The Whole Arm Candy Role is Over-rated

I been thinkin’ on it a bit–well okay, I’ve been pondering on it nearly my entire adult life–and at last, at the ripe old age of 31, I’m going to tell you for certain: arm candy babes don’t have it as good as girls who can pay their own way. In fact, I’ll take that generalization and expand the scope to cover all women. Those who are dependent on someone else’s whims and bankbook just really don’t have as much fun as the sisters who, to quote my favorite buzz-cut ’80s rock icon of ambiguous sexuality, are “doin’ it for themselves”

They’re not as well-traveled either.

I came to this conclusion while in Cancun the past week for the launch of a new luxury resort development. There were many, many rich and powerful Latin American developers and businessmen–and closely following them, the requisite bevy of perfectly turned-out, rhinestone-belted, cleavage-sporting Latina babes.

I wasn’t at all surprised the girls were there…after all, what’s a party without gratuitous pretty women to act as floating arm candy? But here’s what shocked me: Though these girls live in Miami–an hour’s flight from Cancun–and I live across the continent, I’ve been to Cancun more often than they have. As we talked further, I learned that one girl–a Venezuelan–had never been to neighbor countries Chile or Argentina. To me, that’s like saying you’re from California but have never been to Hawaii or Vegas. It’s possible, but only if you’re singularly untraveled.

And this confused me greatly. Because…isn’t the whole POINT of being arm candy to wealthy men that you get to jet around and see all kinds of cool places and experience amazing things? Isn’t that one of the major perks?

The answer to this is YES, OSTENSIBLY. As a cute female, if you spend enough time surfing the online personals, or hanging out in wine bars in Los Angeles/San Francisco/Las Vegas/wherever, some man will invariably approach you with offers of travel and fancy meals and tickets to the opera.  That is how they reel you in. The thing is, they’re…not lying exactly, but grossly over-exaggerating. ‘Travel’ as arm candy means a trip to Vegas, or to Dallas/Chicago/other boring corporate hub… Caribbean or Cancun if you’re really lucky. And the whole time, you’re under pressure to sparkle and flirt and basically WORK IT… and you only eat, drink or have any fun at the whim of the man who brought you. 

Face it: Nobody wants to–or knows how to–spoil a girl as well as she knows how to spoil herself. Except maybe her best girlfriends or her sisters.

A man’ll buy you a pair of Wolford stockings and a teddy, and expect you to turn into a private porno pinup model in return. You can buy yourself a $300 Dirty Lingerie corset and wear it out clubbing, to a costume party, or  just keep it in your drawer to pet and fondle on rainy days.

A girlfriend will treat you to a spa day if she’s got the hookup, just because she thinks you need to relax. A man…well, one once offered a spa treatment, but it was in Vegas and I’d only just met him, so I politely said, Thanks, but that’s a little creepy.

A man will buy a bottle of champagne on a special occasion. For my sister’s bridal shower, the girls are buying a case.

I could go on and on. The point is this: The life of an arm candy girl seems sweet, and men always come with the big promises. But in actual fact, it’s a round-the-clock job where you don’t get much respect, and  usually don’t get a salary either (unless you’re a full fledged ‘sugar baby’ which is exponentially sketchier).

If you want to travel the world for real, splurge madly on lingerie for no reason, order $100 worth of sushi with no one questioning you, and really enjoy every moment, then girl, you gots to do it for yourself.

 

When Vegas escapes…

Oh man oh man. That ‘what happens in Vegas’ saying isn’t just a catchy ad line. It’s a RULE, and it is in place for a reason.

That is what I have learned in the two weeks since returning.

Diary confession: I flirted with a boy in Las Vegas. We actually went to a strip club. That is IT. Nothing happened, not even a kiss. (I would tell you if it had. After all, I have no idea who you are, and you could be anyone in the world including my mother, a stalker or a potential client. See? Totally safe.)

Anyway whatever. Nothing happened b/c I asked him whether he had a girlfriend and he said ‘yes.’ I said ‘DAMN’ and that was kind of the end of it. I’m not a homewrecker.

Next day, the texting begins. And continues, all the way back to LA, and thence to New York (where I was the last week…more on that later), and then back to LA again. At first it was rather innocent: i.e. You wore me out last nite…

Hum. that does not look so innocent, now that I read it. But it was. It referred to miles walked and sleep lost, not rigorous athletic sexual activity.

Anyway, I must confess I brought the whole game up a notch, demanding that he come out and meet me the first evening he was back. Not that I actually wanted to see him that badly–I was having drinks w/friends and then going to a show at Spaceland. I was just curious to see what he would do. (Curiosity is one of my major personality traits. I wouldn’t call it a flaw, but it does complicate life sometimes.)

Anyway, he didn’t, but has been fishing and trolling to see what I’m up to ever since. AND has upped the ante beyond fun and risky to downright sleazy by implying that he split with his lady. For 10 days, implying this. Meanwhile I’m in New York, going ehhhh? While my GFs (dating writers, pole dancers, all-round cynics) are like “YEAH RIGHT!” in a Greek chorus fashion.

Back in LA this week, things come to an awkward finish when I discover on his Facebook acct that he is very much part of a twosome, and that we apparently have mutual friends. Right away I message him–The world is too small–and he replies in a friendly way. We shoot the shit for a while. We log off.

He texts me at 9PM w/a couple hours free, wanting to know what I am doing.

What am I, a pay-by-the-hour hooker? I want to say, but don’t.

I say nothing, and continue working on my LA Times column about the strange impulses triggered in men if you take them for a first-date nightcap in a strip club. Coincidentally, a man whom I’d had a similar evening out with two years ago (I think he and I even sat at the same table) had texted me that evening as well, wanting to know whether I could be his date to some big televised event in Las Vegas.

At least that potential sleazy tryst would stay in Vegas. The guy promised me. Still, television is too close to reality for me. I live in Hollywood, what can I say? And even though I write this blog, I am not actually a big proponent of sleazy trysts.  Or men who screw around on their ladies. Actually I hate those men.

Back to Mr. LA-via-Vegas. This morning I got a little bitchy via email. And he got a little wounded-innocent, saying perhaps I’d daydreamed the whole thing. At which point I offered to copy-paste our text exchange. At which point he apologized, sarcastically. At which point I turned into Level III Hurricane Lena. (I can go up to Level VI by the way. You should see it. It’s fun…from a distance.)

Anyway, I think after many huffy messages we have worked things out. Mr LV-V-V thinks I am ‘mean’ and I think I am ‘stupid’, but apart from that, we’re good. I hope. And I have learned a valuable lesson, which is that next time I meet a random guy in Vegas, go out dancing and wind up in a strip club, I’ll leave without getting his number. Or his name.

Peace out, and happy Valentine’s to all.