You know that thing where you’re walking down the street and men can tell you’ve just had sex? They must have some kind of fornication radar.
If I leave a friend’s apartment in the city, after we’ve had some #sexytimes, and walk a little ways before catching a cab, men will follow me down the street. Not in a scary way. In a “Hey baby, I don’t know you but would you like to come back to my apartment even though your head might end up in my freezer?” kind of way.
Okay, that’s pretty scary.
Guys are very forward in New York. It’s an urban thing, I think. You don’t get ogled as openly in the suburbs as you do when you stroll through Lincoln Center after two hours of hardcore car sex.
Not that I have done that.
Car sex is the suburbs dirty little secret. All those minivan-driving soccer moms and dads don’t tell you the real reason they bought that Honda Odyssey is, back row comes out, middle row folds down flat, voila! it’s a bed.
The parking lot at the gym is like a scene from Caligula.
Spring fever. It’s totally a Thing, and I have it. It makes me want to do crazy things, like jump in my car and drive 13 hours straight to Nashville, to hang out with my college bestie who now lives there. Even after the debacle we had there last year.
This past weekend, one of her fave bands came in from Columbus, Ohio to perform and they crashed at her house. Six guys. They were perfect gentlemen, by the way, those Midwestern boys. They drank two cases of beer and put every CAN IN THE RECYCLING BIN and no, that is NOT a euphemism for sex.
So, getting back to spring fever. It’s Monday evening and all I can think about is how much I love tequila. I would love to knock back a couple of shots of Patron this very minute, but that would fuck up the whole homework vibe.
Today, I had my annual gynecological exam. We ladies have to get our vajetable gardens rotated once a year. I used to see the female doctor in the practice until she impersonated female SS guard Irma Grese and tried to electrocute me from inside my smush mitten during a routine “procedure,” so now I see the doctor who delivered my kid.
The thing is, the doctor is really good-looking. He was cute back then, but 12 years has made him much sexier. Which is something that ONLY HAPPENS TO MEN. He’s now ‘handsome in a late 40’s man’ way, instead of ‘cute in a boy’ way, and he has a great personality, and I have spring fever and did I mention how handsome he is?
He was all up in my bajingo and asking personal questions about my sex life, and the next thing I know I was saying flirty things and batting my eyelashes at him.
I have no idea how that happened. Yes, it was sort of surreal. Plus there was a woman in the room, she’s always there and she’s about 100 years old. I think she might be his mother?
No, that would be completely weird. But she’s old and motherly and she’s always there when he gives pelvic exams but she really didn’t interfere with our flirty flow and I’m suddenly very, very glad I’m anonymous.
After that, I went to the supermarket and within 12 seconds, some dude was hitting on me at the deli counter. And I never get hit on at the supermarket. The gas station is usually my jam. Yeah, I’m like Miss America in the Field of Dreams at the ol’ gas station, and those attendants are typically delighted with me. Or maybe it’s my red hair, which in their country means that I’m a prostitute.
The point is, Supermarket Guy knew someone had just been all up in my business, even in a routine medical way.
Is online dating for the dregs of humanity, or is that just my experience? So far, I’ve had a guy ask me about wearing diapers, and another one inquire as to how much I enjoyed doing laundry. One man in his mid 40’s told me he was a freelance “painter/filmmaker/writer” which is code for “waiting for my parents to die.”
The most recent man online sent me pictures of the trophies he earned as champion of that card game “Magic: The Gathering.” He’s hoping I will accompany him to an upcoming comic convention, and as enticing as that sounds, I’m busy that weekend shaving the lint off my socks.
Those were the good ones. One man messaged me “I WILL PAY YOU $2 FOR YOUR SOCKS I WILL LITERALLY PAY YOU TO PEE ON A SOCK WHY DOES GOD HATE ME SO MUCH I AM SO FUCKING LONELY.”
Online dating is terrifying, because when you meet these people they want to have actual conversations with you about the healing properties of bone broth popsicles which is why I prefer to meet where the music is VERY LOUD.
I become even more non-filtered when I’m feeling socially anxious. While in Portland with my college bestie, I was doing my best wingman for her while some dude chatted her up at a coffee bar/drug dispensary.
I’m not sure how the conversation turned to her being a cancer survivor, but he refused to believe it. He started out flattering, telling her she was so full of life and energy and zeitgeist and joie de vivre and KonMari. Then he became super annoying and finally I interjected with, “What are you saying? CAT Scans or it didn’t happen?”
I guess you had to be there.
*This blog post brought to you by one long, continuous unedited stream of consciousness at the behest of my girl GKelly who suggested I write about flirting during a pelvic exam, after I posted it on Facebook.
Do you have spring fever? Have you had some weird online dating experiences?
What about weird gynecological experiences?
Talk to me. I’m listening.