Christy, a divored mother who lives downstate, will be visiting me on Saturday. Christy is blond, about 5'5" and blue-eyed. We met online. This will be our third date.
Christy is pretty in a former cheerleader kind of way, by which I mean that she looks like an older version of the girls who would have nothing to do with me in high school. She is a dedicated republican, supports Bush and believes that Intelligent Design should be taught in school. She dislikes the word "fuck". Immensely. Oral sex is "not her favorite thing." Our cyber/phonesex sessions tend to be more labored than erotic.
However, the physical chemistry between us is immediate and electrifying. Attraction, remember, is involuntary.
About six weeks ago, we made plans to get together for lunch in Chicago both knowing that sex was a foregone conclusion. The night before, however, Mar had slept over and the friskiness of the morning left me a bit drained. I decided to try an herbal supplement called Rize 2 which I had been curious about---supposedly like viagra, but all natural.
It was amazing.
We spent the entire day and night coupling.
The next morning, however, I was hit with a debillitating case of heartburn. Followed by hiccups. Nothing seemed to help.
Perhaps it should be taken only on a full stomach. I may try that. Or, Christy may have to settle for a slightly more "human" performance.
Friday night, Urban Melissa is having a birthday party at a karaoke bar. Sunday, I'm seeing a play with Urban Melissa and two Romanian friends of ours so the weekend will be busy.
Tuesday night, I'm going to hear The Musician play. Not sure if she's into me.....the emails tend to be along the line of "Hope you're having a good day!". Chemistry in a bar does not always last, alas. I'll see on Tuesday. I'd like to arrive with a few friends, loud, boisterous people, a male/female mix. Drinking Buddy is a musician, but he is definitely the wrong guy for this particular mission. Too unpredictable.
If she's not into me, I'll just switch into "friend mode" and see what happens. Switching into friend mode involves bringing up someone you've been recently dating or someone you currently like. It's a way of communicating to a girl: Hey. We're Cool. Pressure Off. I'm Not Hitting On You.
It's good to have female friends. Makes social networking so much easier.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
An Unpleasant Incident at a Beergarden
Mar called the other day to ask if I wanted to join her for a few drinks and afterwards retrieve her rice cooker from my apartment. I agreed to meet her at a beergarden that used to be a gas station (a heavy hipster hangout, but avoid using the bathrooms at all costs) and we sat down and engaged in platitudinous small talk for half an hour. Because the establishment in question doesn't take credit cards, Mar walked across the street to use the ATM.
Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. I glanced at my watch. Twenty. I called her cellphone, which rang from the purse sitting on her chair. Twenty-five. I asked for the check. Finally, at the thirty minute mark, Mar appeared.
"OK, Mar, is there a reason you just left me here for a half-hour?"
"Oh, David, I ran into someone I haven't seen in awhile....."
"Don't you think that's being inconsiderate? You leave to get cash across the street, I'm sitting here a half-hour?"
She started crying as the waitress approached.
"I loved you David. I loved you and I could never measure up to your high expectations!" The tears were flowing freely now and the waitress shot us each an inquisitive look. "You had such high expectaions that I could never reach......"
Here she switched gears.
"I gave you chances, David, I gave you so many chances and you blew them...."
I excused myself and walked home.
A little after midnight the sound of my phone jarred me from my sleep.
"Hello, David," said a cheerily upbeat voice, "Mar here. Are you sleeping?"
"Yes."
"Well, I came for my rice cooker but since you're sleeping I won't make you get up. Have a good night sleep."
And so I did.
Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. I glanced at my watch. Twenty. I called her cellphone, which rang from the purse sitting on her chair. Twenty-five. I asked for the check. Finally, at the thirty minute mark, Mar appeared.
"OK, Mar, is there a reason you just left me here for a half-hour?"
"Oh, David, I ran into someone I haven't seen in awhile....."
"Don't you think that's being inconsiderate? You leave to get cash across the street, I'm sitting here a half-hour?"
She started crying as the waitress approached.
"I loved you David. I loved you and I could never measure up to your high expectations!" The tears were flowing freely now and the waitress shot us each an inquisitive look. "You had such high expectaions that I could never reach......"
Here she switched gears.
"I gave you chances, David, I gave you so many chances and you blew them...."
I excused myself and walked home.
A little after midnight the sound of my phone jarred me from my sleep.
"Hello, David," said a cheerily upbeat voice, "Mar here. Are you sleeping?"
"Yes."
"Well, I came for my rice cooker but since you're sleeping I won't make you get up. Have a good night sleep."
And so I did.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Are Men Naturally Snoopy?
That's the question a female friend of mine posed over drinks the other day. Are men genetically predisposed to snoop? Several months earlier, she had caught her boyfriend signing on to her myspace account and reading her email. He confessed (I can only imagine what a tender scene that must have been) and she forgave him, but now she suspects that he's been going through her purse and her cellphone when she's not around.
Of course, she has cheated on him in the past so their accounts are fairly balanced. One can just as easily imagine him asking one of his female friends over drinks: are woman naturally inclined to cheat?
I can't speak on behalf of my gender, but in the interests of a better understanding between the sexes I will share with you, Gentle Readers, two stories from my own life in which I did not take what was said to me by my significant other at face value, and what I learned.
During my last year of college I was dating M., a pretty, slender 19-year-old of Filipino descent. M. was a women's studies major, which I regarded at the time as being to white upper middle class women what basket weaving was to athletes. Our year-long relationship was tempestuous and punctuated with periodic break-ups, usually driven by political disagreements.
M. told me one day that her ex-boyfriend N. was leaving town for a job in New York and that she wanted to take him out to dinner. I said fine. When I saw her after that evening, however, I knew, just knew that she had cheated on me.
I also knew that she would never admit to cheating, but she did keep a journal in her desk drawer. I waited until she had gone to class and turned to the date in question. I read:
N. came over. We made love. It was nice.
I was fuming, but what could I do? Evidence obtained by illegal search is inadmissable in the court of human relations, so I resorted to another tactic.
"M," I said, "we have to talk. N and I have a few friends in common, and one of my friends tells me that N bragged about nailing you. He referred to you as a slut but said you were a pretty good lay. I have to know if anything happened."
M. blanched. "No, David, nothing......"
"OK, " I said, touching her shoulder. "I believe you. I want you to know that. I think it would be best to end my friendship with N's friend, though. You're more important to me. I believe you and trust you."
Her voice quivered, "I love you, David."
After three days of playing cat and mouse, M. confessed. She sent me flowers and letters and called me constantly and in the end I did take her back. What I had done to her was every bit as deceitful as what she had done to me and so our accounts balanced. I should note that the next three months were the best of our relationship.
In 1995 I started seeing Kinga, a Polish undergraduate. For our third date, I wrote her a paper on Plato's Republic that netted an A+ and she slept with me. She never stayed over, however---as she explained it, she lived with her parents and they were on the conservative side.
The thing that had me puzzled, however, was that the male name on the caller ID differed from her surname. I asked her about the name on the caller ID and without missing a beat she spit out:
"He's my adopted father. My parents are divorced."
"You told me once that your parents were still together."
"Shit.....you caught me."
It transpired that she had been living with a man the last three years and that the relationship was on the outs. We tried to make something work but the magic was gone.
On the question of whether or not men are natural snoops, I would have to answer that if a self-respecting man gets to the point where he's going through his girlfriend's purse and checking her email, he had best end the relationship. The Spying Cuckold is an archetype that has been mined for laughs throughout western literature and is every bit as ridiculous in real life.
Of course, she has cheated on him in the past so their accounts are fairly balanced. One can just as easily imagine him asking one of his female friends over drinks: are woman naturally inclined to cheat?
I can't speak on behalf of my gender, but in the interests of a better understanding between the sexes I will share with you, Gentle Readers, two stories from my own life in which I did not take what was said to me by my significant other at face value, and what I learned.
During my last year of college I was dating M., a pretty, slender 19-year-old of Filipino descent. M. was a women's studies major, which I regarded at the time as being to white upper middle class women what basket weaving was to athletes. Our year-long relationship was tempestuous and punctuated with periodic break-ups, usually driven by political disagreements.
M. told me one day that her ex-boyfriend N. was leaving town for a job in New York and that she wanted to take him out to dinner. I said fine. When I saw her after that evening, however, I knew, just knew that she had cheated on me.
I also knew that she would never admit to cheating, but she did keep a journal in her desk drawer. I waited until she had gone to class and turned to the date in question. I read:
N. came over. We made love. It was nice.
I was fuming, but what could I do? Evidence obtained by illegal search is inadmissable in the court of human relations, so I resorted to another tactic.
"M," I said, "we have to talk. N and I have a few friends in common, and one of my friends tells me that N bragged about nailing you. He referred to you as a slut but said you were a pretty good lay. I have to know if anything happened."
M. blanched. "No, David, nothing......"
"OK, " I said, touching her shoulder. "I believe you. I want you to know that. I think it would be best to end my friendship with N's friend, though. You're more important to me. I believe you and trust you."
Her voice quivered, "I love you, David."
After three days of playing cat and mouse, M. confessed. She sent me flowers and letters and called me constantly and in the end I did take her back. What I had done to her was every bit as deceitful as what she had done to me and so our accounts balanced. I should note that the next three months were the best of our relationship.
In 1995 I started seeing Kinga, a Polish undergraduate. For our third date, I wrote her a paper on Plato's Republic that netted an A+ and she slept with me. She never stayed over, however---as she explained it, she lived with her parents and they were on the conservative side.
The thing that had me puzzled, however, was that the male name on the caller ID differed from her surname. I asked her about the name on the caller ID and without missing a beat she spit out:
"He's my adopted father. My parents are divorced."
"You told me once that your parents were still together."
"Shit.....you caught me."
It transpired that she had been living with a man the last three years and that the relationship was on the outs. We tried to make something work but the magic was gone.
On the question of whether or not men are natural snoops, I would have to answer that if a self-respecting man gets to the point where he's going through his girlfriend's purse and checking her email, he had best end the relationship. The Spying Cuckold is an archetype that has been mined for laughs throughout western literature and is every bit as ridiculous in real life.
Monday, May 28, 2007
The Aesthetics of Goth
I got an email from Mar on Saturday telling me that she had gotten back together with her boyfriend L. and asking if I was up for a drink. I wrote back suggesting that maybe we shouldn't hang out if she wanted to give her relationship a chance to work. She responded that she had her head on straight now and asked why didn't I want to be her friend after all we've been through. I agreed to meet her for a couple drinks at Nick's but made plans with my Polish friend Z.B. for later, effectively sandwiching her into a limited time slot.
A little background is in order: after we broke up, Mar began dating L. L is closer to her age and, apparently, not very experienced with women. When she was dating L, she complained about his neediness and insecurity but remained with him. Once a month or so, we would get together for drinks and end up in bed. She would always tell L. He would reassure her that he loved her and express his desire to "work through the David issue." She eventually broke up with him but had apparently decided to take him back.
Bethany was working that night, and as Mar sat down on the barstool an icy stared passed between them. I got up to use the bathroom and asked Bethany for an opinion on my new shirt.
"I like the shirt, David, I'm just not crazy about the girl."
I had to laugh, damn her!
Mar and I made idle chit-chat until Z.B. arrived, at which time I bid her farewell and good weekend. Bethany sent me a text: "David, seriously how could you bring her here? She hates me!" I sent back: "I wont again."
Mar is a beautiful woman. She is smart. She is witty. She is warm and funny and has a beautiful smile. I will always remember how she made me laugh. How she would hold me down and pluck my chest hairs with her teeth. How she would imitate characters from South Park. Lovemaking was extremely intimate between us.
Unfortunately, she is also a basket case. None of my friends could stand her. I broke up with her because I couldn't deal with her shit. And after the breakup, she fell completely apart. I felt a bit responsible and I still cared about her and she has remained in my life but I think she'd be better off if she moved forward.
Last night, a few of us wound up at a goth club called Neo, a place you have to enter through the alley. Goth women are truly hideous---they tend toward the shapeless and hopelessly overweight, their hair is dyed jet-black (a color in which no one is attractive, I'm afraid) and they carry the petulant, dour facial expressions of unhappy adolescent girls. The few semi-attractive women were paired up with men.
As I was making my way from the bar to the dance floor, I woman kissed me on both cheeks and announced:
"Love is in the air. Can you feel it?"
She told me that she had arrived in a van and was going back to Naperville and did I want to come along?
Some women should just not take ecstasy.
I passed, of course. Waking up next to a goth chick in her parents' basement in Naperville would be starting the day on the wrong foot.
I got a couple text messages from Submissive Liz and responded, but chose not to pursue a hook-up. Her last text read, "Too bad you're not at Nick's." Too bad, indeed. The weekend was over, and I had not been laid. I took a cab home and fell into a deep, comfortable slumber.
A little background is in order: after we broke up, Mar began dating L. L is closer to her age and, apparently, not very experienced with women. When she was dating L, she complained about his neediness and insecurity but remained with him. Once a month or so, we would get together for drinks and end up in bed. She would always tell L. He would reassure her that he loved her and express his desire to "work through the David issue." She eventually broke up with him but had apparently decided to take him back.
Bethany was working that night, and as Mar sat down on the barstool an icy stared passed between them. I got up to use the bathroom and asked Bethany for an opinion on my new shirt.
"I like the shirt, David, I'm just not crazy about the girl."
I had to laugh, damn her!
Mar and I made idle chit-chat until Z.B. arrived, at which time I bid her farewell and good weekend. Bethany sent me a text: "David, seriously how could you bring her here? She hates me!" I sent back: "I wont again."
Mar is a beautiful woman. She is smart. She is witty. She is warm and funny and has a beautiful smile. I will always remember how she made me laugh. How she would hold me down and pluck my chest hairs with her teeth. How she would imitate characters from South Park. Lovemaking was extremely intimate between us.
Unfortunately, she is also a basket case. None of my friends could stand her. I broke up with her because I couldn't deal with her shit. And after the breakup, she fell completely apart. I felt a bit responsible and I still cared about her and she has remained in my life but I think she'd be better off if she moved forward.
Last night, a few of us wound up at a goth club called Neo, a place you have to enter through the alley. Goth women are truly hideous---they tend toward the shapeless and hopelessly overweight, their hair is dyed jet-black (a color in which no one is attractive, I'm afraid) and they carry the petulant, dour facial expressions of unhappy adolescent girls. The few semi-attractive women were paired up with men.
As I was making my way from the bar to the dance floor, I woman kissed me on both cheeks and announced:
"Love is in the air. Can you feel it?"
She told me that she had arrived in a van and was going back to Naperville and did I want to come along?
Some women should just not take ecstasy.
I passed, of course. Waking up next to a goth chick in her parents' basement in Naperville would be starting the day on the wrong foot.
I got a couple text messages from Submissive Liz and responded, but chose not to pursue a hook-up. Her last text read, "Too bad you're not at Nick's." Too bad, indeed. The weekend was over, and I had not been laid. I took a cab home and fell into a deep, comfortable slumber.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
I Just Got Chastened
The hard thing about writing this blog is knowing how much to reveal---what makes a good story and what's TMI. Since this is a mostly anonymous undertaking (out-of-town friends are the only ones with access) I prefer to err on the side of TMI. With that in mind, I will return to the subject of pick-up lines.
