Archives For Dating

 

Vanessa, the Reigning Queen of the strip club I worked at in the 90’s, had figured out the secret to the male/female dynamic.

She insisted that women can simply not get all their needs met from one man.

It takes three. We need one man for sex, one for money and one for love.

 

In my 20’s, I didn’t *look* for specific qualities in a partner.  I once fell in love with a man because of how he looked hailing a cab in the rain.

 

Now, in middle age, women have a roster of specifications. We want someone tall/smart/kind/successful/funny/sexy/fit/rich/woke.

We’re pushing ourselves right into the”die alone with cats eating our faces” sphere with these provisos.

 

And yet – why delegitimize my needs? Maybe it’s not about the size of his biceps or the car he drives, but it’s about making my soul sing.

 

Music Biz Guy is smart and kind and not only knows who Patti Smith is, he LOVES her. We share an appreciation for kitschy films and great books. He talks me down from the ledge when I travel to receive writing awards and can’t leave my hotel room.

He’s for Love. Platonic Love. I’m not attracted to him at all. I’ve tried. Even copious amounts of tequila, which is always a reliable kick starter for my libido, has failed me. No spark, no ignition.

 

Muscle Man – well, I’m not sure what he’s into. Like most men without body fat, he pursues very little outside of the gym. But he makes me feel safe.

He’s for Sex. Also possibly for High Contrast Photos. His skin is the most sublime dark chocolate. But not for Love – I could not love someone whose brain I didn’t want to lick.

 

Top Cop is smart and successful and fit. Perfect age for me – mid 50s. He has a summer house on the beach and can order a bottle of wine like nobody’s business. He is for Money. Possibly for Sex. Definitely not for Love.

He doesn’t know Iggy Pop from Iggy Azalea. My sordid past would worry him. He’s always been a Responsible Adult, even in his 20’s. He was having kids and passing out cigars while I was raising hell and passing out in clubs.

 

Rocker Dude is smokin’ hot. We have amazing physical chemistry. He’s super smart and very creative and basically perfect – except he’s crazy.

When I don’t respond to his texts he sends me 40 more. He’s intense and verbose and the male version of me, only I’m the male version of me, but either way he’s out of his mind and we can’t BOTH be like that.

He’s blowing my phone up right now. Remind me to never stick my dick in crazy, okay?

He’s for Sex. Maybe for Love? Definitely not for Money and most certainly not for Ever.

 

 

 

So many women place the majority of their identity into being the partner to one person. Twist their ankles stuffing their foot into that glass slipper.

I’m not looking to start a family with someone. Why shouldn’t I live at the apex of possibility?

 

If I could find everything in one man – one person – I would be with that person.

I want a man who will brew me coffee while I write. Let me sit on his lap and act like a little girl, even though my therapist claims that’s unhealthy. A man who will figure out why my kitchen cabinets don’t close and who will rotate my tires and that’s not a metaphor for ANYTHING except automobile maintenance.

I want a man to Pretty Woman the shit out of me. BUY ME THINGS.

Yes, I’m THAT woman.

Take me shopping on Madison Avenue, take me to Hawaii, get me a goddamn maid.

I’m the woman who wants to ride on the back of your motorcycle to a dive bar in Asbury Park. The woman who will tell you to get that neck tattoo, the woman who doesn’t give a shit what you earn or what you drive or where you live as long as you can carry me up a flight of stairs and fling me on the bed.

Yes. I’m THAT woman.

I’m the woman who wants NO responsibilities, to be in charge, to wear The Pants, to never wear pants, to do it all, to sit on the couch and just listen to the house settle and breathe.

I’m the woman who will steal your soul, heal your heart, serve you breakfast in bed, refuse to cook, kneel at your feet, smash plates when I’m angry and give you makeup sex so good you’ll always be looking for a fight.

I want a man who will love my roadmap of scars, my slaughtered dreams, my relentless need, my clenched fist, my hollow disregarded heart.

I want a man who loves me, not DESPITE the fact that I’m insane, uncivilized, emotional, unreasonable and unrealistic, but BECAUSE I am.

I want a man who knows that bliss is hidden at the center of our raw, aching parts.

I want a man who will love even the tarnished clichés of the paragraphs I just wrote.

 

I will build a collection of men to fill my needs, knowing that they can never be met.

Until then, I’ll slay dragons and kiss princes and dream of the day I can tell the difference between the two.

