Singled Out: Lesbian 'Secret Sex'

She’s religiously being busy with work or getting busy with some alleged girlfriend she claimed to have been seeing for the past few months. One thing for sure is that she certifiably has been the only one who’s seen this girl because the rest of her people, including moi, so far hasn’t. I’m just saying! It’s been almost half a year for god’s sake. If you ask me she’s either developed a case of dementia or else she fabricated this whole imaginary girlfriend scenario because deep down inside she hates my guts and figured it was the best way to get me off of her back without hurting my feelings.

Seriously, it seems like a lot of work to give someone the finger - really, a simple Facebook de-friend maneuver would have sufficed to convey the message. Yet because I never take things personally, one evening when she once again turned down the opportunity to play Hollywood socialite in my exclusive fabulous company, I decided I would secretly follow her to wherever she pretended she had given hypothetical girlfriend a rendezvous.

To my astonishment what I came to realize was that her problem had nothing to do with potentially being a pathological liar; au contraire, her problem had everything to do with her being too brutally honest - with herself. You see, McKenzie’s girlfriend was indeed real as in “really ugly!” And that was the real problem because while McKenzie was fooling us, she, on the other hand, was not fooling herself at all – she absolutely knew it. Hence the constant hiding and self-inflicted social ostracizing.

What I couldn’t quite bring myself to understand was why she would deliberately choose to stay romantically involved with someone she was obviously ashamed to present to her entourage? Unless she was a total masochist or was going for a suicidal PR stunt, the answer could only be: fucking amazing sex – or “secret sex” as Carrie Bradshaw coined in Season One of Sex and The City.

I wish I were a role model in dating affairs. I would for sure have given her the whole patronizingly condemning speech of how she should be ashamed of herself for being so superficial.

But my name is not preceded by the word “saint.” And for that reason I had no right to be morally judgmental. Truthfully, I’ve been there, done that.

A few years ago, after a night of one too many liquid courage gulps, I somehow found myself waking up in a bed dressed in some scandalously cheap polyester sheets that could only be described as atrocious, with my left arm stuck under a flowing mane of coarse, heavy hair (evidently belonging to a woman), and an anodyne back facing me. When she finally turned around for the reveal I almost went ballistic. I don’t remember what she said her name was but I will call her “Unibrow” – need I explain more?

Let’s just say that I nearly coyote uglied her ass and chewed off my own arm!

But I barely had enough time to put that thought into motion that she was already attacking me. That was when, despite the very present residual effects of the alcohol, it suddenly all came back to me … the sex was so addictively mind-blowing good – in the dark, of course - that I instantly got hooked on that crack and knew I was irreversibly going down (no pun intended).

Yet if the tweezers’ malfunction had been her only problem, I would have easily remedied the technical difficulty by offering her a professional grooming kit or a gift certificate for a comprehensive salon and spa services – with an emphasis on plucking treatment.

However, I was facing another, perhaps more colossal, facial problem: her mouth. No, she wasn’t growing unwanted hair around the lips area, she was just impressively speech impaired.

She totally sounded like totally Valley! You know, like “ oh mah gawd, she’s all, he’s all, you’re all, I’m all …what-EVEEER!” She was embarrassingly illiterate, admirably impaired and definitely not public display material. I’m not gonna lie, I was mortifyingly concerned about my public image and reputation. How would I have justified dating someone whose social verbiage skills were limited to “sup?” and adamantly argued that Paris was the capital of Texas.

Clearly she was a lost cause. So not only did I conveniently and safely keep her holed up, but evidently I quickly made myself scarce at all cost avoiding my friends and family when in her presence. Yep, I pulled a McKenzie on Unibrow.

I was just too embarrassed to be publicly seen with the female reincarnation of Leonid Brezhnev meets Sesame Street’s Bert. Yet, of course, I wasn’t going to be a total jerk and just shamefully use her. I was raised with good manners. I will have you know that I was very sensitive to the fact that I had to feed her to refuel her youthful energetic stamina to keep her going at her full optimum level in our indoors workout sessions – in the dark, of course!

So I didn’t so much sequestered her in the bedroom like an ugly stepchild as much as I was avoiding (like the plague) frequenting my usual hangs. Admittedly, I marshaled all my strength to strictly confine our outings to the nether region of un-fabulous LA which, suffice to say, pretty much restricted us to the Valley. No big deal, really! Except for the language barrier, I wasn’t totally out of place – I mean I’ve been to foreign countries before.

Call me shallow, superficial or even materialistic, but seriously it’s not my fault if I have mind-reading powers and can hear what I think others silently think of me. It’s not that I am highly judgmental of others, I’m just highly critical of myself. What can I say? It’s not easy to be a chronic worrier like me. Mind you, it’s a full time job being caught up in my own Mona world and evidently I’m insanely super busy being constantly busy.

The finale of my “Ugly Betty” story was that she dumped my ass. Apparently I wasn’t young enough for her. “We’re just at different places in our lives” was her exit line.

That was when I pulled an ‘Oh mah gawd’ for realizing that all along I wasn’t so much out of place as I might have possibly been put back in my place – ironically, by the very girl I thought I had conveniently misplaced.

Perhaps, after all, I was the one being literally and figuratively kept in the dark?

But hey! I’d take the dark over the broad daylight any day rather than being one of those obnoxiously nauseating lesbian couples who compensate for their total absence of sexual activities by an overly exaggerated overdose of public display of affection. You know the kind that can’t look at a menu, order food and go potty without constantly having to visually remind you that they’re together and that it’s forever because they’re so in luuuuve – of course you always find out two weeks later that they broke up.

My only consolation was that if indeed I were her “secret sex” hobby, at least we both agreed on one thing: sex was fucking out of this world …in the dark, of course!