One of my favorite pick-up lines is the Story of the Thong. It can be used after conversation is initiated, as well---the whole point of a good pick-up line is to get the girl involved. If you are the only one talking, you've just been shot down.
The Story of the Thong goes thus: A friend of mine was dating this girl---they'd been together for about two years. They had a big fight and broke up, and the next night he brought home some woman from a bar. The next day, his ex came over and they made up, got back together, and she noticed a thong on his bedroom floor, mixed in with his clothes. She confronted him. He didn't want to break up with her again---he loves her. So, knowing that she's a pretty liberal chick, he said the first thing that came into his mind: that it was his thong. She decided the whole thing got her hot, so now every time they have sex she makes him wear a thong, or a slip, or a dress and parade around the room. He's miserable but he doesn't want to lose her again. Do you think he should tell her? Do you think maybe she knows and is punishing him? What would you do?
The risk of the Story of the Thong is that she'll suspect you are talking about yourself. At the beginning, you dispel this. If you have approached two girls and told the story well, there will usually be a pronounced reaction and both of them will have opinions that they will share with you. They will tell you it's a good story. That doesn't guarantee a phone number or even a further topic of conversation, but you have your foot in the door. That's the hardest part.
Enter Nick's. Vixen is a skinny, 40ish regular with short dark hair, a pierced nose and a pierced tongue. A month ago, she was sitting with a friend and I told her the Story of the Thong. She and her friend loved it. They were on their way out their door, but I knew that they would remember me the next time I came into the bar.
The next weekend, I was at Nick's again with two other girls. I was paired up with one, and we went outside to get a cab for her friend. As we were hailing a cab, a woman jumped in front of us, raised her arm and opened the cab door.
"Excuse me, I think you just stole our cab," I said. The woman turned around.
It was Vixen.
"You were hailing it on the curb....you have to go to the street," she responded as she climbed in.
The next time I saw Vixen, I reminded her about her cab theft.
"If you were as interested in getting a cab as you were in getting laid, you might have gotten the cab," she snarked.
Yesterday, after work, I walked into Nick's. Vixen and Thor the bartender were the only ones there. I sat two stools away from Vixen. We each did a shot with Thor.
"A month ago," began Vixen after the shot, "you told me a story about your friend involving a thong....remember?"
"Yes."
"Well, I was at a bar with Angela, and some guy approached us and told us THE EXACT SAME STORY. Isn't that interesting?"
"It's a small world after all," I offered. I would have to brazen it out.
She smiled. "You're a very aggressive guy. You're a trader-dude. They're usually aggressive, but I've seen you work the bar. You're very aggressive and you enjoy the hunt. However, I'm a regular here and you're a regular here and I don't want to cringe every time I see you walk in the bar. Right now I cringe when I see you come in. You don't need to try so hard."
"I don't want to make you cringe," I replied, the smile plastered to my face, "I'd rather make you smile."
She laughed.
We shared the evening at Nick's. We talked about dating experiences, food, movies, the last time we got laid, a variety of topics over the next four hours. After awhile, not having eaten, I felt it was time to stop drinking and get home. We said goodbye. A thought briefly entered my mind: with just a bit more rapport, I might be able to take her home. Instead, I shook her hand and stumbled to the door.
Her criticism was just. I will take it to heart.
In other news, I got an email from the musician I met two weeks ago letting me know where she's playing. I'd like to see her play.
One of my favorite pick-up lines is the Story of the Thong. It can be used after conversation is initiated, as well---the whole point of a good pick-up line is to get the girl involved. If you are the only one talking, you've just been shot down.
The Story of the Thong goes thus: A friend of mine was dating this girl---they'd been together for about two years. They had a big fight and broke up, and the next night he brought home some woman from a bar. The next day, his ex came over and they made up, got back together, and she noticed a thong on his bedroom floor, mixed in with his clothes. She confronted him. He didn't want to break up with her again---he loves her. So, knowing that she's a pretty liberal chick, he said the first thing that came into his mind: that it was his thong. She decided the whole thing got her hot, so now every time they have sex she makes him wear a thong, or a slip, or a dress and parade around the room. He's miserable but he doesn't want to lose her again. Do you think he should tell her? Do you think maybe she knows and is punishing him? What would you do?
The risk of the Story of the Thong is that she'll suspect you are talking about yourself. At the beginning, you dispel this. If you have approached two girls and told the story well, there will usually be a pronounced reaction and both of them will have opinions that they will share with you. They will tell you it's a good story. That doesn't guarantee a phone number or even a further topic of conversation, but you have your foot in the door. That's the hardest part.
Enter Nick's. Vixen is a skinny, 40ish regular with short dark hair, a pierced nose and a pierced tongue. A month ago, she was sitting with a friend and I told her the Story of the Thong. She and her friend loved it. They were on their way out their door, but I knew that they would remember me the next time I came into the bar.
The next weekend, I was at Nick's again with two other girls. I was paired up with one, and we went outside to get a cab for her friend. As we were hailing a cab, a woman jumped in front of us, raised her arm and opened the cab door.
"Excuse me, I think you just stole our cab," I said. The woman turned around.
It was Vixen.
"You were hailing it on the curb....you have to go to the street," she responded as she climbed in.
The next time I saw Vixen, I reminded her about her cab theft.
"If you were as interested in getting a cab as you were in getting laid, you might have gotten the cab," she snarked.
Yesterday, after work, I walked into Nick's. Vixen and Thor the bartender were the only ones there. I sat two stools away from Vixen. We each did a shot with Thor.
"A month ago," began Vixen after the shot, "you told me a story about your friend involving a thong....remember?"
"Yes."
"Well, I was at a bar with Angela, and some guy approached us and told us THE EXACT SAME STORY. Isn't that interesting?"
"It's a small world after all," I offered. I would have to brazen it out.
She smiled. "You're a very aggressive guy. You're a trader-dude. They're usually aggressive, but I've seen you work the bar. You're very aggressive and you enjoy the hunt. However, I'm a regular here and you're a regular here and I don't want to cringe every time I see you walk in the bar. Right now I cringe when I see you come in. You don't need to try so hard."
"I don't want to make you cringe," I replied, the smile plastered to my face, "I'd rather make you smile."
She laughed.
We shared the evening at Nick's. We talked about dating experiences, food, movies, the last time we got laid, a variety of topics over the next four hours. After awhile, not having eaten, I felt it was time to stop drinking and get home. We said goodbye. A thought briefly entered my mind: with just a bit more rapport, I might be able to take her home. Instead, I shook her hand and stumbled to the door.
Her criticism was just. I will take it to heart.
In other news, I got an email from the musician I met two weeks ago letting me know where she's playing. I'd like to see her play.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Adventures With Drinking Buddy
I was pleased to see, upon entering Nick's last night, my friend and neighbor Drinking Buddy sitting at the bar, where he was using a combination of Amstel Lights and shots of Milor to combat the effects of the jet lag incurred during his return from Europe. Drinking buddy is a walking, talking barrel of a man---a high school offensive lineman who was good enough to play big ten football as a walk-on, his other foot is firmly planted in the artists' colony by virtue of his skills as a jazz musician. His bald crown is sometimes exposed, sometimes covered by a pork-pie hat. His intense gaze is filtered through Elvis Costello frames.
D.B. has a physical frame conducive to consuming huge quantities of alcohol, but, unfortunately, not a temperament; he can switch from engaging raconteur to argumentative churl over the slightest perceived disrespect and there are some regulars at Nick's who hate his guts.
This past winter, Len, D.B. and I were sitting at a table in Nick's when two women came over to flirt---one was a mortgage broker and the other, a trading clerk. The flirting was relaxed and fun--Trading Clerk agreed in principle to see a museum exhibition with D.B. and slipped him her number, while Mortgage Broker told me that she knew a good looking guy who would be perfect for me.
I knew what she was doing, and it's a game I've played before and will probably play again. At a certain point in the evening I would be expected to kiss her and dispel any remaining doubts about my sexuality.
I should mention at this point that a sizable number of people, on meeting me for the first time, speculate on my sexual orientation. It's fair: I have Byron's lips and chin, I don't belch in public, I'm thin and well-groomed and I enjoy opera---none of which has been a hindrance in my pursuit of the fairer sex.
After a few more drinks, the five of us left for Mortgage Broker's apartment. D.B. went outside in the cold rain for some undetermined reason which left Mortgage Broker and me on one couch, Trading Clerk and Len on the other. It was time to establish myself as a heterosexual, but first I needed to occupy Len and Trading Clerk.
"Hey, Len, why don't give her a kiss?"
We all laughed and Len started making out with Trading Clerk. With that as my cue, I planted a kiss on Mortgage Broker's lips. A minute later, just as our breathing and heart rates were kicking up on notch, I heard D.B. enter.
"What the fuck is going on? I leave for a minute and you're making out with some guy you just met?"
Mortage Broker got up from the couch and escorted D.B. onto the porch, from which I could hear
muffled conversation. I heaved a sigh and looked over at Len---he and Trading Clerk were locked in an embrace.
Five minutes later Mortgage Broker returned.
"Would someone please talk to your friend? He's getting.....philosophical"
I walked outside in the cold mist to find D.B. with a drink in his hand. He was philosophical, indeed. He couldn't believe that Trading Clerk was making out with my dork friend from Iowa. He talked about the possibility of leaving Chicago for New York. He attacked my preference of Leonard Cohen to Bob Dylan as "retarded." After roughly 45 minutes of letting him talk, I suggested we go back inside. I was cold, and I hoped the alcohol had dulled rage.
Inside, Trading Clerk and Len were horizontal on the couch.
"What the fuck? You slut! You're letting some strange man you just met touch your body?"
I had had enough.
"Get the fuck out of here! Get the fuck out! What the fuck are you trying to do?" I shouted at him as I marched him to the back door, closing it behind him. I was fuming.
Mortgage Broker emerged from her bedroom to hear D.B. knocking on the door.
"Why are you disrespecting my house?" she asked as she opened the door. "David, it's my house, I'll hande the situation. You can climb into bed---I'll be there in a bit." She stepped outside onto the porch with D.B. and closed the door behind her. I made myself another drink. Len and Trading Clerk were still horizontal.
An hour later, Mortgage Broker climbed into bed with me. "You have some interesting friends," she observed, before falling into a deep sleep.
The next morning, Mortgage Broker made coffee. She was leaving for California that afternoon. We exchanged numbers and kissed goodbye. On the way back to my apartment, Len revealed that he and Trading Clerk had slept together.
"You're welcome," was my reply.
The great thing about friends is that they accept you, and you accept them, despite your fuck-ups. Drinking Buddy and I had a heart-to-heart about the evening a few nights later. Over drinks at Nick's, of course. In a fight I'd have his back and he'd have mine. We get together regularly for drinks. We've watched playoff games together.
I'm just not sure I want to pick up women with him, anymore.
D.B. has a physical frame conducive to consuming huge quantities of alcohol, but, unfortunately, not a temperament; he can switch from engaging raconteur to argumentative churl over the slightest perceived disrespect and there are some regulars at Nick's who hate his guts.
This past winter, Len, D.B. and I were sitting at a table in Nick's when two women came over to flirt---one was a mortgage broker and the other, a trading clerk. The flirting was relaxed and fun--Trading Clerk agreed in principle to see a museum exhibition with D.B. and slipped him her number, while Mortgage Broker told me that she knew a good looking guy who would be perfect for me.
I knew what she was doing, and it's a game I've played before and will probably play again. At a certain point in the evening I would be expected to kiss her and dispel any remaining doubts about my sexuality.
I should mention at this point that a sizable number of people, on meeting me for the first time, speculate on my sexual orientation. It's fair: I have Byron's lips and chin, I don't belch in public, I'm thin and well-groomed and I enjoy opera---none of which has been a hindrance in my pursuit of the fairer sex.
After a few more drinks, the five of us left for Mortgage Broker's apartment. D.B. went outside in the cold rain for some undetermined reason which left Mortgage Broker and me on one couch, Trading Clerk and Len on the other. It was time to establish myself as a heterosexual, but first I needed to occupy Len and Trading Clerk.
"Hey, Len, why don't give her a kiss?"
We all laughed and Len started making out with Trading Clerk. With that as my cue, I planted a kiss on Mortgage Broker's lips. A minute later, just as our breathing and heart rates were kicking up on notch, I heard D.B. enter.
"What the fuck is going on? I leave for a minute and you're making out with some guy you just met?"
Mortage Broker got up from the couch and escorted D.B. onto the porch, from which I could hear
muffled conversation. I heaved a sigh and looked over at Len---he and Trading Clerk were locked in an embrace.
Five minutes later Mortgage Broker returned.
"Would someone please talk to your friend? He's getting.....philosophical"
I walked outside in the cold mist to find D.B. with a drink in his hand. He was philosophical, indeed. He couldn't believe that Trading Clerk was making out with my dork friend from Iowa. He talked about the possibility of leaving Chicago for New York. He attacked my preference of Leonard Cohen to Bob Dylan as "retarded." After roughly 45 minutes of letting him talk, I suggested we go back inside. I was cold, and I hoped the alcohol had dulled rage.
Inside, Trading Clerk and Len were horizontal on the couch.
"What the fuck? You slut! You're letting some strange man you just met touch your body?"
I had had enough.
"Get the fuck out of here! Get the fuck out! What the fuck are you trying to do?" I shouted at him as I marched him to the back door, closing it behind him. I was fuming.
Mortgage Broker emerged from her bedroom to hear D.B. knocking on the door.
"Why are you disrespecting my house?" she asked as she opened the door. "David, it's my house, I'll hande the situation. You can climb into bed---I'll be there in a bit." She stepped outside onto the porch with D.B. and closed the door behind her. I made myself another drink. Len and Trading Clerk were still horizontal.
An hour later, Mortgage Broker climbed into bed with me. "You have some interesting friends," she observed, before falling into a deep sleep.
The next morning, Mortgage Broker made coffee. She was leaving for California that afternoon. We exchanged numbers and kissed goodbye. On the way back to my apartment, Len revealed that he and Trading Clerk had slept together.
"You're welcome," was my reply.
The great thing about friends is that they accept you, and you accept them, despite your fuck-ups. Drinking Buddy and I had a heart-to-heart about the evening a few nights later. Over drinks at Nick's, of course. In a fight I'd have his back and he'd have mine. We get together regularly for drinks. We've watched playoff games together.
I'm just not sure I want to pick up women with him, anymore.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Musings
Listening to my co-workers talk about mortgage payments, golf and babysitters, I am reminded that bourgeois respectability continues to elude me.
Mar invited me to see Troilus and Cressida, assuming she can get tickets. I wanna go. It's not like I have a bunch of people dying to go see Shakespeare with me. My upstairs neighbor Bethany laughs at me whenever she hears that I've seen Mar. "David, you've got to get her out of your life. NO-Mar, David! NO-Mar! No-Mar!"
There's definitely some bad blood between those two. They used to be friendly. Mar became extemely jealous of Bethany early, which struck me as odd. Bethany is a friend---I drop in on her sometimes or she drops in on me, but it's not like we hang out together in bars a lot or go to movies. She comes over with cookies from time to time and drove me to get an air conditioner last summer---thoughtful neighborly activities. But nothing more. I finally told Mar, "Look. One of us DID make out with Bethany, but it wasn't me."
