My sex life is certainly NOT like the movies, . . . I just wish it was ~ Lucky Lopez

Blog #8: Eating a Delicious Man Cupcake

Day 103:  No Sex

So I made my way down to Sunset Boulevard.

Destination: Stag

Victim: Max

I laughed out loud in my car several times considering the heinousness of my college-like crusade:

A 30-something lawyer heading to a sleazy bar eroded with immature adolescents whose primary responsibilities include looking hot, getting drunk and hooking up . . . .

Ahhh, to be young and irresponsible again . . .

I had not perused the side streets of Sunset Boulevard in search of a parking space near a bar in about . . .  ummm . . . 100 years.

And let me tell you . . . I didn’t miss it.

In fact, my preferred destinations are entirely contingent upon a location’s availability of parking . . . a practice welcomed by Los Angelenes after the age of 30 – when the willingness to tolerate unnecessary bullshit in exchange for an overpriced alcoholic beverage decreases significantly.

As I walked down Sunset in my conservative business attire, I began to dread the overwhelming probability that I was about to walk into a fun picture quiz from Sesame Street . . .

Me being the sharp edged square in a group of harmoniously curved circles . . . “Which one doesn’t belong?”

I could just picture the doorman asking me:  “So what does your son look like, so I can get him for you and save him the embarrassment of getting busted by his mommy?”

Surprisingly however, the doorman greeted me with a friendly grin of recognition, and instead of carding me like he did the 5 “kids” before me, he gave me the proverbial “you’re good” nod.

I began to speculate how many “veteran” cougars had marched before me into this particular joint, paving the road for us “novice” cougars to follow in their footsteps.

I walked into Stag and scanned the sea of intoxicated adolescents – trying to locate my coveted cougar cub.

I finally spotted Max at the bar – his muscularly defined body draped over the bar, with a bottle of Bud Light in one hand and a fistful of shelled peanuts in the other.

He looked strong, perfect, and delicious.

Leading me to my next off topic . . .

I don’t know if you have ever tried Sprinkles Cupcakes, but they are absolute heaven in a paper cup.  Their frosting is fluffy and sweet; layers upon layers of butter cream churned within traces of rich vanilla.  The cake is decadent, moist and flaky – melting in your mouth immediately upon consumption.

I love those freakin’ cupcakes!

They have a variety of flavors – most of them traditional options, but every now and then they venture into “bold” territory.

The trademark dots on the top of each cupcake mark their flavor:

Chocolate on chocolate, vanilla on chocolate, vanilla on strawberry – you get the picture, and now, I am just torturing myself . . .

Okay, back to my point with the Sprinkles Cupcakes . . .

I have always categorized men in my life as a particular flavor of a Sprinkles Cupcake.  Something about putting a flavor to a man, makes everything you experience with them that much more savory and enjoyable.

I once categorized a man I was dating as a carrot cake muffin – topped with buttercream icing:

He was sometimes nutty, sometimes a little “pineapple-ly” and “off” – yet always sweet.

That being said, . . . I have decided that Max is a dark chocolate on vanilla cupcake.

He is strong, bold, and irresistible on the outside,

Light, sweet and buttery on the inside . . .

So now that we have established a flavorful reference . . .

I walked toward my dark chocolate on vanilla cupcake . . .

He didn’t see me coming . . .

The bar stool next to him was empty . . .

I took the liberty of taking my seat.

He turned and smiled at me, with a hint of relief on his face . . .  I got the impression he thought I wasn’t coming . . .

Max:  “Hey! I didn’t think you’d come. . . ”

(you see? . . .)

Me:  “Well, I knew your sorry ass was probably still crying a “J.T.” river, so I thought I’d come and bring you a tissue.”

He laughed satisfactorily.

I too was proud of my “collegiate-friendly” wit, and was happy that he appreciated my attempt to share a similarly detached and cold sense of humor.

Max:  “So what kinda beer do you like?”

I struggled to come up with a selection for a type of beverage I knew little to nothing about . . .

(quick brain scan)

I temporarily abandoned my wine snobbery and resorted to my Mexican roots:

“Dos Equis,”  I said casually – as if it was something I ordered (like) every day.

Max:  “Okay cool.”

He immediately ordered me a Dos Equis accompanied by a twisted lime; requesting that it be extra cold . . .

I was turned on by his “take charge” attitude – a definite diversion from the college kid that needed a mother hen to get him into law school and solve all of his little girl problems . . .

I was suddenly reminded that this is what college boys were actually like back in the day – half way stuck between being a strong and masculine manly-man and an obliviously lost little boy.

As I (tentatively) drank my beer, I found that I actually didn’t mind the taste . . . it wasn’t quite as “pungent” as I remember in my tail gate party/sorority days . . .

In fact, I discovered that a little beer in my bloodstream did encourage me to loosen up quite a bit; discarding the obsessive control freak lawyer persona momentarily, and embracing the opportunity to just be a chick in a bar.

We talked about life, philosophy, relationships, and sex over a couple more beers . . .

He was impressed by the crazy stories I shared from my old sorority days; remarking more than once how he couldn’t believe I was once “greek.”

Although I can’t deny I am a little removed from the days of short skirts, letter shirts, and keg stand parties, it was liberating to reveal a side of me that was deeply repressed under the guise of boring knee-length suits, legalese, and a desire to always be perceived as “responsible.”

The sex talk was the most interesting (of course).  A 20-something’s perspective on such an extraordinarily complex issue can actually be minimized to simple logistics:  just having sex at 21 is good enough, and all the particular intricacies of who, what, where, when and how are bizarrely irrelevant.

I suppose it’s like getting your first car:  you’re just happy to have one, and whether or not it is equipped with AC, a built-in ipod adapter or text to speech GPS are entirely insignificant.

