Getting Old

I had my twice-yearly dental exam/teeth cleaning the other day. No cavities, teeth OK except....

"On your back teeth, David, the gums are receding. The teeth are still in place but at some point I may send you to a gum specialist for a procedure.....it's an age thing. We're getting old..."

And he fixed me with a sad look. We are, I believe, pretty close in age.

For the most part, the cosmetic signs of aging don't bother me that much. My hairline is higher than it was in college, but it's been thinning at a snail's pace since I was 16 and I'm not bald yet. It wouldn't bother me, I'd just shave it off---I think that's a cool look. There's a good deal of gray mixed in with the black, but a lot of women dig the salt-and-pepper look, too. Gives me a little gravitas. No sagging skin yet and my physique is better than it was ten years ago.

What does disturb me is the ways in which my body betrays me. Once a year or so, I'll throw my back out lifting weights. Two years ago, it was a hernia which required surgery---thin stomach walls run in my family. Takes longer for my muscles and joints to heal. I have to be more careful about what I eat---oh, I still dig a good burger, Italian beef and whatnot but I have to eat more carefully around those foods. It's easier to gain weight than it used to be. If a pizza is dinner, lunch is a homemade salad with chopped veggies.

I raised the point with Drinking Buddy the other day that the men in our fathers' generation never went to the gym. They were too busy supporting their families and doing home-improvement work to be worried about their beer bellies. And I suspect they view us as slightly narcissistic, those of us who frequent salons instead of the neighborhood barber shop and fret about unsightly hair on our bodies.

I just got back from Christmas with my family and I was amazed at how much my dad can eat. He's a lover of buffet food he wolfs it down as if he's afraid of getting the weaker end of the bargain with the restaurant. He's overweight in the way that men in the 65-70 age group who live in Iowa are overweight, but he's not obese. And I never see him so happy as when he's enjoying a good meal.

I just hope mom's watching his cholesterol for him.

Well, I'm of a different generation. I'm also an uban-dweller. I do what I can to manage my descent into middle age---run, lift weights, watch my food intake and try to remain open to new experiences. I think that you really start to grow old when you close your eyes and ears to the new.

And I have every intention of running the 2008 Chicago Marathon.....

More Climbing Pics

Neediness

I would like to use this post to offer a bit of advice to my female readers on dealing with the men in their lives. The advice is very simple and probably should fall under the rubric of common sense except that it's so often ignored, at least in my own recent experiences. The advice is: never, ever make your self-esteem dependent on the men in your life. If your validation depends on the smirk, wrinkled brow, smile, sneer or pouting frown of a man then it's time to re-examine your priorities.

The simple fact is, neediness ain't sexy. It scares us off. And it makes us lose respect for you.

I received an email from Ginger recently---long and rambling. The conclusion stated that she was happy with the status quo, but the body of the email suggested otherwise. In it, she upbraided me for not answering her emails for hours, leaving her feeling vulnerable and exposed. Not only do I have a demanding job in the financial services industry, but my emails are catalogued and can be read at the discretion of my bosses. And I'm going to spend my day sending emails back-and-forth? Not bloody likely. Despite my occasional complaints, I do enjoy my current position. Flooding me with emails will not make me more attracted to you, Ginger.

She wrote that she felt sexy and alive with me but wondered that I seemed distant later. Frankly, I need a little space sometimes. I mean really---does she want to come into the bathroom with me and hold my hand while I use the toilet? I was starting to feel smothered. Now, she told me throughout the email how much I meant to her and it's hard to get angry with someone who showers you with compliments, but are guys that hard to figure out? WE NEED SPACE SOMETIMES!

Marla and Suburban Melissa, on the other hand, seem to get it. Marla hints that she'd like to spend more time with me and teasingly upbraids me, but she gets a pass because it's usually after a few drinks and she does it good-naturedly. Suburban Melissa is busy with her own situation and her children are, rightly, the most important things in her life. It's an attitude that makes me respect her. She can take it for what it is.

I may eventually fall in love with someone. If I do, it will be with a woman derives her self-esteem from her own accomplishments and values and beliefs and not from my tenderness or coldness towards her. And, ladies, it's simple: the way in which we men perceive you is completely within your power to control.

Now go out there and stay safe.

My Shtick

Friday was Marla's birthday and we went to a nice Bucktown restaurant to celebrate. Marla's travelled extensively in Europe, and we talked about the Sistine Chapel. I pointed that Michelangelo was extremely uncomfortable with the female form and that his women tended to have very masculine bodies, and how his homosexuality affected his work and the influence of Savonarola in 15th century Florence and I realized after a moment that Marla was hanging on my every word. The "culture thing" is my shtick.

I'm not brilliant. I'm a reasonably intelligent guy but I also know the difference between reasonably intelligent and brilliant. In college, I was fortunate enough to be accepted into a crowd comprised of highly intelligent individuals---one is now a film producer, another a top scientist, there's a very successful businessman, a few are highly placed political operatives at the national level and one was recently nominated by our beleaguered commander-in-chief to be the U.S. ambassador to a European country. Many of my friends in school were brilliant. My inclusion in this group contributed to making me humble about what I knew and what I didn't know---bull sessions could get rough and you would be publicly humiliated if you took a position on a subject about which you were poorly informed. Sometimes it's better to keep your mouth shut and listen to those who know more than you about the topic in question. Of course, alcohol is a whole nother story....

What I do have going for me, however, is a curiosity about the world---I read extensively, I like art and history, I'm a film buff and I have a decent knowledge of and appreciation for classical music and jazz. The city offers so much for the curious---I joke sometimes that I'm uniquely qualified to appreciate the zombie genre because I grew up in rural Iowa and lived alongside many of the Living Dead. When I was a teenager my interests were seen as pretty geeky. The nice thing about being an adult, however, is that no one at a dinner party cares how far you can throw the football. Come up with a classical reference or two, or an apt quote from a poem, and eyebrows rise. Just don't overdo it.

This has been pretty useful in the dating world. My competition in a lot of cases are guys who spend their weekends watching football and their weekdays talking about it and most women find such devotion to football and other sports booooriiiing. I tend to do very well with museum dates or outdoor symphony concerts in Millennium Park. It's all part of playing to my strengths, just as a wealthy businessman will take a love interest to ostentatiously expensive restaurants and vacations, a musician will rely on his music and his fan base and a comedian on his jokes.

The risk of the culture shtick, however, is that you can come across as a pompous ass if you're not careful. As Chris Knight (Val Kilmer) says in Real Genius:

".....I didn't want you to think I was stuffy. You know, all brains, no penis."

Urban Melissa's Christmas Bash

For her First Annual Christmas Party, Urban Melissa selected a brand spanking new wine bar in a neighborhood that's still a few years away from gentrification. It was a good call---the wine bar didn't look like the polished upscale versions popping up all over the city, but like a storefront tavern that serves wine and food with a DJ spinning late '70s early '80s groove music. Remember how good Michael Jackson sounded on Off The Wall? Who cares if the wine selection was pretty small or if they were still getting the kinks out ahead of their grand opening---this was an authentic Joint and I plan to come back in the near future.

I arrived with Marla. Urban Mellissa and her boyfriend greeted us with party favors and Guatemala came in the door.

"Guatemala," I said, "don't embarrass me tonight with your bullshit."

"Oh, are you on a date David?"

"Guatemala, this is Marla."

"Oh! Marla! We like you!" Guatemala gave Marla a big hug.

The room filled up and we found ourselves sitting next to a couple of college-aged girls. One was a bit on the heavy side, the other was a thinner girl with a delicate look and an intelligent face. The heavier one was in school, and the thin one introduced herself as a comedian.

"The only problem," she said, "is that I'm not funny. Someday I'd like to be funny."

She completely captured my attention by saying that.

I would not disrespect Marla by flirting with another girl when I'm on a date with her, so I was careful to pay equal attention to everyone. The comedian explained that a lot of her material comes from growing up Jewish, and I mentioned that American comedy is Jewish comedy going back to vaudeville and we talked about Lenny Bruce and Woody Allen and I wondered what this girl would be like in bed. She was not conventionally pretty but charisma, offbeat humor and intelligence trump conventional good looks any day of the week.

I talked with the other girl about movies and was pleased that she was film literate and we talked about the Coen brothers' new film. Marla is not a film buff, so I steered the topic in another direction and we ordered another bottle of wine and the DJ started spinning and we all got up to dance and then there was more wine and more wine and the owner sent us some complimentary champagne and the room was spinning along with the music.

Urban Melissa came up to Marla and said,

"You are the coolest girl David has ever dated."

Guatemala came up and offered,

"We like you a lot better than those boring white girls David usually dates. Stay with her, David. Let her coolness rub off on you!"

Marla was having a blast, and I enjoyed watching her work the owner of the place. She's very connected with the local club scene, and I was understanding why. Still, my eyes kept drifting to the comedian. If I were alone, I totally would have hit on her. Consequently, I avoided talking to her for the rest of the night.

Marla and I left for a nightcap at Nick's, which we really didn't need, and headed to my place. We had morning sex just as the alarm was going off and when we were finished Marla said,

"You fell asleep while you were going down on me last night."

Shit. Again.

She told me that the heavier of the two girls, the college student, was interested in me last night. Apparently, the girl had asked Marla if she and I were dating. Marla said we were and the girl's response was,

"Oh. Ok."