This happened last spring. Mar's brother was in town and Mar, her brother, Bethany, Len and I were at a bar. I went back early and fell asleep. An hour later, a very inebriated Mar landed on top of me and initiated perhaps the clumsiest sex I have ever had. The next morning she told me that had kissed Bethany. We both thought it was pretty funny. Her brother had the best line: "Dude, I turned around and---normally I'd be turned on, but that's my sister!"
Bethany's boyfriend at the time, however, flipped out when she told him. To placate his anger, she promised that she would not hang out with Mar anymore. Maybe I have a double standard---I definitely would have been pissed if she had kissed a guy.
Upstairs neighbor Cathy and her boyfriend were in a big heated argument this morning. It's like living with Charles Bukowski. How low does your self-esteem have to be to take a guy back who beats you and calls you names? A big warning sign is for a woman to tell me that she's dated a bunch of guys who have beaten her. One guy, yeah. Several? She's got some issues that I will not help her work through.
I've been running outside lately. Serious marathon training starts in the first week of June---I'm currently running 18 miles a week, and that will jump over the next four months. I'm not into health food (I like to eat well, what can I say?) but I had the great idea of switching from the micros and heavy eurobeers to Bud Light for decreased calorie consumption. Bad idea. I switched back. I hate the swill. Will someone tell me why the most powerful nation on earth with the most advanced consumer culture history has ever seen regularly produces the shittiest beer? You have to look for the good American beer and then the small breweries get bought out by the Big Boys and they discontinue some of the lines.
My high school reunion is in a couple weeks. 20 years. Everytime I go back to Iowa I'm struck by how FAT people are in the state. I walk into The Hungry Cow Smorgasboard or some-such place and see 300-pound people loading their trays past capacity. Overall, people are definitely thinner in the city.
Mar invited me to see Troilus and Cressida, assuming she can get tickets. I wanna go. It's not like I have a bunch of people dying to go see Shakespeare with me. My upstairs neighbor Bethany laughs at me whenever she hears that I've seen Mar. "David, you've got to get her out of your life. NO-Mar, David! NO-Mar! No-Mar!"
There's definitely some bad blood between those two. They used to be friendly. Mar became extemely jealous of Bethany early, which struck me as odd. Bethany is a friend---I drop in on her sometimes or she drops in on me, but it's not like we hang out together in bars a lot or go to movies. She comes over with cookies from time to time and drove me to get an air conditioner last summer---thoughtful neighborly activities. But nothing more. I finally told Mar, "Look. One of us DID make out with Bethany, but it wasn't me."
This happened last spring. Mar's brother was in town and Mar, her brother, Bethany, Len and I were at a bar. I went back early and fell asleep. An hour later, a very inebriated Mar landed on top of me and initiated perhaps the clumsiest sex I have ever had. The next morning she told me that had kissed Bethany. We both thought it was pretty funny. Her brother had the best line: "Dude, I turned around and---normally I'd be turned on, but that's my sister!"
Bethany's boyfriend at the time, however, flipped out when she told him. To placate his anger, she promised that she would not hang out with Mar anymore. Maybe I have a double standard---I definitely would have been pissed if she had kissed a guy.
Upstairs neighbor Cathy and her boyfriend were in a big heated argument this morning. It's like living with Charles Bukowski. How low does your self-esteem have to be to take a guy back who beats you and calls you names? A big warning sign is for a woman to tell me that she's dated a bunch of guys who have beaten her. One guy, yeah. Several? She's got some issues that I will not help her work through.
I've been running outside lately. Serious marathon training starts in the first week of June---I'm currently running 18 miles a week, and that will jump over the next four months. I'm not into health food (I like to eat well, what can I say?) but I had the great idea of switching from the micros and heavy eurobeers to Bud Light for decreased calorie consumption. Bad idea. I switched back. I hate the swill. Will someone tell me why the most powerful nation on earth with the most advanced consumer culture history has ever seen regularly produces the shittiest beer? You have to look for the good American beer and then the small breweries get bought out by the Big Boys and they discontinue some of the lines.
My high school reunion is in a couple weeks. 20 years. Everytime I go back to Iowa I'm struck by how FAT people are in the state. I walk into The Hungry Cow Smorgasboard or some-such place and see 300-pound people loading their trays past capacity. Overall, people are definitely thinner in the city.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Shitty Jobs
A friend of mine just emailed that she lost her job yesterday in a restructuring, but added that it actually felt good. Having been, ummm, "restructured" a few times in my life, I can relate to the feeling---the anxiety of economic uncertainty is trumped by the relief of not having to set foot in a nauseous office every day and report to a human being with whom you would have no contact were it not that circumstances have placed him in a position of authority over you. Hell, even Christ called the devil the "master of this world."
The first time I was fired was from Burger King. My friend Len and I had tickets to a Pink Floyd concert but I couldn't get the night off. I made an executive decision: the flying pig must take precedence over the broiler-steamer. It was an easy decision, caused no regrets and McJobs were plentiful anyway.
The next time I got fired was from a diner in my college town called the Hamburg Inn, at which establishment it was my privilege to occupy the dual positions of dishwasher/meat room attendant. I didn't really get along with my boss, and my skills as a butcher left much to be desired. By the next week, I had a job as a telemarketer earning 33% more than I had been earning previously.
A few summers later, I worked setting appointments by phone for a sales force that would high-pressure families into purchasing high-priced water filtration systems. The job made me feel sleazy and the boss fired everyone he hired. After three months, he fired me too and I took a job working third-shift in a plastics factory on the outskirts of town. At least I didn't have to take a drug test.
The worst job I ever had, however, was as an apprentice stockbroker for a now-defunct brokerage firm. I worked under the supervision of two people: Overboss and Underboss. Overboss was a screamer, a voracious beast of a human being consumed by greed whose delight in belittling his subordinates, if presented on the silver screen, would probably be rejected as unrealistic. Underboss didn't scream, he hissed. I had not been in the corporate world long enough to be exposed to the variety of reptiles who make that habitat their home and dismissed the tell-tale rattle as a glitch in the air duct.
Every morning the the fratboys who composed the entirely male sales force would gather to hear a "greed is good" lecture delivered by the Master. After the smoke had dissipated and we could breathe through the sulfur, the Master would tell us that we should distrust and resent eachother. Trust was not for this business---we should trust only Him and Our Bosses, because they had a vested interest in our success. He told us he did not want well-rounded people. He wanted people consumed by the overwhelming desire to make money. He told us we did not have the right to be well-rounded yet. He told us money was the root of all happiness.
I did not belong there.
My end came two months later. A security I had sold declined in value and the customer was now claiming that I had given him a different price. It's fairly common in the securities industry: depart from me, I know thee not. It's called being DK'd. Underboss had listenened to the sale on the other telephone and so was in a position to verify that I had quoted the price accurately.
Exept that he didn't.
I had placed the original call to the prospect off of a list of potential investors manufactured by Dunn and Bradstreet. A list provided by Underboss. However, it transpired that compliance had neglected to register me in the state in which the prospect was living at the time of the sale.
Oops.
Underboss called Overboss and they disappeared in conference. Underboss came out and asked me to step into the conference room. Overboss began:
"David, we've been discussing the direction your, um, career is heading and we're going to let you go. You are the most inept broker I have ever had working for me. Clean out your desk and get out of this office."
I walked back to my desk and saw Underboss smirk at me.
Ten years later, just for shits and giggles, I googled Underboss. I saw that he was working as the vice-president of sales for a hedge fund. I also found his resume, which listed graduate study completed at a college with an unfamiliar sounding name. I googled that college and learned that it was a degree mill which had been shut down during the previous year in a joint action by US and UK authorities. I emailed this information to his employer and to the SEC.
A week later, Underboss was no longer employed at the hedge fund.
I like my current job. I work with people I trust and respect. But I've learned that there's a level of dignity and consideration that must be extended to everyone. If you create enemies in the workplace, it may come back to haunt you. Even ten years later.
The first time I was fired was from Burger King. My friend Len and I had tickets to a Pink Floyd concert but I couldn't get the night off. I made an executive decision: the flying pig must take precedence over the broiler-steamer. It was an easy decision, caused no regrets and McJobs were plentiful anyway.
The next time I got fired was from a diner in my college town called the Hamburg Inn, at which establishment it was my privilege to occupy the dual positions of dishwasher/meat room attendant. I didn't really get along with my boss, and my skills as a butcher left much to be desired. By the next week, I had a job as a telemarketer earning 33% more than I had been earning previously.
A few summers later, I worked setting appointments by phone for a sales force that would high-pressure families into purchasing high-priced water filtration systems. The job made me feel sleazy and the boss fired everyone he hired. After three months, he fired me too and I took a job working third-shift in a plastics factory on the outskirts of town. At least I didn't have to take a drug test.
The worst job I ever had, however, was as an apprentice stockbroker for a now-defunct brokerage firm. I worked under the supervision of two people: Overboss and Underboss. Overboss was a screamer, a voracious beast of a human being consumed by greed whose delight in belittling his subordinates, if presented on the silver screen, would probably be rejected as unrealistic. Underboss didn't scream, he hissed. I had not been in the corporate world long enough to be exposed to the variety of reptiles who make that habitat their home and dismissed the tell-tale rattle as a glitch in the air duct.
Every morning the the fratboys who composed the entirely male sales force would gather to hear a "greed is good" lecture delivered by the Master. After the smoke had dissipated and we could breathe through the sulfur, the Master would tell us that we should distrust and resent eachother. Trust was not for this business---we should trust only Him and Our Bosses, because they had a vested interest in our success. He told us he did not want well-rounded people. He wanted people consumed by the overwhelming desire to make money. He told us we did not have the right to be well-rounded yet. He told us money was the root of all happiness.
I did not belong there.
My end came two months later. A security I had sold declined in value and the customer was now claiming that I had given him a different price. It's fairly common in the securities industry: depart from me, I know thee not. It's called being DK'd. Underboss had listenened to the sale on the other telephone and so was in a position to verify that I had quoted the price accurately.
Exept that he didn't.
I had placed the original call to the prospect off of a list of potential investors manufactured by Dunn and Bradstreet. A list provided by Underboss. However, it transpired that compliance had neglected to register me in the state in which the prospect was living at the time of the sale.
Oops.
Underboss called Overboss and they disappeared in conference. Underboss came out and asked me to step into the conference room. Overboss began:
"David, we've been discussing the direction your, um, career is heading and we're going to let you go. You are the most inept broker I have ever had working for me. Clean out your desk and get out of this office."
I walked back to my desk and saw Underboss smirk at me.
Ten years later, just for shits and giggles, I googled Underboss. I saw that he was working as the vice-president of sales for a hedge fund. I also found his resume, which listed graduate study completed at a college with an unfamiliar sounding name. I googled that college and learned that it was a degree mill which had been shut down during the previous year in a joint action by US and UK authorities. I emailed this information to his employer and to the SEC.
A week later, Underboss was no longer employed at the hedge fund.
I like my current job. I work with people I trust and respect. But I've learned that there's a level of dignity and consideration that must be extended to everyone. If you create enemies in the workplace, it may come back to haunt you. Even ten years later.
Monday, May 21, 2007
My Strangest Breakup
I broke up with Mar for the final time in October. Mar was about 5'3", an attractive girl of Japanese descent who had recently graduated from college and was in the process of applying to graduate schools. She was also taking 8 or 9 prescription pills everyday for everything from anxiety to social phobia to insomnia and was seeing both a psychiatrist and a therapist every week. There was a pattern to our relationship---she would say or do something I considered insulting or offensive and i would break up with her. Within ten days, I would take her back. Rinse, repeat. Finally, I decided not to take her back anymore.
"OK", she texted me, "I undrstnd. Sry I cant be good g-friend 2 u."
Then she called me. "I'm at Shelly's watching lesbian porn. Shelly likes you."
It was true. During one of our previous breakups Shelly had asked Mar about my availability.
"Do you want me to send Shelly over to your house? You'd make a good couple."
Normally I would seek a powerful reality check. To have a girl you have just broken up with attempt to set you up with one of her friends is so completely outside the boundaries of expected behavior that in the past, I would have looked around for Rod Serling. After seven months with Mar, however, I was not surprised one bit.
"Sure," I responded drily, "send Shelly over." It was time to seal the breakup. Time to sabotage any inclination either of us might have to get back together. One of the most effective ways of accomplishing this is to sleep with your ex's friend. "Send Shelly over."
"I'll be over with her in a bit."
Shelly was a bisexual graduate student, and sometimes after living in Chicago for so long I'm inclined to ask, "and who isn't?". She was not pretty---she was heavier than I usually date, with facial hair on her upper lip, unkempt hair and never a trace of makeup. However, she was brilliant, well-read, a superb conversationalist and that adjective that is so hard to define with certainty, cool. I have been turned on by girls who were cool before, even if they were not pretty.
The buzzer rang and I went down to the gate just in time to see Mar run away, leaving an embarrassed Shelly standing with a bottle of wine in her hand. I guided her up to my apartment, we opened the wine and spent 15 minutes discussing American poetry. Time to seal the breakup, I thought to myself.
"Would you like to make out?" I asked Shelly.
"Yes."
We started kissing, and I felt sandpaper across my face. I hadn't noticed that she had hair on her chin and cheeks as well. Still, the kisses were good---just the right amount of pressure for this time in the make-out session.
We went to my bedroom and I took off her clothes.
"I should explain about my armpits and legs," she said, "....my last lover was a woman, and women are not particular about that sort of thing. She was a professional dominatrix."
She had more hair than I did! I should mention that I'm not averse to a reasonable amount body hair. In the shaved/unshaved debate, I'm truly fine either way. This girl, however, was supporting an Amazon Jungle that had probably never been trimmed or plucked, and I wondered momentarily if it might contain its own ecosystem. As my mouth worked its way down her breasts to her chest and stomach, I thought, this is what it must feel like to be with a man.
We went down on eachother and then back to our glasses of wine, which was actually where I felt most comfortable. After she left, I washed my hands and face and lay down on top of the bed. I knew what would happen. I would get a text message from Mar asking for details. Then, within two days I would get an agonized phone call along the lines of...."David, I made a horrible mistake!!" I would deal with it then. I turned off the light and went to sleep.
"OK", she texted me, "I undrstnd. Sry I cant be good g-friend 2 u."
Then she called me. "I'm at Shelly's watching lesbian porn. Shelly likes you."
It was true. During one of our previous breakups Shelly had asked Mar about my availability.
"Do you want me to send Shelly over to your house? You'd make a good couple."
Normally I would seek a powerful reality check. To have a girl you have just broken up with attempt to set you up with one of her friends is so completely outside the boundaries of expected behavior that in the past, I would have looked around for Rod Serling. After seven months with Mar, however, I was not surprised one bit.
"Sure," I responded drily, "send Shelly over." It was time to seal the breakup. Time to sabotage any inclination either of us might have to get back together. One of the most effective ways of accomplishing this is to sleep with your ex's friend. "Send Shelly over."
"I'll be over with her in a bit."
Shelly was a bisexual graduate student, and sometimes after living in Chicago for so long I'm inclined to ask, "and who isn't?". She was not pretty---she was heavier than I usually date, with facial hair on her upper lip, unkempt hair and never a trace of makeup. However, she was brilliant, well-read, a superb conversationalist and that adjective that is so hard to define with certainty, cool. I have been turned on by girls who were cool before, even if they were not pretty.
