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.