I don't know that that signifies interest, but if Marla thinks it does then there's no harm in that. It was a great party---Marla had a blast, I had a blast, everyone enjoyed himself, but I found myself wondering if I'd see the Comedian again and what the circumstances would be.

Impressions from the Weekend

Women do not like it when you fall asleep during fellatio.

At Nick's, with Marla. Saturday night. Drinking Buddy shows up. We do shots. I tell Marla that Sunday night is often the best night to be at Nick's. She responds:

"But you don't ask me to Nick's on Sunday. That's probably when you see your other girls."

I shrug.

"You usually just see me one night a weekend."

I shrug and half-smile. Marla would not bring this up if it were not for the alcohol. We leave soon after. I pass out during head. Marla is not pleased. In the morning, however, all is well.

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I receive an email from Ginger containing sensitive photographs along with the text that these were shot "for you, my master." The photos are incredibly hot.

This morning, IMing, she asks why there was no message from me over the weekend.

"I don't want to be clingy, but it would have been nice. Don't mind me, I'm just being a woman."

I will tolerate a certain amount of clinginess from a woman who calls me "master" in her emails. A certain amount......

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During the week, circumstances bring me to Lincoln Park where I have a burger in a certain bar. The waitress tells me she likes my hair:

"I'm into the salt-and-pepper look."

I tell her it's not a look---it just is. She laughs. Her shift ends and she grabs the barstool next to mine. We start talking. She's from Georgia. Recently moved to the big city. She lives in Humboldt Park. She invites me back to the same bar the next night, but I already have plans. I have to leave. I tell her I'll be there same time next week. There could be something. Then again, it could be nothing. Sometimes it's just nice to flirt.

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Sunday, Nick's. Talking with one of the bartenders. He and I agree that there's really no reason for a guy to get married. There are men who want to get married, it's true, but the urge for me would have to be woman-specific. I don't want to get married in the abstract. If I met a woman I couldn't live without and marriage was the price, then and only then would I consider proposing. But the idea that there's this mythical "one" out there who will make you a complete person is a romantic illusion, at best. There will always be the "next" girl, as the will always be the "next" guy. The way to get over a broken heart is to get right back into the dating pool.

The bartender and I do another shot and he tells me that while his dad told him never to get married, his dad has also married twice since he offered that advice.

I think back to how I was with E, my first post-separation dating experience. I was patient, understanding of her situation and, what galls me a bit, sickeningly supplicating. I dererred to her when it came to restaurants, entertainment, conversations and waited on her hand and foot. She used to tell me that I was really sweet. I was. I also didn't give her a reason to genuinely respect me.

I do another shot and ponder if I ever received any useful relationship advice from my dad. No, I can't remember that I did. Like most men, I've had to find my way in the world willy-nilly.

I like drinking at Nick's on Sunday night.

Are You Somebody Famous?

I had plans to meet Zibi and Gil last night at Green Dolphin Street for Salsa Night. Gil is a close friend of Zibi's who recently moved to California. He's of Mexican origin, middle-aged, with a middle aged man's body, and he has incredible luck with the ladies.

What's his secret? Dancing. He is an expert salsa dancer who knows exactly how to move a woman around the dance floor. I envy him for his dancing ability (I just jump around aimlessly in clubs---to call my dancing competent by white guy standards is accurate, if only barely) and for the fact that he comes from a culture which values and teaches dancing. I have been in several Latin nightclubs with both him and Urban Melissa (who is half-Mexican, half-Puerto Rican) and the dancing is so graceful and so hot that I have no place stepping on the dance floor. It's one of those activities, like playing pick-up soccer with European immigrants, at which I will suffer so badly by comparison that it is best not attempted. In Iowa there was a plethora of square dancing clubs (my father always called it entertainment for ministers) but square dancing is not hot and never can be under any circumstances.

Anyway, I arrived first, followed by Zibi. Behind me was a tall brunette who looked as if she would have nothing to do with me. When Gil walked in, I shook his hand effusively and told him how much I loved his work.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you---I loved your last film. Can I have your autograph? Do you have a pen? Wow. Here's a cocktail napkin."

Immediately, the brunette was at our side.

"Are you somebody famous?" she asked with a big smile, "I never get to meet anybody famous!"

I told her that Gil was famous, but in independent film circles.

"Oh, that's cool. I'm more of a Hollywood person, but that's so cool."

Gil was talking to Zibi behind us. The girl whispered to me, "What's he done?"

"His last project was a mockumentary of a Christian rap group. It was called Tha Last Suppa."

The brunette's friend showed up, and she introduced me to her, calling her "the love of my life." The were holding hands and looking at eachother the way that lovers do, and I said,

"You two make a cute couple."

"Oh, no!" the brunette laughed, "we're just friends!"

Whatever. I know it's common for girls to get touchy and make out with eachother in clubs for the benefit of the guys, but it's getting so that you can't tell the lipstick lesbians from the straight girls anymore. I am drawn to lipstick lesbians, indeed a disproportionate number of the women I date are bisexual, and I think I know the reason why: they don't usually display the supplicating, needy insecurity in their dealings with men that so many straight women do. And confidence is always sexy.

Anyway, I left them to themselves and turned back to Zibi and Gilbert. After a few minutes the music started. The dancing was incredible. I had another martini and after half an hour decided to head home. The snow was falling and it was a beautiful Chicago night.

Rize Up Gather 'Round

Nick's on Sunday night. After the Bears loss. A chance to enjoy some male company after my estrogen-filled weekend. And, there she was. Was it her? Dirty blonde hair, 20-something, working a crossword puzzle. And dreadlocks.

I had watched the game at Drinking Buddy's place and he told me about the girl he met the previous evening. He described her as looking like Angelina Jolie but with dreadlocks. College student in pre-med who worked at the airport. He said that they had a great conversation and had exchanged numbers and email addresses. He wasn't up for going to Nick's after the game---Drinking Buddy usually does not follow up one hard-drinking night with another.

She was sitting next to me.

"Do you work at the airport?" I asked her.

"Yes....you must travel a lot....."

"More than I'd like."

"What do you do?"

I know what you're wondering. Did I hit on the girl Drinking Buddy had tagged earlier? Did I trot out one of those stories that are designed to capture the attention of women in bars?

I did not. I made small talk with her for a couple minutes and turned back to my male companions. I'd rather not hit on someone a friend is interested in. If I were interested, there's a strict protocol to follow. First, the attraction has to be overpowering. Second, the buddy gets first chance to make his pitch. If it's rejected, you can then move in. And at any rate, white girls with dreadlocks strike me as granola and I'm not interested in herbal/alternative healing or vegan food or demonstrations against globalization.

Also, there was nothing left in the tank.

Wednesday night was spent with Suburban Melissa. Friday night was with Marla and that left me pretty drained. Ginger was arriving on the train for an overnight visit, so I decided to take a Rize pill. For those of you unfamiliar with it, Rize is an herbal alternative to viagra. It is remarkably effective but on the three previous occasions that I've tried it it has given me heartburn to match my sexual appetite. This time, I decided to cook a big breakfast for myself and Marla before popping the pill. Marla left, and I went to meet Ginger's train.

Ginger had brought some lingerie to model and it was previously agreed that we would stay in and order pizza. And that she would let me tie her up. We weren't home two minutes before both of us were naked and the sex was incredibly hot but, to be honest, married-having-an-affair sex is always hot. There's an element of taboo that transcends the act itself. She got incredibly into the bondage (I used a necktie instead of something more....forbidding. First time comfort level and all that.) and had what she claimed was only the third intercourse orgasm she had ever experienced. However, Rize has a powerful effect on me and just because it's possible to have sex for an hour doesn't mean that you should have sex for an hour.

Yeah. I was exhausted. Using an enhancement supplement is a little like the ancient Romans using the vomitorium so they could continue to experience the pleasure of food. I started to get a headache after awhile. On a couple occasions in my life I have faked an orgasm but I gave Ginger the Real Deal. The heartburn was there, but manageable.

After round three we ordered pizza and Ginger opened up her overnight bag and took out.....

Mike's Hard Berry. I kid you not.

Sometimes being with Ginger makes me feel like my parents have gone out for the evening and my high school girlfriend is over at the house.

Anyway, we watched Mulholland Drive and Pulp Fiction, neither of which she had seen, and crashed. In the morning, I had a splitting headache and Ginger wanted to cuddle. The thing about me is, I like to be alone in the morning. I made breakfast for us both, got Ginger a cab and spent the rest of the time before the game cleaning my apartment. Marla had suggested possibly watching the game together, but football watching is really more of a guy activity for me so I went over to Drinking Buddy's. After which I went to Nick's.

Ginger sent me an email today telling me I opened up sexual worlds that she didn't know existed and asking if I was getting bored of her, citing the fact that I slept on my own side of the bed and wasn't really talkative in the morning. I don't know how to respond. I had a headache and I was really tired. I hope she doesn't start getting insecure on me. Or clingy. We'll see what happens.

However, she does drink Mike's Hard Berry.....

