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xmag.com : January 2005 : I Love Las Vegas

I just got out my little red book the minute that you said goodbye... I went from A to Z. I took out all the pretty girls in town. They danced with me...

--"Little Red Book" by Love


According to my daddy and Arthur Lee from the band Love, a little red book is where you keep the names and numbers of the nicer ladies you've encountered in case you hit a dry spell and mommy leaves you or Love bites the dust. That way you've got at the ready a list of lays for rainy days. Well, if I had a little red book, each name would be followed by a lengthy list of why NOT to call the cad EVER AGAIN.

It's been said that I have bad taste in men. Perhaps. But I prefer to think that it's just a lack of quality choices.

My roommate in Brooklyn gets lots of visits from hot Portland women. He marvels at how they all complain about their uninspired or just plain uninterested sex partners. What is up with that? I blame the weather. Or the slacker religion we all serve. But I'm gonna hang up my old hang-ups and take some responsibility for these lackluster lovers. I'm gonna write my own Little Red Book and tell 'em--at the DOOR--what I want, when I want it, and when to get lost.

The women's mag's advice gal says, "A lot of anger comes from women's odd expectation that men know what we want. They don't and they're not going to guess. It's really helpful if we tell them." But say you come home from the strip club and tell your dude, "Honey, I was giving a table dance at work today and the guy was saying how he'd love to chew gently on every inch of me, especially the small of my back and, uh, the backs of my knees. And, uh, it turned me on. Could

you try that? No, the guy was not HOT. No, I was not INTO him. No, I don't want to date him instead of you. Geez! I was just asking!"

My shrink says I have a problem with communication, and that 90% of relationships that fail fail as a result of poor communication. Well, not me; not any more. My Little Red Book will "communicate" everything: sex positions, food allergies, hygeine advice, favorite restaurants and whether I want a princess-cut or round brilliant diamond ring.

I'm sick of lovers, of hunting them, catching them, training them and then slaughtering them. I want a partner. And this may prove to be my biggest problem yet. I'm not interested anymore in casual dating. I'm not interested in casual sex. I have enough friends and when I really need a quick toss I have a short list of fine specimens that are willing to do the deed. What I need now is a mate. So, here's the first page of my Little Red Book. If you want to read the second page, email me at viva@xmag.com with your resume and maybe we can arrange a life partnership.


Dear Male Partner Prospect,


You must have a job. You must have a future beyond bartending and rock stardom. You must not be an alcoholic. You must rub feet. You must have a functioning cock. You must have a car so you can take me on hot dates. You must be an excellent kisser. You should read the New York Times and, on occasion, National Geographic. You must want kids. You must love animals. You should be an inspired lover and able to play my body at least as well as you play your guitar. Better yet, you should be able to play my body as well as Jimi Hendrix played his guitar. You must love music and be versed in the history of rock. You must be open-minded, goofy, adventurous and wise. You must be responsible, respectful and adoring. You must be loyal, hardworking and optimistic. You must take good care of yourself and of me. Hopefully you are also cute and manly enough to rock a sarong while feeding grapes to a goat. [See photo page 23.]


[Give it a try, girls! Put little boxes in front of each directive so you have a nifty checklist. Then you gotta follow through. DON'T go out with a guy unless he's batting a .75 average in your Little Red Book. Then make peace with the fact that you'll never get laid again.]





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