The buzzer rang and I went down to the gate just in time to see Mar run away, leaving an embarrassed Shelly standing with a bottle of wine in her hand. I guided her up to my apartment, we opened the wine and spent 15 minutes discussing American poetry. Time to seal the breakup, I thought to myself.
"Would you like to make out?" I asked Shelly.
"Yes."
We started kissing, and I felt sandpaper across my face. I hadn't noticed that she had hair on her chin and cheeks as well. Still, the kisses were good---just the right amount of pressure for this time in the make-out session.
We went to my bedroom and I took off her clothes.
"I should explain about my armpits and legs," she said, "....my last lover was a woman, and women are not particular about that sort of thing. She was a professional dominatrix."
She had more hair than I did! I should mention that I'm not averse to a reasonable amount body hair. In the shaved/unshaved debate, I'm truly fine either way. This girl, however, was supporting an Amazon Jungle that had probably never been trimmed or plucked, and I wondered momentarily if it might contain its own ecosystem. As my mouth worked its way down her breasts to her chest and stomach, I thought, this is what it must feel like to be with a man.
We went down on eachother and then back to our glasses of wine, which was actually where I felt most comfortable. After she left, I washed my hands and face and lay down on top of the bed. I knew what would happen. I would get a text message from Mar asking for details. Then, within two days I would get an agonized phone call along the lines of...."David, I made a horrible mistake!!" I would deal with it then. I turned off the light and went to sleep.
Final Weekend Thoughts
OK, I am NOT happy with Suburban Melissa, but I have to temper my displeasure. How much I have to temper it, I'm still taking stock. To her credit, the girl does not appear to be psychotic or a potential stalker but she is also an irresponsible mess of a human being.
Regular readers will remember that we originally had a date on Saturday night for dinner. She called me at around 6:00 to tell me that she was still stuck in Milwaukee taking care of family business. Her father has been ill recently, and since her divorce she has sharing custody of her three daughters so I realize her situation is a bit special. She asked if we could make it Sunday instead.
Well, come Sunday she emailed me that she had missed her train, was trying to catch it at the next stop, missed that one too, said she was coming in, then her mom called upset blah blah blah how about a week night?
Normally, I'd say to myself, Self, take a hint. Except that she asks ME out. I don't think I've asked her for a date in four months!
Suburban Melissa is a blond-haired, blue-eyed suburban divorce' with a wickedly flirtatious sense of humor and a house on the lake in a northern suburb. We met online this past fall and went on a few dates. We slept together on the first night, so there was mutual attraction---like all divorced suburban mothers, she hated the burbs and every nook and cranny of my neighborhood was soooo exciting and happening.
Whenever we made plans after that, however, she would cancel half of the time. Always apologetically, always suggesting another time. I know enough to give divorced mothers a pass, but it soon became apparent that the woman was a walking car-crash. Perhaps the most disorganized human being I have ever met. That's what happens when former art students marry bankers, but that's another story.
I eventually tired of the theatrics and stopped calling her. She contacted me and apologized for her situation, and we've gotten together a couple times since for dinner/drinks/sex. Always at her instigation. The last time we were together, we made wild mushroom risotto paired with a full-bodied sauvignon blanc and she told me that she always thinks of me when she masturbates in the shower, which struck me at the time as the nicest compliment I have ever received from a lass.
However, I value my leisure time. The weekend is over, it's back to work and your humble narrator sowed no oats, wild or otherwise. She has had family issues, but I'm wondering if I should cut her off. Comments/suggestions welcome.
Regular readers will remember that we originally had a date on Saturday night for dinner. She called me at around 6:00 to tell me that she was still stuck in Milwaukee taking care of family business. Her father has been ill recently, and since her divorce she has sharing custody of her three daughters so I realize her situation is a bit special. She asked if we could make it Sunday instead.
Well, come Sunday she emailed me that she had missed her train, was trying to catch it at the next stop, missed that one too, said she was coming in, then her mom called upset blah blah blah how about a week night?
Normally, I'd say to myself, Self, take a hint. Except that she asks ME out. I don't think I've asked her for a date in four months!
Suburban Melissa is a blond-haired, blue-eyed suburban divorce' with a wickedly flirtatious sense of humor and a house on the lake in a northern suburb. We met online this past fall and went on a few dates. We slept together on the first night, so there was mutual attraction---like all divorced suburban mothers, she hated the burbs and every nook and cranny of my neighborhood was soooo exciting and happening.
Whenever we made plans after that, however, she would cancel half of the time. Always apologetically, always suggesting another time. I know enough to give divorced mothers a pass, but it soon became apparent that the woman was a walking car-crash. Perhaps the most disorganized human being I have ever met. That's what happens when former art students marry bankers, but that's another story.
I eventually tired of the theatrics and stopped calling her. She contacted me and apologized for her situation, and we've gotten together a couple times since for dinner/drinks/sex. Always at her instigation. The last time we were together, we made wild mushroom risotto paired with a full-bodied sauvignon blanc and she told me that she always thinks of me when she masturbates in the shower, which struck me at the time as the nicest compliment I have ever received from a lass.
However, I value my leisure time. The weekend is over, it's back to work and your humble narrator sowed no oats, wild or otherwise. She has had family issues, but I'm wondering if I should cut her off. Comments/suggestions welcome.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
The Utility/Futility of Pick-Up Lines
When I was in college, my favorite writer was Norman Mailer. Before you judge me too harshly, think back to when you were in school: was it William S. Burroughs, Ayn Rand, Charles Bukowski or sci-fi pulp? We were all into writers/directors/artists that, today, we're a little reluctant to own up to. Check amongst yourselves.
Anyway, Norman Mailer came to visit my school, which was/is(?) famous for its writers' workshop program. I attended with some friends. Norman Mailer was larger than life--he was vulgar, profane and loud. Several women walked out during the reading but none raised a voice of protest, if only because their academic advisors were men who were obviously enjoying themselves very much. Mailer was generous enough to sign autographs at the end. I have never collected autographs and I have a low opinion of people who do, but I was thrilled when he personally signed my second edition copy of The Naked and the Dead.
Well, four or five of us went across the street to a bar after the reading, and I saw HER sitting at a table, with 8 or 9 friends. SHE was someone I had worked with until about 6 months before. I was always attracted to her but aside from the usual office small talk we really didn't know thing one about eachother.
My lack of initiative during my time with the company bothered me. I kept asking myself, what would Norman Mailer do? I did a shot with my friends and approached her table. I greeted her, she me, and asked her if I could speak to her privately. She shrugged, stood up and walked over to me. I said,
"Can I be forward with you?"
"Uh, yeah...sure."
"I've always wanted to make love to you."
She looked down at her drink and suddenly the moment of clarity hit me like a bucket of cold water. Shit! I would be wearing that drink all over my face in a second. Then she would get one of those burly guys at her table (I thought, I bet she's dating one of them) to start a fight with me. I stood there in frozen panic. Finally, she looked up.
"Would you like to take a walk?"
That was my hole-in-one, my 300 game and my Hail Mary touchdown pass. I have never used a line like that since. It's a safe bet that I won't. It was the worst pickup line I have ever used in my life, and somehow it worked.
Since the publication of The Game a year ago, groups of women in Chicago taverns have been approached by random men who have to get back to their friends in a moment but really need a woman's opinion on some issue. The Game, however, is not a pickup guide. It's an exploration of the longings, yearnings and frustrations of what it means to be a single man in today's world. Some women reject it out of hand as a misogynistic piece of pulp writing targeted to the lowest common denominatator of mouth-breathing neanderthal. Most of these women have never read it.
The fact is, if you're a single man, you need a schtick. A routine. A few good stories. The onus is on our gender. If we see a woman who attracts our eye, it's up to us to approach her. She won't approach us. We can walk away and sigh to ourselves, "oh....would be so nice to know someone like that." But we diminish ourselves a little bit each time we do so. Far better to approach, even unsuccessfully.
There does exist a community of hard-core devoted pick-up artists. They are not normal, well-adjusted young men. Anyone who is willing to spend hours and hours of his spare time practicing routines and stories designed to attract random women in bars is someone who has felt the hard lash of rejection across his back and the heavy burden of insecurity on his shoulders more than a few times. But their story is a fascinating one, and any woman who wants a deeper understanding of the male psyche, as well as insight into what may be her emotional/sexual trigger points, would do well to read The Game. To say off-hand, "No! That would never work on me!" is a bit of a cop-out.
I was a late bloomer. My early teens were not one of the more pleasant times in my life---I had braces, acne, thick glasses and a mother who purchased random discount jeans and ill-fitting shirts for me to wear. Add to this that I was atrociously uncoordinated and bookish and you get the picture. A few months before my 16th birthday I got contacts and took charge of my own jean purchases. My face had cleared up by this time and I had filled in a bit following my awkward growth spurt. However, I didn't feel truly confident until the first time I kissed a girl. Then things started to click.
We men do derive an inordinate amount of our self-esteem from our ability to attract women. Pickup lines are our plummage. Eventually, the best and brightest of us will reject the rote memorization of canned routines for stories and anecdotes that reflect who we are and what we are about. But in a society in which women are free to choose their own sexual partners, there will always be a necessity for opening lines.
Anyway, Norman Mailer came to visit my school, which was/is(?) famous for its writers' workshop program. I attended with some friends. Norman Mailer was larger than life--he was vulgar, profane and loud. Several women walked out during the reading but none raised a voice of protest, if only because their academic advisors were men who were obviously enjoying themselves very much. Mailer was generous enough to sign autographs at the end. I have never collected autographs and I have a low opinion of people who do, but I was thrilled when he personally signed my second edition copy of The Naked and the Dead.
Well, four or five of us went across the street to a bar after the reading, and I saw HER sitting at a table, with 8 or 9 friends. SHE was someone I had worked with until about 6 months before. I was always attracted to her but aside from the usual office small talk we really didn't know thing one about eachother.
My lack of initiative during my time with the company bothered me. I kept asking myself, what would Norman Mailer do? I did a shot with my friends and approached her table. I greeted her, she me, and asked her if I could speak to her privately. She shrugged, stood up and walked over to me. I said,
"Can I be forward with you?"
"Uh, yeah...sure."
"I've always wanted to make love to you."
She looked down at her drink and suddenly the moment of clarity hit me like a bucket of cold water. Shit! I would be wearing that drink all over my face in a second. Then she would get one of those burly guys at her table (I thought, I bet she's dating one of them) to start a fight with me. I stood there in frozen panic. Finally, she looked up.
"Would you like to take a walk?"
That was my hole-in-one, my 300 game and my Hail Mary touchdown pass. I have never used a line like that since. It's a safe bet that I won't. It was the worst pickup line I have ever used in my life, and somehow it worked.
Since the publication of The Game a year ago, groups of women in Chicago taverns have been approached by random men who have to get back to their friends in a moment but really need a woman's opinion on some issue. The Game, however, is not a pickup guide. It's an exploration of the longings, yearnings and frustrations of what it means to be a single man in today's world. Some women reject it out of hand as a misogynistic piece of pulp writing targeted to the lowest common denominatator of mouth-breathing neanderthal. Most of these women have never read it.
The fact is, if you're a single man, you need a schtick. A routine. A few good stories. The onus is on our gender. If we see a woman who attracts our eye, it's up to us to approach her. She won't approach us. We can walk away and sigh to ourselves, "oh....would be so nice to know someone like that." But we diminish ourselves a little bit each time we do so. Far better to approach, even unsuccessfully.
There does exist a community of hard-core devoted pick-up artists. They are not normal, well-adjusted young men. Anyone who is willing to spend hours and hours of his spare time practicing routines and stories designed to attract random women in bars is someone who has felt the hard lash of rejection across his back and the heavy burden of insecurity on his shoulders more than a few times. But their story is a fascinating one, and any woman who wants a deeper understanding of the male psyche, as well as insight into what may be her emotional/sexual trigger points, would do well to read The Game. To say off-hand, "No! That would never work on me!" is a bit of a cop-out.
I was a late bloomer. My early teens were not one of the more pleasant times in my life---I had braces, acne, thick glasses and a mother who purchased random discount jeans and ill-fitting shirts for me to wear. Add to this that I was atrociously uncoordinated and bookish and you get the picture. A few months before my 16th birthday I got contacts and took charge of my own jean purchases. My face had cleared up by this time and I had filled in a bit following my awkward growth spurt. However, I didn't feel truly confident until the first time I kissed a girl. Then things started to click.
We men do derive an inordinate amount of our self-esteem from our ability to attract women. Pickup lines are our plummage. Eventually, the best and brightest of us will reject the rote memorization of canned routines for stories and anecdotes that reflect who we are and what we are about. But in a society in which women are free to choose their own sexual partners, there will always be a necessity for opening lines.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Style and the Imminence of Middle Age
I bought some new clothes at Urban Outfitters today. I will be 39 in three months, and I agonized over buying a skin-tight white tank-top---would I look ridiculous in it, mutton dressed as lamb? In the end, after too much time spent weighing the pros and cons, I decided to add it to my purchases. I'm getting ready for my third marathon and I've been lifting weights for a few years. While I'll never have the bulk that so many of my gym compatriots have (truthfully, I'm the kind of guy who moves the weights on the machine from 240 lbs. to 90) I'm still fit and toned and my stomach is flat enough that I was able to pull it off. I've also been lying on a tanning bed two days a week. It felt good to wear the tank top around town, after I got over the initial feeling of not being properly covered.
During the office Christmas party, I was flirting with a woman from another department who told me,
"You're a handsome man, but you've got to get some new clothes. You have a pretty blah sense of style."
"Hold on," I protested, "I'm wearing the WORK UNIFORM. Khakis and button-down. I have a closet full of hipper clothes that I'd never wear to the office."
Her laughter stung a bit. I resolved to improve my wardrobe.
My teenage years were spent in the 80s. I owned a pair of parachute pants, a few Ocean Pacific shirts and there is a prom picture of me with a mullet. I kid you not. Anyone growing up in that kidney stone of a decade is bound to have truly warped sense of style. And politics too, but that's a story for another time.
When I was dating Mar, she came to my place one day with a shopping bag from Express containing clothes she had bought for me. They were the sort of clothes I never would have purchased for myself, but I've been complimented on them many times and I have learned from the experience not to trust my own fashion sensibilities.
My new rule? Buy what looks ugly. Do the opposite of what your instincts tell you to do. The western shirts on the rack? You used to make fun of western shirts when you were growing up in Iowa? Buy three. The t-shirts with the horizontal orange-blue-red-grey stripes? The kind that look a little like Charlie Brown's zig-zag? Put 'em in the cart. You wore shirts like that in sixth grade, wear 'em again now. The large sunglasses with the orange metal frames? Wear those puppies right out of the store.
To paraphrase Socrates in the Apology, the only thing, the only thing I know about fashion is that I know nothing about fashion.
During the office Christmas party, I was flirting with a woman from another department who told me,
"You're a handsome man, but you've got to get some new clothes. You have a pretty blah sense of style."
"Hold on," I protested, "I'm wearing the WORK UNIFORM. Khakis and button-down. I have a closet full of hipper clothes that I'd never wear to the office."
