OK, I will be 39 years old on Friday, and it's time to take stock of my current situation.
In the dating department, I am in a major rut. This summer I have been alternating my attentions among three women, none of whom is a possible candidate for anything long-term. And because the gratification is not far away, I have become lazy about meeting other women.
I have met 20-somethings in bars and 30-somethings online, for the most part. I have never joined E-Harmony or Match.com---I only have a Myspace profile, but I used to get random inquiries through that. Now the top 8 friends field and the comments are filled up with women and it gives me something of a "used" look.
What I really really need to do is spend more time approaching women in bars or, maybe, in supermarkets or train stations or something like that. Spread a wide net, see what turns up. The problem is, it's one thing to talk to a woman in a bar. The last time I dated a woman I met randomly on the street was....1995? Is that right?
No, of course not, it was 1997. Claudia. On the train. After a couple weeks she moved into my apartment. And was sleeping with one other person I know of. There may have been more. Oh well, she introduced me to Carlos Vives. And Merengue. And tasty Colombian dishes. And tasty massage oils. I wonder what exactly it was her father did for the military...
Well, the weekend is coming up. ZB is having a party on Saturday. I will make a special point of approaching strange women. Even if....no....especially if I am uncertain. I will put my ego on the shelf and expose myself to all manner of rejection. At best, I will have one or two or three new phone numbers, which will result in something positive. At worst, I will have interesting stories to write about. And I know, judging from my comments, that stories of degradation are always more popular than tales of triumph.....
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Monday, July 30, 2007
Ingmar Bergman is Dead
I was in college the first time I saw an Ingmar Bergman film---it was The Seventh Seal. I was a casual movie watcher as a kid but I had never been exposed to the canon of international cinema until a friend, a film major, introduced me to Breathless. The Seventh Seal mesmerized me. Here was a movie that was asking the questions and dealing with the subjects that movies were supposed to avoid. There was no Joe the Explainer to guide the audience through the history of the crusades, no tacked on happy ending to make the prospect of death seem more palatable. Here was the human condition, in all its absurdity, filling the screen for 96 minutes.
The thought of casual conversation once the lights came on seemed obscene; how could we go back to talking about classes and romantic intrigues after having a gauntlet like that thrown in front of us?
And, I began to feel cheated. Film making around the world is a commercial enterprise but it dawned on me that cinema could be an art form as well, with just as much to say to posterity as literature. And yet, in my own country, we were being fed tripe that bore no relation to life as it was actually being lived. We experienced a vicarious thrill watching Rambo defeat the North Vietnamese army and departed the theater in the in the comfortable haze of complacency, but where were the films that could touch our lives or make us question the very nature of our existence?
I have a difficult time getting friends to attend Bergman films with me---he's too depressing is the reason usually given. I see him another way: in showing us people struggling with love, pain, alienation and ultimately death, he provides a powerful catharsis and reminds us that despite all we are not alone in the world. Today's Hollywood hacks---the explosion specialists and the post-modern jive artists alike---are not fit to carry his clapboard.
The thought of casual conversation once the lights came on seemed obscene; how could we go back to talking about classes and romantic intrigues after having a gauntlet like that thrown in front of us?
And, I began to feel cheated. Film making around the world is a commercial enterprise but it dawned on me that cinema could be an art form as well, with just as much to say to posterity as literature. And yet, in my own country, we were being fed tripe that bore no relation to life as it was actually being lived. We experienced a vicarious thrill watching Rambo defeat the North Vietnamese army and departed the theater in the in the comfortable haze of complacency, but where were the films that could touch our lives or make us question the very nature of our existence?
I have a difficult time getting friends to attend Bergman films with me---he's too depressing is the reason usually given. I see him another way: in showing us people struggling with love, pain, alienation and ultimately death, he provides a powerful catharsis and reminds us that despite all we are not alone in the world. Today's Hollywood hacks---the explosion specialists and the post-modern jive artists alike---are not fit to carry his clapboard.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Too Conservative?
My friend Katie told me a charming anecdote recently about a threesome gone awry. Her older boyfriend had never had a threesome, so one night she went to a strip bar with a friend and was rewarded with an enthusiastic lap dance from a woman who declined money.
"Don't pay me," is what she said, "..this is for my pleasure."
Guys, don't worry. This doesn't happen to any men I know.
Anyway, she recruited the woman to go home with her and surprise her boyfriend. I can only imagine the haze of alcohol in which they must have been wading as they climbed into the bed of the sleeping boyfriend.....
I was in a Lake Michigan resort town this weekend with Christy, and I shared this story with her over our dinner of fried fish. She looked at me as if I had just confessed to owning the world's largest collection of German scheisse videos.
"Does that turn you on?"
"Threesomes? .....I think it's a universal male fantasy to watch two women make love. If not universal, very very common. Yeah, it turns me on."
"I would be so upset if someone asked me to do that. It's like a show of disrespect. It would be like you were trying to turn me into a lesbian."
She wrinkled her nose at the word "lesbian".
I reassured her that I would never try to get her to do something that made her uncomfortable. I also reminded her that sometimes sexual fantasies do not fall into nice safe categories. We choose how we act, but our fantasies are outside of our control.
Christy and I had a pleasant weekend sunning on the beach, swimming in Lake Michigan and making love. The distaste she showed for what is such an obvious male fantasy, however, gave me pause. I wondered, does she have no guy friends?
Some women know a lot about men. Some women know very little. It's not an age issue at all---Christy is in her late 30s, while Katie is 23. The best thing a girl can do is have an older brother. The second best is to have a number of platonic male friends, who feel comfortable sharing "guy" details with her. Women who "get" men are going to be better protected psychologically than women who don't. They won't get hurt as easily, and they'll tend to bounce back more quickly.
It's all right to be disgusted by the idea of a threesome. But the fact that it's a turn-on to a large portion of the male population should not come as a surprise. And it should be accepted with a shrug and a "boys will be boys" attitude.
Some things should not be shared. I won't tell a girl I'm dating which of her friends are hot, for instance. Information like that does nothing to advance our situation together. If she asks I answer in bland generalities. She doesn't need to hear me say:
"Your friend Anne has a hot body. The kind of beautiful ass I could just bury my face in..."
She doesn't need to share similar thoughts with me, either.
But, overall, I think Christy is much too conservative for me.
"Don't pay me," is what she said, "..this is for my pleasure."
Guys, don't worry. This doesn't happen to any men I know.
Anyway, she recruited the woman to go home with her and surprise her boyfriend. I can only imagine the haze of alcohol in which they must have been wading as they climbed into the bed of the sleeping boyfriend.....
I was in a Lake Michigan resort town this weekend with Christy, and I shared this story with her over our dinner of fried fish. She looked at me as if I had just confessed to owning the world's largest collection of German scheisse videos.
"Does that turn you on?"
"Threesomes? .....I think it's a universal male fantasy to watch two women make love. If not universal, very very common. Yeah, it turns me on."
"I would be so upset if someone asked me to do that. It's like a show of disrespect. It would be like you were trying to turn me into a lesbian."
She wrinkled her nose at the word "lesbian".
I reassured her that I would never try to get her to do something that made her uncomfortable. I also reminded her that sometimes sexual fantasies do not fall into nice safe categories. We choose how we act, but our fantasies are outside of our control.
Christy and I had a pleasant weekend sunning on the beach, swimming in Lake Michigan and making love. The distaste she showed for what is such an obvious male fantasy, however, gave me pause. I wondered, does she have no guy friends?
Some women know a lot about men. Some women know very little. It's not an age issue at all---Christy is in her late 30s, while Katie is 23. The best thing a girl can do is have an older brother. The second best is to have a number of platonic male friends, who feel comfortable sharing "guy" details with her. Women who "get" men are going to be better protected psychologically than women who don't. They won't get hurt as easily, and they'll tend to bounce back more quickly.
It's all right to be disgusted by the idea of a threesome. But the fact that it's a turn-on to a large portion of the male population should not come as a surprise. And it should be accepted with a shrug and a "boys will be boys" attitude.
