how sweet it is

Whenever I bring up my dealings with women of a flaky nature, my dear friend Mrs. L bemoans the lack of decisive, no-nonsense women—like herself—out there. So, how refreshing was it to have a recent hook-up partner show up at my place in a tight little black dress and nothing underneath? Ah, yessss...

Hey, Mrs. L! Guess what? There are still some of you resolute women left out there!

an inconvenient truth

Some say that a man is as only as faithful as his options. (Believe it or not, I've ALWAYS been faithful, despite the occasional worthwhile opportunity to stray.) I'd venture to suggest that if the average non-wealthy schlub lands a hottie--like in every other sitcom of the last 40 years--he's less likely to tempt fate and step out on her, as opposed to a guy with looks comparable to hers. Unless, somehow, the schlub manages to attract a woman hotter than his own.

Now, if all of this is close to being true, then obviously an attractive man who reaches middle age with his looks intact is definitely going to stray from his once equally attractive wife. Right?

[1977 wedding photo of John and Elizabeth Edwards courtesy of New York Times]

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?

dyslexic heart (epilogue)

Two weeks after Patty left me upset over her rude and insufferable behavior while spending a couple of days over at my place, she calls and asks me to meet her for a drink. It was a warm, sunny spring day and she wanted me to join her on the patio of a bar in my neighborhood. I declined her invite but let her know I wasn't happy with her and wanted to straighten things out. She suggested coming over later on in the evening and I agreed.

That night, after a drink or two, we both loosened up and I told her how inexcusable her behavior had been. Patty apologized profusely and opened up about her dealings with anti-depression medicine and how thru sheer frustration she'd been falling into erratic and self-destructive behavior patterns. I accepted her apology and offered a few words of encouragement. What else could I do?

Of course, as usual, one thing led to another and before long, we're having sex. The next morning I walked her to the subway and we kissed goodbye. More than a month has passed since that day. And with the exception of a brief e-mail I have not heard from her since.

Maybe it's for real this time.

dyslexic heart (part 3)

Some 18 moths after our last “talk”, Patty emails me her new phone number and proposes we catch up with each other sometime in the near future. Despite my engaging in trysts with other girls and Patty having more baggage than an airport terminal, I thought about her constantly during our time apart. So, against my better judgment—and hoping she’s had time to reflect and change her mind about us—I accept her invitation. Patty and I meet up for drinks and afterwards head back to my place and talk turns to relationships. She tells me about falling for a dude that turned out to be a putz; severing all ties with her ex-girlfriend after she cockblocked her with a former college buddy of Alessandra’s that Patty was really interested in; moving in and out of various apartments, culminating in the current uncomfortable roommate situation; and how she’d been feeling lonely and undesired. Copious amounts of alcohol had been flowing, so I took her tales of woe as my cue and made my move. And yes, you guessed it: we had sex. Once again, awesome. But her feelings for me hadn’t changed. So soon enough we were back in that same pattern of yore.

Here comes the pain.

Upon hearing of this new development, my dear friend Bernadette—who’d previously met Patty and knew all about our history—was not amused. Frankly, she was pissed.

“I don’t like this girl.”

“Listen, I don’t blame you for going back to her, ‘cause in your place I probably would’ve done the same, truth be told. But she’s lonely, her self-esteem’s in the gutter, and she comes running back to you ‘cause she knows you’ll take care of her physically and emotionally. But as soon as she finds some other guy or starts feeling better about herself, she’s gonna ditch you. And I’m already hating her for it.”

Bernadette was right, but knowing that didn’t stop me or make me care any less about Patty. My dick and my heart had really taken over my brain. Again.

After a few months of my shenanigans with Patty I began to sense that this go-around was different: I started to feel that even though I wasn’t seeking her out—she was the one calling and asking to come over—Patty was indeed taking me for granted and becoming more of an emotional vampire than ever before. And when she brusquely pushed me aside one day, as I was trying to get her to have sex with me, I knew this thing had run its course. That the incident occurred while I was looking after Patty for a couple of days at my place, after being unceremoniously asked to move out by her roommate, seemed to seal her fate with me. I was cold and distant—which she sensed and then tried to make up for, to no avail—up until she left. I later remembered how I’d been in a similar situation in college, with a girl a few years older than me named Diana, and how that bullshit lasted for years thereafter. I realized I was making the same stupid mistake all over again, but 20 years later. Had I not learned anything?!