Her laughter stung a bit. I resolved to improve my wardrobe.
My teenage years were spent in the 80s. I owned a pair of parachute pants, a few Ocean Pacific shirts and there is a prom picture of me with a mullet. I kid you not. Anyone growing up in that kidney stone of a decade is bound to have truly warped sense of style. And politics too, but that's a story for another time.
When I was dating Mar, she came to my place one day with a shopping bag from Express containing clothes she had bought for me. They were the sort of clothes I never would have purchased for myself, but I've been complimented on them many times and I have learned from the experience not to trust my own fashion sensibilities.
My new rule? Buy what looks ugly. Do the opposite of what your instincts tell you to do. The western shirts on the rack? You used to make fun of western shirts when you were growing up in Iowa? Buy three. The t-shirts with the horizontal orange-blue-red-grey stripes? The kind that look a little like Charlie Brown's zig-zag? Put 'em in the cart. You wore shirts like that in sixth grade, wear 'em again now. The large sunglasses with the orange metal frames? Wear those puppies right out of the store.
To paraphrase Socrates in the Apology, the only thing, the only thing I know about fashion is that I know nothing about fashion.
Taking Stock in the Middle of the Weekend
Suburban Melissa is stuck in Milwaukee dealing with some family issues, so we have re-scheduled our date for tomorrow. That suits me fine, as Sundays are pretty slow for me but leaves me without plans for tonight. To make matters worse, I have not been laid in the last three weekends and I'm feeling unbelievably horny, the kind of horniness that very well may make me do something I'll regret if I go out to one of my fave spots. I have had a couple phone-sex encounters with Christy, an out-of-town girl I know but erotic banter with her tends toward the banal (I want to feel you touch you taste you) and I'm questioning whether I actually may get more satisfaction from a Betty Page photo. Or a 1987 JC Penney catalog, but that's another story.
The booty call remains an option, though I'd rather not. The most obvious candidate is Submissive Liz, as she is always available and as I've ignored her last two booty call requests. I met Submissive Liz over a year ago at a bar---she heard me quote an extended soliloquy from MacBeth (show-off that I am) and introduced herself. Zaftig, with dark curly hair and olive skin she works as an EMT and lives with her mom in a nearby suburb. She is in her mid-thirties and
is half-Mexican, half-Italian. I told her on our first date date (to Rigoletto) that I had hoped she was African American since that would make me feel more hip. (As an aside, I told that story to Urban Melissa who said, "David, that is soooo wrong.")
Some people wear their sexual proclivities on their sleeves, and I had Submissive Liz pegged for a b&d afficianado before we got to my apartment. Call it a hunch, something in the way she responded to my jokes and the phrases she used. A strong hint came after we left the bar together and were at Underdogg munching on fries. She told me that she had recently lost 25 pounds. I told her to stand up, and she rose with an alacrity that surprised me. I told her to turn around and she did so, glancing at me for approval afterwards. At any rate, my read of her was accurate and Submissive Liz embraced the role of the bottom with relish, taking delight in the series of degrading tasks she was ordered to perform. It should be said, however, that I have always respected the boundaries that she set and have never pushed her in a direction that made her uncomfortable.
The first problem is, sex with her got stale rather quickly. I can get off on bondage games and role-playing, but only as games. It's not a lifestyle for me, and I find the leather scene crudely comical. I crave variety---as a writer friend of mine so aptly put it, sometimes top, sometimes bottom, sometimes pretzel. The last time we slept together, about a month ago, I was so bored I could barely sustain an erection. Since that time, she has drunkenly texted me twice---"your slave needs to be put in her place"---but I did not respond either time.
The second problem is, she has been gaining a LOT of weight in the last couple months. I don't mind zaftig--- plump girls can be sexy but excessive cellulite is decidedly NOT. I've considered issuing an order, i.e., your master commands you to lose 20 pounds, but I think that would be in poor taste.
Another thing is, I enjoy performing cunnilingus. Really, really enjoy it. I'm amazed at the number of female friends who tell me that their boyfriends don't like to go down, or do so reluctantly and with obvious distaste. With an attractive woman in my bed, I'm as happy as Pooh-Bear with his honey pot. As I'm always the "top"with Liz, it's awkward incorporating cunnilingus into our sexual activities. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy being serviced as much as the next man, but the lack of variety wears thin over time.
The second most likely booty-call candidate is Mar, but that's also a road best not taken. Urban Melissa tells me that each time I sleep with Mar, I'm fucking her up a little bit. Not to mention creating expectations that I won't be able to fulfill. And truthfully, it hasn't always been easy weaning myself off of Mar, either. I'll write about Mar at some point in the near future---in the meantime, perhaps I should confine myself to dating only women who are over 30. I might go out for a drink to my regular spots, but I'll probably hold off for Suburban Melissa tomorrow.
The booty call remains an option, though I'd rather not. The most obvious candidate is Submissive Liz, as she is always available and as I've ignored her last two booty call requests. I met Submissive Liz over a year ago at a bar---she heard me quote an extended soliloquy from MacBeth (show-off that I am) and introduced herself. Zaftig, with dark curly hair and olive skin she works as an EMT and lives with her mom in a nearby suburb. She is in her mid-thirties and
is half-Mexican, half-Italian. I told her on our first date date (to Rigoletto) that I had hoped she was African American since that would make me feel more hip. (As an aside, I told that story to Urban Melissa who said, "David, that is soooo wrong.")
Some people wear their sexual proclivities on their sleeves, and I had Submissive Liz pegged for a b&d afficianado before we got to my apartment. Call it a hunch, something in the way she responded to my jokes and the phrases she used. A strong hint came after we left the bar together and were at Underdogg munching on fries. She told me that she had recently lost 25 pounds. I told her to stand up, and she rose with an alacrity that surprised me. I told her to turn around and she did so, glancing at me for approval afterwards. At any rate, my read of her was accurate and Submissive Liz embraced the role of the bottom with relish, taking delight in the series of degrading tasks she was ordered to perform. It should be said, however, that I have always respected the boundaries that she set and have never pushed her in a direction that made her uncomfortable.
The first problem is, sex with her got stale rather quickly. I can get off on bondage games and role-playing, but only as games. It's not a lifestyle for me, and I find the leather scene crudely comical. I crave variety---as a writer friend of mine so aptly put it, sometimes top, sometimes bottom, sometimes pretzel. The last time we slept together, about a month ago, I was so bored I could barely sustain an erection. Since that time, she has drunkenly texted me twice---"your slave needs to be put in her place"---but I did not respond either time.
The second problem is, she has been gaining a LOT of weight in the last couple months. I don't mind zaftig--- plump girls can be sexy but excessive cellulite is decidedly NOT. I've considered issuing an order, i.e., your master commands you to lose 20 pounds, but I think that would be in poor taste.
Another thing is, I enjoy performing cunnilingus. Really, really enjoy it. I'm amazed at the number of female friends who tell me that their boyfriends don't like to go down, or do so reluctantly and with obvious distaste. With an attractive woman in my bed, I'm as happy as Pooh-Bear with his honey pot. As I'm always the "top"with Liz, it's awkward incorporating cunnilingus into our sexual activities. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy being serviced as much as the next man, but the lack of variety wears thin over time.
The second most likely booty-call candidate is Mar, but that's also a road best not taken. Urban Melissa tells me that each time I sleep with Mar, I'm fucking her up a little bit. Not to mention creating expectations that I won't be able to fulfill. And truthfully, it hasn't always been easy weaning myself off of Mar, either. I'll write about Mar at some point in the near future---in the meantime, perhaps I should confine myself to dating only women who are over 30. I might go out for a drink to my regular spots, but I'll probably hold off for Suburban Melissa tomorrow.
Friday, May 18, 2007
The Reason I Stopped Calling....
Phyllis-9 years ago, I met Phyllis at a party. She was a tall redhead with nice cheekbones and pretty blue eyes, but her perm did not do her any favors. It was one of those late 70s, early 80s tightly-wound bunched up frizz-jobs that makes one think, poodle. Like Al Pacino in Cruising, but on a woman. Nonetheless, she was terriffic at the art of flirting---she did this thing where she would raise and lower her eyebrows and then grin. It turned me on. She gave me a ride home and we made out at every red light. The following week I went to her apartment, which was filled with heirloom type furniture. It was like being in my great-grandmother's home as a kid, and being careful about not touching anything because it was old and delicate. Still, for being ten years my senior she had a terriffic and well-kept body and total bedroom eyes and I spent the night. For our third date, I chose a now-defunct restaurant on Clark with a patio. Phyllis showed up in a sweater with a poodle on it. That, for me, was the deal-breaker. All through dinner I looked at her in that ridiculous red sweater with the poodle and at her hair, which reinforced the motif and thought, no. No. I made an excuse and left after dinner.
Ann-I met Ann earlier this year and we went for coffee and Indian food. She was a single mom with two kids. She confessed to being a recovering alcoholic. Precariously recovering. With lots of stops and starts. I'm a drinking guy---I meet my friends in bars, start my weekends with bloody-mary brunches and good scotch is my elixer of happiness. I realized that I had no business seeing a single mom struggling with alcohol addiction.
Suzy-I met suzy in '94, when we both worked at a sales office straight out of a David Mamet play. Suzy was a petit blonde with blue eyes and a small nose, classic All-American good looks. She was also crazy. She began flirting with me aggressively from her second day at the company---"David, can I have lunch with you today?" "David, can I come over to your apartment?" We went to my apartment and within ten minutes she was giving me head as if her life depended on it. Suddenly she stopped. "David, this isn't just about sex, is it? You do like me, right?" "Yes," I managed to squeak out. "Good," she said, continuing. We never had much to talk about but the physical connection was immediate and powerful. Until I acquired a roommate. The three of us, Suzy, my roommate Tim and I, were sitting aound a table when Suzy plopped a foot on each of our laps. "I want a foot massage," she announced. Tim and I looked at eachother quizzically and began massaging her feet. Suzy closed her eyes and started massaging her breasts. Masturbating in front of my roommate was a bit too much, and that was the end of Suzy.
Ann-I met Ann earlier this year and we went for coffee and Indian food. She was a single mom with two kids. She confessed to being a recovering alcoholic. Precariously recovering. With lots of stops and starts. I'm a drinking guy---I meet my friends in bars, start my weekends with bloody-mary brunches and good scotch is my elixer of happiness. I realized that I had no business seeing a single mom struggling with alcohol addiction.
Suzy-I met suzy in '94, when we both worked at a sales office straight out of a David Mamet play. Suzy was a petit blonde with blue eyes and a small nose, classic All-American good looks. She was also crazy. She began flirting with me aggressively from her second day at the company---"David, can I have lunch with you today?" "David, can I come over to your apartment?" We went to my apartment and within ten minutes she was giving me head as if her life depended on it. Suddenly she stopped. "David, this isn't just about sex, is it? You do like me, right?" "Yes," I managed to squeak out. "Good," she said, continuing. We never had much to talk about but the physical connection was immediate and powerful. Until I acquired a roommate. The three of us, Suzy, my roommate Tim and I, were sitting aound a table when Suzy plopped a foot on each of our laps. "I want a foot massage," she announced. Tim and I looked at eachother quizzically and began massaging her feet. Suzy closed her eyes and started massaging her breasts. Masturbating in front of my roommate was a bit too much, and that was the end of Suzy.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Humiliating Dating Moments Redux
OK, Gentle Readers, I've learned from the private feedback I've received (for some reason few people are leaving public comments but will contact me via email. Why is that?) that stories of degradation and humiliation are vastly more popular than stories of success. With this in mind, and to increase my readership, I will offer one more dating horror story.
E. was teaching a class in a humanities field for adults---the hopelessly over-educated, the pseudo-intellectual wannabees, and the professionals who wanted to get "culture". A doctoral student at one of Chicagoland's two top universities, she was slender with long brown hair and what observers of posture would call "superior carriage." She was well-groomed but she never wore makeup and dressed in the typical uniform of a female graduate student, which usually consists of jeans, turtlenecks/T-shirts and sandals-in-the-summer, boots-in-the-winter. She had, however, the most charming, captivatingly sincere smile I have ever seen, and 5 minutes into the first class flashed it on us. I turned to butter.
I have my faults, but shyness isn't usually one of them---I struck up a conversation before class with her one day, and it turned out we had gobs in common. She was also getting out of a long term relationship (seven years), loved the same books and movies I did, and had travelled through the same terrain. She told me that she used to watch Tarkovsky's Andrei Rublev for the bell scene at the end whenever she really, really needed to cry but couldn't make the tears come. I suggested poetry as a shortcut. She flashed me the smile and I thought, damn, don't do that again, please.
We would chat a bit before class and I promised myself that after the last class, I would ask her out. Unfortunately, at the end of the last class, she was surrounded by congratulatory students and it would be impossible to get her alone. I decided to thank her for the class and email her the next day.
"E, this has been the best class I've taken....very intellectually challenging. You've been a great teacher, good luck on your doctorate."
"Thanks, David...good luck with your......situation too....you know, if there's ever a movie or concert you'd like to see, let me know.....I think...you'd be a cool person to catch a film or concert with....or something else..."
We made a date to see a Bresson film at the Music Box and I walked out of the classroom and floated all the way home.
As we took our seats at the Music Box, I asked if she had been close to marrying her significant other.
"To be honest, David, it was a woman."
She looked at the ground.
My heart sank for a moment. As my friends are aware, I'm not averse to dating bisexual women. Truthfully, judging from the popularity of lesbian pornography, and my own experience in what is know as locker-room talk, few men do. Still, 7 years with a woman. Long time.
I asked her if she also liked men.
"Oh, I like men. I've decided only to date men. They're much simpler, not as vicious and they always treat me better."
She flashed her smile again, this time with a vulnerable or slightly wounded look in her eyes and I felt myself melt.
On our second date, we were at my apartment drinking tea. She went to use my bathroom and when she came out I kissed her. When I kiss a woman for the first time, I am mentally prepared for two possibilities: she will kiss me back passionately or she will turn away. I am prepared for and can accept either one---better either to advance an incipient situation to the next level or to cut my losses with dignity. What I received was the strangest kiss I've had since I was in my early teens: she kissed me mechanically, drily, as if she were thinking: OK, he's kissing me, yes, this is what one does in dating situation with men, yes, he's kissing and I will kiss back, this is how it's done.....
We spent the next couple months going to concerts, movies and dinners. I sensed that she enjoyed my company and we had searching, heavy, wistfully beautiful-in-their-sad way conversations. But it didn't feel right. I had the feeling that she valued my company and was willing to tolerate low-level sexual contact as an accommodation to me. Her parents had never accepted her female lover---she felt estranged from them, and like most devotees of Foucault she avoided using terms like lesbian, bisexual or straight. You can, such people believe, fall in love with anyone. She had just happened to fall in love with a woman. It was her first and only love.
And all she had to do was smile at me.
Have you ever fallen in love with a smile?
She spent the holidays with her parent in Florida. She invited me to fly down for a weekend or somesuch, but I couldn't. We were not to that point of intimacy yet, and I told her so. I suspected that she wanted to show me off to her parents: a man in her life. I can be articulate and charming, but I wanted a deeper level of commitment before I did the meet-the-parents-bit.
She also took a job on the east coast which would start when she completed her doctorate, in about six months.