Some things should not be shared. I won't tell a girl I'm dating which of her friends are hot, for instance. Information like that does nothing to advance our situation together. If she asks I answer in bland generalities. She doesn't need to hear me say:
"Your friend Anne has a hot body. The kind of beautiful ass I could just bury my face in..."
She doesn't need to share similar thoughts with me, either.
But, overall, I think Christy is much too conservative for me.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Dating and Kids
OK, fans, absolutely nothing interesting happened to me this week from a dating/sex angle. Nothing. I'm hitting high gear with the marathon training and my longest run this weekend was 14 miles. It's pretty damn tiring.
Last night I left Submissive Liz at the bar and walked home after 1 shot. I had to get up and run and a good night's sleep was the only thing on my mind. I will therefore entertain you with an anecdote about a reunion encounter I had over the holidays. First, some background.
The first time I wound up in bed with a girl who agreed to have sex with me, it was a disaster: neither of us new what we were doing. After poking and prodding and getting nowhere, I started to lose interest. The whole thing seemed like too much work and I was getting sore. I can only imagine how painful the experience must have been for her.
What was especially disheartening was the disappointment that registered on her face.
Three months later, I finally consummated the act with a slightly older girl who was much more experienced and had fallen madly in love with me. The fact that she was so into me removed any trace of first-time anxiety, and I'm happy to report that we fit like a glove. The First had long dark hair and eyes that were almost black. She was zaftig, but curvy. Over the next four months I gained a greater familiarity with the female body than I ever had before.
This last winter, this girl who had been generous enough to take my virginity contacted me via myspace: she was back in school, getting a degree in social work, single and living with her 11-year-old son.
Since she lived near my hometown, we agreed to get together over the holidays for dinner. I suggested a few restaurants, but she said she'd rather make dinner at her apartment.
So, the day after Christmas I arrived at The First's apartment and she opened the door.
Wow.
She had....gained quite a bit of weight in the nearly 20 years since I had last seen her.
She introduced me to her son. He was very shy. I was taken a little bit by surprise, but I just assumed she couldn't get a babysitter for the evening. Having a kid around does inhibit conversation quite a bit, and I realized dinner conversation would not involve reminiscenses of drinking parties and what-not.
The First flirted heavily with me throughout dinner, which consisted of pork chops and fettucine alfredo---I was flattered, but the conversation tended to be dull. Or was it her? I mentioned an article in The Onion about the government removing the wiki-constitution because 'contributors' had been loading it down with profanity, pornography, ASCII art, and mandatory-assault-rifle-ownership amendments. She responded that it was another dumb thing the government was doing.
I had to tell her that it was a joke. And fill her in on The Onion.
After dinner, she led me into her bedroom to show me something on her computer. She closed the door and kissed me and we started making out. Yes, she had gotten fat over the years. Yes, I found her conversation dull and insipid. However, she was my first. Most guys will understand.
Suddenly there was a knock at the door. I had momentarily forgotten about her son. Assuring me that she'd be back, she left the room. When she returned, she told me that he wouldn't be bothering us anymore.
I told her that it felt a little weird, having her son in the next room. She assured me that there was nothing to be ashamed of and that it was important for him to see his mother as a woman, with needs of her own. She said this as she was unbuckling my pants.
"Besided," she added, "he was snooping and discovered my vibrator. He's a smart kid. He can figure things out."
This, and the fact that her breasts sagged more than I've ever seen any woman's breasts sag, put a big damper on my libido. Not a total damper, however.
She worked on me relentlessly, and I managed to stay erect and finish the act.
After all, she was my first.
We drifted off to sleep. Early in the morning, I was awakened by the sound of her snoring. It was....loud and relentless.
I made an excuse that I had a lot to do that day, and we parted just as the sun was starting to come up.
Sometimes it's better to leave memories undisturbed.
Last night I left Submissive Liz at the bar and walked home after 1 shot. I had to get up and run and a good night's sleep was the only thing on my mind. I will therefore entertain you with an anecdote about a reunion encounter I had over the holidays. First, some background.
The first time I wound up in bed with a girl who agreed to have sex with me, it was a disaster: neither of us new what we were doing. After poking and prodding and getting nowhere, I started to lose interest. The whole thing seemed like too much work and I was getting sore. I can only imagine how painful the experience must have been for her.
What was especially disheartening was the disappointment that registered on her face.
Three months later, I finally consummated the act with a slightly older girl who was much more experienced and had fallen madly in love with me. The fact that she was so into me removed any trace of first-time anxiety, and I'm happy to report that we fit like a glove. The First had long dark hair and eyes that were almost black. She was zaftig, but curvy. Over the next four months I gained a greater familiarity with the female body than I ever had before.
This last winter, this girl who had been generous enough to take my virginity contacted me via myspace: she was back in school, getting a degree in social work, single and living with her 11-year-old son.
Since she lived near my hometown, we agreed to get together over the holidays for dinner. I suggested a few restaurants, but she said she'd rather make dinner at her apartment.
So, the day after Christmas I arrived at The First's apartment and she opened the door.
Wow.
She had....gained quite a bit of weight in the nearly 20 years since I had last seen her.
She introduced me to her son. He was very shy. I was taken a little bit by surprise, but I just assumed she couldn't get a babysitter for the evening. Having a kid around does inhibit conversation quite a bit, and I realized dinner conversation would not involve reminiscenses of drinking parties and what-not.
The First flirted heavily with me throughout dinner, which consisted of pork chops and fettucine alfredo---I was flattered, but the conversation tended to be dull. Or was it her? I mentioned an article in The Onion about the government removing the wiki-constitution because 'contributors' had been loading it down with profanity, pornography, ASCII art, and mandatory-assault-rifle-ownership amendments. She responded that it was another dumb thing the government was doing.
I had to tell her that it was a joke. And fill her in on The Onion.
After dinner, she led me into her bedroom to show me something on her computer. She closed the door and kissed me and we started making out. Yes, she had gotten fat over the years. Yes, I found her conversation dull and insipid. However, she was my first. Most guys will understand.
Suddenly there was a knock at the door. I had momentarily forgotten about her son. Assuring me that she'd be back, she left the room. When she returned, she told me that he wouldn't be bothering us anymore.
I told her that it felt a little weird, having her son in the next room. She assured me that there was nothing to be ashamed of and that it was important for him to see his mother as a woman, with needs of her own. She said this as she was unbuckling my pants.
"Besided," she added, "he was snooping and discovered my vibrator. He's a smart kid. He can figure things out."
This, and the fact that her breasts sagged more than I've ever seen any woman's breasts sag, put a big damper on my libido. Not a total damper, however.
She worked on me relentlessly, and I managed to stay erect and finish the act.
After all, she was my first.
We drifted off to sleep. Early in the morning, I was awakened by the sound of her snoring. It was....loud and relentless.
I made an excuse that I had a lot to do that day, and we parted just as the sun was starting to come up.
Sometimes it's better to leave memories undisturbed.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Some Random Facts About Me
* I grew up in a small town from which I have spent my entire adult life escaping.
* My favorite novel is War and Peace. Some passages can still bring me to tears.
* I have a good-size jazz and classical CD collection, but my dirty shameful secret listening pleasure is disco music from the '70's.
* My academic career was abysmal. My grades would be stellar one semester and disastrous the next. One semester I had an A,B,C,D and F. Another semester I had three A's and three F's. I never did quite manage to get my degree.
* I work in the financial industry. I enjoy my current job but,like Julien Sorel in Stendhal's The Red and the Black, I probably chose a vocation for which I am not really suited. For example, I hate to haggle.
* I love to eat and can appreciate everything from a Chicago hot dog to wild mushroom risotto. It is by a great act of will that I am still thin.
* The smell of Calvin Klein's Obsession still turns my head. When I was a high school senior, I hooked up with a hot college girl who wore it. You don't smell it much anymore....
* I love scotch. Smokey, peaty Islay scotch especially. My favorite is Laphroaig.