 

Have you found your soul mate? Does that exist?
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

 

Come hang out with me on Facebook and Instagram so I can have friends without leaving the house.

The Phone Call

September 23, 2016 — 69 Comments

phone-call

 

“So, basically you just said anything so you could fuck me, is that it?”

He answered without hesitation.

“Yes. Of course!”

His blunt honesty dumbfounded me momentarily, the way an oncoming headlight blinds you. Disoriented by his unabashed admission, I blurted out a rhetorical, “But why?”

“Why do you think?” he said. “Because that’s what men DO. We tell you what we want to hear so we can have sex with you.”

I wanted this to not be true, despite the fact that I believed it was. I should have hung up on him right then. But now I felt like I had stumbled upon a tunnel into a secret room where All The Questions would finally be answered truthfully. And I am a truth seeker.

“All men, all the time? Or just you, because seriously, you were relentless!”

“Oh, you were definitely work,” he said, “but I knew if I kept feeding you what you wanted to hear, I’d get you eventually. But yeah, all men, all the time. Married, single, whatever. We say what we have to say so we can get laid. It doesn’t have to be true. It just has to work.”

I needed air.

I cracked my car window open and the cry of cicadas suddenly filled my car in surround-sound. They were louder than usual, and harsher, as if their haunting vibrato was the audio manifestation of my inner despair.

I was in my car driving home from open school night when I had called him to tell him that no, we weren’t going to be seeing each other anymore and that I didn’t like the way his behavior had changed. That he had gone from months of constant dogged attention to a more disinterested and sporadic communication.

After we had sex, that is.

Now I was pulled over on an unknown street, my car idling in the dark. Up ahead, I could see the lights of the stores still open on Route 9, and I fought the intense urge to drive to a nearby 7-Eleven and buy cigarettes. I hadn’t smoked in years, but suddenly I really, really needed one.

“So that whole first conversation we had, when we were on the phone for hours – was everything you said designed to get in my pants? I wasn’t even going to meet you, but you convinced me to have dinner with you that first night with all the shit you laid on me, about how women are emotional and sensitive and men need to be strong and supportive for them.”

“Yep. I knew that’s what you wanted to hear, so I said it. We had a great dinner didn’t we? We must have, because look where it led. I thought of it as an investment.”

“Dude, that is fucking cold! I mean, I’m jaded as fuck, but really?”

“Really.”

Fuck cigarettes. I needed tequila and opiates.

I said to him, “I don’t even want a relationship! Not a romantic relationship, but just friendship. So when I told you that I couldn’t commit to a relationship, but that I did want a man who would be there for me as a friend, you said you wanted to be that man just to fuck me?”

“Yep!” He laughed. “Why does this surprise you?’

I hated the way he sounded. Cold. Detached. The cruelty tingeing his voice gave him a hardness that didn’t even sound like the man I had spent time with.

“It doesn’t surprise me, ” I answered. “It’s just disappointing. Despite the fact that I think most people suck, I still want to believe that there might be a few decent human beings left. But this is exactly why I don’t get involved. This.”

“I thought you said you wanted to have this discussion in person,” he said. “Why don’t you come over?”

“Come over??!” I was aghast at his inane suggestion. “Because my kid is waiting for me at home, and also, I’d punch you in your face now if I came over!”

He chuckled. “I doubt that. How tall are you? I’m 6’4.”

“Are you drunk? You’re just shy of six feet! What, did you suddenly grow four-”

I stopped.
“Who is this??” I demanded.

“This is Michael. Who is this?”

I looked down at my phone.

I had dialed the wrong number.

 

Did you ever dial a wrong number and have a wake-up call?
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

 

Join me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter, so I can have friends without leaving the house. For real, I am NOT leaving my house!

guys-flirting-with-girl

Why is a married man out on a Saturday night, drinking and talking to me, instead of home with his family?

 

Saturday night, I went out with Donna, who I met in a Facebook group, lives near me, and is awesome.

We went to a new local place and sat at the bar. We’re both single moms but we weren’t specifically on the prowl for men. However, we have pulses and don’t look like Quasimodo so I assumed men would talk to us.

They did.

Initially, Donna and I got involved in conversation with two other women. Eventually, three men joined us. It didn’t take long for the men to split up and focus on the women separately (or in our case, on Donna and I together.)

The man talking to us was super nice. He was not inappropriate in any way. He made it very clear that he was married, and spoke about his wife in glowing terms.

She’s a stay at home mom to their three kids, which he acknowledged is a tough job. But he also spoke of how his wife gets to go to the gym and shop, every day. And how “nice” her closet is. He presented this as a way to justify why he goes out on Saturdays without her. That, and the fact that he puts in very long hours.

Like the majority of the men where we live, he’s very successful. Because I work later in the day, I used to go to the gym at prime “stay at home mom” hour – 9 am. Many of these women spend their days grooming – gym, hair, nails, waxing, facials, tanning. They have people who clean their homes. They spring into action between the hours of 3 pm and 9 pm, when the have to supervise homework/activities/dinner/bedtime.

Those six hours are hard, and if they choose to spend the six hours prior to that grooming, it’s their prerogative. I would spend that time writing, but I have the “Lindsay Lohan on drugs” chipped-nails look and I think It was February the last time I washed my hair.

 

I wasn’t sure what this man’s agenda was. He had taken his family out earlier. Now, he needed his going out time. Why didn’t he want to go out with this wife? Or stay in with her?

I posted this query on Facebook, and it opened up a debate that went on for two days.

 

Perhaps he’s just a hard-working guy, who enjoys time away from the family. I get that. But why not just go to a baseball game? Or play poker with the guys, like my Ex used to? Should a night out include going to a bar and talking with women who are obviously single?

It could be that he enjoys the ego boost of talking to women. A few people on Facebook mentioned that you can’t get everything you need in a marriage, and if you go outside it for some innocent validation, no harm, no foul.

Is there something inherently missing in a marriage if a man needs to spend a lot of time talking to other women? And is it okay to continue to look for that missing element outside the marriage, instead of investing energy IN the marriage to address this?

I’m not sure.

 

I’m an incorrigible flirt. My Ex used to say I would flirt with a piece of wood. But I’m an equal opportunity flirt. I flirt with men, women, grandmas, little kids, dogs. When I was married, I was more likely to flirt with a man in broad daylight in a supermarket than in a bar at night.

I went out without my husband, but my ‘girls nights out’ did not include drinking and flirting with men in bars. That seemed like a bad idea. My super ego is solvent in alcohol, and many of my bad decisions have been fueled by drinking.

 

I’m really not sure where I stand on this issue. My marriage had problems, but having fun and feeling very attracted to one another was never one of them. While we were married, my Ex was my favorite person to go out with – AND my favorite man to flirt with.

 

Saturday night, I was definitely buzzed. I appreciated this man’s attention to both of us. He made no overt moves on me, but I felt a definite vibe that he found me attractive.

Which is why, just before midnight, my fairy godmother whispered into my ear to get the fuck out of there. I wasn’t comfortable bantering with a 40-year-old married guy  who lives 5 minutes from me, who made it clear he had TONS of disposable income. It smelled of “looking for a little something on the side.”

I’ve been propositioned many times by wealthy married men who would like to spoil me and “keep me” on the side. If it’s Anthony Kiedis from the Red Hot Chili Peppers, oh hell yes (he sleeps with 22-year-old models, so there goes that idea.)  Rock stars fuck women all over the country, so I wouldn’t feel guilty. I would just be his New Jersey piece. (Ugh, I hate that I would be anyone’s ‘New Jersey’ anything)

But if it’s Joe Shmoe who owns a contracting company, no thanks. I’m not interested in scratching some married guy’s itch.

 

Before Donna and I left, our friend asked us to meet him back at the same place in two weeks.

I’m such a trouble maker. I almost want to go to see if he’s there…

 

Should married people go out and banter with people of the opposites sex?
Can it be purely innocent conversation, or is there always a subtext?

Should I go back to that bar?
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

Join me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter  so I can have friends without leaving the house. 

Blow Job

May 26, 2015 — 96 Comments

Blow job

 

My public (all four of them) demanded more Spoken Word. 

So here it is. 

CLICK HERE and listen to me on SoundCloud.

And thank you for listening, and continuing to break the the “4th wall” of blogging!

You are awesome!

( for those of you who prefer the written word, below is the text.)

signature

—————–

 

So, he says to me, “We don’t have to have sex. Can you just give me a blow job?”

“No,” I say.

“Why not?” he asks.

“Because I don’t want to,” I reply.

“But baby, why don’t you want to?”