I decided to extricate myself from Patty and, instead of simply avoiding her phone calls, I’d lay down the law the next time we saw each other.

dyslexic heart (part 2)

A few days later, Patty invites me over to her place and what seemed like a normal evening turns awkward at the end, when I try to kiss her goodnight. She says something about things going a bit fast for her. I’m confused but act supportive.

We continue to hang out and have sex over the next few weeks, until one night we meet for drinks and I feel a strange vibe coming from Patty. It feels funny and leaves me a bit ill at ease. Two nights later she calls, clearly upset, and tells me we need to talk. She won’t tell me over the phone, but asks to come over the next day and discuss what’s bothering her. I accept. Patty also—with much hesitation—informs me she’s in the company of Alessandra at some bar. Ugh. Dreading some upcoming bullshit, I head to my corner bar to have a few drinks and not think too much about the next evening’s conversation, which I assume will only be bad news for me.

A few drinks into my visit, Patty and Alessandra pass in front of the bar, seemingly drunk, arm in arm, on their way to Patty’s place, I assume. I’m enraged and think of yelling at them or calling Patty on the phone and cursing her out, but I calm down and decide to wait for the next day’s uncomfortable conversation, instead.

So, the next evening, she comes over and we talk. I listen to everything she has to say and then hit her right back with questions and statements of my own. I pretty much left no stone unturned. The gist of it was, we could not be a couple because she didn’t feel the same way about me and wanted this to be reciprocal. I make it crystal clear that she could not expect the same attention from me if we were platonic. She says she wouldn’t expect it to be. Patty then says she needed to bring all of this out in the open because what was making her so upset was our ‘friends with benefits’ arrangement, largely due to my feelings for her. She was feeling guilty that I made her feel beautiful, adored and loved and she couldn’t reciprocate. I told her that was my dilemma, not hers. Patty disagreed and said she felt she was hurting me by not being able to give back in the same way.

She then tells me nothing happened with the ex. Patty was a bit drunk, Alessandra walked her home and crashed at her place. I mention I saw them the night before, and she says the three of us would’ve probably had a drink together. (My friend Mark says they should’ve taken ME home. Heh, heh.) According to Patty, in the past, Alessandra has wanted to get intimate with her in similar situations but she’s declined. I believe her. And even if I don’t, or she’s not telling the truth, it doesn’t matter: she isn’t—and won’t be—my girlfriend, so, why even think about it? (I later find out they actually did have sex that night, which would explain her hesitation about telling me she was meeting with her ex the previous night, but we’ll get to that later.)

So, in the end, what did Patty and I decide that evening?


Um, to be…


…‘friends with benefits.’


Yeah, I screwed up. I had the opportunity to walk away from this nonsense—and was prepared to do so, thinking she was going to ask for us not to see each other anymore—but instead let my dick and my heart overwhelm and drown out the cries for rationality from my head. This is my fault and I’ll have no one but myself to blame when the shit eventually hits the fan. (Well, not exclusively; later on she’ll carry some of that weight, too.)

I told Patty that some 10 years prior, in my late 20s—when I was her age, actually—I was in a similar situation and the girl would not be my girlfriend but was willing to be FWB. I wanted all or nothing, so I walked. But what I’ve learned from life—and the Rolling Stones—is that you can’t always get what you want; things happen for a reason; and that you should appreciate what you have, whichever way it comes to you. And that I wanted her to feel as comfortable and as free with me whether we’re having a drink in a bar or having passionate sex in my bed, not wondering if I’m thinking she’ll change her mind and be my girlfriend. And that proof of that was I’d been on a date a week prior and planned on going on some more to see if I can find what she won’t give me. (Yeah, I know, I know. But hey, the night before Mark introduced me to a girl that I wanted to pursue, and was definitely going to ask out.) So, citing my experience in these matters, Patty accepts.

Bad move. But at the time, hanging out with a very pretty girl whose company I enjoyed and was willing to sleep with me was not the worst thing in the world. Or so I thought. I’d also been in a ‘pink moped’ phase when it came to women (unattractive women = pink moped: it’s fun until your friends see you) and my ego needed/wanted Patty. My head has its own theories but it can’t come to the phone right now.