* I think that American society places way too much importance on sports. However, I'm a Cub fan and I go nuts for the Bears during football season so I may be part of the problem there.
* I enjoy hating Los Angeles, but I have a great time whenever I'm there. I secretly suspect that if I moved there, I'd fall in love with it. This makes me hate it even more.
* I am a Shakespeare fanatic.
* I am 5'8 1/2 with brown eyes and brown (some gray in there now) hair. I am handsome, but in an effete, full-lipped Shelley/Byron kinda way. I always wanted to have the hardened masculine visage of a Bruce Willis or Clint Eastwood.
* When I'm home alone, I sing along to my ipod or dance in a really bizarre manner.
* My political views have shifted to the left as I've gotten older.
* I love film but most new movies suck. The banality of our popular culture can be seen in our penchant for "happy" endings. The movie Sideways almost got it right. The tacked on ending was a cop-out.
* I am training for my third marathon, but I am about as unathletic as you can get. I disappear whenever volleyballs come out. In school, I wasn't chosen dead-last for teams but I was consistently in the bottom fourth.
* I lost my virginity at 17. My first otherwise sexual experience with a girl took place two years prior. A friend of mine talked a girl (who was really into him) into making out with me. Then we both took turns making out with her. Until my dad came downstairs and drove her home.
* Most of my old girlfriends are now lawyers. One is a poet. We hooked up again when her book tour passed through Chicago. She's into women now.
* A girl will totally have my attention if she mentions one of the following: Miles Davis, Andrei Tarkovski, Ingmar Bergman, Audrey Hepburn, Bill Evans, Ryszard Kapuscinski, German Expressionism or oral sex.
* My favorite novel is War and Peace. Some passages can still bring me to tears.
* I have a good-size jazz and classical CD collection, but my dirty shameful secret listening pleasure is disco music from the '70's.
* My academic career was abysmal. My grades would be stellar one semester and disastrous the next. One semester I had an A,B,C,D and F. Another semester I had three A's and three F's. I never did quite manage to get my degree.
* I work in the financial industry. I enjoy my current job but,like Julien Sorel in Stendhal's The Red and the Black, I probably chose a vocation for which I am not really suited. For example, I hate to haggle.
* I love to eat and can appreciate everything from a Chicago hot dog to wild mushroom risotto. It is by a great act of will that I am still thin.
* The smell of Calvin Klein's Obsession still turns my head. When I was a high school senior, I hooked up with a hot college girl who wore it. You don't smell it much anymore....
* I love scotch. Smokey, peaty Islay scotch especially. My favorite is Laphroaig.
* I think that American society places way too much importance on sports. However, I'm a Cub fan and I go nuts for the Bears during football season so I may be part of the problem there.
* I enjoy hating Los Angeles, but I have a great time whenever I'm there. I secretly suspect that if I moved there, I'd fall in love with it. This makes me hate it even more.
* I am a Shakespeare fanatic.
* I am 5'8 1/2 with brown eyes and brown (some gray in there now) hair. I am handsome, but in an effete, full-lipped Shelley/Byron kinda way. I always wanted to have the hardened masculine visage of a Bruce Willis or Clint Eastwood.
* When I'm home alone, I sing along to my ipod or dance in a really bizarre manner.
* My political views have shifted to the left as I've gotten older.
* I love film but most new movies suck. The banality of our popular culture can be seen in our penchant for "happy" endings. The movie Sideways almost got it right. The tacked on ending was a cop-out.
* I am training for my third marathon, but I am about as unathletic as you can get. I disappear whenever volleyballs come out. In school, I wasn't chosen dead-last for teams but I was consistently in the bottom fourth.
* I lost my virginity at 17. My first otherwise sexual experience with a girl took place two years prior. A friend of mine talked a girl (who was really into him) into making out with me. Then we both took turns making out with her. Until my dad came downstairs and drove her home.
* Most of my old girlfriends are now lawyers. One is a poet. We hooked up again when her book tour passed through Chicago. She's into women now.
* A girl will totally have my attention if she mentions one of the following: Miles Davis, Andrei Tarkovski, Ingmar Bergman, Audrey Hepburn, Bill Evans, Ryszard Kapuscinski, German Expressionism or oral sex.
Younger vs. Older Women
It's a well-worn cliche that when a man in his later 30s gets divorced, he starts going after younger women.
For my part, it's been almost two years since I was thrust back into the dating pool and I'm pleased to report that I have never, during this time, discriminated against any woman because of her age.
I'll be 39 in two weeks and I'm having more fun than I ever had at 25. At 25, I was pretty much limited to dating girls my own age. I went 5 years up and 5 years down, but that was the extent of my range. Now, I date women in their early 20's all the way to my own age and I wouldn't be opposed to going older if the attraction is there. A wider age range necessarily increases your dating opportunities.
Urban Melissa once kidded me about being "notorious" when it comes to dating younger women. I had to remind her that the majority of women I date are in their 30s. She agreed, but added that it only takes a few instances for a reputation to stick.
I'm probably a little bit sensitive about being seen as an old goat, but I have one tremendous advantage working for me: I've always looked very young for my age. At 25, it tended to be a thorn in the side of my ego; I could still pass for a high school student and it wasn't unusual, on a date with a girl my own age, for ME to be the one who was carded. Now, however, it's a compliment to be carded. I have a little bit of a salt-and-pepper look going with my hair but I've managed to stay fit, I still wear 32-waist jeans and I look about 10 years younger than I am. Whenever I'm asked how old I am, I usually respond with:
"How old do I look?"
The answers this year have ranged from 27 to 31. When I reveal my age, the reaction is usually,
"No way!"
Some 20-somethings don't go for older men. Plenty, however, do.
In these older-younger dating situations, both parties have to benefit for it to work. The older guy usually gets someone to look up to him and defer to him on account of his extended life experiences(didn't Kissinger call power the ultimate aphrodisiac(?) and, let's be honest, there usually will be a power imbalance here)and gets to benefit from the fashion advice and music recommendations a younger woman can provide. And firm breasts and asses unmarked by stretches are more likely to be found on younger rather than older women.
The younger woman gets a guy with an "adult" income who knows how to handle himself in a restaurant (gee, do I tip this guy? the water-filler? the guy who shows us to our seats? Can I just order a redbull vodka with my steak?) and is more likely than his younger counterpart to take her to places like the theater, opera, jazz clubs and concerts in the park. She also gets to enjoy the power of her feminine sexuality, or so I've been told by two women who have made a career of dating older men.
The downside, however, is also considerable. Younger women tend to be more melodramatic. There are more likely to cry and will do so more often than older women. They will probably have friends who wear their baseball caps backwards and arrive at parties on skateboards. The kinds of friends who don't shake hands when they meet someone because that's too old and square. And younger women may not understand that you have a big day at work tomorrow, hence your reluctance to go to the loud club with the awful music where the doorman has your names reserved on "the list."
You will not understand each other's cultural references. I have watched as old tag lines from Saturday Night Live have gone over some younger woman's head, and admitted to having no idea who John Legend was and been made to feel as if I had not heard of an entire world war.
The great advantage of dating older women, especially divorced women, is that they are more tolerant of male foibles. Having been around the block, they are less likely to foster sentimental images of white weddings and picket fences---images into which you are automatically cut-and-pasted. They tend to be more even-keel, and you will probably get along better with their friends. You will understand their 80s pop-cultural references, they will understand yours, and you will feel the comfort of generational solidarity.
The wild card issue is kids. For me, children are not necessarily a deal-breaker. A woman who neglects her responsibility to her children, that's a deal-breaker It's usually more convenient for dating if the kids are in their teens, or approaching their teens. If they are high-maintenance problem children, you probably won't be dating each other for long.
As far as sex appeal is concerned, a woman who knows how to use her eyes, radiates confidence and is comfortable in her own skin will be attractive regardless of her age.
For my part, it's been almost two years since I was thrust back into the dating pool and I'm pleased to report that I have never, during this time, discriminated against any woman because of her age.