 

I don’t know. Maybe the sight of you whining like a petulant 8 year old who got slapped in the face at his own birthday party is a turn off.

Maybe it’s because you threw up a gang sign and talked about black music that black people don’t even listen to

Maybe I’m just not turned on by your pretentious microbrewery obsession, the cruelty free almond butter and artisanal dark roast you had for breakfast this morning,

And I’m completely underwhelmed by your overpriced John Varvatos sneakers, now you know you paid $250 for a pair of Converse, right?

I just don’t want to, do I have to have a reason?

Excuse me, did I miss something?

Was there a part of the sexual revolution I was married through? Is oral sex no longer considered sex, and is in fact some cretinous extension of afterdate etiquette?  You take me to the Olive Garden and and I suck your dick?

I don’t owe you anything. And even if I did, I don’t deal in oral currency.

 

Ohhh, he said. You women. You’re all alike. It’s not like I asked to fuck you. It’s just your mouth.

Really.

Well, if you must know, I consider oral sex more intimate than intercourse.

When you’re fucking me, I can go away somewhere.

I’m on all fours, you’re behind me, and I’m checking my polish for chips.

You’re on top of me, sweating and groaning, and I’m making a few moans and a shopping list.

Now I’m on top, squirming ecstatically, AND writing this blog post at the same time.

 

BUT

When I get on my knees in front of you

You thrusting, me gagging,

When I’m giving you “come to Jesus” upper tier fellatio,

When I choke on a pube like a cat with a hair ball,

when I’m going at it like a fat kid trying to suck the last bit of Slurpee out of a cup while riding a jackhammer,

 

When I’ve been down there so long I’m gonna need a tetanus shot and a muscle relaxant so I can chew my food the next day,

When I am sucking your dick,

I AM IN THE EXPERIENCE.

There is no escape.

 

And I SAY NO.

For every time I did it when I didn’t want to

For every friend of mine who ever did when she didn’t want to

For every women on the motherfucking planet who EVER did when she didn’t want to
I SAY NO.

Just because we’re women in a high-supply sexual economy doesn’t mean we can’t turn down a low return investment

 

We have the power to say NO.

We are coherent, intelligent and mature women and as we navigate the sexual landscape of the new millennium we are reclaiming our bodies and we are TAKING BACK THE NIGHT!

 

“Oh,”he says.

“Okay.

Well, can I get a hand job?”

 

 

Has anyone ever just assumed you were going to have sex with them?
When did suburban dads become hipster douchebags?
Talk to me.  I’m listening. 

Yoga Class, Deconstructed

February 5, 2015 — 115 Comments

Yoga_at_a_Gym 9

 

It had been six weeks since I’d been able to breathe, six weeks since the blow to my chest had left my heart charleyhorsed with leftover ache and my lungs restricted. I was living the emotional equivalent of that hackneyed action movie scene, the one where the heroine has been underwater far too long. Just when you think she’s going to die she slashes through the surface and grabs air in big lusty gulps.

I was drowning in several different versions of the truth, all of them weighing me down like kettlebells tied to my ankles.

I had neglected my yoga practice for months. My once limber body had gone stiff, the way Skittle colored Play Doh starts out with the best intentions and gradually dries up, never living up to its full potential.

It dessicates, morphing into the humorless version of itself. Hard, but incredibly easy to crack.

I wished I was doing anything else except a practice whose apparel has become literally the butt of endless online stories. I resent seeing people everywhere refer to “leggings” as “yoga pants.” Those aren’t “driving gloves” unless you regularly wrap them around a steering wheel.

Yoga was not meant to be fashion and if you’ve never worn those pants while doing an inversion, just refer to them as leggings and I can end this paragraph a little less exasperated.

So I went to a Saturday afternoon yoga class; not just any yoga, but hot yoga, which, for the uninitiated, means doing advanced poses in a sauna. A room heated to 104 degrees, with humidity at 40%. I dread it. But I’m convinced it’s the only way to flush out the toxins that have been doing the Foxtrot through my bloodstream since those poison darts leapt off the computer screen and took aim at my heart.

And I’m clinging fiercely to the idea that I’ll have a yoga-induced spiritual epiphany that explains why I choose relationships which reinforce just how little I think I deserve.

Or at least lose a few pounds.

After the teacher chants and instructs us to leave all our earthly possessions at the door, we begin in downward dog, or in my case, sweaty dog panting from heat.