Suburban Melissa

I was at work on Wednesday trading emails with Suburban Melissa. Suburban Melissa wrote that she had recently done backup vocals on a recording by a local indie rocker and I asked if she was looking for groupies. She responded that if I wanted to be her groupie I'd have to provide her with sex, booze and pills. I wrote back that I'd willingly provide the first, the second was no problem but the only pills I had around were vitamin C. So, she hopped on a train and we met up for drinks.

The last time I slept with Suburban Melissa was back in April. Before that, it was in December. Despite her sobriquet, Suburban Melissa is actually something of a late-30s hipster whose parental duties keep her in the suburbs. Blonde, blue-eyed and buxom, she is a former art student who ended up marrying a banker and we all know what happens when free-spirited women marry the kind of men who go into banking. After their divorce, she moved into a house on the lake in one of Chicago's nicer suburbs but absolutely hates suburban living and dreams of moving back to the city.

She is also a keen follower of the local music scene and possesses an encyclopedic knowledge of rock music. As well as an impressive collection of concert t-shirts.

She told me over drinks that she gets into the city quite a bit for interior decorating jobs and had wanted to give me a call but thought I might be seeing someone. Then she asked me about Christy:

"Christy left some pretty provocative messages on your myspace. Were you sleeping with her?"

"Yes."

"Ha! I KNEW it! I KNEW it! She was not discreet at all! So tell me, how was the sex?"

If most women I've dated had asked this question, I would not have responded. Suburban Melissa is, however, more frank than the average bear and I told her that sex with someone who's totally into you will always be fun, but Christy was pretty conservative---not into talking dirty, head-reticent, etc., and a bit of a nag if she didn't get the attention she felt was her due.

Suburban Melissa laughed.

"I know women like that. Be careful with the married ones---a lot of them will see you as a way out. An escape. You live in the city, you're in shape, sophisticated, good conversation..."

"Please don't stop there...."

"....and married life in the 'burbs can suck. I bet Christy left those messages on myspace hoping to get caught. Saying Fuck You to her husband before she left him. I know women like that. I know what they're like. That's not what I like. ......."

Then she said, "I don't want to "be made love to." I want to be fucked."

After another glass of wine, we left for my apartment. The sex was raunchy and uninhibited. Suburban Melissa is confident enough to let me know what she likes and she said and did things that got me totally excited and the next morning, we had round 2. I'm not really a morning sex guy, but I will totally make an exception for her.

We shared a cab downtown---her to Union Station, me to work.

"I hate living in the suburbs, David. I feel alive in the city. It's like a third cup of coffee. When I get off the train in the suburbs, I feel dead."

Then, "Next time we get together, I want you to fuck my ass."

Last night after film class, I got together with Waffle and Grandpa for a drink. We went to a sushi-nightclub hybrid that piped forgotten 80s tunes just a bit too loud but not overpowering loud and Grandpa told us about his trip to Isthanbul. We wound up debating the merits of the Ottoman vs. British empires when the lights came on and the bartender told us he was closing up for the night. Tonight I'm going out with Marla. And I don't think I've had a decent night's sleep all week.

Thoughts on the Size Debate

I was drinking last night with Drinking Buddy. As the bartender serving us was also male, we started talking about sex. The bartender said that he hates to use condoms, because they don't make them big enough for equipment. He said that Magnums are long enough but nowhere near wide enough for him, and consequently tend to cut off his circulation.

Drinking Buddy remarked that he's had the same problem----condoms are not big enough to accommodate his girth. Both the bartender and Drinking Buddy played major college football, and are large men overall.

I have no problem using condoms.

It is the nature of men to be very touchy about the size of our penises. A friend of mine kept an anonymous blog on which she would recount her dating haps and mishaps. She told me over drinks that one of her former paramours discovered her blog and read the entries she posted about him. He didn't tell her that he had read them----she knew from the way he behaved towards her. She had written good things and bad things about him but the most devastating entry referred to his penis as being on the small side of average---I think the words she used were along the lines of too small to do any real damage.

The man in question will most likely greet her with a glazed, hostile look whenever they meet in the future.

I had a roommate in college who was still a virgin, and this was after our freshman year. He soon discovered that he was enormous, and crowed about it for weeks.

"She said I was hung like a horse. She asked me if I had a license to carry it."

He prominently displayed his box of Magnums on his nightstand.

Like, I suspect, all men, I have measured myself. I came in between 7 1/4 and 7 1/2---not small, not large, but on the slightly larger side of average. I have had a few women tell me I'm huge, but they have usually been women with comparatively little sexual experience. After an acrimonious breakup with a co-worker, I found out that she had told the other women in the company that I was tiny. I have not dated a co-worker in 13 years. I can live with my equipment.

Mar, who is Japanese, told me that she preferred to date white guys because Asian men had smaller penises. I really didn't like hearing her say that, as it struck me as another example of ethnic self-loathing which is never, ever attractive. Maybe she was referring to her own experiences and meant the comment quite innocently, but I really didn't want to hear her say it and it turned me off.

Bigger, however, is not always better. Most sexually adventurous women I know have a story about having sex with someone who was uncomfortably large. These women don't want to have sex with someone who causes them to feel pain. Not fun pain, but real, honest-to-God pain. Size matters, we all know that, but elephantitis carries its own problems---imagine never being able to receive head. Most of us are within a few inches of eachother and staying power combined with enthusiastic cunnilingus will go a long way toward keeping a woman happy.

Tonight, Suburban Melissa is staying over. Friday, I have Marla. Saturday afternoon/evening is Ginger. I have a busy couple days ahead. I may need pop a Rize pill on Saturday. I will keep you posted.

If I Were Your Senator....

I spent the previous week in California rock climbing in Joshua Tree with some friends and I just arrived in Chicago on the redeye flight from Las Vegas and I'm a wee bit exhausted from the flight and battered from my encounters with the rocks but I wanted to bring everyone up to date while everything is still fresh in my mind.

To begin with, I met the famous Alice (whose blog The Incredible Dating Adventures of Alice has sadly been retired) for drinks at a Hollywood pub and am pleased to report that she is every bit as charming and engaging in real time as she comes across in her writing. It's curious, this blogging world---meeting someone for the first time, yet knowing intimate details about that person's life and having that person know intimate details of your life. Anyway, it was a pleasant evening and I'm looking forward to hosting her when she interviews at graduate schools in Chicago.

The next day, I drove to Joshua Tree where Ted had rented a house with a swimming pool, hot tub and sauna. Very, very California. There were seven of us in the group, and after the second day of climbing everyone gathered around the X Box while I soakded my weary bones in the whirlpool and poured myself a scotch on the rocks. I remember pouring a second, then a third. The next thing I new, I was on top of my bed, fully dressed. The clock said 1:30, and I was suffering from an unquenchable thirst.

The next morning, I asked Ted what had happened the night before.

"Really? You don't remember?"

Bad sign right there.

"It wouldn't have been a big deal, David, but you're really the only drinker in the group. Except for Barry, everyone else is pretty much a teetotaler."

By talking to three different people, I was able to piece together what had happened. Apparently, I was arguing for Barack Obama and making disparaging remarks about Bill and Hillary Clinton. Specifically, that they represented the dark side of American politics. I may have been a bit conspriatorial.

The highlight, or lowlight, depending on your point of view, came when Ted's sister Jenny announced that she would not vote for me if I ran for the senate. I have no idea how the subject came up---I am as far removed from having a political career as anyone who is not currently in prison and I imagine this blog would pretty much nip any public service aspirations in the bud. I can only assume that I was speaking hypothetically. I really have no memory of this at all.

So, I became apoplectic on discovering that Jenny would not vote for me. She told me that it was because I didn't have a healthy regard for women. She apparently challenged me on the fact that I've been dating multiple women and asked me if I informed every new prospect that I'd be juggling her with six or seven other women.

After things had calmed down, I played X-box, or committed suicide via X-box, depending on whose version you believe, and went to bed.

My position regarding women has been that I'm free to date whomever I wish until I have the exclusivity talk with someone. If I ask someone if she wants to see me exclusively and she accepts, then we're in a relationship. Obviously, there are other things I can do along those lines----tell her I love her, ask her to move in, discuss marriage, any and all of which would rightly convey my intentions to pursue a monogamous relationship with the young lady in question. There are also gray areas, which I'm very careful to avoid. My conscience on that point is clear.

Still, I'd be lying if I said it didn't bother me a bit. I like Jenny and I hope that I can give her a reason to formulate a better opinion of my character in the future.

However, if I'm launching political campaigns under the influence of alcohol then she's probably right to vote against me.

Drama with Mar

The sound of my cell phone jarred me from my sleep at a little after 2:00 this morning. I looked at the number---definitely and out-of-state area code. I let it ring through. A moment later, my phone beeped indicating that someone had left a message.

A woman with a foreign accent was babbling something about a "Margreet" and asking if she could stay with me because she was crying and a horrible thing had happened with her roommate and "priest-man" was there and she needed to get away and I erased the message before I got to the end. Some people should learn how to dial.

Five minutes later, my phone rang again. Same number. This time I picked it up.

"Hello, is this David?"

"Who is this?"

"Mariko's mother. She asked me to call you. Policeman is there. She's crying. She had to get away from L and her roommate and they are plotting and policeman is there and she asked me to call you and see if she can stay at your place."

It's worth remarking here that if Mary Tyler Moore could have said the word "no" during the first five minutes, there would have been no basis for the TV show. However, I did promise Mar that if she was in a jam or got into trouble she could call me. I stand by that promise.

