Boys, boys, boys: Mmm-hmm.
This early morn’, I took a drive through LA-LA. Did you know it can be a pretty mofo — if you go against its traffic? Oh, yes, it can, my kittens!
And this kitten — yours truly — somehow ended up in someone else’s cot last night. It wasn’t planned, I swear; because in my feline fashion, no matter where my paws wander off during sunlight, they always lead me back home at the end of each day. But when I saw the one from last night — in a tight T, which was barely holding onto its seams at his Apollonian pecs and drenched in sweat from a late night jog — I think I suffered a temporary amnesia.
Now, don’t be “yelous”, papis! ‘Cause no matter where I rest my paws, I always report back to you, via this here rant blog.
“Last night didn’t mean anything, I swear! You — are the only ones I truly love!”
So, here I am: Scratching at your door. Hellow.
I did leave him sleeping in his bed looking very pretty though, slightly disheveled and tired. (What?! We just played a coupla rounds of patty cake, that’s all — and I won!) But before I left, I got sidetracked by his sleepy face: He was frowning a little. He must’ve been slaying dragons in his dreams. From where I stood, his ripped back looked like that of a man. But underneath the stubbly morning whiskers, I somehow managed to notice a little boy.
Damn my ovaries! I swear: Every single time I’ve fallen for a boy, they are at fault. They forget, you see, the boundaries between my lovers and sons; and as if to make-up for the fact that I’ve never put ‘em to work for the sake of my own procreation, they confuse the hell outta me — and I adopt the men I love. (Just last night, when rubbing his head on my naked breasts, I didn’t even think to remember that man’s function in my life: He was it all, in that moment, across every category. My son. My baby. My little boy — and man. My love and my lovely.)
This maternal overcompensation must be the very reason for my recent basking in the attention of significantly younger men. No matter where their phone numbers are collected — at some artificially manufactured playground of LA-LA or a late night dance floor packed with plenty of other specimen — when they reveal their age (24 to 26!), I have to summon the best nonchalant face I can, to not scare them off right away with my skeptical chuckle. And considering they are always a lil’ bit defensive about those numbers, I suspect they are aware of the possible age difference. Yet, still, they proceed.
(I am actually quite fascinated by this generation of younger American men: They aren’t easily intimidated by older women.
“A woman — is not a girl,” one them was trying to break it down for me the other day while nearly drooling. (No shit, kitten!) “She knows what she wants and how to get it.” (Hmm. Papi, may I?)
More over, these youngsters seem at ease when it comes to gender roles. All of the ones to enter my own speed dial this last month make no fuss about picking up the tab or opening my doors; but are still quite comfortable when a woman turns out to be more sexually aggressive. They all kinda smile a lil’, boyishly, while quietly answering my questions; until the tables are turned — and it’s their time to step up and be the men they so painfully desire to be. Hmm. A coinkydink? Perhaps.)
This morn’, somewhere in West LA-LA, I passed a young couple hugging at a car. I couldn’t see the boy’s face, just the back of his UCLA-gold hoody. But I did see his girl’s face: quite pretty and seemingly still asleep, she had her eyes closed as she rested her cheekbone against his ear. Her strawberry blonde hair swooped down, until the boy reached over to gather it into a messy ponytail by which he gently but knowingly guided her face to his lips. Got skills, mister? Mmm. Mazel tov!
And then there was the pretty creature jogging sleepily through the cozy streets of the Melrose District. The way his joints moved was the exact reason I never mind a packed beach: For there is something so calculated, strong and graceful in the way a man can throw a ball, or carry a surfboard (or a girl) over his shoulder. Despite the slightly baggy clothes on the young athlete, I could see the fit body underneath. But it was really his face — the face that reminded me of the sleeping son I left behind — that nearly brought me to tears: There was determination in it. Determination and clarity that hasn’t overcrowded his innocence yet. I could tell he still knew how to dream, and his world was oh so full of possibilities. This boy was not running from or to yet: He was still taking his life, a sleepy leap at a time.
Somewhere closer to home, in Hollyweird’s zip code, a young hippie caught my attention. His dirty blond hair was unbrushed, spilling out from a small ponytail in the back of his head. Looking very Johnny Depp in Chocolat (or pre-Jolie Brad Pitt), with no bag to burden his strut, he walked along a perpetually depressing, long white wall of a local studio set. I bet he worked in production, in a clan of gypsies — stagehands and craftsmen — who are always ever so cooler than any celebrity actor on set. I bet my hippie had a few stories to tell: about his personal Milky Way that led him to this Weird Land of Holly; and about the way life fell into its place, as it does in this town — but only for those with courage and discipline enough to chase it.
With his and my own reflections in my rearview mirror, I thought: What am I to do with this new collection of young dreamers? with all my sons?
Then, I realized there was nothing to do — but to be kind: To cause them the least amount of disappointment and heartache. Some would eventually act their age, get scared and return to the sandboxes better suitable for their courage. Others would continue to demand my company as they grew into their manhood. But I should never be the source of their suffering; because their lives — and other women, other mothers — would have enough of that in store.
Instead, I should remain a fan of their yet unmarred beauty and youth; let them rest and leave them dreaming their morning dreams of slain dragons and new Milky Ways. And the ones that would insist on following — well, then: We should play another round: