A West Coast Lady On West Coast Men

Queen Ann on the Sex Panther Within

My butt cheek is numb and I blame L.A, I thought to myself as I reached the top of the stairs at The Viper Room.* No eye contact, body turned abruptly away from an oncoming predator, and still my right cheek was assaulted. Pinched. Just another night out since I moved to Los Angeles. For the past year, I’ve made a noble effort to glean some insight about the men that roam these parts, but honestly, I’m baffled.

Admittedly, my experience has limited scope. The academic realm of Pepperdine University and weekly visits to Hollywood’s The Viper Room have been the extent of my research. The more I consider my experiences/ traumas, I believe that the men in L.A. are not all that different from those of other regions of California. A numb cheek is comparatively little trouble when I recall the ex-con at a dive in Vacaville, Northern California, who wanted to celebrate because he just got out. The nearest prison was for the criminally insane. What joy.

In the same area, there are droves of Air Force guys, bivouacked in different dive bars where they play pool and watch old ladies with mullets wrestle. They devoted ample attention and never let me pay, but they didn’t do the things that I do, like read. Even up in Chico, California, (a testosterone-drenched cesspool when school is in session) an innocent-faced blonde stood quietly while I explained that I was a grad student down in Los Angeles. He blinked, shook his head, and blurted, “Sorry! I didn’t hear anything you just said. I was staring at your tits.” The flattery springs eternal.

It’s the same story that’s been trailing me for years like that cloud of dirt that surrounded Pig-Pen from Peanuts. Except here in L.A., it’s pervy. The Viper Room welcomes a variety of male characters. Everyone from the talented to the random shuffles around in the shadows every night, leering at the waitresses and making very small talk. “Got any crystal meth?” said Nate, a researcher for Court TV. “I wanna go out like River Phoenix did.” That was almost like humor, and there’s actually no telling if he was serious. In the same night, one of the performers asked if I would please check his nose for coke before he passed the cops parked around the corner.

Nevertheless, you let the good in with the bad. There are many struggling band members that come through the Viper Room, hoping to get signed someday. I’ve recently developed a new appreciation for live music thanks to the men of Buckfast, a band that frequently performs there. Rock usually isn’t my thing, but standing in the audience, enveloped by midnight energy (e.g., vodka tonics) and studying the seductively brooding expression of the Irish drummer, the draw suddenly intensifies. The guys onstage and all the sensations of the evening collide.

It occurred to me that I was being cleverly touched and yet not-touched. I had visions of mounting the stage and the drummer’s lap, which brings me to a revelation: Certain interludes with men remind me of Wild Kingdom. There’s a certain smell that men get when they’re active and excited and damp, but not sweaty enough to stink. I don’t know what those pheromones do, but damn! It’s libido catnip for the soul.

At times like these I have to redouble my already feeble grip on ladylike conduct and tell myself that it’s not okay to climb onto him like a panther. Or lick his arm. But inside, there’s a cunning ninja sex-panther lunging at his jugular. I think we all have an inner sex-panther, really. If anyone needs me later, I’ll be where my mind is usually—at home, frolicking shamelessly through the fields of impropriety.

But I digress. Back at the Viper Room, it was as if this band started as a happy meal and was run through a giant transmorgifier that magically laid them out like a sumptuous feast of masculinity. Multiply that sex appeal by duration of exposure and level of availability and what do you get all over the stage? That’s right: panties á la mesh.

But L.A. isn’t all about sumptuous feasts of masculinity. In fact, it’s very rarely about that. Wherever you go, there will be frat boys with their tans and sadly misplaced egos. They will do little more than shift their gazes to follow the rears of any females passing by. And feel entirely comfortable doing so. At the Viper Room, one such punk oiled his way across the room after an incident of unintentional eye contact. Damn my eyes!

“Why aren’t choo guyz drinkin?” he yelled.

When it was clear to him that my friend and I weren’t having his sickly version of charm, he rolled his eyes and turned his teenie Hollister t-shirt back toward his compatriots.

Later that evening, my friend and I had the pleasure of watching the drunkest girl we’ve ever seen upright plunge into the frat boy group and proceed to bite three different frat-boy nipples with enthusiasm. Teenie Hollister shirt boy clutched his peck for the rest of the evening. Glorious, yes, but I think this is a good warning to many men who think its cool to heckle a drunk chick: Beware the sex-panther of malicious intent. Seriously, gentlemen, it would behoove you to be more vigilant. That cloud of pheromones can produce something incredibly erotic (e.g., my sex-panther) or incredibly scary (e.g. nipple biting chick). If there are any sore-nippled college boy types out there reading this, well boys, like, honey is the sleep of the just.

I pondered the men of Los Angeles while visiting a hookah bar in Santa Monica. “Use me as your good example,” volunteered Dave, absently chewing and half-sucking on the mouthpiece of his hookah pipe. Why thank you, Dave. I’ll assume that it isn’t wrong to take advantage of a man at 3 a.m., brimming with relaxing tendrils of hookah smoke and still mesmerized by the last belly dancing show.

Though he was barely able to contain his urge to ravage the hookah bar belly dancers (he squirmed like a four-year-old and had to gnaw on his hand) while already in the company of two lovely women (myself included), Dave is rare kind of guy around L.A. Gainfully employed and able to demonstrate his ability to initiate and follow through on plans, he is also capable of entertaining with intriguing stories, such as why Darryl Hannah was recently found in a tree.**

When we first met, I looked at Dave like a unicorn. Follow-through? Plans? Where the hell did you come from? Then it dawned on me. Dave’s from New York and he doesn’t seem to be under Californication yet. He even complains about a tendency that I once assumed applied to all men: In L.A. you are exempt from calling people back. And if you do feel so inclined, there is a three- to four-day waiting period that I believe has been instituted by law. Now compare with N.Y., where the etiquette is to return a call as soon as you get the message or else it’s a slight insult. How are you supposed to plan something if no one calls you back?

I hate the "calling" issue with both men and women along this coast. It’s downright rude. And it’s all too tempting to turn this negligence back on oneself, which many of us do. Remember, there's no FREAK MAGNET sign on your head. We, good girls and boys, kick ass.

Therefore, if Prince Charming or Princess Demure turns out to be allergic to plans and promises, is still trying to find himself/herself, and complains that things are just too crazy busy to contact you for months on end, then let's focus on buying our own castles and hiring a plethora of pool boys/arm candy girls looking to advance their careers. It’s the L.A. way. Solid.


* The bar owned by Johnny Depp, which is most famous for being fronted by the sidewalk on which River Pheonix died.

** She was trying to save a farm. And by save, I mean be an ineffectual political eyesore and, moreover, an egregious waste of L.A. civil servants’ time.