"Yes, she can come over. I'll call her."

"Please, have her call me when she gets there."

I called Mar. She was in tears. I told her she could come over and spend the night.

Mar arrived at 3:00. She was still crying.

"My roommate got violent. He's the one who has the crush on me. He grabbed me and dragged me and hit me."

Some men, clearly, do not handle rejection well.

"I called the police and they did nothing. The cop was in the Navy and my roommate was in the Navy and they got all buddy-buddy and made it sound like it was MY fault and the cop told me they'd take me in if I didn't stop crying."

Yes, that does sound like our Chicago Police Department at work.

I told Mar that she could grab the sheets and blankets and towels from the closet and make herself at home. I went back to sleep.

Four hours later, I left for the gym. When I returned, Mar was sleeping on the chair in a fetal position. I had brought her a bagel and proceeded to make coffee. The story then emerged.

Her new roommate, referred to hereafter as Dahmer, confessed to having a crush on her as soon as she moved in. Dahmer was going through a difficult time in his life---he had just gotten out of the Navy, his wife had filed for divorce and he was facing a possible bankruptcy. Additionally, he had recently been charged with DWI after driving his car over the sidewalk and ramming it into a fence. Mar was the passenger.

She put off his advances couteously and went as far as to meet his therapist with him. Last night, however, she invited her ex-boyfriend, L, over. Dahmer became jealous, started slamming doors and accused her of messing around with L when he was out of the room. She told him he was crazy. He started to get physically threatening with her at this point.

I asked her what L was doing all this time.

"Nothing. He kept saying we should leave, and I made him leave the room."

"Wait a minute, he left you alone with Dahmer?"

"I made him leave. He's not a fighter."

"And he LEFT?"

"He waited outside."

L is clearly not a man. If some guy gets rough with one of my female friends and I'm in the room, I don't care how big he is. We're going at it. You don't get physically violent with women. I relayed this to Mar, and she replied,

"No! I made him leave. He'd get something broken. I wanted to handle it."

Apparently, he punched her and dragged her and she hit him back. Mar is not the violent type, and I'm certain she didn't initiate it. She called the police and when the police arrived Dahmer told them the he had acted out of self-defense. Then there was the Navy connection. One of the cops looked into her purse and pulled out a container of pills.

"Ma'am, are you bi-polar or schizophrenic?"

Dahmer told the police that she was trespassing and, SURPRISE! she was not actually on the lease. L, apparently, was no help at all with the cops, which made me understand why she didn't want to stay at his place. Mar cheated with me periodically while she was dating L, and I was understanding why.

Anyway, the police asked her if she wanted to go to the homeless shelter. They threatened to take her to jail if she didn't calm down. I imagine that it was at this point she called her mother and asked her mother to call me.

Mar tells me that I'm the only sane person in her life. God help her.

When I met Mar, she was studying for medical school. That plan appears to be on the back-burner. She's currently looking to get into real estate and is looking at properties in the city. To my knowledge she does not have a full-time, regular job-type-job outside of her volunteer work at the hospital or for various candidates. I'm wondering now how I could have dated her on-and-off for the six months that we were together. When Mar is around, drama is never far behind.

I Gotta Be Me

Friday night, I saw No Country for Old Men with Marla. I highly, highly, highly recommend it if you like to be scared shitless. If you don't, you should still see it. Saturday, I had tentative plans with Zibi to hang out at a Polish watering hole and hear a band, but at about 5:00 Drinking Buddy knocked on my door and asked if I wanted to go to Nick's.

I will always go to Nick's.

Drinking Buddy introduced me to an independent filmmaker that he knew and the shot glasses came out before we were done with our first round. I mentioned seeing No Country for Old Men with Marla and Drinking Buddy said,

"Of the girls you've been dating, she's the one I like. She seems very....respectful."

Respectful is probably the highest praise Drinking Buddy will give to a woman. I let it sink in, and we continued to do shots. At about 8:30, I stumbled out the door intending to grab a Maxwell Street Polish. Next thing I knew I was in my bed and it was 3:00.

I had slept past my saturday night! Damn you, Drinking Buddy! Damn you for my lost hours and for my excruciating hangover!

My morning run dispelled most of my hangover and the two bloody marys I enjoyed over brunch took care of the remainder. I spent the rest of the day doing laundry and watching football. At 6:00, Urban Melissa sent me a text asking if I was up for going bowling. I answered, sure. It had been a few years since I had held a bowling ball. She responded with the venue and asked me to bring one of my lady friends, as she was afraid she might be the only female in the group. I asked Marla.

We met up at Diversey Rock and Bowl, where ironical slumming and full-on kitsch appreciation meet head on and it's impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins. Urban Melissa arrived with her boyfriend and a friend of his and introductions were made. Marla went to the Ladies' room and Urban Melissa grabbed my arm.

"David, she's a keeper! I like her better than any of your women! We should do more things together with her!"

This was about ten minutes after they had met.

That my two most discriminating friends (by discriminating I mean not liking the girls I date) like Marla speaks very well in her favor. I like Marla too. However, I also enjoy being a single guy and playing the field. I'm not going to get into a serious relationship based on what my friends would have me do and I'm not ready to stop seeing other women. The moment may come but right now, I'm having fun.

Wow...

You can drink a *lot* when you're on shrooms.....

Work Story II

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Head

Last night I caught Before the Devil Knows You're Dead with Marla, followed by a late-night dinner in Old Town, followed by an exhausting session back in her apartment which left me drenched in sweat and needing three large glasses of water to restore my pre-coital state of hydration. At about 3:30 this morning, I felt Marla's hand on my penis---the tell-tale sign that she was ready to go again. At 3:45, fighting leg cramps, I collapsed in another pool of sweat.

At 11:30, eight hours away, Ginger was arriving in Chicago so I didn't want to get too exhausted. Ginger had already emailed me that she was having her period so intercourse was out of the question, but she indicated that she'd give me head. OK. I won't complain about head.

I should mention that my emails can be monitored at any time by my bosses. And I am blocked from accessing non-work email accounts. Just another example of the many ways The Man fucks with you on a daily basis. Well, my bosses are the kind of guys to be amused by that sort of thing. And seriously---I have to endure Fox News all day but I shouldn't be sending or receiving sexually explicit emails at work? One's much much more obscene than the other.

OK. Ginger arrived and back to my apartment we sprinted. I put on Mister Magic by Grover Washington---very possibly the best makeout song ever recorded---and off came the clothes. Ginger had indicated that she preferred cherry to grape, so I had the cherry gel at the ready and after bumping and grinding and licking her mouth went south.

Wow. Ladies, if there is a secret to giving good head, it's this: act as if you are enjoying the experience. Christy would do it, but was always upfront that it wasn't her favorite thing. I never asked her to do it of course but she knew that it's something all men love so her mouth would close around me for about 10 seconds of silence and then she would look up expectantly like a puppy dog seeking praise. Ginger told me to let her know what I liked but it really wasn't necessary.....she appeared to be having as much fun as I was.

And, which is also pleasant, she swallowed.

Ask any guy----we like to be swallowed. To spit is physically to reject us. Swallowing is acceptance: like us, like our sperm. It's not a deal-breaker if the chick doesn't swallow, but I always remember the swallowers very fondly. Deep throating is cool, but not necessary---you can get as much mileage wrapping your hands around the base. In my experience, the most proficient deep throat artists have been bulimic girls and I never knew why until a friend pointed out to me that they had probably lost their gag reflex.

Over the course of four hours, she finished me off a total of three times. I felt bad that there wasn't anything I could do for her and told her that sex during that time of the month didn't bother me. She replied that she doesn't even do that with her husband, but added that she felt very comfortable with me so perhaps at some point in the future....

Her afternoon bag contained a CD of music she wanted to dance to---it was pretty sentimental stuff, but I couldn't deny her a dance so we slow danced for awhile like we were at a wedding. Or maybe a junior-high dance. We ordered a pizza and I picked out a bottle of wine. White Zinfandel.

Yes. Ordinarily, it would make me gag. But I figured that Ginger would love it (she did) and I will go out of my way to please a woman who can go down on me three times in pretty rapid succession. If she can swallow me, I can swallow white zin.

After dinner I dropped her off at the train station and returned home to finish the bottle.

In other news, I have been flirting online recently with Zsa Zsa and Casperina. Had a couple cyber sessions with Casperina and if we can work out the logistics we should get together within a month. Zsa Zsa is actually Italian, as in native Italian. Bonus points for foreign birth. I was a little disturbed that she used text message spelling in our IM conversation but will now be willing to cut her some slack. I will probably go out with Zibi and a couple of his friends tonight. I am taking the aspirin in advance.

Ginger Snap

One of the things I love about living in Chicago is seeing the mood of the people who visit me from the provinces---everything is soooo big and sooo exciting and the people are soooo hip and well-dressed and it's all big-eyed wonder and if my visitor is female and I am so inclined it tends to make her much more receptive to my advances. That doesn't necessarily mean that we'll pass out from exhaustion next to an empty box of Durex condoms and a bottle of K-Y jelly, but it does mean that I have less work to do to impress her.

Yes, Ginger arrived this weekend from the Wisconsin border. I met her at the train and she was exactly what I expected from her pics and her emails: red-headed, petit, trim and inclined to use words like "gee" and "gosh" a lot. We went to Small Bar in Ukrainian Village for lunch (she said ahead of time that she wasn't into fancy foods, and tends to like meat and potatoes. A brie-burger would have been pushing it) and we ordered up a pair of their organic burgers.

From there, it was back to my apartment. I put on some music and we started making out. I was pleased with her body---so many women in their mid-thirties let themselves go to pot, especially when they're married. Her ass was small enough for me to get a hand firmly over each bun. Nice. Also, her breasts were firm and pert.

We fell asleep after an energetic bout of lovemaking, woke up and went at it again. However, as I was working on her from behind I felt a sharp pain in my calfs and had to roll over. She looked up to see me moaning, in pain.

"Cramps," I explained, "I run a lot and I often get them...."

My erection disappeared almost immediately.

Five minutes later, however, all was well and the finish was.....nice. She tasted good, too, which is always a plus.

She told me she couldn't spend the night, which was OK with me---she is still married, so discretion is the key here. I decided to call Len and see if he wanted to come up to see a Bears game, either live or on TV.

"I was thinking about coming up tonight. I need to think of a reason not to."

Five minutes later he sent a text: "I'm on my way."

This would be the first test for Ginger. Christy would have failed miserably. I never introduced her to Len because she wouldn't have mixed well. She tended to be clingy and resent anything that took some of my attention away from her.

Ginger, however, was just fine, being her usual chirpy, chatty self. We all went out for pizza at Piece and Len offered to pick up the tab. I resisted the temptation to order two bottles of their most expensive wine and asked Ginger what she liked and didn't like on her pizza.

"I only like traditional pizza---I only like sausage and pepperoni. No veggies or mushrooms."

Len broke in: "When you're in here, you have to order something you wouldn't normally eat. I used to be just like you, but you have to try it. Their pizza is really good."

Ginger, however, was unmoved by our pleas so we decided to go the traditinal route. The pizza was excellent but I was unable to persuade her to try one of Piece's kick-ass microbrews---when informed that they didn't carry Miller, she ordered a Budweiser.

Take away one point for plebeian tastes.

After dinner, we went for drinks at a bar/restaurant where Urban Melissa's boyfriend was playing in a jazz combo. This would be test number two, which Christy had failed miserably. Grandpa and Waffle would be perfectly nice, but readers of this blog know how Urban Melissa and Guatemala can be. That's just how they roll.

"Oh," said Urban Melissa, "nice to meet you. How did you two meet?"

"Myspace," said Ginger.

"Another one?"

Ginger laughed. Add one point for sense of humor.

We hung out and I probably drank a few more whiskey on the rocks than I intended. We were easily the loudest table. Well, if people don't know how to have fun in a restaurant, fuck 'em.

I left around 11:30 to see Ginger to a cab and ended up going home myself. Len apparently sent me a text informing me that he was at Nick's but I was unaware of this until he drunkenly barged into my room and rousted me from my sleep.

"I sent you a text! Why didn't you go to Nick's?"

I knew that the quickest way to get rid of him would be to play dead. Which I did. And which it did. When I woke up the next morning for my eight-mile-run-hangover-cure, I checked my texts and noticed a booty call from Marla at 12:00. followed by a follow-up at 4:30:

"Missed you at Nick's."

So she had decided to come to my neighborhood to party. That could have been interesting. Not sure how I would have handled her seeing me with someone else. I'm in the clear: I never promised exclusivity and I didn't break plans with her, but it would be a bit embarrassing. Whatever followed, I don't think it would have been an invitation to a threesome.

Anyway, Ginger emailed Len for the dirt on me and Len, like a good mensch, told her that she'll have fun with me when she comes in but to remember that I like being single, tend to date a lot of girls and have no patience for drama. She emailed back that she kinda figured it out. Then she emailed me, telling me that she would probably flirt with Len, because that's what she does, but that it is my hands she wants all over her body. She's promised me a striptease to Joe Cocker's Leave Your Hat On. And she claims that she's never even seen 9 1/2 Weeks.

This could be fun.

Emails Prior to a First Meeting

Ginger and I are meeting for the first time this Saturday. She is taking the train into the city. Every day, she has emailed me a question. We usually compare answers and go back-and-forth. I thought you would enjoy reading yesterday's exchange, so I have reprinted it here. She is in red, I am in green.

Getting Your Freak On.....

Yes you heard me right. My patience wouldn't let me wait to write you about this one.

I want to know......your bedroom style. Are you gentle, sensitive, like it rough, adventurous, loud, quiet, traditional, or just a little bit freaky. I will tell you what I think after you answer me.

Anything new going on today? How is your day going? I'm sitting eating my lunch and reading. I went and got Long John Silver's chicken today and fries, and some warm choc. chip cookies.

If you lick your lips, you might just be able to taste the cookies...

Well.....everyone's definition of freaky is a little different. Variety is the key. I will say that I am extremely adventurous and am up for just about anything. I respect limits, however.

I think everyone has a side that's a little bit freaky. I've explored mine. Creating a comfortable setting is the key.

Really, really well thought-out answer. I'm impressed. I will comment more later.

What side did you explore? What did you do (if I may be so bold to ask)? You've piqued my curiousity.

Are you tasting the chocolate?

What did I do?

A lot.

I will comment more later, as well....

Ugh...making me wait.

Ok. Well I guess I'll tell you what my FIRST impression of you would be based on what I know of you....

Ultra traditional, with some variation in positions, tender and gentle, soft slow kisser, pretty passionate, a pleaser, but then I also think you could be one to jump on the bed and be 'tarzan'....

I would have never thought you were really adventurous....and I don't mean that in a BAD way. I try not to judge.

What is your take on me....based on the things I've told you, and I know I've said enough to give you a good take on it.


You're missing romance. You want to feel sexy. You want someone to kiss you slowly, gently, work over your body in a deliberate way, tell you how sexy you are. You want something gentle, letting it build, letting it build, letting it build until you're out of control.

I gather the men in your life have been a little slam-bam-thank-you-ma'am.

You're fine with your freakier side, but initially you want gentleness, tenderness, affection, adoration....

Holy crap. Spot on. I'm speechless. That doesn't happen often.

Letting it build, letting it build. Perfect. Out of control. Perfect.

Secret: Kissing is my favorite part of it all. Someone who kisses well. It would just be the bonus to have the big O after it all. That's not always a given.

I'm just so speechless.

98 hrs....30 minutes....is too.......damn........long.......to......wait.

I am afraid of disappointing you.
I am afraid of you not enjoying yourself with me.
I am afraid of being nervous and silly around you.
I am afraid of not making the most of my time with you.
I am afraid of wanting to spend more time with you than I'm able.

I don't necessarily need to be told that I'm sexy all the time. But....once in a while it's nice to hear. I am not dependent on compliments. I do better with gestures, touching, etc.

I should probably stop this topic now....

I am leaving today at about 3:45 to go get my tires rotated and my oil changed. How sexy, huh?

The New Neighborhood

I went to see the movie Lars and the Real Girl (not recommended unless you're extremely sentimental) with Marla on Friday and afterwards we stopped in a Lincoln Park tavern for a drink. It's really amazing to notice that all Lincoln Park bars look exactly alike. When I moved to Chicago in 1993 it wasn't that way: there were still plenty of old-time neighborhood hangouts with their coterie of regulars and their old jukeboxes with everything from Johnny Cash to Dave Brubeck. It was possible to meet the owners, and often as not they'd be working behind the bar.

Now, all the taverns are antiseptic and look like they were designed by the same interior decorator. Many have Irish-sounding names on the front, but we all know that real Irish bars (they do exist in Chicago)do not hang Budweiser signs in the window. And the clientele: all the people I couldn't stand in college have gravitated to Lincoln Park.

So, the movie and the tavern get a mixed review from me. Oh, so does the date with Marla. She's a nice girl who laughs at all my jokes, but I've noticed that I'm the only one who suggests our topics of conversation. She defers to me too heavily, and I'm starting to get bored. Well, next weekend Ginger comes in for a visit. That should make for an interesting post.

Last night I was out with a group of people including Urban Melissa. We were hanging out at a northside blues bar when I got a text from Bethany: "Come to Nick's! I miss you!" When I arrived at Nick's about an hour later, she bought me a Heineken and told me what was going on: she regrets moving from the neighborhood, hates living in Humboldt Park and she and her boyfriend are trying to sublet their place and are looking for apartments in Wicker Park. I was pretty tired at this point, having been up rather late on Friday but we made plans to grab dinner at Blue Line on Tuesday.

The conversation was music to my ears. The building hasn't seemed the same since Bethany moved out. It'll be nice having her in the neighborhood again.

The Old Neighborhood

I was in the old neighborhood last night. The neighborhood we first moved into, before we were married. The one we live in for the first two years after. The lobby of our apartment building has been gentrified. Instead of the austere marble, there is pseudo wood paneling. The awning is also gone. There really was no reason for it in the first place, I suppose. And there is an air conditioner dangling from what was our bedroom window.

The Mexican bakery where I used to fetch our morning biscuits is a clothing store. The used bookstore is still there. As is the World Market. And the independent movie theatre. In the eight years since we moved in, not that much has changed.