I received an email from her a week before her return: would I be interested in meeting her and going out to dinner and the Jazz Showcase? I emailed back: YES! Three days before her return, she emailed me that she had to meet her advisor and was behind on her dissertation. Could we postpone the meeting for three days? I emailed: yes. Let's get together Wednesday.
I decided to go to the Jazz Showcase that night with a friend of mine. Von Freeman was playing. I turned around just in time to see her walk in with another man. He went to find a seat while she scouted the surroundings. All at once she physically recoiled, as if bitten by a snake---she had seen me. She looked at me with her mouth open, and stood there. I stared at her for a moment, then turned back toward the stage.
I felt her hand on my back.
"How are you, David?"
Without turning around, I responed, "I wish this wouldn't have happened." I took a swig of my beer.
"It was a last minute thing..."
She stood for while, her hand on my back. Then she said, "I'll see you soon, David," and walked to her table.
That night I did the best acting job I have ever done in my life. I was alive in all my manic, antic story-telling, smiling guy-time b.s.ing glory. No one I hung out with that night had the slightest suspicion that I was dying inside.
I never called or contacted E. again. I would not have responed if she had contacted me. In the end, when everything else is lost, dignity is all that is left for a man. We can control what people perceive of our character. But it hurt me for the better part of a year.
E. was teaching a class in a humanities field for adults---the hopelessly over-educated, the pseudo-intellectual wannabees, and the professionals who wanted to get "culture". A doctoral student at one of Chicagoland's two top universities, she was slender with long brown hair and what observers of posture would call "superior carriage." She was well-groomed but she never wore makeup and dressed in the typical uniform of a female graduate student, which usually consists of jeans, turtlenecks/T-shirts and sandals-in-the-summer, boots-in-the-winter. She had, however, the most charming, captivatingly sincere smile I have ever seen, and 5 minutes into the first class flashed it on us. I turned to butter.
I have my faults, but shyness isn't usually one of them---I struck up a conversation before class with her one day, and it turned out we had gobs in common. She was also getting out of a long term relationship (seven years), loved the same books and movies I did, and had travelled through the same terrain. She told me that she used to watch Tarkovsky's Andrei Rublev for the bell scene at the end whenever she really, really needed to cry but couldn't make the tears come. I suggested poetry as a shortcut. She flashed me the smile and I thought, damn, don't do that again, please.
We would chat a bit before class and I promised myself that after the last class, I would ask her out. Unfortunately, at the end of the last class, she was surrounded by congratulatory students and it would be impossible to get her alone. I decided to thank her for the class and email her the next day.
"E, this has been the best class I've taken....very intellectually challenging. You've been a great teacher, good luck on your doctorate."
"Thanks, David...good luck with your......situation too....you know, if there's ever a movie or concert you'd like to see, let me know.....I think...you'd be a cool person to catch a film or concert with....or something else..."
We made a date to see a Bresson film at the Music Box and I walked out of the classroom and floated all the way home.
As we took our seats at the Music Box, I asked if she had been close to marrying her significant other.
"To be honest, David, it was a woman."
She looked at the ground.
My heart sank for a moment. As my friends are aware, I'm not averse to dating bisexual women. Truthfully, judging from the popularity of lesbian pornography, and my own experience in what is know as locker-room talk, few men do. Still, 7 years with a woman. Long time.
I asked her if she also liked men.
"Oh, I like men. I've decided only to date men. They're much simpler, not as vicious and they always treat me better."
She flashed her smile again, this time with a vulnerable or slightly wounded look in her eyes and I felt myself melt.
On our second date, we were at my apartment drinking tea. She went to use my bathroom and when she came out I kissed her. When I kiss a woman for the first time, I am mentally prepared for two possibilities: she will kiss me back passionately or she will turn away. I am prepared for and can accept either one---better either to advance an incipient situation to the next level or to cut my losses with dignity. What I received was the strangest kiss I've had since I was in my early teens: she kissed me mechanically, drily, as if she were thinking: OK, he's kissing me, yes, this is what one does in dating situation with men, yes, he's kissing and I will kiss back, this is how it's done.....
We spent the next couple months going to concerts, movies and dinners. I sensed that she enjoyed my company and we had searching, heavy, wistfully beautiful-in-their-sad way conversations. But it didn't feel right. I had the feeling that she valued my company and was willing to tolerate low-level sexual contact as an accommodation to me. Her parents had never accepted her female lover---she felt estranged from them, and like most devotees of Foucault she avoided using terms like lesbian, bisexual or straight. You can, such people believe, fall in love with anyone. She had just happened to fall in love with a woman. It was her first and only love.
And all she had to do was smile at me.
Have you ever fallen in love with a smile?
She spent the holidays with her parent in Florida. She invited me to fly down for a weekend or somesuch, but I couldn't. We were not to that point of intimacy yet, and I told her so. I suspected that she wanted to show me off to her parents: a man in her life. I can be articulate and charming, but I wanted a deeper level of commitment before I did the meet-the-parents-bit.
She also took a job on the east coast which would start when she completed her doctorate, in about six months.
I received an email from her a week before her return: would I be interested in meeting her and going out to dinner and the Jazz Showcase? I emailed back: YES! Three days before her return, she emailed me that she had to meet her advisor and was behind on her dissertation. Could we postpone the meeting for three days? I emailed: yes. Let's get together Wednesday.
I decided to go to the Jazz Showcase that night with a friend of mine. Von Freeman was playing. I turned around just in time to see her walk in with another man. He went to find a seat while she scouted the surroundings. All at once she physically recoiled, as if bitten by a snake---she had seen me. She looked at me with her mouth open, and stood there. I stared at her for a moment, then turned back toward the stage.
I felt her hand on my back.
"How are you, David?"
Without turning around, I responed, "I wish this wouldn't have happened." I took a swig of my beer.
"It was a last minute thing..."
She stood for while, her hand on my back. Then she said, "I'll see you soon, David," and walked to her table.
That night I did the best acting job I have ever done in my life. I was alive in all my manic, antic story-telling, smiling guy-time b.s.ing glory. No one I hung out with that night had the slightest suspicion that I was dying inside.
I never called or contacted E. again. I would not have responed if she had contacted me. In the end, when everything else is lost, dignity is all that is left for a man. We can control what people perceive of our character. But it hurt me for the better part of a year.
Winding Down the Week
It's a stressful day at my job with a financial services company so I'm taking a few minutes to write and will try to get my rapidly beating heart under control.
William Faulkner supposedly said, upon quitting his job at the post office, "I reckon I'll be at the beck and call of folks with money my whole life, but at least I won't be at the beck and call of every sonuvabitch with 2 cents for a stamp."
The weekend is coming up, thankfully. I have a date with Suburban Melissa, who just got back in town, for Saturday. I exchanged emails with Uzma and asked her out for last Saturday, but she had plans with friends that night and Sunday she was spending (Mother's Day) with her family. I didn't email her back. If a girl says she's busy on a certain day, I'll suggest an alternate day. If she can't do it then, it's up to her to suggest an alternate. If she doesn't, I don't call/email her anymore. Call it a matter of dignity. Anyway, Melissa is much more confident. Confidence in a woman is always sexy.
I call her Suburban Melissa to differentiate her from Urban Melissa, a friend of mine. Urban Melissa is a student and has a part-time gig as a film critic for one of Chicago's independent papers. We caught a film at Midwest Budhist Temple last weekend that sucked. Her boyfriend is a saxophone player in a jazz band.
My upstairs neighbor Bethany came over with homemade cookies Tues. night and I love her for them. She works at a bar, and was complaining about all the PBR-drinking hipsters. It's been THE beverage of choice among the hipster set, both because it's cheap as hell and for the retro 70's iconic status. Tons-0-fun to slum! Anyway, the hipsters will ask her how much a certain beer costs. She'll answer and they'll just say, "...gimme a pbr," and she know the tip will be marginal. Her boyfriend Travis is also in a band. Every waitress in every bar in Wicker Park has a boyfriend who's in a band. It's a good gig.
Of course, PBR is still shitty beer. I'm not in college anymore---I prefer micro-or-imports.
But, I will confess to buying a high number of my clothes from Urban Outfitters. Yes, Urban Outfitters, the store which offers thrift-shop chic at high-end retail prices, and competes with the genuine thrift shops on the same block. Am I too old to wear Urban Outfitters? Could my shopping habits be yet another symptom of a mid-life crisis? Should I resign myself to relaxed-fit khakis and polo shirts?
Or is it true what they say---that 40 is the new 30?
William Faulkner supposedly said, upon quitting his job at the post office, "I reckon I'll be at the beck and call of folks with money my whole life, but at least I won't be at the beck and call of every sonuvabitch with 2 cents for a stamp."
The weekend is coming up, thankfully. I have a date with Suburban Melissa, who just got back in town, for Saturday. I exchanged emails with Uzma and asked her out for last Saturday, but she had plans with friends that night and Sunday she was spending (Mother's Day) with her family. I didn't email her back. If a girl says she's busy on a certain day, I'll suggest an alternate day. If she can't do it then, it's up to her to suggest an alternate. If she doesn't, I don't call/email her anymore. Call it a matter of dignity. Anyway, Melissa is much more confident. Confidence in a woman is always sexy.
I call her Suburban Melissa to differentiate her from Urban Melissa, a friend of mine. Urban Melissa is a student and has a part-time gig as a film critic for one of Chicago's independent papers. We caught a film at Midwest Budhist Temple last weekend that sucked. Her boyfriend is a saxophone player in a jazz band.
My upstairs neighbor Bethany came over with homemade cookies Tues. night and I love her for them. She works at a bar, and was complaining about all the PBR-drinking hipsters. It's been THE beverage of choice among the hipster set, both because it's cheap as hell and for the retro 70's iconic status. Tons-0-fun to slum! Anyway, the hipsters will ask her how much a certain beer costs. She'll answer and they'll just say, "...gimme a pbr," and she know the tip will be marginal. Her boyfriend Travis is also in a band. Every waitress in every bar in Wicker Park has a boyfriend who's in a band. It's a good gig.
Of course, PBR is still shitty beer. I'm not in college anymore---I prefer micro-or-imports.
But, I will confess to buying a high number of my clothes from Urban Outfitters. Yes, Urban Outfitters, the store which offers thrift-shop chic at high-end retail prices, and competes with the genuine thrift shops on the same block. Am I too old to wear Urban Outfitters? Could my shopping habits be yet another symptom of a mid-life crisis? Should I resign myself to relaxed-fit khakis and polo shirts?
Or is it true what they say---that 40 is the new 30?
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
5 Things You Hate to Hear a Woman Say
5) I was discussing our relationship with my therapist, and she thinks....
4) I was discussing our relationship with my Women's Studies professor, and she thinks....
3) Yes, I'm having dinner with my ex-boyfriend but we're just friends now. There are no feelings. Really.
2) I like you too much as a friend to date you.
1) Would you be interested in a threesome? With another man?
4) I was discussing our relationship with my Women's Studies professor, and she thinks....
3) Yes, I'm having dinner with my ex-boyfriend but we're just friends now. There are no feelings. Really.
2) I like you too much as a friend to date you.
1) Would you be interested in a threesome? With another man?
Top 5 Humiliating Dating Moments
5) Freshman year of college. I had hooked up with Kail a week earlier, and knocked on the door to her room after lunch. The door opened and a disheveled Kail explained that she had been napping. "Great," I replied, "you won't mind if I grab one of the beers we picked up yesterday." I entered her room and found Dave, another guy from our humanities class, sitting on her bed and hastily putting on his shirt.
4) 27th birthday. Danielle was a law student doing a summer internship at a downtown firm. I had spent the night at her place five days previous, but this was really our third "date." We were playing I never with my roommates Tim and Ted and Danielle offered, "I'm not sexually attracted to anyone in this room." Danielle and I drank but she kept looking at Ted. I went to use the bathroom and heard her ask Ted, "...were you lying when you didn't drink on that last question?"
3) Junior year of high school. Tina, from a neighboring town, had broken up with me by U.S. mail a week prior. Four of my buddies and I climbed into a car with a few bottles of Mad Dog and Night Train and headed for a dance in her town. We were drinking heavily, and I ended up getting sick by the side of the road. We stumbled toward the dance hall and I saw Tina. I lunged toward her, slurred a greeting and put my arm around her. "Get away from way....eeeeewwww......you stink!" was her response. My buddies laughed and my friend LaVerne, probably as drunk as I was, asked her if she'd like to fuck. We stumbled back to the car before a fight could ensue and by God's grace made it safely home.
Postscript: The following week, LaVerne got a letter from her explaining that she didn't know what to say to his "question" at the time but really really wanted to get together with him. He made sure, of course, that I knew about this.
2) Last spring. Mar had an unemployed male friend named Chris who used every opportunity that her back was turned to be rude to me. I thought to myself: I understand your wanting to get into my girlfriend's pants but there's a mimimal level of respect you better show me. I had gotten off work and was still wearing my coat and tie. Mar went outside the apartment for a moment and Chris said, "...you gotta get this tie off and relax," roughly loosening my tie. This was too much. I looked in his eyes. "You don't like me very much, do you?" I said. Finally, I thought, let's get this on the table. "I heard you David! What did you just say to my friend? How dare you attack him like that!" With that, Mar launched into a shrieking tirade about my belligerent display toward her friend and suggested that maybe I had just best go home. All of which was observed, with obvious satisfaction, by Chris.
1) My 29th year. Claudia presented herself as a dentist from Colombia. We met on the train. Within three weeks, she had moved in. Within ten days, I learned that Claudia was involved with 2 other men that I know of, although there certainly may have been more. I will say also that caller ID is a lifesaver. In an effort to understand just what had happened and what we were dealing with, the two other men and I sat down over cognac and talked. It was like a meeting of shell-shocked combat veterans. Ten years later, one of those guys is still my very good friend.
4) 27th birthday. Danielle was a law student doing a summer internship at a downtown firm. I had spent the night at her place five days previous, but this was really our third "date." We were playing I never with my roommates Tim and Ted and Danielle offered, "I'm not sexually attracted to anyone in this room." Danielle and I drank but she kept looking at Ted. I went to use the bathroom and heard her ask Ted, "...were you lying when you didn't drink on that last question?"
3) Junior year of high school. Tina, from a neighboring town, had broken up with me by U.S. mail a week prior. Four of my buddies and I climbed into a car with a few bottles of Mad Dog and Night Train and headed for a dance in her town. We were drinking heavily, and I ended up getting sick by the side of the road. We stumbled toward the dance hall and I saw Tina. I lunged toward her, slurred a greeting and put my arm around her. "Get away from way....eeeeewwww......you stink!" was her response. My buddies laughed and my friend LaVerne, probably as drunk as I was, asked her if she'd like to fuck. We stumbled back to the car before a fight could ensue and by God's grace made it safely home.
Postscript: The following week, LaVerne got a letter from her explaining that she didn't know what to say to his "question" at the time but really really wanted to get together with him. He made sure, of course, that I knew about this.
