd Nancy Kerrigan-ed myself away from Kinky Kevin I realized that the likelihood of the evening evolving into anything fun was slim to quite slim.  So I stole the sailor's hat high-fived the sailor and went on my merry way.  I stumbled walked home, made pasta a salad, watched 3 episodes of Dateline and fell asleep cold and alone only to wake up on Sunday morning in fear of the inevitable doom I'd soon be plagued by. But I digress.

San Francisco is a city crawling with couples - and they come in all different shapes, sizes and colors.  We've got heterosexuals, homosexuals, bisexuals, polysexuals, transsexuals - you name it: love is definitely in the air in SF.  Every time I walk out of my house I feel as though I am surrounded by couples walking and talking, holding hands, Eiffel towering, whimpering, necking, goosing and whispering sweet nothings to each other.  When I first moved to California nearly 7 years ago I was
scared and confused taken aback by all of the in-your-face public displays of affection amongst San Franciscans (one time on my way to work I saw a homeless man going down on a girl in a park across from my house - I will never be able to unsee that, and yes, I have considered hypnosis/prayed for amnesia) but I'm used to it all by now.  I will say that now that I'm old balls in my thirties I've found it to be considerably harder to be single in a place dubbed the "Cool, Grey City of Love," as evidenced by my intro paragraph. 

love is even declared on SF street signs.                           
Don't get me wrong: being single has it's benefits: I never have to check in with anyone or ride on a tandem bike and I can headbang freely without fear of embarrassing my partner in pube-lic.  Really the only day I get jealous of girls (or guys) with boyfriends is on a Sunday afternoon/evening (that is a bold-faced lie) after a weekend of partying, when the sun begins to set and my anxiety level the moon rises.  There is something about a Sunday evening that makes me feel like Miranda Hobbs.  It's as though I turn into a pathetic little bitch needy child who needs to be held and coddled.  That's right, I'm restless on the day of rest.  I know for a fact other single girls feel this way and if you don't believe me then that's your prerogative and there's not much I can do about it. 

So like clockwork, I started to feel anxious right at around 3pm that Sunday following my lame night at Mauna Loa.  I curled up into the fetal position on my sofa and commenced to watch Mother, May I Sleep with Danger starring Tori Spelling.  As I hugged my self pillow I got to thinking about how spectacular it would be if a "Rent-A-Sunday-Night-Boyfriend" service existed.  I thought about how it would be structured if it did.  In a nutshell: It would be a service for all single girls who are in need of male companionship on a Sunday from the hours of 4pm to midnight.  There would be no hooking up involved, just good ol'  fashioned Sunday night camaraderie.  (So if you're looking for a Happy Ending, I suggest you venture on down to Chinatown and pay a visit to the Sum Yung Guy Massage parlor.)

I've put together a MANual (sorry, I couldn't resist) for all you fellas who are interested in applying for membership at RASNB.  Responsibilities/guidelines include but are not limited to:

1. Ordering the breast Vietnamese/Chinese/Japanese/Indian/Mexican food (whatever Single Girl prefers) and laying it all out for her in an elaborate spread (be sure to include Jo Malone candles) in front of TV.  Come prepared with fresh bottles of soy sauce, serotonin and Sriracha.  

2. Spoon feeding Single Girl xanax sodium infused grub whilst simultaneously assuring her in your best Bruno voice that that "the puffy look is like, the in-est look eva right now!" 
oh. hay Bruno.

3. Make sure Single Girl is always laughing - bring the following DVD's: Blades of Glory, Wet Hot American Summer & What About Bob. Also be prepared to flap your arms like a bird and aimlessly and confusedly charge into windows and mirrors like a complete fucking idiot until Single Girl pees a little. ( if she doesn't laugh at that, then you're fired.)

4. Pry cell phone from Single Girl's hands, delete any drunk texts she may have sent the night before, begin to stroke her hair and assure her that "men find drunkenly desperate, unintelligible texts to be incredibly endearing and sexy."

5. Remind Single Girl that everything will be okay in the morning, and that at least she's not a pigeon or Bruce Jenner's doomed penis.  

7. Assure Single Girl that "no one saw you singe both your eye brows Friday night whilst attempting to light your p-funk off your neighbor's stove."

8.Detangle Single Girl's nappy weave distressed,  beer infused hair whilst humming Bob Marley's "Don't worry...bout a thing."

9. Bring single girl 4 tired puppies who are DTC.  (Down to Cuddle)

10. Spoon Single Girl on the sofa but do keep hands away from her face, funny bones, areolas and other private parts.

11. Set Single Girl's work clothes out for her including her outdated Longchamp bag and her Ellen Degeneres-esque pantsuit that she hates.  Say to her "It's a classic and you don't look like Diane Keaton when you wear it."

12. Come equipped with a fan to drown out sound of Single Girl's roommate having sex with hot, well-endowed boyfriend.  Encourage Single Girl not to feel jealous and remind her of all the weird things sex can cause like hermaphrodites and Dennis Rodman. 

13.  Remind Single Girl that she doesn't need a man to make her happy and that even VS model Adriana Lima was celibate for awhile too.  (This is a fact, btw)

14.  Lastly, you must be Brad Pitt from when he was in Legends of the Fall, Charlie Hannum, Chris Hemsworth or that guy from Country Sky to qualify.

I can't find my Cranberries CD, I gotta run to the quad before anyone snags it.  


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