Our troubles started when we bought the house and moved to the suburbs. It didn't help when I was laid off a week before our trip to Europe. Maybe the dogs were more than I was ready to handle. At any rate, we both made our mistakes. I know what mine were. You know what yours were. I thought of you as my life partner. I thought we would be together forever. Of course, if you had asked me not to move out I would have stayed. And if I had asked for counseling, you would have agreed. We would have continued to live under the same roof.

Walking through our old neighborhood brought it back to me. How you and I would spend hours in the bookstore, excited over our discoveries. The time we spent selecting furniture. How we would watch eye other in the gym, each mimicking the other's facial expressions. And make each other laugh. The restaurants we explored. The park. The lake. The afternoons in the bedroom, making love until we were both exhausted.

I hope you are happy. I hope the collapse of our marriage did you no lasting damage and that you are with a good man. I accept that there will always be more sadness than joy in life and I accept that death is the final end to our hopes, aspirations, strivings, failures and tears. But as I walked through our old neighborhood, I thought of the walks we took in the afternoon. The secrets that we shared. The way that we communicated with our eyes and our smiles. And I found comfort remembering how, for a time, I loved you, you loved me. And we were happy.

Work Story I

Well, I told a co-worker of mine to fuck himself on Friday. Skippy and I have sat next to each other for over a year, and despite.....no, probably because of our common Iowa upbringing I find myself trying to overcome a visceral dislike of the guy.

Skippy volunteers as an assistant coach at one of the suburban high schools. He has season tickets for the Iowa Hawkeye games as well as the Bears games. The joke around the office is that his kids were sired by the mailman. His interests begin and end at sports.

We deal with a number of foreign clients, especially from the far East. Language can be an issue, but we're paid to deal the investing public and I have to remind myself that every foreigner I speak with has mastered an intellectual challenge that has so far eluded me: fluency in a second language.

Skippy, on the other hand, insists that foreigners are all dumb and all crooks. He wants the wall built on the border ASAP. George Bush is a great president and if we don't support the war then we're stabbing the troops in the back. Homosexuality shocks him. His world-view seems to extend no further than the Des Moines suburbs.

And, he has a mean streak. He tends to needle people around him and most of the people in his former department can't stand him. In all of these qualities, he reminds me of my monosyllabic 7th grade gym teacher. The monosyllabicism included.

Friday, I asked him for assistance on something I was dealing with that is usually his domain, and he responded with haughty arrogance. I turned to face him and said,

"Skippy, go fuck yourself."

Everyone turned around and one or two people started chuckling. My boss tried to diffuse the situation by saying,

"Calm down. Nobody's going to fuck himself here."

"Don't worry," I told him, "I don't think it's anatomically possible for Skippy to fuck himself, anyway."

What I feel bad about is that I let my anger through. My weapon in dealing with people is mockery. If I had asked Skippy if he had stopped taking his ritalin, or informed him that I had a phone message for him to the effect that his Dale Carnegie class had been canceled, that would have been funny and everyone would have laughed at his expense. Instead, I turned around and told him to fuck himself. It was direct and it subdued him for the rest of the day but anger is not my weapon of choice. In resorting to it, I let the terrorists win.

Terrible, Horrible Etc. Day Redux

Yesterday was tough. Yesterday was a real bitch. I was on the phone all day with angry clients and all I could do was explain and apologize. After work, I boarded an El platform and waited twenty minutes as two trains packed with commuters sped passed. CTA had fucked up the trains, once again.

Fuck this, I thought to myself. I left the platform and headed to a loop bar, desperately needing a martini and a cheeseburger.

I sat at the only available spot at the bar, ordered a an Absolut with a twist and snagged a menu. The woman to my left, apparently a regular, was complaining to the bartender about her Blackberry and said she might have to throw it against the wall.

"Actually, I'd be most happy to throw your Blackberry against the wall for you....."

She laughed.

"What is that," I said, "the 90s version? You have that big antenna? Is that like the CB radio of Blackberries?"

"No," she said, "it's the latest model. The antenna is stuck in the up position because I hurled it once. I'm a sales manager and I have a lot of idiots working for me."

"So you broke your blackberry in a fit of anger?"

"I'll just have to take it out of my sales budget."

I motioned for the bartender: "Hit me again and put it on her tab."

We fell into conversation. She was 37, married with a teenage son and a house in the suburbs. She was shocked to learn my age, which made brightened my day a bit. I looked at my watch and realized that I was probably not going to film class that night.

We were joined by a retired cop and his drinking buddy who both had some great stories involving college football games and drinking. She ended up buying me two martinis, which made for a grand total of four. Two hours later, when it was time for her to leave, she moved in for what I thought was a hug. Instead, she planted a kiss on my lips and slipped me her business card.

I doubt I'll get together with her, but the validation was nice. Sometimes, the best remedy to a really shitty day is to go to a bar and have a couple stiff drinks. If you stay home, nothing will happen. If you go out, maybe nothing will happen. Then again, maybe something will. You might just have a good time.

Of Humorous Bondage

A friend of mine mentioned that she had developed an interest in body modification. She obviously wasn't talking about herself---she sports no tattoos and I'd be surprised if she ever went further than having her tongue pierced in college. Her interest was purely that of a spectator. I told her I'd send her a link to the "interview with a nullo"---anyone with an interest in or fascination with body modification should read it.

And no, I'm not posting it here. You'll have to google it on your own time.

For those of you not familiar with the term, a nullo is someone who has been completely de-sexed. A man who has had his penis and testicles removed. In the interview, the nullo describes how he became heavily involved in the gay s&m scene and how his master coerced him into getting snipped and chopped. After reading it, my friend emailed back expressing her horror and wrote,

"Remind me never to get into the b&d scene."

Ah, but the b&d scene is the shallow end of the pool! The safe waters, with safe words and soothing before and after conversations. I'm in a sexual relationship with Submissive Liz that involves bondage and discipline, but I'm very very tender and caring with her pre-and-post-coitus. You have to be.

Domination and submission is a game, and should be a game to be properly enjoyed. If it stops being fun for one of the parties, it's no longer a game and it's no longer fun. If you are the dominant partner, your submissive is placing her trust in you and that's a lot of responsibility.

My first foray into b&d was in college. It involved a second date with a girl after our first date had involved raunchy sex and scintillating badinage. She painted herself as a very kinky, experimental girl and while we were in the dorm shower together I brought out a pair of handcuffs I had purchased for the occasion. She started crying the minute I clipped them on. I hurriedly removed them and watched in horror as she grabbed a bathrobe and stormed out of the shower room. It was a learning experience for me.

My next foray was more successful---it involved a high-school girl who was visiting her college-aged sister. A buddy and I talked her into bridge-jumping into the Iowa River and at the end of the night she came back to my apartment. Over the next several days, we explored unchartered territory, hers and mine, and discussed domination games. She demurred, so I thought that was the end of it. That night, however, she woke me up for sex and started calling me master mid-coitus. And I have to say, the stream of words that came out of her mouth both frightened me and got me incredibly excited.

My college years also gave me a taste of the other side of the coin: a friend and sometime makeout partner of mine, a brilliant person and first-rate violinist, was currently in a relationship but visited my apartment one evening with a quarter ounce of hydro and after smoking a bowl or two dared me to strip for her. I told her she'd chicken out before I got naked, she told me I'd chicken out at my underwear and so I undressed. She remained fully clothed.

Not knowing what to do next, I suggested that I could masturbate for her. She found the idea exciting and before long was telling me what to do and how to do it. She was totally in control and I have to be honest---the encounter was scorching hot.

Since then, I have had many encounters involving transfers of power, I have tied up and been tied up, I know when to push a situation and I know when to back off and be gentle. There are people who do it as a lifestyle and all it takes is a quick perusal of Craigslist to find them. Angry, frustrated men and insecure, self-loathing women will always find one another. For me, it's not a lifestyle. It's a game. And the best part is, I get to keep my penis and testicles attached.

The End of the Weekend

After the Bears loss on Sunday, Marla and I went to Ye Olde Sex Shoppe for some flavored gel to erase the bitter taste of Adrian Peterson streaking through the Bears' porous defense. After making love, we fell asleep for about an hour and Marla left after we woke up.

I went to a rock club on the south side to catch an acquaintance's band, and was favorably impressed. I called Urban Melissa upon re-arriving in Wicker Park (we didn't go to Hamlet after all. Student productions can be so pretentious) and we got together at Nick's with her boyfriend and two actors, one of whom was the playwright of the production she had just seen.

"This is the man of the hour, David," she said as she introduced us.

Then, as soon as he was out of earshot, "God that play totally sucked!"

I had to laugh. The contrast was classic Urban Melissa.

The five of us sat around the table telling ribald jokes and making politically incorrect quips and I thought of how much I preferred the company of actors, musicians and writers to the company of the young corporate professionals from which pool my work colleagues have always been drawn.

After my third scotch and soda and promises to get together for the next weekend, everyone left and I took a seat at the bar next to Submissive Liz. We talked about the marathon and, between her second and third cigarette, she expressed a desire to run in next year's. I told her she might want to quit smoking first. She had to leave, but soon after she walked out the door she sent me a text message:

"OK so i REALLY needed to be put in my place by you but can I have a rain check?"

I texted back, "sure".