. . .

After a few more beers, it became apparent that Max was slightly inebriated.

Although he could still form complete sentences and maintain eye contact, I knew he couldn’t drive home, nor recite the alphabet backwards, nor stand on one leg for 15 seconds . . . don’t ask me why I know that . . .

I (on the other hand) was only borderline tipsy; nothing a glass of water couldn’t dilute in a few minutes.

Me:  “I think I should take you home.”

. . .

Max:  “Really?” –  with one eyebrow raised . . . misinterpreting my concern for a suggestive invitation . . .


Me:  “No, uhhhh  that’s not what I meant.”

(Or did I?)

Me:  “I meant, I should drive you home . . . I don’t think you should drive.”

I waited for him to resist and give me the typical manly man “I’m fine” response . . .

But he didn’t.

Max:  “Yeah, I agree, I think you should take me . . .”

(clear throat)

“hhhmm hmmmm . . . I mean drive me home” . . .

And there went that mischievous schoolboy grin again . . .

He paid for the tab, and we walked together to my car which was parked about ten too many blocks from the bar; my office heels adding now another painful bunion to my severely punished toes.

When we finally got to my car, he accompanied me to the driver’s side – which I thought was unexpectedly sweet.

He  proceeded to walk over to the passenger’s side, jumped into the seat and asked . . .

“So where-we going?”

Me:  “I’m taking you home . . . you’re drunk.”

Max:  “Good, I want you to take me home.”

(there we go again)

Admittedly, I considered his drunken suggestion at least one thousand times . . .

However, I knew no matter how I sliced the possibilities, I had a sexually unmotivated boyfriend waiting for me in my bed, taking the place of what should be an empty space – destined to be occupied by Max.

As I followed the directions on my GPS – destination:  Max’s home, I began to begrudge the fact that I had remained in a sexless relationship, and was now prevented from seizing an (albeit) drunken opportunity with a hot-man-boy.

Deep down inside, however, I knew that I would likely never engage in any opportunities with Max in which he was simply too intoxicated to deny my sober cougar advances . . .

As tempting as the prospect was, I would never be able to ease my insecurity or self esteem post one night stand – wondering whether it was only the copious amounts of alcohol that persuaded this gorgeous man to desire seeing me naked.

As we pulled up to Max’s place, we lingered in silence in the car for a bit:

The preface to a dramatic goodbye – two forbidden lovers, having to part ways and attend to their reviled destinies . . .

It was very “telenovela-ish.”

. . .

Max:  ”Well, thanks for coming out . . . I had fun.”

Me:  ”Me too . . . thanks for inviting.”

Max:  ”Have a good rest of the week.”

Me:  ”Ohhh, you too.”

Max: “Okay well, I better go now . . .”

Me:  ”Okay, goodnight . . . ”

Max:  ”Goodnight . . . ”

And there went the inevitable goodbye . . .


Max didn’t go anywhere . . . He sat in the car, and stared at me curiously . . .

I was about to ask him why he was merely speaking of leaving, but then slacking with the follow-through, but instead . . .

I began to laugh uncontrollably, and ummmm . . . quite untimely if I do say so myself . .

What can I say?  I’m an Aries, and we are known to be untimely from time to time.

I laughed, and laughed, and laughed . . .

And laughed.

Until I realized I was laughing alone.

I stopped abruptly, and finally took a glance at Max – attempting to recover from my random and inexplicable hysteria.

He was smiling at me as if he had genuinely enjoyed my “performance.”

Max:  ”You are so cute, . . . you know that?”

Cute?!?! Cute?!?!  Did he just call me “Cute”?  I thought eagerly to myself . . . engaging in an invisible “yipee!” dance in my head.

I was elated to have him symbolically rewind ten years of my life:  Acutely aware that “cute” is a descriptive term usually reserved for “girls” in their 20′s.

Let me just say that a woman in her 30′s being called “cute” by any man (especially in his 20′s) is as effective as a good dose of female Viagra:

(Just F.Y.I. for you men out there.)

So just as I began to descend from my precious “cute” cloud, I was interrupted by two hands – Max’s hands to be exact – placed gently on my face.

Both of his unbelievably strong manly-man hands cradled my cheeks as if they were protecting something precious and fragile . . .

Me?  Precious and fragile?

I had not been approached that way in quite some time . . . a definite departure from the caveman/bat/clobbering technique often overused by men these days.

Then, he leaned in slowly, and in a completely sweet, endearing, and incredibly charming way – placed his delicious “dark chocolate on vanilla” lips to mine:

They were warm, divine . . . and even better than a Sprinkles Cupcake, or even 100 Sprinkles Cupcakes for that matter.

We kissed for a moment – just long enough for me to confirm that his lips did in fact taste like dark chocolate -

deliciously rich, scrumptious, unforgettable dark chocolate . . .

And unlike the sloppy and drunk kiss l would have expected . . . it was actually slow and enticingly rhythmic – surprisingly romantic.

I should kiss more 21 year old drunk college kids – I began thinking to myself . . .

I could have kissed him for a few “semesters” . . . but decided that the “less is more approach” would suit me best at that point -

so I pulled away, leaving him with lips puckered in mid-flight.

Me:  ”I should get going . . . it’s getting late,”  I said – as convincingly as I possibly could.

Max paused, smiled, didn’t say a word, and began exiting the car . . .

Just prior to closing the car door he stopped and said . . .

“I hope to see you again Lucky” . . .

I smiled, knowing that the expession on my face was probably sufficient to constitute a response.

He closed the car door and began to walk away, but then stopped and turned around to observe my departure . . .

I drove away – intermittently watching my dark chocolate on vanilla cupcake turn into a small speck in my review mirror . . .


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