2) Last spring. Mar had an unemployed male friend named Chris who used every opportunity that her back was turned to be rude to me. I thought to myself: I understand your wanting to get into my girlfriend's pants but there's a mimimal level of respect you better show me. I had gotten off work and was still wearing my coat and tie. Mar went outside the apartment for a moment and Chris said, "...you gotta get this tie off and relax," roughly loosening my tie. This was too much. I looked in his eyes. "You don't like me very much, do you?" I said. Finally, I thought, let's get this on the table. "I heard you David! What did you just say to my friend? How dare you attack him like that!" With that, Mar launched into a shrieking tirade about my belligerent display toward her friend and suggested that maybe I had just best go home. All of which was observed, with obvious satisfaction, by Chris.
1) My 29th year. Claudia presented herself as a dentist from Colombia. We met on the train. Within three weeks, she had moved in. Within ten days, I learned that Claudia was involved with 2 other men that I know of, although there certainly may have been more. I will say also that caller ID is a lifesaver. In an effort to understand just what had happened and what we were dealing with, the two other men and I sat down over cognac and talked. It was like a meeting of shell-shocked combat veterans. Ten years later, one of those guys is still my very good friend.
Unbelievable
The markets are electronic. The markets never close. The markets never sleep.
In the future, neither will those whose jobs depend upon the markets.
Just got word from higher-ups that, thanks to global electronic trading, I will have to come into the office on Memorial Day and/or the Fourth of July. I am not pleased.
I like my job. It's a good job with good people. I like and respect my immediate bosses. I know what it means to have a bad job. I know the difference.
But I'm not happy today.
Corporations expand and contract like a marathon runner's chest. Jobs are outsourced. Billion-dollar mergers occur with dizzying speed. In this new age, job security is an illusion. In this new age, we are working longer hours for less. Lunch is a sandwich wolfed down in three minutes while I look at numbers on a computer screen.
In this spirit, and in my present mood, I have to tip my hat to the European way of life. Maybe there is lost productivity with month-long vacations and the 35-hour work week, but is prodcutivity everything? We can increase productivity tremendously if we adopt the 70-hour work week. Where should the line be drawn?
The line should be drawn at Memorial Day and the Fourth of July.
In the future, neither will those whose jobs depend upon the markets.
Just got word from higher-ups that, thanks to global electronic trading, I will have to come into the office on Memorial Day and/or the Fourth of July. I am not pleased.
I like my job. It's a good job with good people. I like and respect my immediate bosses. I know what it means to have a bad job. I know the difference.
But I'm not happy today.
Corporations expand and contract like a marathon runner's chest. Jobs are outsourced. Billion-dollar mergers occur with dizzying speed. In this new age, job security is an illusion. In this new age, we are working longer hours for less. Lunch is a sandwich wolfed down in three minutes while I look at numbers on a computer screen.
In this spirit, and in my present mood, I have to tip my hat to the European way of life. Maybe there is lost productivity with month-long vacations and the 35-hour work week, but is prodcutivity everything? We can increase productivity tremendously if we adopt the 70-hour work week. Where should the line be drawn?
The line should be drawn at Memorial Day and the Fourth of July.
Monday, May 14, 2007
The Onset of Dementia
One of the more curious symptoms of alzheimer's disease is a drastic change in the sufferer's aesthetic preferences. Tales abound of accomplished chefs acquiring a taste for fast food hamburgers and classical music vituosos exhibiting a sudden preference for Britney Spears. I'm not listening to Britney Spears yet, but I spent a good chunk of the weekend filling my iPod with bubble gum gems like Elton John's Mama Can't Buy You Love and Andy Gibb's I Just Wanna Be Your Everything. It's not cool, but I actually LIKE disco. Not in the ironical, post-modern sense but at face value. I'm advising my friends and co-workers to monitor my behavior for other signs of dementia.
I did discover the Cracow Klezmer Band. Highly recommended.
On Saturday I found myself without plans so I decided to head, solo, to the Double Door to catch a band. Between acts, an inebriated 30-something asked for my assistance with her wardrobe malfunction---a clasp had come undone on the back of her shirt (was it a corset?) and as I was fixing her her 40-something boyfriend showed up.
When a man sees his drunk girlfriend talking to a strange guy at a bar, he can do one of two things. If he's insecure or not highly intelligent, he can attempt to push and prod her away and otherwise show his displeasure with the interloper. Or, if he's more sophisticated, he can engage the guy in conversation, buy him a beer and subtly attempt to establish his position as the dominant male through a series of comical observations and back-handed compliments. All with a smile on his face.
Her boyfriend bought me an uncommonly strong drink ("...should be strong. I tip them enough at this place") and steered the conversation among several topics. When I interjected something, he said "...is this going to be a long story?" Then he chuckled and clapped me on the shoulder.
"Look at you, " he said in an affable tone of voice, "....you're here by yourself on a Saturday night. You're good-looking and smart, but you probably won't get laid tonight. You give off a nice-guy vibe. You need a bad-boy image, but that comes with age. You're probably 27?" "I think he's 32," offered the girlfriend. "Actually, I'm 38, " I said.
Normally I feel complimented when someone mis-estimates my age, but this guy was making me feel like Richie Cunningham. He had tricked me into QUALIFYING myself to him.
After a few more minutes of banter, he broke off with, "...we'll be moving to the front of the stage---the drummer is a friend of ours." "He should come with us," said the girlfriend. I felt his hand on the back of my neck. "Just fixing your tag---it was standing up."
I declined her offer and left soon after. I mentally wished him well with his girlfriend.
I headed to Nick's and spent the rest of the evening flirting with two girls in their early twenties, a blond musician and a brunette English graduate student. Eventually the blond and I started focusing on eachother and at 3 a.m. we exchanged myspace info and parted.
Too early to say if anything will come of this, but it was a pleasure to talk to two highly intelligent women. Contrary to the views of some, I really do want a girlfriend but I will not compromise on the issue of intelligence. There is nothing sexy about stupidity.
I did discover the Cracow Klezmer Band. Highly recommended.
On Saturday I found myself without plans so I decided to head, solo, to the Double Door to catch a band. Between acts, an inebriated 30-something asked for my assistance with her wardrobe malfunction---a clasp had come undone on the back of her shirt (was it a corset?) and as I was fixing her her 40-something boyfriend showed up.
When a man sees his drunk girlfriend talking to a strange guy at a bar, he can do one of two things. If he's insecure or not highly intelligent, he can attempt to push and prod her away and otherwise show his displeasure with the interloper. Or, if he's more sophisticated, he can engage the guy in conversation, buy him a beer and subtly attempt to establish his position as the dominant male through a series of comical observations and back-handed compliments. All with a smile on his face.
Her boyfriend bought me an uncommonly strong drink ("...should be strong. I tip them enough at this place") and steered the conversation among several topics. When I interjected something, he said "...is this going to be a long story?" Then he chuckled and clapped me on the shoulder.
"Look at you, " he said in an affable tone of voice, "....you're here by yourself on a Saturday night. You're good-looking and smart, but you probably won't get laid tonight. You give off a nice-guy vibe. You need a bad-boy image, but that comes with age. You're probably 27?" "I think he's 32," offered the girlfriend. "Actually, I'm 38, " I said.
Normally I feel complimented when someone mis-estimates my age, but this guy was making me feel like Richie Cunningham. He had tricked me into QUALIFYING myself to him.
After a few more minutes of banter, he broke off with, "...we'll be moving to the front of the stage---the drummer is a friend of ours." "He should come with us," said the girlfriend. I felt his hand on the back of my neck. "Just fixing your tag---it was standing up."
I declined her offer and left soon after. I mentally wished him well with his girlfriend.
I headed to Nick's and spent the rest of the evening flirting with two girls in their early twenties, a blond musician and a brunette English graduate student. Eventually the blond and I started focusing on eachother and at 3 a.m. we exchanged myspace info and parted.
Too early to say if anything will come of this, but it was a pleasure to talk to two highly intelligent women. Contrary to the views of some, I really do want a girlfriend but I will not compromise on the issue of intelligence. There is nothing sexy about stupidity.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Last Night
I met Uzma at a desperately-trying-to-be-trendy bar and grill in Lakeview. We ate outside---it was a nice evening and the noise from the trains overhead was preferable to the conversation inhibiting music inside (why do bars always play the music so damn loud? Don't people talk to eachother anymore?). The date had an inauspicious beginning when I asked the waitress what beers were on tap. She rattled off Blue Moon and I said, "...every bar has Blue Moon anymore....it's gotten pretty common now---I'll take a Stella." Uzma shot me a puzzled look, I looked down at her beer and saw the tell-tale orange slice.
Oops.
A great way to begin a date is to insult her choice in beer.
Anyway, Uzma was born in Pakistan and came with her family to the U.S. when she was six. She's a sunni muslim, but no more religious than her christian-raised ecumenical brethren. She had a lot of very good stories, as someone from her background is bound to, and I have a series of good stories that I trot out on first dates, so the conversation flowed as easily as the alcohol.
I picked up on Uzma's sarcasm from our email correspondence, but she was more shy than I anticipated---her voice was soft and she didn't hold eye contact with me until her second beer . I realized that she had a reserved, vulnerable side for which her sarcasm was a cover and adjusted my vibe accordingly. After three hours, I told her I had to get up early for work, pointed to my cheeck and said: kiss goodnight.
Outside, we shared a HOT kiss and I climbed into a cab.
In January, I went out with an advertising executive for a movie and dinner. We made out inside the cab. The next day, I got an email from her saying: you seem like a nice guy, but I don't feel this is something we should pursue.
In February, I made dinner for someone I met online. She spent the night and left her contacts on my sink. She texted me the next day with this message: about the contacts---you can throw them away. And my number.
I mention these incidents to illustrate that kisses (and blowjobs) are not promises: sometimes women feel "buyer's remorse" and things that were done late at night under a cosmopolitan-induced haze don't look as appealing in the clear light of day. Nor, in retrospect, does the guy. However, I'd be very surprised if we don't get together within the next five days.
In other news, my neighbor Cathy had another loud fight with her abusive boyfriend at 3 a.m. He called her a whore (always trots out the same epithet) and demanded to know why she called the police on him. Alway outside on the fire escape every time the weather warms up. She called the police the last time she hit him. She's two floors above mine, so I only hear the outdoor fights. The girl who has the floor above mine says they fight constantly. Rehearsing for Jerry Springer, I suppose.
Oops.
A great way to begin a date is to insult her choice in beer.
Anyway, Uzma was born in Pakistan and came with her family to the U.S. when she was six. She's a sunni muslim, but no more religious than her christian-raised ecumenical brethren. She had a lot of very good stories, as someone from her background is bound to, and I have a series of good stories that I trot out on first dates, so the conversation flowed as easily as the alcohol.
I picked up on Uzma's sarcasm from our email correspondence, but she was more shy than I anticipated---her voice was soft and she didn't hold eye contact with me until her second beer . I realized that she had a reserved, vulnerable side for which her sarcasm was a cover and adjusted my vibe accordingly. After three hours, I told her I had to get up early for work, pointed to my cheeck and said: kiss goodnight.
Outside, we shared a HOT kiss and I climbed into a cab.
In January, I went out with an advertising executive for a movie and dinner. We made out inside the cab. The next day, I got an email from her saying: you seem like a nice guy, but I don't feel this is something we should pursue.
In February, I made dinner for someone I met online. She spent the night and left her contacts on my sink. She texted me the next day with this message: about the contacts---you can throw them away. And my number.
I mention these incidents to illustrate that kisses (and blowjobs) are not promises: sometimes women feel "buyer's remorse" and things that were done late at night under a cosmopolitan-induced haze don't look as appealing in the clear light of day. Nor, in retrospect, does the guy. However, I'd be very surprised if we don't get together within the next five days.
In other news, my neighbor Cathy had another loud fight with her abusive boyfriend at 3 a.m. He called her a whore (always trots out the same epithet) and demanded to know why she called the police on him. Alway outside on the fire escape every time the weather warms up. She called the police the last time she hit him. She's two floors above mine, so I only hear the outdoor fights. The girl who has the floor above mine says they fight constantly. Rehearsing for Jerry Springer, I suppose.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Speed Bumps
Got to bed at 12:00 so I decided an extra hour of sleep was more important than a five-mile run. I don't want to run out of energy over drinks tonight. Had a terriffic film class last night---the usual eclectic mix of professionals, blue-collar workers, academics, hipsters and retirees. And there's usually a lawyer who tries to monopolize the conversation. If I class has two of them, it's tons-o-fun to watch the sparks fly.
Met Mar before film class for a fairly boring dinner at a local noodle shop where she regaled me with her latest scheme for fixing up her apartment, which she's been trying to do for the last year and which still looks a third world animal shelter. At last count, she had 2 dogs, a cat and a rabbit. The bird was killed in a car wreck and the rat passed on to that great big sewer in the sky.
This brings me to my subject today: speed bumps. I can't say deal breakers because they're technically not breakers, at least in all cases, but they slow me down on the road to intimacy.
Speed bump #1: A powerfully sentimental weakness for animals. I don't mean owning a dog or a cat---I'm not an animal person, but I understand the need for and value of pets. Two cats makes me wary and three is a red flag. I once woke up in someone's bed to a cat staring at me an meowing loudly and insistently. "You're using her pillow," said the woman next to me. Great. My face buried where a neutered tom plants his ass.
Speed bump #2: An inability to spell. Maybe I'm being harsh here---I've always felt that spelling is overrated and, to me, the ubiquity of spelling bees is a telling sign that adults are tragically incapable of measuring and recognizing the intelligence of children. Also, it's easier to abbreviate and use "netspeak" when you're texting or chatting online. However, when I get an email from someone (and this happens all the time) who can't differentiate between your and you're, or mixes up their, they're and there, a big yellow "Caution---Possible Subliterate Ahead" sign pops in front of my eyes.
Speed bump #3: Excessive flirting. I don't mind if a girl has male friend---she should. It's a bad sign if she doesn't. What bothers me is if she sends the "I'm attracted and available" vibe to other men when we're together. That's humiliating for both of us and it doesn't make me want her more. It marks the beginning of the first mental draft of the "I don't think we should pursue this further" speech.
Speed bump #4: Excessive use of the word "like" as colloquial for "said", as in, "I'm, like, I don't think it's a good idea." It sounds bad in teenagers and in adult females it's the equivalent of fingernails on the chalkboard. A variation of this is the use of the word "go": "I go, I don't think it's a good idea."
Speed bump #5: Television. I don't mean a couple shows a week. I mean someone who turns on the TV the minute she gets home and doesn't turn it off until it's time for bed. Someone who watches all the sitcoms on the major networks. Such people do actually exist.
Speed bump #6: Filthy apartment. I don't mean messy. clothes and magazines strewn around don't frighten me off. I mean filthy. Nothing says I'm Disorganized Mentally And I Don't Have My Life Together quite like living in filth. If her bathroom is more frightening than my bachelor friend Len's, I will bail before I have to use it.
Speed bump #7: A bookcase full of self-help books. OK, I own a copy of Dale Carnegie and it's a great book, but our self-help culture functions much like the Borg in Star Trek: The Next Generation. If you've ever been stuck on a plane next to one of these lobotomy-eyed zombies, you'll understand. A tie-in is the presence of three or more new-agey titles, i.e., Finding Your Inner Snow Goddess, A Transcendental Guide. The sorority girl equivalent would be The Rules and/or William Bennet's The Book of Virtues.