An off-duty bartender bought me a shot of Jameson and we dissected the Bears game.

In the next room, a mixed group of thirty-somethings was playing pool. A woman from the group walked up next to me at the bar and ordered a drink. She introduced herself as someone on a business trip from San Francisco. She and her group were staying downtown but she had heard that Wicker Park was the hip part of town and wanted to check it out. She asked me to join her in pool, but I disappear whenever pool cues come out. I have the worst hand-eye coordination of anyone at the bar. In any given bar. At any given time.

She was back a few minutes later, asking me to help her choose songs from the jukebox. We selected some 80s and 90s throwbacks and she repeated her invitation to pool. I thought about it but politely declined. I finished my drink, said goodnight to the bartender and went home.

I was feeling content. It was a nice weekend. I thought, I'm glad that I'm single and can date whomever I please. I'm glad that I live in Wicker Park. I'm glad that I work with people I like and for people I trust. I thought, this is a pretty good time in my life, right now. I'm going to try to hang onto it for as long as I can.

Love Letters and Such....

Things have been progressing with Ginger. Our online flirtations have kicked up a notch, and she emailed me a sexual fantasy of hers. It was very, very hot. Blue balls hot. I've had women send me lingerie and nude photos before but a girl who knows how to verbalize her sexual desires will push all my right buttons. I read it three times over. It got me so worked up that I went out and slept with Marla.

Marla is the chick I chose to meet me at the finish line, for a couple of reasons: she's the most stable woman I've been dating, she is cool and she is socially aware. Cool is an underrated attribute that's hard to describe but its outward manifestation is marked by a laid-back, humorous approach to the situations and people around you. I've seen her interact with a variety of people and she has an impressive ability to be her unaffected self regardless of whomever she's around. When things lag, she's a good raconteur (raconteuse?). If the conversation flows, she's an active listener. Kinda like Johnny Carson without the WASP assholeishness. She didn't make my friends wonder when I was going to stop dating psycho chicks, which they do wonder from time to time.

So, Marla and I met up at Nick's and wound up in bed half an hour later. During sex, she said..."I love you......I mean, I love your dick inside me..."

Nice recovery. I've learned, however, not to be scared away by anything that's said during sex. With one or two possible exceptions which I will get into another time.

We went to Moonshine for brunch, which is now DLS safe again with Mar having moved to a new neighborhood further north. Speaking of Mar, she came over a week before the marathon and we made out---she worked me over orally and manually but we didn't have sex, which is a good thing. It tends to mess her up when we have sex. I don't think it does me much good, either.

Tonight, I'm seeing Michael Clayton with Marla. Tomorrow, I'm going to a DePaul production of Hamlet with Urban Melissa. Waffle and Grandpa may join us. Urban Melissa may or may not be together with her boyfriend. The day of the marathon, she was moving out of their apartment in tears. Now they're together---maybe. We'll see.

I have also been communicating with a blond pharmaceutical sales woman from a western suburb. Her picture is nice---she is sporting a maniacal grin. I will now probably re-read the email from Ginger. Masturbational fodder for the month ahead. It makes me anxious to meet her.

Online Dating

There are two new women on the horizon of my life---Ginger and Zsa-Zsa.

I met both of them online. I should explain that I don't troll for women online. I have a myspace page on which I write a slightly safer version of my blog which makes me look a bit more likeable than this one does. I have also posted the absolute best picture of myself that I could find. So, women usually find me.

I'd say that half the women I date I have met in bars and the other half I have met online. The online women tend to be older. Usually, they're from the suburbs or outlying areas, divorced (or still married), often with children. Not as likely to get out to the bar scene in Wicker Park but desirous of doing so. I've met some younger, local girls online through myspace but they tend to be more the exception than the rule.

Ginger is a 35-year-old redhead who lives across the border in Wisconsin and has a big interest in photography. She is in the process of leaving her second husband and has no children. She has sent me a couple tastefully-done bikini shots and she has a very nice body for a 35-year-old. We are getting together in two weeks.

Zsa-Zsa is a dark-haired real estate agent from a northern suburb. Her listed age is 48 and, looking at her pictures, I think: No Way. If she looks like her pictures, she is the fittest, most attractive 48-year-old I have ever seen who is not either a model or an actress. Her pictures convey poise, confidence, sensuality. She knows how to apply makeup. We have flirted with eachother over the last week and the next step will be a meeting.

In my experience, the way to attract a woman online is through restrained eroticism---you want to be perceived as sensual, but not horny. And every woman on myspace has stories about guys who get too horny too fast. During IM conversations, mention restaurants you enjoy, places you've visited. If she's like most women I've met online, she's been married to, or had many dates with, the beer-swilling, sweatshirt-wearing football nut. She wants romance, wine, picnics in the park---you need to come across as a man who appreciates the finer things and can share them with her.

Don't be the beer swilling football nut.

When you compliment her, it's pretty clumsy to tell her she has a nice ass, or great tits. You can mention that she has a nice figure. Compliment her facial expressions or her choice in clothing. Women like to be noticed for the clothes they wear. Tell her she looks fun. Tell her, for example, that you'd like to share a bottle of wine with her. Ask her questions.

When you get to the cyber-sex stage, show some class. If you haven't met her yet, telling her that you want to put your fingers deep inside her dripping wet pussy as an opening line may not get you the response you want. You may want to put down the Penthouse forum.

Instead, set the scene: tell you you'd like to look in her beautiful eyes and kiss the back of her neck, inhaling her aroma. Breathe her in. Run your hands over her face...her shoulders...look in her eyes, feel her heart quicken. Slowly undress her. Be elaborate. Her response will tell you where to go. Some women enjoy raunchy banter, lots of "fuck" "pussy" and "cock". Some shrink from reference to specific body parts and want to be made love to on a beach, the wind gliding over their naked bodies. A man has to be discerning.

My preference is to meet women in bars, but a major advantage of online dating is that you are working with a broader canvas---there is more time. There are fewer distractions. You are not shouting over a jukebox or a loud band. And it's easier to filter someone out before you get to the meeting stage.

Marathon Fiasco

OK. I'll be honest. After mile 20, when the word came down that the marathon had been canceled, the clocks turned off and the speakers on top of the fire trucks blared a message asking us, for our own safety, to cease running, I was relieved. I had run two marathons previously, just completed a rigorous training course and was in the best shape of my life, yet I found myself fighting a losing battle with dizziness, nausea and thirst.

I have never had a running experience like that before. I hope I never do again.

I crossed the finish line in just under six hours. And I feel like a great big wuss.

I know that the organizers did the correct thing in canceling the marathon. People around me were dropping like flies. Medical personnel were overwhelmed. Water stations were running out. And I know enough about running to listen to my body.

Still, I feel frustrated. All the training, all the early mornings on the road, gone to waste. My moment of triumph, my goal of finishing in under four hours, dashed.

All consolation, while appreciated, still rings hollow. It's a marathon, not the special olympics. The reality is that my body was giving out in the heat. At the 20-mile marker my adjusted finishing goal was 4:45. And that was by no means guaranteed.

And the reality is also that I was relieved to have an excuse to start walking. I was ready to quit. I had justification.

And that's what stings the most.

My Recent Hiatus

Apologies, loyal fans, but I've been concentrating on the upcoming marathon, which commences tomorrow! I've been blessed by the visit of a number of old friends recently and I will have stories for y'all soon!

Slurs

My job involves dealing with the investing public, which very often involves no small test of my patience and understanding. Yesterday, I spent a good part of my day dealing with a monumetally difficult client and after I hung up the phone, the words that escaped my lips were:

"I'd love to just pop that little cocksucker right in the face."

My co-workers were amused to hear me use the phrase cocksucker, as I'm easily the most left-leaning guy in the office, except for the guy in the mailroom, and the only one to support gay marriage rights. I felt kinda bad about using the term, and if there is a closeted or not gay or lesbian in the office then I have contributed to a hostile work environment.

However, I was so mad that I said it again.

"Cocksucker!"

Last week, I was sharing a drink with Drinking Buddy and we were discussing the Ozzie Guillen/Jay Mariotti feud. Ozzie Guillen is the hot-headed manager of the White Sox and Jay Mariotti is the most obnoxious sports columnist in the city, which is saying a lot. Ozzie Guillen referred to Jay Mariotti as a "little faggot," prompting a public outcry from the gay and lesbian community.

"Well," said Drinking Buddy, "he's right. Jay Mariotti is a little faggot."

We laughed. Drinking Buddy is also liberal and pro gay rights, but I understood how he was using the term. As boys, the way we insulted someone was to call his sexual orientation into question. Faggot, cocksucker, queer, I called and was called all of these names according to the adolescent pecking order. But it's strange---I would never think to insult someone based on his religion or ethnicity. Yet in a moment of anger, an offending client is a cocksucker.

Maybe I'm not as progressive as I give myself credit for being.

Why a Marathon?

Both of my bosses think it's absurd---why would anyone go through the agony of all that training, all that conditioning, all that running? What's the point? It's crazy....crazy.

My bosses are not sedentary guys---one played college football and his wife is running her third marathon, herself. The other is a former Army Ranger and when I pointed out that his Ranger training was certainly more gruelling that a simple marathon, his response was that his training was in the service of his country. What can I say to make them understand?