I'll be 39 in two weeks and I'm having more fun than I ever had at 25. At 25, I was pretty much limited to dating girls my own age. I went 5 years up and 5 years down, but that was the extent of my range. Now, I date women in their early 20's all the way to my own age and I wouldn't be opposed to going older if the attraction is there. A wider age range necessarily increases your dating opportunities.
Urban Melissa once kidded me about being "notorious" when it comes to dating younger women. I had to remind her that the majority of women I date are in their 30s. She agreed, but added that it only takes a few instances for a reputation to stick.
I'm probably a little bit sensitive about being seen as an old goat, but I have one tremendous advantage working for me: I've always looked very young for my age. At 25, it tended to be a thorn in the side of my ego; I could still pass for a high school student and it wasn't unusual, on a date with a girl my own age, for ME to be the one who was carded. Now, however, it's a compliment to be carded. I have a little bit of a salt-and-pepper look going with my hair but I've managed to stay fit, I still wear 32-waist jeans and I look about 10 years younger than I am. Whenever I'm asked how old I am, I usually respond with:
"How old do I look?"
The answers this year have ranged from 27 to 31. When I reveal my age, the reaction is usually,
"No way!"
Some 20-somethings don't go for older men. Plenty, however, do.
In these older-younger dating situations, both parties have to benefit for it to work. The older guy usually gets someone to look up to him and defer to him on account of his extended life experiences(didn't Kissinger call power the ultimate aphrodisiac(?) and, let's be honest, there usually will be a power imbalance here)and gets to benefit from the fashion advice and music recommendations a younger woman can provide. And firm breasts and asses unmarked by stretches are more likely to be found on younger rather than older women.
The younger woman gets a guy with an "adult" income who knows how to handle himself in a restaurant (gee, do I tip this guy? the water-filler? the guy who shows us to our seats? Can I just order a redbull vodka with my steak?) and is more likely than his younger counterpart to take her to places like the theater, opera, jazz clubs and concerts in the park. She also gets to enjoy the power of her feminine sexuality, or so I've been told by two women who have made a career of dating older men.
The downside, however, is also considerable. Younger women tend to be more melodramatic. There are more likely to cry and will do so more often than older women. They will probably have friends who wear their baseball caps backwards and arrive at parties on skateboards. The kinds of friends who don't shake hands when they meet someone because that's too old and square. And younger women may not understand that you have a big day at work tomorrow, hence your reluctance to go to the loud club with the awful music where the doorman has your names reserved on "the list."
You will not understand each other's cultural references. I have watched as old tag lines from Saturday Night Live have gone over some younger woman's head, and admitted to having no idea who John Legend was and been made to feel as if I had not heard of an entire world war.
The great advantage of dating older women, especially divorced women, is that they are more tolerant of male foibles. Having been around the block, they are less likely to foster sentimental images of white weddings and picket fences---images into which you are automatically cut-and-pasted. They tend to be more even-keel, and you will probably get along better with their friends. You will understand their 80s pop-cultural references, they will understand yours, and you will feel the comfort of generational solidarity.
The wild card issue is kids. For me, children are not necessarily a deal-breaker. A woman who neglects her responsibility to her children, that's a deal-breaker It's usually more convenient for dating if the kids are in their teens, or approaching their teens. If they are high-maintenance problem children, you probably won't be dating each other for long.
As far as sex appeal is concerned, a woman who knows how to use her eyes, radiates confidence and is comfortable in her own skin will be attractive regardless of her age.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Changes
Bethany, my upstairs neighbor and favorite waitress, is moving out at the end of the month. She's moving in with her boyfriend the musician and rent in Wicker Park has been getting too expensive for her. So, they've chosen a less gentrified locale.
It's a good move for her, but sad for me. She always brought me a plate when she made cookies, was generous in supplying free shots for me and my friends and even got involved in a couple of my romantic dramas.
Kristen, the bartender who makes the best bloody marys in the world, has left her neighborhood joint for a spot in an adjoining neighborhood. I've been to her new locale with some friends. It's a bit more....upscale. More of a corporate bar establishment. It's too bad, because her skill in dealing with people deserves a more authentic setting. Truthfully, I'd rather have a good bartender than a good lawyer or doctor.
Filter, the most laid back coffee house in the hood, has closed its doors and is awaiting its transformation into a Bank of America. I ran out of coffee beans the other day and the only store that was open at 8:00 am was Starbucks. Not to rag unnecessarily on Starbucks, but it always seemed like an indication of bizarre preferences to go there when a nice local place was less than a block away. Now, I no longer have that option.
Wicker Park has a reputation for being hostile to corporate chains---when MTV filmed an episode of The Real World in a loft that had once housed a coffehouse, protestors stood outside with signs and the cast and network crew were shunned in most establishments. When Starbucks opened several years ago, its windows were smashed on a nightly basis for about two weeks.
Extreme, definitely, but it's nice to live in a neighborhood that attracts more than its share of artists and musicians. Every time a funky restaurant or charming dive bar closes, it's replaced by the kind of Lincoln Park self-styled Irish Pub or Sports Bar that's always packed with baseball cap wearing frat boys and vapid girls with lobotomy eyes.
For me, the quality of a neighborhood can best be measured by the conversations in its bars. When the regulars spend their time talking about money and sports, it's time to find a new bar. And it's a little sad to see Wicker Park changing....
It's a good move for her, but sad for me. She always brought me a plate when she made cookies, was generous in supplying free shots for me and my friends and even got involved in a couple of my romantic dramas.
Kristen, the bartender who makes the best bloody marys in the world, has left her neighborhood joint for a spot in an adjoining neighborhood. I've been to her new locale with some friends. It's a bit more....upscale. More of a corporate bar establishment. It's too bad, because her skill in dealing with people deserves a more authentic setting. Truthfully, I'd rather have a good bartender than a good lawyer or doctor.
Filter, the most laid back coffee house in the hood, has closed its doors and is awaiting its transformation into a Bank of America. I ran out of coffee beans the other day and the only store that was open at 8:00 am was Starbucks. Not to rag unnecessarily on Starbucks, but it always seemed like an indication of bizarre preferences to go there when a nice local place was less than a block away. Now, I no longer have that option.
Wicker Park has a reputation for being hostile to corporate chains---when MTV filmed an episode of The Real World in a loft that had once housed a coffehouse, protestors stood outside with signs and the cast and network crew were shunned in most establishments. When Starbucks opened several years ago, its windows were smashed on a nightly basis for about two weeks.
Extreme, definitely, but it's nice to live in a neighborhood that attracts more than its share of artists and musicians. Every time a funky restaurant or charming dive bar closes, it's replaced by the kind of Lincoln Park self-styled Irish Pub or Sports Bar that's always packed with baseball cap wearing frat boys and vapid girls with lobotomy eyes.
For me, the quality of a neighborhood can best be measured by the conversations in its bars. When the regulars spend their time talking about money and sports, it's time to find a new bar. And it's a little sad to see Wicker Park changing....
Re-Jec-Ted
Well, I probably won't see Blondie again---my last phone and text messages were unreturned. The thrill of victory, the agony of defeat. Oh, well. There are plenty of Blondies at Nick's on any given weekend, and I have other women to validate my ego.
Case in point: last night I got a booty call text from Submissive Liz, so, not having anything else on the agenda, I ambled over. The sex was good from a technical point of view, but there's something about "arrangements" that gets old after awhile. I respect Submissive Liz and appreciate that she can see what we have for what it is and never tries to pressure me with sentimental pablum, but the sex feels like an afterthought. Hmmm.....could go to bed, or walk around the corner for booty call....hmmmm....kinda tired, but would be nice to get laid....hmmmm.....
In two weeks, I'm getting together with Christy. In many ways, she is the Anti-Submissive Liz. She is tremendously reticent when it comes to talking dirty and I've never even heard her use the words "penis" or "vagina". Naturally, "fuck" is out of the question. She is also an extremely sentimental woman. So, it's handcuffs and hair-pulling with Submissive Liz, romance and tenderness with Christy. Nice little contrast. Kinda like a ham and pineapple pizza.