As Patty prepares to leave we make plans to go to a bar for my friend Edie’s birthday, that Saturday. That day Alessandra cockblocks me by tagging along with her all afternoon and night, to the point of showing up with Patty at the bar. I’m INSANELY pissed off but keep my composure. Patty promises to come over and make up for it the next day. She does and profusely apologizes for the previous night. We then have some amazing sex. We’re back on track it seems, and the pattern continues for a bit. One evening after sex at her place, Patty even serenades me on the piano afterwards and I’m both flattered and blown away by her talent. Still, it feels weird. Especially when Patty uncomfortably lets on she’s got a date the next day. Hey, I don’t care: I just got laid. But I suspect who it might be with.

A few days later Patty comes over to my place and after a few drinks denies my request for sex, citing once again her discomfort with the ‘friends with benefits’ situation. We argue intensely for about 90 minutes, and decide to go our separate ways. We leave together: she’s going home; I’m heading off to another friend’s birthday party. I assume it’s over between Patty and I. And with the exception of bumping into her on the subway 6 months later, it is.


Not quite.

dyslexic heart (part 1)

It’s the crown jewel of the Romantic Comedy Cliché Hall of Hame but not supposed to occur in real life. Yet, the moment I walked in to my corner bar and first laid eyes on Patty that night, it hit me like a piano dropped from a third floor: love at first sight. I had to meet this gorgeous, Amazon-like creature. Man, I wish I knew then she would become my favorite headache. Or rather, my preferred hangover: intoxicating, fun, and ultimately, desensitizing in the thrill of the moment, but harsh and punishing in the light of day.

I introduced myself and proceeded to have, possibly, the most profound conversation I’ve ever had with a woman I was attracted to, within minutes of meeting her. I was instantly smitten. As we drank, we covered the basic topics—including our significant age difference by over a decade—before deeply ruminating on the mutual lack of that special love in our lives and the particular kind of loneliness that comes with it. Not in a sad way, but full of hope that a blissful state of affection and devotion would eventually find us both.

Corny, I know. But you had to be there.

The magic evening came to an end, and we said our goodbyes. And that, was seemingly that. Or maybe not.

Months later, I bumped into her on the subway. When I caught a glimpse of her face, Patty turned out to be the girl with the cute butt I was checking out from afar. I approached her and we chatted for a bit. She claimed to have lost my phone number, and asked for it again; I then invited her to a birthday party for an acquaintance of hers and good friend of mine, the following evening, and she accepted. At the party we had a great time, and a bit of a follow-up to our original conversation. Right before leaving the night’s festivities, she promises to get together again and we say goodbye with a warm embrace.

On a Saturday afternoon, two weeks later, I give her a call and find that she’s in the neighborhood—at the time, we lived about 10 blocks away from each other—and we meet up at a nearby bar for a drink. There I learn two things that would frame all our subsequent interactions with each other: a) she’s thought about and arrived at the conclusion that we’d have great sex if we were to engage in such activity; and b) she doesn’t feel the illusive spark of a love connection between us. That, was a clear sign of trouble I chose to ignore out of wishful thinking, lust, or both. But, as these things usually do, it would come back to bite me in the ass later on.

Patty also confessed that afternoon, that she was not a lesbian but had recently terminated her first ever relationship with a woman, Alessandra, who had not exactly taken the breakup very well, and had subsequently become a constant source of drama in her life. (Minefield alert! Danger, Will Robinson!) I soldiered on like an idiot. But, despite my hopes of winning her over, I kept my options open and went out and hooked up with other girls.

In the following weeks, Patty and I started seeing more and more of each other—including a close call where I inadvertently made a date with her and another girl, two hours apart on the same night and in the same bar, with neither of them the wiser—and at one point even get to meet her parents who were visiting form Georgia and had come to see her perform in a cabaret act. (I also met Alessandra there that night. Uh-oh.) Eventually, one Friday evening, we meet for drinks and I invite Patty over to my place for some dinner, a movie, and more drinks. She accedes and later decides to spend the night. And yes, we have sex. Ah, it was great. After spending all of Saturday together at my place, she leaves that evening to get ready for work the next day, and I sit silently ecstatic and in disbelief at my dining table for a bout a half hour after she leaves.

Then it starts to get weird.