Since Pheidippides ran 26 miles from Marathon to Athens to announce the victory of the Athenian navy over the Persian forces, the marathon has been the standard of endurance for people who want to challenge themselves physically. It's a powerful act of self-affirmation that's very difficult for non-runners to comprehend.

For four months prior to the race, you are fine-tuning your body into a highly conditioned, elite machine. You are increasing your distances every weekend, running longer and farther than you ever thought possible. You see the difference when you look in the mirror. It's in your gait, it's in your carriage, it's in your face---you are transforming yourself into a top-tier runner.

And the day of the race, you are responding to everything that has gone wrong during the year---every heartbreak, every thwarted plan, every humiliation, every defeat---and you are saying, You will not defeat Me.

The thrill of crossing the finish line is directly proportional to the effort that has gone into it and the effort and the thrill are legion and as you look into the eyes of your friends and family you know that you have it to exceed your self-imposed limitations and no one will ever be able to take away your accomplishment because it is yours for the rest of your life.

That's why I'm running a marathon.

Adventures with Drinking Buddy

On Saturday, Drinking Buddy knocked on the door and suggested lunch/drinks at a nearby bar where we could watch some college football. I was without plans for the afternoon, so it seemed like a good idea.

We actually chose one of the few bars in Chicago that show English League Soccer on a regular basis, which was what was on the TV, but the selection of beer was first-rate and the food was tasty so we stayed. The girl at the bar to my right had ordered a bloody mary and I remarked to Drinking Buddy that that looked like a good drink for us to order. This served as an introduction and we fell into conversation.

Lydia is 24, dirty blonde hair, has a corporate gig but is sufficiently bohemian for Wicker Park. She has worked as a bartender and enjoys sports and we talked and flirted and drank for the next three hours. Before she left, she told me that she goes to that particular bar every Saturday at the same time.

After she had gone, Drinking Buddy asked me if I had gotten her digits. I told him I hadn't asked for them. He responded,

"That makes me think better of you. It's painful for me to watch you hit on girls who are beneath you."

Huh?

Lydia was cute, funny, and seemed like a pretty smart girl. I don't know that she's the type I'm looking for right now as I still have items on my plate and need to straighten out my dating sitch but she was nice and it was fun to flirt with her. In no way did I ever think that she was beneath me.

The reality is, I like to flirt. It's fun. It doesn't necessarily have to go anywhere, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, but I'm the type of person who will strike up a conversation with strangers in a bar.

Drinking Buddy has very definite ideas about the type of girl he would date---I applaud him for that. Sometimes I end up going for someone who doesn't seem like my type at all. But there's a concommitant to his chosen stance, and it's this: I don't think he's really comfortable in feminine company.

My theory is that women can tell when a guy doesn't really "like" women. Drinking Buddy is a very proud man and I think he dismisses a lot of women because he doesn't want to expose himself to possible rejection, but I don't see him in the company of women very much.

Or maybe he just felt abandoned at the bar....

This is Worth Seeing.....

http://todayspictures.slate.com/singunmar/

But o, photography! as no art is,
Faithful and disappointing! that records
Dull days as dull, and hold-it smiles as frauds,
And will not censor blemishes
Like washing-lines, and Halls’-Distemper boards.....

Philip Larkin

Chicago How Do I Love Thee....

I was raised in a small town in Iowa whose inhabitants would fill approximately one-sixth of Wrigley Field and I was one of those lost souls who wanted something more than his environment could provide him with. Just, something, that elusive something, that void that church potlucks, Friday night football games, 4-H shows and county fairs are powerless to fill.

Fast forward a few years: I had recently been kicked out of college, had broken up with my academically high-achieving girlfriend after being confronted with evidence that she was planning to cheat on me and was working for a collection agency, the duties of which included repossessing cars. My roommate Ted was planning a move to Chicago to work for a famous film director and asked if I wanted to join him.

It took me just a couple hours to say yes.

I have doubted my relationships, doubted my career and doubted my abilities but I have never doubted that I landed in the right city. My first year in Chicago was overwhelming and I tended to feel guilty if I wasn't doing something every minute to improve myself: I spent Saturdays memorizing the location of every painting in the Art Institute, I attended symphony concerts whenever my paycheck would let me and then some, flocked to art films and plays and museums and galleries until my head spun. Socially, I was just as manic: a Friday or Saturday night at home was a wasted opportunity---Division Street beckoned and it did take me awhile to learn that just because the bars stayed open until 5:00 am didn't mean that I had to stay in them until 5:00 am.

Eventually I came down to earth and when I did, Chicago unfolded herself in all her glory: there were Sunday afternoons in Soldier Field with 66,000 like minded inebriated fans, Music Box matinées at 11:30 every Saturday and Sunday where they would show old, foreign and obscure films, The Green Mill jazz bar, a former speakeasy and Capone hangout that still offered some of the best jazz in the city, and storefront theatres in colorful neighborhoods where young actors could ply their trade away from the heavily commercialized loop theatre scene.

There was The Berghoff, the 100-year-old German restaurant at which my great-grandfather had worked as a waiter prior to opening his own tavern. There was the lakefront, which offered festivals, swimming and, if you hooked up with the right people, an afternoon on a sailboat. There were the neighborhoods like Chinatown, Hyde Park, Rogers Park, Wicker Park, each with its own individual feel. And parties with interesting, funny, unpretentious and well-read people.

If you lived in a neighborhood with an independent coffee shop, a used bookstore, a bakery, a hot dog stand, a laid-back bar where the staff knew your name and a place to go for brunch, then you lived in a good neighborhood. And a car was unnecessary---the trains and buses went everywhere and the easy availability of taxis eliminated the danger of getting arrested for DWI, or worse.

There are cities where the weather is always warm and humidity is lower, but I'm a Midwestern boy and I love my seasons. And there is nothing like the thrill of a cold winter night when you meet your friends gather in a toasty bar where a really good blues band is playing and then you go to an after-hours spot buried in an obscure neighborhood and the lights are low and there is a fireplace and a few regulars and you are drinking glog and you and your girlfriend decide to go home and hail a taxi and the next morning the Tribune is on your doorstep and you get dressed and duck around the corner for brunch walking carefully so as not to fall on the ice and clinging tightly to eachother and the bloody mary and omelette and coffee warm you and you get home and as you are removing your coats your eyes lock and in an instant you are naked and you are making love and there is the hissss of the radiator and the roar of the el train and you are making love and you don't want the moment to end, ever.

A Clean Slate

I told this story to Drinking Buddy last night at Nick's, and I will now tell it to you.

Marla is in Greece. I am in the office. It has been a hectic week, watching from reserved box seats as the country stumbles toward a recession. She has been sightseeing and spending time on the Aegean. In short, I am jealous.

I received an email from her asking how my week was going. I replied, hectic. She responded by mentioning how beautiful the day was and how much wine she had been drinking.

I typed in: fuck you.

She sent a text to my phone:

"Is something wrong?? Got a mean message from you! If I said or did something can u at least explain. I don't want any bad feelings between us & was looking forward 2 seeing u and telling u about my trip when I got home!"

Marla is nice. Probably too nice. Most everybody I know would consider the context of the email in question and realize that I was teasing. Besides, I usually express my contempt for someone by silence, as when E. walked into the Jazz Showcase with another guy: I turned back to the stage and said, "I wish this wouldn't have happened." I didn't swear at her---she was simply dead to me.

I'm giving serious consideration to disbanding the remainder of my harem prior to the marathon---a symbolic gesture, perhaps, but those who know me know that I'm big on symbolism. Christy is gone, I haven't slept with Mar or Suburban Melissa in a few months and Submissive Liz is only an occasional hookup but having gratification close at hand may be making me----lazy.

Truth is, I haven't met anyone I really want to have a relationship with. But I'd love to. I want to date someone who challenges me intellectually as well as emotionally. Someone who takes an interest in things. Someone who can keep up. Someone who enjoys....Shakespeare. I'm not finding that right now. With the marathon around the corner, it's an excellent time to examine my life and make changes. It may be time to start over with a clean slate.

Picky, Picky...

Things are over with Christy and Marla is out of the country, but I did respond to a booty call from Submissive Liz on Saturday. She told me that last year she went home one night with Drinking Buddy, whose door is opposite mine. She said that he treated her like a nice girl, adding,

"....but you know me better."

Drinking Buddy had already told me about his one-nighter with Submissive Liz. He remarked that she's a multi-orgasmic girl but said that he couldn't finish---when she took off her clothes, he found her....flabbier than he initially expected. As the sex progressed, he started losing interest.

I thought this was curious---Drinking Buddy is rather overweight himself. He played college football as a center and runs regularly, but the guy is large and not in a muscular sense. I didn't say anything about it. Still....

There's something about guys. We can let ourselves go to pot, sit around in sports bars watching football all day and eating deep fried bar nash until our bellies prodtrude over our belt. We can wear the same old college sweatshirt with mustard stains and ratty jeans with tennis shoes. We can get sloppy about our grooming, using those ubiquitous baseball caps to cover our greasy unwashed hair. But we still want our girls to be waif-thin, hot, big chested babes. And it seems that the fattest guys in the bar are the first to crack wise about a girl's waistline.

Is it a defense mechanism? Sour grapes? Or are we just that blind to our imperfections?