Mar remains out-of-state at her parents' house, where I have reason to believe that she is getting plastic surgery. So sad, the prevalence of plastic surgery in our society. Asian girls are going for rounded eyes, Jewish girls are having their noses carved up, white chicks are having their lips enlarged and middle-easterners are having a hymen-restoring procedure so that they will appear to be virgins on their wedding nights. Silly. Confidence and a sense of style will do more than facial features to make a woman attractive. Any day of the week.
In any event, the Summer of David continues unabated. Spent the weekend eating and drinking with the boys and capped it off by seeing a play with Urban Melissa, UMB and Grandpa. Waffle couldn't make it. I made special effort to draw UMB out, focusing conversation on his area of expertise (music) and there were no unpleasant incidents. He and Urban Melissa have found a place together. I still don't see it working long-term.
Case in point: last night I got a booty call text from Submissive Liz, so, not having anything else on the agenda, I ambled over. The sex was good from a technical point of view, but there's something about "arrangements" that gets old after awhile. I respect Submissive Liz and appreciate that she can see what we have for what it is and never tries to pressure me with sentimental pablum, but the sex feels like an afterthought. Hmmm.....could go to bed, or walk around the corner for booty call....hmmmm....kinda tired, but would be nice to get laid....hmmmm.....
In two weeks, I'm getting together with Christy. In many ways, she is the Anti-Submissive Liz. She is tremendously reticent when it comes to talking dirty and I've never even heard her use the words "penis" or "vagina". Naturally, "fuck" is out of the question. She is also an extremely sentimental woman. So, it's handcuffs and hair-pulling with Submissive Liz, romance and tenderness with Christy. Nice little contrast. Kinda like a ham and pineapple pizza.
Mar remains out-of-state at her parents' house, where I have reason to believe that she is getting plastic surgery. So sad, the prevalence of plastic surgery in our society. Asian girls are going for rounded eyes, Jewish girls are having their noses carved up, white chicks are having their lips enlarged and middle-easterners are having a hymen-restoring procedure so that they will appear to be virgins on their wedding nights. Silly. Confidence and a sense of style will do more than facial features to make a woman attractive. Any day of the week.
In any event, the Summer of David continues unabated. Spent the weekend eating and drinking with the boys and capped it off by seeing a play with Urban Melissa, UMB and Grandpa. Waffle couldn't make it. I made special effort to draw UMB out, focusing conversation on his area of expertise (music) and there were no unpleasant incidents. He and Urban Melissa have found a place together. I still don't see it working long-term.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Pick Up the Pieces
Last night I met Blondie for an afterwork drink at Nick's. I got a text from her informing me that she was running late (which I was expecting, of course)so I ordered a martini and talked with the bartender and manager. My choice of Nick's was by design---I realized that she would be late and I wanted to be engaged in conversation by the time she arrived. Having a date show up late and see you unoccupied (visibly in "waiting" mode)makes a man look weak.
So, I ordered my first martini (yes, the first. This is the first hint of trouble here)and felt her hand on my shoulder mid-sentence. She sat down, we each ordered a drink and compared notes---her day was supposed to involve looking for a job, but she went shopping instead. Nice.
Blondie has been in Chicago for approximately one week. She was accepted to graduate school here and was obliging enough to give me her phone number on Saturday night. From appearances she also has an upbeat, friendly and outgoing personality, which is always a plus.
We engaged in social conversation with some people around us and one of the managers bought us shots. For those keeping score, that's one beer, two vodka martinis and a shot of Jameson. After another drink we decided to go to my apartment and sample my vodka collection.
"Oh my God, I love your book collection," squealed Blondie, "I only have one thin shelf. I would love to have this many books."
I have an ample (for my station in life)library consisting of five tall shelves that takes up a wall in my apartment. A girl's reaction to this is usually an indication of how the date will proceed. If she says, "Wow---you must read," it's all downhill from there. As it was, it led Blondie and me into a conversation about Milan Kundera. For some unkown reason I put on Bach's orchestral suites followed by Leon Parker and poured us each an ample sample of Finlandia.
The banter was humorous and at some point I kissed her. She kissed me back, then broke off with a witticism that I forget. I wondered, is she unsure she likes me? Or is she unsure about my intentions? Or is she setting a pace?
We talked for awhile and I kissed her again. She returned my kiss but broke it off before we got into makeout mode. She was smiling, however.
Alcohol sometimes acts to suspend our better judgment. I wondered, am I moving too fast for her? Is she unsure about me? Those are natural things to wonder about in first-date type situations. What happened next is a bit hazy, but I have the feeling I said something like this:
"Hey....you like me?"
And I think she laughed and said something like,
"Yes. I think you're cute."
My sober self winces to think that my intoxicated self actually said something like that. Fortunately I seem to remember that the mood was light and fun.
Unfortunately, I remember nothing after that point.
I woke up with a bit of a hangover. I had undressed for bed. The door was locked from the inside so Blondie had not let herself out. How was our leave-taking?
I called and left a message for her:
"Blondie, I don't usually drink that much and I can't remember what happened last night. I'm trying to re-construct the details. Give me a call."
A few hours later, I got this text:
"I just listened to your voicemail. I don't remember leaving either. Give me a call later if you would like to piece it together."
I would like to see Blondie again.
So, I ordered my first martini (yes, the first. This is the first hint of trouble here)and felt her hand on my shoulder mid-sentence. She sat down, we each ordered a drink and compared notes---her day was supposed to involve looking for a job, but she went shopping instead. Nice.
Blondie has been in Chicago for approximately one week. She was accepted to graduate school here and was obliging enough to give me her phone number on Saturday night. From appearances she also has an upbeat, friendly and outgoing personality, which is always a plus.
We engaged in social conversation with some people around us and one of the managers bought us shots. For those keeping score, that's one beer, two vodka martinis and a shot of Jameson. After another drink we decided to go to my apartment and sample my vodka collection.
"Oh my God, I love your book collection," squealed Blondie, "I only have one thin shelf. I would love to have this many books."
I have an ample (for my station in life)library consisting of five tall shelves that takes up a wall in my apartment. A girl's reaction to this is usually an indication of how the date will proceed. If she says, "Wow---you must read," it's all downhill from there. As it was, it led Blondie and me into a conversation about Milan Kundera. For some unkown reason I put on Bach's orchestral suites followed by Leon Parker and poured us each an ample sample of Finlandia.
The banter was humorous and at some point I kissed her. She kissed me back, then broke off with a witticism that I forget. I wondered, is she unsure she likes me? Or is she unsure about my intentions? Or is she setting a pace?
We talked for awhile and I kissed her again. She returned my kiss but broke it off before we got into makeout mode. She was smiling, however.
Alcohol sometimes acts to suspend our better judgment. I wondered, am I moving too fast for her? Is she unsure about me? Those are natural things to wonder about in first-date type situations. What happened next is a bit hazy, but I have the feeling I said something like this:
"Hey....you like me?"
And I think she laughed and said something like,
"Yes. I think you're cute."
My sober self winces to think that my intoxicated self actually said something like that. Fortunately I seem to remember that the mood was light and fun.
Unfortunately, I remember nothing after that point.
I woke up with a bit of a hangover. I had undressed for bed. The door was locked from the inside so Blondie had not let herself out. How was our leave-taking?
I called and left a message for her:
"Blondie, I don't usually drink that much and I can't remember what happened last night. I'm trying to re-construct the details. Give me a call."
A few hours later, I got this text:
"I just listened to your voicemail. I don't remember leaving either. Give me a call later if you would like to piece it together."
I would like to see Blondie again.
Monday, July 9, 2007
Rudeness
OK, I just caught Michael Moore's appearance on Wolf Blitzer. If there is one thing that really really pisses me off, it's bad manners. There is a limited amount of courtesy and decency that we have to extend to the people around us. No matter how pissed off we are. No matter how "right" we are. We owe it to the continued maintenance of civilization to keep our cool when we are hot under the collar.
