my chemical romance

I don't know what it is, but I come across an inordinate amount of women in this city who are truly fucked in the head. There always seems to be some sort of trauma or disorientation or desperate anxiety. Something that impedes a somewhat normal interaction with people (of the opposite sex, in particular) and life in general. I'm the furthest thing from a mental health expert but perhaps in some instances, medication would be helpful, I guess. Then again, there are those who choose to drink heavily while on their medication and that's just another brand of crazy. (One of these days I'll post about my adventures with the alcoholic chick who once, in a failed suicide attempt, slashed her wrists in the bathroom while we were hanging out at her place. Or maybe not.)

Although not an exclusive breeding ground or habitat for these ladies, I do meet them in bars, of course, "where crazy lives", according to my neighbor Simon. Which is why I've recently decided that if I'm not going home with someone I meet that night, I'm writing them off completely. At least with lowered inhibitions the possibility of getting laid is stronger. (I draw the line at wasted chicks; tipsy is fine, but a heavily drunken stupor is an easy conduit for an accusation of date rape just waiting to happen.) Dealing with them for an extended period of time may be detrimental to my mental health.

This notion of women off their rockers and gobbling down the chemical M&Ms is not just a guy thing: when I've occasionally asked my female buds to fix me up with one of their friends I invariably get "Yeah, ____ is my girl, but she's a mess I don't want you involved with." Yikes. So, what's left? Brunches? Not my scene. Parks? Maybe. House parties? On average, I get invited to those once a year. Back to the bars? But that's where crazy lives, remember?

[sigh] Let me go get a drink...

ain't got that swing

I am going to die alone.

I write this not with gloom and dread in my heart but with a grin on my face. It’s not that I’m unwilling to love or, God forbid, I am unlovable. But, you see, as I get older and find myself further removed from my last serious relationships—this year is the 10th anniversary of my divorce; haven’t had a significant other since ‘02—I have fallen into bad habits and patterns. For instance, I keenly enjoy and have become quite accustomed to having no one to consult on important decisions. With each passing day I am more set in my ways and less inclined to compromise or settle. Lord knows I really don’t miss the arguments, petty disagreements, or the delicate diplomatic balancing act of dealing with respective friends and in-laws. And it’s not like I’m meeting girlfriend material, let alone marriage-worthy women out there. But for a true romantic like myself hope springs eternal, nonetheless.

Now, those who know me have been frequently subjected to my recent ramblings about needing a girlfriend. Not out of loneliness, mind you. But sadly, in large part to avoid my judgment-clouding horniness from driving me to sleep with the wrong women. Which I do again and again and again. Good grief. Simply put, I need to have a regular sexual partner I enjoy and don’t feel repulsed by as soon as it’s time to take off the condom. Love would be nice, too.

Incredibly, this past weekend I was reminded of both the drag of being seriously involved AND the emptiness of sleeping with the wrong women.

Samantha and I stopped having sex once I became convinced that spending more than 10 minutes with her after intercourse was too much of a burden for me to bear. That was more than a year ago. For some reason, we did manage stay in touch, though. So when I found myself not having had sex in a month and Samantha calls with a last minute invitation to a lingerie party—she'd bought tickets in advance and her date flaked on her—and the added incentive of having her change into her boudoir attire over at my place, well, you know…

As it turns out, the party had some attractive women in tasteful but advanced stages of undress—and a bunch of people, both male and female, who should only be seen in that attire by whomever they’re about to have sex with and no one else—but the party also had a "roaring '20s" motif, and I could care less about that stuff. Was bored outta my skull. I mean, period costumes and doing "The Charleston"? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. (For the record, I wore a regular 3-piece suit with a tie.) Luckily, for me, the party concluded at 11 PM.

So how does this tie-in to being in a relationship AND letting your dick do the thinking for you?
Easy:

a) That party is the kind of nonsense you get dragged to by a girlfriend
b) The promise of having sex made me do it

It’s that simple.

As an added bummer, Samantha left her regular clothes at my place and planned on sleeping over. That kinda killed my wood but I figured, if she’s spending the night I might as well get laid. And I did. Afterwards, since it was still only midnight at that point, I took a shower—to wash off the scent of another woman, since I was gonna go out and see if I could hook up with someone else—and got ready to hit a couple of neighborhood bars. I know what you're thinking but it gets worse: real douche bag thoughts started running thru my brain. “If I bring someone home, how am I gonna explain Samantha? Maybe I can say she’s a friend from out of town crashing in my bed, and then have her sleep on the couch. That might work.” Yeah. Uh-huh.

In the end, I didn’t meet anyone I wanted to hookup with that night, so I avoided that possibly awkward scenario. But as you can see, when a good guy like yours truly starts thinking about pulling scumbag moves like the one described above, it’s high time to change course and get a girlfriend. Or make enough money to hire an escort or nice masseuse off Craigslist.

Wait…ugh, thanks a lot, Philip Markoff.

can't you hear me knocking?

I made the mistake of hooking up with my upstairs neighbor Celia on-and-off for a few years. Long story short, at one point she started stalking me and it became a big mess. (She also managed to kill my attraction to Alicia Witt, who resembles a younger version of Celia.) I recently found out from my building's superintendent that she'd moved out. That she left without attempting to say goodbye, was a big relief.

Imagine my surprise when 2 weeks later Celia calls me from California wanting to have phone sex. WTF??!!

genius at work

So, what exactly is the logic behind a woman denying you a blow job on a one-night stand because you've just met, but wanting you to penetrate her without protection? Anyone?