The teacher leads us in a series of sun salutations that get progressively faster and more complicated and I get in touch with why the phrase “hot as hell” was coined. I played yogi slip n slide in my own perspiration and I mull over the possibility that the organs of my body can actually become steamed.

I look at myself in the mirror, a vain counter-yogic move, and in triangle pose notice the cute guy behind me staring at my ass. I’ve noticed him noticing me before; I’ve heard people chat with him and his name is either Don or Jon; it’s hard to be certain in a room constantly waterlogged in sweaty acoustics.

Today, though, I obsess over the sweat droplets that have come together for an impromptu party in my ass crack and wonder if he can see them through the stretched-to-within-an-inch-of-its-life Lycra that covers my butt. And after I shower and dress and check my phone, he’s still lingering around the front of the yoga center. Which can only mean that he’s waiting for ME.

And he is. Don/Jon approaches me and suggests coffee at the Dunkin Donuts next door and I go. I go because it’s a lazy Saturday afternoon in January, and because my kid is with his father; and because I’m high from having pushed my body to its limits and from fresh blood flow;  I go because I like Don/Jon’s puppy doggish exuberance and his obvious pursuit of me – but mostly, I go because I love coffee.

I really love coffee.

My caffeine addiction is the only one I have that hasn’t pushed my dreams off a cliff. I’ve never risked my life for coffee. Not that I wouldn’t; it’s just that one doesn’t have to cruise questionable neighborhoods to procure coffee.

Up close and away from the curtain of steam that blurs everything in the room, Don/Jon is really cute. Lithe, sinewy yoga body aside, he has great hair, a sexy smile and  a killer sense of humor.

I’m not typically attracted to men who do yoga. Every downward douche I’ve ever seen in a yoga class has ended up hooking up with one of the women in the class. It’s why they GO. But I like the idea that I accepted his invitation; that I’m not so jaded that I can’t still occasionally surprise myself.

Coffee talk stretches into late afternoon and I’m surprised to see that its getting dark out. And surprised even more when Don/Jon asks if I’d like to try a Mexican restaurant near his house that he says makes the freshest Pico de gallo this side of Guadalajara. And killer Margaritas, although I don’t really drink.

But I did that evening.

Tequila augments my natural flirtiness and my insecurities are alcohol soluble. I feel attractive because I can feel that he feels attracted to ME. Which is less like an Escher painting than it sounds.

I get tipsy, which shuts off some of the noise in my brain but turns on other noise. We bond over our love for movies, and music, and Breaking Bad, which he talks me into watching at his house.

We end up back at his townhouse, where he makes us more Margaritas and now I am drunk. He has an enormous cozy plush grey couch which looks like a big blimpy manatee, and I sink into the Netflix imprint his butt left in the corner cushion.

Predictably, he starts to kiss me and I haven’t decided how attracted I am to him. But I’m drunk and cozy and sunk into his manatee couch, and at the moment I’d rather kiss him back then push my tequilla-drenched ass into the frosty night.

I hate the cold.

We have 20 minutes of nondescript sex and afterwards he winds around me like a broken slinky.  And I’m thinking I’d like to leave before the sweat dries. Which makes me sound like a sport-fucking man-eater, but it’s really just a way I avoid feeling anything for anyone, and has a high success rate.

I often fantasize about creating an actuarial model using statistics to determine the probability of various romantic risks based on the engagement or avoidance of certain behaviors, and the emotional consequences of those risks. Assign value to certain behaviors and develop mathematical models to evaluate the future romantic implications of, say, performing various sex acts. Or cuddling after. Leaving, or staying the night.

I stay. I don’t want to come off like bitch. I’m anything but a bitch.

I just play one on the Internet.

He falls asleep and I lay there with his arm draped across me, heavy as a fallen tree limb and I stare at the ceiling and write this blog post in my head.

Until about 6:00 am, when dawn’s first light streaks across the sky and I noiselessly hurry to leave, like a vampire in reverse. I get dressed and gather my things and tip toe out, leaving him asleep.

I feel like a ninja escaping into the bruise-colored dawn. I make a clean getaway

I think about him one more time as I pull into my driveway; just once more so I can leave him outside and that’s when it occurs to me, I never found out if his name is Don or Jon. Which bothers me less than the fact that I’m going to have to find a new yoga studio.

 

I don’t have any specific questions. I’m just glad you’re here.
Talk to me.   I’m listening.