And I'm aware of how difficult this is in practice. Remember, I spend my day dealing with the investing public.
For me, Michael Moore is an instant flashback to my college years. Specifically, he stands as a reminder that I've stayed too long at a party.
We've all had it happen. College party, outdoors, loud music, full keg and a graphics bong in the house. The crowd dwindles and you find yourself conversing with the partygoer who has managed to drive everyone else away. A fat slob with a sardonic giggle. A humorless (or, mean-spirited humor, the two are often confused and there is little difference between them) bitter man (he is always male) with an ax to grind and a manner that puts people on the defensive. A man who desperately needs a blowjob. And will be hard-pressed in getting one.
His politics may be right-wing. They may be left-wing. They will, however, be strident and extreme. And he will brook no dissent. You will be lucky to get a word in edgewise. He has always been right. You have always been wrong. There is no room for ambiguity. He is fat, socially inept, vulgar, rude and correct.
And the fact that you're stuck talking to him means that you should have left the party half an hour ago.
Rudeness can take many forms. It could be inviting your friends over for a party that is actually an Amway (or some MLM scheme) sales meeting. It could be skipping on out on a bar tab and leaving your compatriots to pay for your drinks. It could be monopolizing the conversation.
Or, it could be trying to "guilt" someone you've slept with into a relationship.
I am very very careful on this point. I never make promises to the women I date. I keep my options open and I don't hide the fact that I'm dating a couple women at any given time. So by inserting my penis in your vagina I've now obligated myself to go apartment hunting with you?
Yes, I realize what you're risking for me. I realize there are other boyfriend options you could have pursued. All I ask is, take me at face value. Take it for what it is. If that's not enough, then leave it. No promises, no regrets. Why is that so hard to understand?
And I'm aware of how difficult this is in practice. Remember, I spend my day dealing with the investing public.
For me, Michael Moore is an instant flashback to my college years. Specifically, he stands as a reminder that I've stayed too long at a party.
We've all had it happen. College party, outdoors, loud music, full keg and a graphics bong in the house. The crowd dwindles and you find yourself conversing with the partygoer who has managed to drive everyone else away. A fat slob with a sardonic giggle. A humorless (or, mean-spirited humor, the two are often confused and there is little difference between them) bitter man (he is always male) with an ax to grind and a manner that puts people on the defensive. A man who desperately needs a blowjob. And will be hard-pressed in getting one.
His politics may be right-wing. They may be left-wing. They will, however, be strident and extreme. And he will brook no dissent. You will be lucky to get a word in edgewise. He has always been right. You have always been wrong. There is no room for ambiguity. He is fat, socially inept, vulgar, rude and correct.
And the fact that you're stuck talking to him means that you should have left the party half an hour ago.
Rudeness can take many forms. It could be inviting your friends over for a party that is actually an Amway (or some MLM scheme) sales meeting. It could be skipping on out on a bar tab and leaving your compatriots to pay for your drinks. It could be monopolizing the conversation.
Or, it could be trying to "guilt" someone you've slept with into a relationship.
I am very very careful on this point. I never make promises to the women I date. I keep my options open and I don't hide the fact that I'm dating a couple women at any given time. So by inserting my penis in your vagina I've now obligated myself to go apartment hunting with you?
Yes, I realize what you're risking for me. I realize there are other boyfriend options you could have pursued. All I ask is, take me at face value. Take it for what it is. If that's not enough, then leave it. No promises, no regrets. Why is that so hard to understand?
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Piecing Together the Fragments
I woke up on Friday morning and looked at the clock: 7:10. Since I was expected at work at 7:30, this did not bode well for my morning. Not only had I forgotten to set the alarm, I had no memory of getting home or climbing into bed. Fortunately, I enjoy a reputation at the office for punctuality---I could call in late and no one would hold it against me. The larger problem would be piecing together the missing moments of the previous evening. The condom on the floor jolted my memory.
The evening began as I was returning from film class. Oh, yes. I received a text message from Submissive Liz. A booty call. I texted back that I would be at Nick's. I was definitely in the mood for some booty.
What happened after that? Ah---we were sharing a drink and talking about our day when Drinking Buddy showed up. That's when the shot glasses came out. Drinking Buddy and Submissive Liz enjoyed a one-nighter about a year ago, and she doesn't want him to know that we get together from time to time. Fair enough, Nick's is a small bar, but since he lives across the door from me we have had to employ stealth in getting her in and out of my apartment.
Drinking Buddy announced that he would be quitting his job---I gave him my congratulations. It takes a certain amount of guts to walk away from a six-figure gig that lets you telecommute most of the time. He responded with:
"Don't congratulate me until I actually quit."
I understood. DB is an accomplished jazz guitarist who had a band a few years ago. Every time I see him he opens the conversation with news about his new band---they're ready to play. All they need to do is line up a gig.
Which never materializes. DB has his dark moments with the bottle because he'd rather be doing something else---he wants to be a full-time musician but it's not happening. Meanwhile, he feels stuck in his corporate gig and makes plans about moving to New York and playing professionally again. Plans that never seem to materialize, or at least haven't in the almost two years I've known him. Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines. Yada yada.
Anyway, after several shots and a few more drinks, Submissive Liz signaled to me that she'd leave first. I stumbled out about five minutes later and we went upstairs.
It took me awhile to remember the rest---we were having sex and then she finished me off with a blowjob in front of the mirror. I must have barely been able to stand at that point. I suspect that I was way too inebriated to give any kind of stellar performance. I don't remember the rest, and I'm not sure there was anymore to remember. I invite anyone I have sex with to spend the night, but Submissive Liz had apparently let herself out after I bid consciousness goodbye.
Last night I had the best intentions. Knowing that today was going to be a 95-degree day and that my marathon training schedule called for a 12-mile run, I fully intended to be in bed by 11:00 and awake early before the steam bath descended upon my Chicago neighborhood.
Alas, it was not to be. As I was sitting at the bar in Nick's, a blond 20-something asked me how much a Miller Lite cost. (I was conserving---money and calories. There was a special.) I told her that it wasn't as cheap as a PBR. She responded by quoting Dennis Hopper from Blue Velvet (Heineken? Fuck that shit! Pabst Blue Ribbon!)
Anyone who is familiar with David Lynch gets a gold star in my book, and we fell into conversation. Blondie is 24 and recently moved to Chicago from Akron. She is studying Urban planning. She also has a sarcastic sense of humor, which is good for a second gold star. As we were talking our eyes locked. Then our hands touched. Then she kissed me on the cheek. We were both pretty hammered by this point and she said that she should probably get home before she passed out.
"Will I see you again?" I asked.
"Chicago's a big city..." she smiled.
"That's supposed to be a cue. At that point you're supposed to give me your number."
She smiled again. "If you want my number, you have to ask for it."
Smartass.
Out came the pen and she wrote down her number. I made it around the block to my bed and woke up after ten.
Damn.
It's no fun running twelve miles in 90+ heat. With a hangover. I feel as if someone threw me into a martini shaker, tossed me up and down and poured me out. I will spend the rest of the day inside with the air conditioner running full blast.
The evening began as I was returning from film class. Oh, yes. I received a text message from Submissive Liz. A booty call. I texted back that I would be at Nick's. I was definitely in the mood for some booty.
What happened after that? Ah---we were sharing a drink and talking about our day when Drinking Buddy showed up. That's when the shot glasses came out. Drinking Buddy and Submissive Liz enjoyed a one-nighter about a year ago, and she doesn't want him to know that we get together from time to time. Fair enough, Nick's is a small bar, but since he lives across the door from me we have had to employ stealth in getting her in and out of my apartment.
Drinking Buddy announced that he would be quitting his job---I gave him my congratulations. It takes a certain amount of guts to walk away from a six-figure gig that lets you telecommute most of the time. He responded with:
"Don't congratulate me until I actually quit."
I understood. DB is an accomplished jazz guitarist who had a band a few years ago. Every time I see him he opens the conversation with news about his new band---they're ready to play. All they need to do is line up a gig.