Speed bump #8: A working knowledge of astrology. Girls, give it up. It's bullshit. There are pick-up artists who specialize in astrology because it's such a common feminine weakness---they call it "chick crack". These guys zero in on astology chicks the way that lions target the weakest and slowest zebras of the herd.
Speed bump #9: Granny furniture. Nothing say Prim and Proper Spinster quite like a floral pattern on the sofa.
Speed bump #10: A love for Christian contemporary music. My dad was a music teacher and he always claimed that a music lover should have a working appreciation for all types of music, but I'm sorry: Christian contemporary is the bottom of the barrel, the lowest, simplist, most sentimental form of music ever devised at any point in western civilization. By your tastes you shall be known.
Met Mar before film class for a fairly boring dinner at a local noodle shop where she regaled me with her latest scheme for fixing up her apartment, which she's been trying to do for the last year and which still looks a third world animal shelter. At last count, she had 2 dogs, a cat and a rabbit. The bird was killed in a car wreck and the rat passed on to that great big sewer in the sky.
This brings me to my subject today: speed bumps. I can't say deal breakers because they're technically not breakers, at least in all cases, but they slow me down on the road to intimacy.
Speed bump #1: A powerfully sentimental weakness for animals. I don't mean owning a dog or a cat---I'm not an animal person, but I understand the need for and value of pets. Two cats makes me wary and three is a red flag. I once woke up in someone's bed to a cat staring at me an meowing loudly and insistently. "You're using her pillow," said the woman next to me. Great. My face buried where a neutered tom plants his ass.
Speed bump #2: An inability to spell. Maybe I'm being harsh here---I've always felt that spelling is overrated and, to me, the ubiquity of spelling bees is a telling sign that adults are tragically incapable of measuring and recognizing the intelligence of children. Also, it's easier to abbreviate and use "netspeak" when you're texting or chatting online. However, when I get an email from someone (and this happens all the time) who can't differentiate between your and you're, or mixes up their, they're and there, a big yellow "Caution---Possible Subliterate Ahead" sign pops in front of my eyes.
Speed bump #3: Excessive flirting. I don't mind if a girl has male friend---she should. It's a bad sign if she doesn't. What bothers me is if she sends the "I'm attracted and available" vibe to other men when we're together. That's humiliating for both of us and it doesn't make me want her more. It marks the beginning of the first mental draft of the "I don't think we should pursue this further" speech.
Speed bump #4: Excessive use of the word "like" as colloquial for "said", as in, "I'm, like, I don't think it's a good idea." It sounds bad in teenagers and in adult females it's the equivalent of fingernails on the chalkboard. A variation of this is the use of the word "go": "I go, I don't think it's a good idea."
Speed bump #5: Television. I don't mean a couple shows a week. I mean someone who turns on the TV the minute she gets home and doesn't turn it off until it's time for bed. Someone who watches all the sitcoms on the major networks. Such people do actually exist.
Speed bump #6: Filthy apartment. I don't mean messy. clothes and magazines strewn around don't frighten me off. I mean filthy. Nothing says I'm Disorganized Mentally And I Don't Have My Life Together quite like living in filth. If her bathroom is more frightening than my bachelor friend Len's, I will bail before I have to use it.
Speed bump #7: A bookcase full of self-help books. OK, I own a copy of Dale Carnegie and it's a great book, but our self-help culture functions much like the Borg in Star Trek: The Next Generation. If you've ever been stuck on a plane next to one of these lobotomy-eyed zombies, you'll understand. A tie-in is the presence of three or more new-agey titles, i.e., Finding Your Inner Snow Goddess, A Transcendental Guide. The sorority girl equivalent would be The Rules and/or William Bennet's The Book of Virtues.
Speed bump #8: A working knowledge of astrology. Girls, give it up. It's bullshit. There are pick-up artists who specialize in astrology because it's such a common feminine weakness---they call it "chick crack". These guys zero in on astology chicks the way that lions target the weakest and slowest zebras of the herd.
Speed bump #9: Granny furniture. Nothing say Prim and Proper Spinster quite like a floral pattern on the sofa.
Speed bump #10: A love for Christian contemporary music. My dad was a music teacher and he always claimed that a music lover should have a working appreciation for all types of music, but I'm sorry: Christian contemporary is the bottom of the barrel, the lowest, simplist, most sentimental form of music ever devised at any point in western civilization. By your tastes you shall be known.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
Update
OK, I am meeting my new myspace correspondent tomorrow after work for a drink. I was overly conservative with that 4-5 day estimate. Her name is Uzma. She's rented movies from Facets before, which is another plus.
In other news, I read a story in the Chicago Tribune today about the issue of sidewalks in the suburbs. Seems some suburban village boards would like to add sidewalks to the many neighborhoods that don't have them. And, seems many local denizens are up in arms over this blatant example of civic intrusion. Some folks are upset over what the sidewalks will do to their immaculately landscaped lawns. One local fella complained that the 'walks might bring undesirable elements into the neighborhood.
The complainer lives in Northbrook. Northbrook. What's going to happen, hordes of African-Americans will march all the way from Chicago into Northbrook because of the presence of sidewalks? One of my great urban pleasures is walking---I love to explore neighborhoods in Chicago. A common complaint Europeans have of life in the U.S. is that we Americans rely too heavily on our automobiles, and sometimes the simple act of walking as recreation has been all but forgotten. Anyone who's ever spent any amount of time in Los Angeles will understand.
I will never understand the suburban mentality.
In other news, I read a story in the Chicago Tribune today about the issue of sidewalks in the suburbs. Seems some suburban village boards would like to add sidewalks to the many neighborhoods that don't have them. And, seems many local denizens are up in arms over this blatant example of civic intrusion. Some folks are upset over what the sidewalks will do to their immaculately landscaped lawns. One local fella complained that the 'walks might bring undesirable elements into the neighborhood.
The complainer lives in Northbrook. Northbrook. What's going to happen, hordes of African-Americans will march all the way from Chicago into Northbrook because of the presence of sidewalks? One of my great urban pleasures is walking---I love to explore neighborhoods in Chicago. A common complaint Europeans have of life in the U.S. is that we Americans rely too heavily on our automobiles, and sometimes the simple act of walking as recreation has been all but forgotten. Anyone who's ever spent any amount of time in Los Angeles will understand.
I will never understand the suburban mentality.
Hump Day
How many shots did I do at Nick's last night? Was every one of them necessary? It certainly seemed like a good idea at the time. Nothing reinforces the social glue that holds a neighborhood tavern together quite like doing shots. How did the evening start? Oh, yes, Dave knocked on my door and asked if I was up for a beer and a shot at Nick's. Which turned into several. My superego warns me that I cannot and must not let my social life interfere with my marathon training. My id hollars back that I cannot and must not let my marathon training interfere with my social life.
And my social life? Resting precariously upon the teetering pillars of tavern life and myspace. Speaking of myspace, I've been communicating with a cute local girl over the last two days. If neither of us says anything to scare the other off, I'd estimate our first meeting in about, oh.....four or five days. She's sarcastic and self-effacing, which is always a big plus. More on this as it develops.
Mar called me while I was in Milwaukee and wanted to hang out. I invited her to grab a bite with me before film class but I'm not sure if it's a good idea, this whole being friends with your exes bit. At least in our case. If we could be simply friends, perhaps. Reminiscing over drinks leads to tender glances which lead to a hand-held walk back to my apartment which leads to oh, no, we shouldn't be doing this which leads to what are we doing with eachother? Our relationship was not exactly a polished model of stability and making plans for further than a week in the future was impractical as there was no accurate way to predict if we would still be together at the time of the intended outing. Our final breakup occurred in October.
I'm currently reading William Faulkner's Wild Palms and it's boring me to tears. The Sound and the Fury left me similarly unmoved. People whose opnions I respect hold him up as one of the two or three greatest writers in American history but I just can't get into him. I will, however, finish Wild Palms and re-read it---when a work enters the pantheon you have to make the effort to go to it. It will not come to you. Maybe the humid weather and late nights are not conducive to the concentration I need to give to it. I'm also reading Jessica Abel's Artbabe comic series and loving it.
And my social life? Resting precariously upon the teetering pillars of tavern life and myspace. Speaking of myspace, I've been communicating with a cute local girl over the last two days. If neither of us says anything to scare the other off, I'd estimate our first meeting in about, oh.....four or five days. She's sarcastic and self-effacing, which is always a big plus. More on this as it develops.
Mar called me while I was in Milwaukee and wanted to hang out. I invited her to grab a bite with me before film class but I'm not sure if it's a good idea, this whole being friends with your exes bit. At least in our case. If we could be simply friends, perhaps. Reminiscing over drinks leads to tender glances which lead to a hand-held walk back to my apartment which leads to oh, no, we shouldn't be doing this which leads to what are we doing with eachother? Our relationship was not exactly a polished model of stability and making plans for further than a week in the future was impractical as there was no accurate way to predict if we would still be together at the time of the intended outing. Our final breakup occurred in October.
I'm currently reading William Faulkner's Wild Palms and it's boring me to tears. The Sound and the Fury left me similarly unmoved. People whose opnions I respect hold him up as one of the two or three greatest writers in American history but I just can't get into him. I will, however, finish Wild Palms and re-read it---when a work enters the pantheon you have to make the effort to go to it. It will not come to you. Maybe the humid weather and late nights are not conducive to the concentration I need to give to it. I'm also reading Jessica Abel's Artbabe comic series and loving it.
Monday, May 7, 2007
The Wages of Sin
So much for setting a positive example---in the alcohol-fuelled weekend that was, I managed only six miles instead of the planned-upon ten. This was due more to time constraints than anything else, in that we really needed to be at bloody mary brunch at Blue Line in time to consume as many of the $3.00 bloody marys as our bodies would allow. Every $3.00 bloody mary we consumed meant one less $6.50 beer we would guzzle at Wrigley Field. Simple mathematics. Also, it was the last brunch served by Kristen, our favorite bartender, who has taken a job at a Ukrainian Village joint. I will visit her from time to time at her new locale, but will miss her at Blue Line. If I was on a date, I would always drop in on Blue Line if Kristen was working. Kristen would greet me by name with a big smile, introduce herself to my date and make sure we were never without liquid nourishment. The social validation provided by a female bartender is invaluable.
For running, I have decided that the best song is Love is in the Air, the 1978 disco classic recorded by John Paul Jones. I have downloaded this to my iPod and will loop it so that I can listen to it for hours, again and again and again. I greatly respect the disco movement and all that it stood for, and wish that I knew more about disco music. Maybe I should take a class, as it can be quite daunting. If you are willing to put in the time and effort, there is nothing so rewarding as disco. And the poetry:
Love is in the air/ Everywhere I look around/ Love is in the air /Every sight and every sound/
And I don't know if I'm being foolish/ Don't know if I'm being wise/ But it's something that I must believe in /And it's there when I look in your eyes
For running, I have decided that the best song is Love is in the Air, the 1978 disco classic recorded by John Paul Jones. I have downloaded this to my iPod and will loop it so that I can listen to it for hours, again and again and again. I greatly respect the disco movement and all that it stood for, and wish that I knew more about disco music. Maybe I should take a class, as it can be quite daunting. If you are willing to put in the time and effort, there is nothing so rewarding as disco. And the poetry:
Love is in the air/ Everywhere I look around/ Love is in the air /Every sight and every sound/
And I don't know if I'm being foolish/ Don't know if I'm being wise/ But it's something that I must believe in /And it's there when I look in your eyes
Sunday, May 6, 2007
Challenges
My friend Jenny wrote in her blog about running a 5k race and the sense of accomplishment that she got from it. I sent her an email encouraging her to train for a marathon and she shot the challenge right back at me: wanna do one?
It's the kind of challenge I can't resist.
The last marathon I ran was in 2003. I had been laid off six months before and the fissures in my marriage were rapidly widening. Running 26.2 miles was a fabulous way of saying "fuck off" to everything that was going wrong in my life at the time and reaffirming my sense of myself and my place in the world. It was a life-changing event.
Without realizing it, Jenny has sent me another challenge: I have decided to write a novel. It may never get published and in all likelihood no one will ever read it. However, it will be written. I'm not a great writer and I know my limitations, but I firmly believe that I have some interesting stories to tell.
We all challenge eachother by example. I will remember this and henceforth try to provide a more positive example for others.
It's the kind of challenge I can't resist.
The last marathon I ran was in 2003. I had been laid off six months before and the fissures in my marriage were rapidly widening. Running 26.2 miles was a fabulous way of saying "fuck off" to everything that was going wrong in my life at the time and reaffirming my sense of myself and my place in the world. It was a life-changing event.
Without realizing it, Jenny has sent me another challenge: I have decided to write a novel. It may never get published and in all likelihood no one will ever read it. However, it will be written. I'm not a great writer and I know my limitations, but I firmly believe that I have some interesting stories to tell.
We all challenge eachother by example. I will remember this and henceforth try to provide a more positive example for others.
Friday, May 4, 2007
The Weekend Ahead
So, my friend Len called last night. He wants to go to Milwaukee for a Brewers game on Saturday followed by a Cubs game on Sunday. I know what this will mean---a weekend of greasy tavern food and $7.00 stale stadium beers. So after considering my nearly impecunious financial state, I agreed to go. There is plenty of room on my credit card. And it should be fun.
Had tentative plans with Suburban Melissa this weekend but she's dropped off the face of the earth again---no doubt the result of another family/emotional crisis. Before our first date, she crashed her car. Before our second, she fell and hit her head. In between, she cancelled because her brother had broken up with his girlfriend and was moving in with her. Our New Year's brunch was cancelled due to her hangover. Still, I have to admire the moxie of a 37-year-old divorced mother of three who dyes her hair pink. She'll turn up sometime during the week with a good story and an apology and an offer to cook dinner for me which I'll probably accept. And for all the chaos in her life, at least she's never gone psycho on me. And I accept and embrace a certain amount of chaos. The sheared respectability of suburbia is not for me.
Beth---that was chaos. She burned her ass on a portable radiator before what was supposed to be our first date. Which meant that the intern across the hall was the only one handling her that night. She offered to send me a picture of her injury. I said OK. What I got was a professionally done topless photo.
Marathon pre-training continues. Will try to run 10 this weekend. With Len in town, could be difficult. Only thing he seems capable of running these days is a bar tab.
Had tentative plans with Suburban Melissa this weekend but she's dropped off the face of the earth again---no doubt the result of another family/emotional crisis. Before our first date, she crashed her car. Before our second, she fell and hit her head. In between, she cancelled because her brother had broken up with his girlfriend and was moving in with her. Our New Year's brunch was cancelled due to her hangover. Still, I have to admire the moxie of a 37-year-old divorced mother of three who dyes her hair pink. She'll turn up sometime during the week with a good story and an apology and an offer to cook dinner for me which I'll probably accept. And for all the chaos in her life, at least she's never gone psycho on me. And I accept and embrace a certain amount of chaos. The sheared respectability of suburbia is not for me.
Beth---that was chaos. She burned her ass on a portable radiator before what was supposed to be our first date. Which meant that the intern across the hall was the only one handling her that night. She offered to send me a picture of her injury. I said OK. What I got was a professionally done topless photo.
Marathon pre-training continues. Will try to run 10 this weekend. With Len in town, could be difficult. Only thing he seems capable of running these days is a bar tab.
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