Which never materializes. DB has his dark moments with the bottle because he'd rather be doing something else---he wants to be a full-time musician but it's not happening. Meanwhile, he feels stuck in his corporate gig and makes plans about moving to New York and playing professionally again. Plans that never seem to materialize, or at least haven't in the almost two years I've known him. Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines. Yada yada.
Anyway, after several shots and a few more drinks, Submissive Liz signaled to me that she'd leave first. I stumbled out about five minutes later and we went upstairs.
It took me awhile to remember the rest---we were having sex and then she finished me off with a blowjob in front of the mirror. I must have barely been able to stand at that point. I suspect that I was way too inebriated to give any kind of stellar performance. I don't remember the rest, and I'm not sure there was anymore to remember. I invite anyone I have sex with to spend the night, but Submissive Liz had apparently let herself out after I bid consciousness goodbye.
Last night I had the best intentions. Knowing that today was going to be a 95-degree day and that my marathon training schedule called for a 12-mile run, I fully intended to be in bed by 11:00 and awake early before the steam bath descended upon my Chicago neighborhood.
Alas, it was not to be. As I was sitting at the bar in Nick's, a blond 20-something asked me how much a Miller Lite cost. (I was conserving---money and calories. There was a special.) I told her that it wasn't as cheap as a PBR. She responded by quoting Dennis Hopper from Blue Velvet (Heineken? Fuck that shit! Pabst Blue Ribbon!)
Anyone who is familiar with David Lynch gets a gold star in my book, and we fell into conversation. Blondie is 24 and recently moved to Chicago from Akron. She is studying Urban planning. She also has a sarcastic sense of humor, which is good for a second gold star. As we were talking our eyes locked. Then our hands touched. Then she kissed me on the cheek. We were both pretty hammered by this point and she said that she should probably get home before she passed out.
"Will I see you again?" I asked.
"Chicago's a big city..." she smiled.
"That's supposed to be a cue. At that point you're supposed to give me your number."
She smiled again. "If you want my number, you have to ask for it."
Smartass.
Out came the pen and she wrote down her number. I made it around the block to my bed and woke up after ten.
Damn.
It's no fun running twelve miles in 90+ heat. With a hangover. I feel as if someone threw me into a martini shaker, tossed me up and down and poured me out. I will spend the rest of the day inside with the air conditioner running full blast.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Risky Sex
I was chewing the fat with a couple of the boys awhile back when the subject of women came up. One of my long-time friends, known for his sophistication and intelligence, offered this tidbit about an outgoing paramour:
"Sex just got tedious after awhile. I was, like, can we have sex without me having to strangle you this time?"
Huh?
Apparently, his girlfriend liked to be choked into unconsciousness during their lovemaking!
My friend's movie-watching experiences have never been the same. Anytime a strangulation is depicted onscreen he can say to himself, and anyone else watching:
"That's not how it works. You have to continue to squeeze well past the point of unconsciousness before anyone is actually killed."
I'm a very open minded guy. I have never had a partner suggest asphyxiation and, truthfully, I'd be extremely leery of giving it a go. I have this mental image of myself in a courtroom, apologizing to the family of some poor girl who lies on a hospital in a vegetative state and begging the judge to show leniency to my sorry, repentant ass.
But it got me to thinking about the subjects of sex and danger; there really is nothing quite like the thrill of crossing societal taboos to turbo-charge an otherwise stale sex life. Mar always had a penchant for risky, semi-public sex and I knew of a downtown building that was in the process of being converted from an office complex to condominiums---consequently, many of the offices were empty. I made an excuse to the doorman downstairs, selected an empty office complex and we enjoyed a lunchtime tryst. It was fun, but I was not entirely comfortable when she insisted on copulating on my fire escape during daylight hours---this was too close to home and I didn't really want the passers-by below to see us, to say nothing of my neighbors.
When I was going through puberty my mother (of all people!) warned me about the dangers of fellatio. It seems that when she was in college an unfortunate fellatrix had choked to death during the act and the recipient was subsequently arraigned on murder charges. It has the ring of an urban legend, although I'm sure that it has probably happened during the history of recorded sexual activity and I'm happy to report that I have never denied a lover the opportunity to come up for air.
When I was in college myself it was said that a bisexual couple, of whom I was marginally aware, would play a game that tested the responses of random strangers. After nightfall the man would tie his naked girlfriend to a tree and hide in a nearby bush. At the approach of a male passerby the girl would moan erotically and her boyfriend would whisper,
"Fuck her. She loves it."
According to the lore, the man in question usually would.
A lot of people are turned on by the idea of what used to be called rough trade, and the appeal is not limited to gay men. A high school classmate of mine, a pretty, well-liked National Honor Society type of girl, started dating a complete neanderthal thug during her junior year. Her friends were shocked and no one was entirely surprised when she went to court for a restraining order. And I trust that my readers have all known someone like this at some point in their lives.
I recognize the appeal of danger in myself as well---the excitement offered by exotic women and lurid affairs provides a welcome couterpoint to the button-down reality of my corporate existence. The essential necessity is knowing where to draw the line. Truthfully, I'm still not sure where that point is....
"Sex just got tedious after awhile. I was, like, can we have sex without me having to strangle you this time?"
Huh?
Apparently, his girlfriend liked to be choked into unconsciousness during their lovemaking!
My friend's movie-watching experiences have never been the same. Anytime a strangulation is depicted onscreen he can say to himself, and anyone else watching:
"That's not how it works. You have to continue to squeeze well past the point of unconsciousness before anyone is actually killed."
I'm a very open minded guy. I have never had a partner suggest asphyxiation and, truthfully, I'd be extremely leery of giving it a go. I have this mental image of myself in a courtroom, apologizing to the family of some poor girl who lies on a hospital in a vegetative state and begging the judge to show leniency to my sorry, repentant ass.
But it got me to thinking about the subjects of sex and danger; there really is nothing quite like the thrill of crossing societal taboos to turbo-charge an otherwise stale sex life. Mar always had a penchant for risky, semi-public sex and I knew of a downtown building that was in the process of being converted from an office complex to condominiums---consequently, many of the offices were empty. I made an excuse to the doorman downstairs, selected an empty office complex and we enjoyed a lunchtime tryst. It was fun, but I was not entirely comfortable when she insisted on copulating on my fire escape during daylight hours---this was too close to home and I didn't really want the passers-by below to see us, to say nothing of my neighbors.
When I was going through puberty my mother (of all people!) warned me about the dangers of fellatio. It seems that when she was in college an unfortunate fellatrix had choked to death during the act and the recipient was subsequently arraigned on murder charges. It has the ring of an urban legend, although I'm sure that it has probably happened during the history of recorded sexual activity and I'm happy to report that I have never denied a lover the opportunity to come up for air.
When I was in college myself it was said that a bisexual couple, of whom I was marginally aware, would play a game that tested the responses of random strangers. After nightfall the man would tie his naked girlfriend to a tree and hide in a nearby bush. At the approach of a male passerby the girl would moan erotically and her boyfriend would whisper,
"Fuck her. She loves it."
According to the lore, the man in question usually would.
A lot of people are turned on by the idea of what used to be called rough trade, and the appeal is not limited to gay men. A high school classmate of mine, a pretty, well-liked National Honor Society type of girl, started dating a complete neanderthal thug during her junior year. Her friends were shocked and no one was entirely surprised when she went to court for a restraining order. And I trust that my readers have all known someone like this at some point in their lives.
I recognize the appeal of danger in myself as well---the excitement offered by exotic women and lurid affairs provides a welcome couterpoint to the button-down reality of my corporate existence. The essential necessity is knowing where to draw the line. Truthfully, I'm still not sure where that point is....
Monday, July 2, 2007
An Affair to Remember
Men and women tend to lie about their sexual histories, but the nature of the lies can be broken down by gender---men exaggerate the number of their sexual partners while women minimize it, when outright elimination is impossible. When Grace told me that I was her first lover during 13 years of marriage, I reserved judgment. After all, what would a self-described born-again Christian stay-at-home mother of 3 possibly be doing contacting strange men through the internet? Motion pictures, Christmas and affairs are more fun, however, when we suspend disbelief, and the sensation of violating long-held taboos can be an intoxicating aphrodisiac.
Our first tryst took place in a snow-bound hotel room in a dilapidated Indiana steel town. Our second took place in Chicago. Grace is 5'4", pert and extremely slender, with curly, light brown hair and brown eyes. She is pretty. There were no fireworks or butterflies with her husband but we each have our calculus for choosing a life partner---hers involved emotional stability, ownership of a good home and a superior ability to provide. It was only later that he started drinking.
I met her at the train station and we took a cab back to my apartment, where the clothes came off within two minutes. The sex was good.....conventional, but very good. The conventionality was, at first, a bit surprising to me as my experience with born-again Christians (Mormons too) has been that they are much more erotically adventurous than their tattooed and body-pierced counterparts. A paradox, but based entirely on my own experiences. As a married woman, however, the simple act of making her body available to another man may have transcended whatever adrenaline rush any other acts could have provided. She wanted romance, tenderness and affection from the act---sensations, I gathered, that were absent from her marriage. I stroked her face and looked directly into her eyes. I could see her moving farther and farther from the shore. "....David......I...love you.." she whispered. But only once.
At the French restaurant, I suggested a kir.
"What's a kir?" she asked.
"Trust me, you'll like it. Two kirs, please," I said to the waitress. "It has cassis, white wine, I forget what else. It's an aperitif---meant to be drunk before dinner. It's kinda sweet, but it won't overpower your palate."
Our drinks arrived.
"Oh...I like this. What's good here?"
"Well, the foie gras is excellent."
"What's foie gras?"
"Fattened liver. Usually goose, sometimes duck. It's illegal in Chicago, but restaurants serve it anyway. You hafta try it."
We went back to my place after dinner and made passionate love.The next morning, I left her sleeping while I headed to the gym. When I got back she was not in a good mood.
"I read your comments on myspace and it looks like you have a date next weekend. Someone named Lisa says next week is good and she'll join you for brunch."
I was silent.
"Yes, I feel very special now. I wish I hadn't read this. I wish I had been left to my imagination. Your new girlfriend. That makes me feel good."
I began to understand why her husband had developed a drinking problem.
"Grace, that was an invitation to brunch. Do you know what brunch is?"
"Yes," she said, "I know what brunch is. Brunch is the next morning...."
On that note, we went to brunch ourselves. I am a brunch regular at a funky Wicker Park hangout. The waitress is perky, tattooed girl named Naima who will probably be in graduate school at this time next year. I walked in with a loud boisterous hello. Grace carried herself in as if she were going to a church coffee social. I shouted out my order:
"......and 2 bloody marys!"
Grace perused the menu, finally ordering in the supercilious voice that suburban middle and upper middle class women affect with waitresses at the Village Inn:
"I, would, like, an, orange, juice.....please..."
I was silently mortified.
We went back to my place after brunch and made love. It took me awhile longer to get hard.
"I'm sorry I was jealous earlier, " Grace said, "It's none of my business. I'm really flattered that you like me...."
"What?"
"You're really hot, you're smart, you live in Chicago, you've got a great body and I'm flattered that you like me..."
She hugged me hard. And I found myself wishing that she had not said that.
On the way to the train station I told her about the Wal-Mart SS shirt scandal, which involved t-shirts bearing the SS death-head logo appearing on Wal-Mart shelves.
"What's the SS?" she asked.
"The SS was a fanatical nazi organization---Hitler's elite."
"So," she said, "...they were Soviets?"
"Germans."
Drinking Buddy once complimented me on my game. I told him that since my divorce I've been going through a midlife crisis. "I don't think so," he said. "I think you're just this way. I think that you tell yourself it's a midlife crises to rationalize your behavior." Drinking Buddy may be an alcoholic, but he is a very perceptive man. I sometimes wonder what I'm looking for. Have I become the victim of an out-of-control libido? Is it shallow validation seeking? Have I turned myself on auto-pilot? Or am I only attracted to neurotic or unavailable women?
Our first tryst took place in a snow-bound hotel room in a dilapidated Indiana steel town. Our second took place in Chicago. Grace is 5'4", pert and extremely slender, with curly, light brown hair and brown eyes. She is pretty. There were no fireworks or butterflies with her husband but we each have our calculus for choosing a life partner---hers involved emotional stability, ownership of a good home and a superior ability to provide. It was only later that he started drinking.
I met her at the train station and we took a cab back to my apartment, where the clothes came off within two minutes. The sex was good.....conventional, but very good. The conventionality was, at first, a bit surprising to me as my experience with born-again Christians (Mormons too) has been that they are much more erotically adventurous than their tattooed and body-pierced counterparts. A paradox, but based entirely on my own experiences. As a married woman, however, the simple act of making her body available to another man may have transcended whatever adrenaline rush any other acts could have provided. She wanted romance, tenderness and affection from the act---sensations, I gathered, that were absent from her marriage. I stroked her face and looked directly into her eyes. I could see her moving farther and farther from the shore. "....David......I...love you.." she whispered. But only once.
At the French restaurant, I suggested a kir.
"What's a kir?" she asked.
"Trust me, you'll like it. Two kirs, please," I said to the waitress. "It has cassis, white wine, I forget what else. It's an aperitif---meant to be drunk before dinner. It's kinda sweet, but it won't overpower your palate."
Our drinks arrived.
"Oh...I like this. What's good here?"
"Well, the foie gras is excellent."
"What's foie gras?"
"Fattened liver. Usually goose, sometimes duck. It's illegal in Chicago, but restaurants serve it anyway. You hafta try it."
We went back to my place after dinner and made passionate love.The next morning, I left her sleeping while I headed to the gym. When I got back she was not in a good mood.
"I read your comments on myspace and it looks like you have a date next weekend. Someone named Lisa says next week is good and she'll join you for brunch."
I was silent.
"Yes, I feel very special now. I wish I hadn't read this. I wish I had been left to my imagination. Your new girlfriend. That makes me feel good."
I began to understand why her husband had developed a drinking problem.
"Grace, that was an invitation to brunch. Do you know what brunch is?"
"Yes," she said, "I know what brunch is. Brunch is the next morning...."
On that note, we went to brunch ourselves. I am a brunch regular at a funky Wicker Park hangout. The waitress is perky, tattooed girl named Naima who will probably be in graduate school at this time next year. I walked in with a loud boisterous hello. Grace carried herself in as if she were going to a church coffee social. I shouted out my order:
"......and 2 bloody marys!"
Grace perused the menu, finally ordering in the supercilious voice that suburban middle and upper middle class women affect with waitresses at the Village Inn:
"I, would, like, an, orange, juice.....please..."
I was silently mortified.
We went back to my place after brunch and made love. It took me awhile longer to get hard.
"I'm sorry I was jealous earlier, " Grace said, "It's none of my business. I'm really flattered that you like me...."
"What?"
"You're really hot, you're smart, you live in Chicago, you've got a great body and I'm flattered that you like me..."
She hugged me hard. And I found myself wishing that she had not said that.
On the way to the train station I told her about the Wal-Mart SS shirt scandal, which involved t-shirts bearing the SS death-head logo appearing on Wal-Mart shelves.
"What's the SS?" she asked.
"The SS was a fanatical nazi organization---Hitler's elite."
"So," she said, "...they were Soviets?"
"Germans."
Drinking Buddy once complimented me on my game. I told him that since my divorce I've been going through a midlife crisis. "I don't think so," he said. "I think you're just this way. I think that you tell yourself it's a midlife crises to rationalize your behavior." Drinking Buddy may be an alcoholic, but he is a very perceptive man. I sometimes wonder what I'm looking for. Have I become the victim of an out-of-control libido? Is it shallow validation seeking? Have I turned myself on auto-pilot? Or am I only attracted to neurotic or unavailable women?
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