Ah, craigslist.  It’s where I’ve been solicited to be a foot fetish model, a discreet paid companion and a stranger in a mask bringing golden showers and a dump truck…and these were all from submitting to what I thought were legit jobs for “Film/TV.”  But ever hopeful for the real jobs (which I know are on there somewhere), when I saw a posting for “Club Promoter paid hourly,” I applied.  I got it.

He was (and still is) a well-known Radio DJ on a popular station that caters to folks who lived through and still live for Studio 54.  It’s that hour of secret, guilty pleasure that you quickly switch off if someone enters the room.  Regardless, the DJ was promoting a new club to supplement his income, and I, along with another girl, was hired to help him bring in the crowd.

It’s a friendly business.  The boss quickly becomes your buddy with a hug to say; “Welcome aboard!”  “Hello.”  “Nice job.”  “Here’s your money.”  “Have a drink on me.”  “Have a drink with me.”  And before you know it, he’s kissing you.  And you think, “Woah!  Where’s this coming from?”  And before you pull away, you think, “Well, he is sweet, and I’m not dating anyone, and I’ve known him for a month and he’s always been kind.  Maybe…”  And as the kiss ends, you step back to look at him; He – who you never looked at in “that” way before – is not bad looking.  A touch on the shorter side; but who isn’t when you stand at 5’9” without heels…and you wear heels.  Could loose an inch, but really only an inch, and maybe that means he’s not too vain, just a little, just an inch of vain.  And he has an open face – kind and eager and sweet and a touch dopy.  Not a hint of danger.  But maybe you need a break from danger.  So you let him take you out.

I let him take me out.  We had a nice time.  So we went out again.  It’s a weird thing – starting to date your boss; especially when he pays in cash, weekly, and is often short.  You start to feel like a prostitute.  I started to feel like a prostitute.  The other girl was paid first, and then I would take whatever was left…which would inevitably be short, but since we were a little more than friends (but considerably less than a couple), I would be implored to “trust him” and get paid when we went out the next night.

But of course it’s an awkward thing to ask your date for cash.

It’s especially awkward when on your third date (with your boss), he doesn’t have cash to pay for the valet, so he borrows it from you, saying he’ll pay you back (but knowing you’d never ask for it, and he would forget, and you would both forget, so you know you’re not getting paid back), and after paying the valet from your handful of outstretched bills, he comes back and grabs some more to give an overly generous tip - from your wad of cash.  Did I say it’s an awkward thing to ask your date for cash?  It’s an awkward thing to ask your date for cash.

I began to realize that he’s not the one for me, but also want to claim my outstanding paycheck.  Payday came and the pay was short, and out came, “I’ll pay you the rest tomorrow, we’re going out, right?”

We played tennis in his
Malibu complex and the athlete in me has always enjoyed emasculating a cocky male opponent, which I did, even though I’m a novice at tennis.  Surprised?  I was.  And so was he.  He, he, he.

His kiss was like a vacuum.  A 38 year old man should not be giving a girl hickies.  I stifled a laugh when he thankfully couldn’t undo my clasp, and it gave me great amusement to not help him.  But the end of the affair was this: his incredibly untimely super duper ill-fitting dirty talk.  Don’t get me wrong – I can love a little nasty.  But imagine you’re being manhandled by a lump who’s barely touched second base whispering things like; “I want to shove (shove?!?) my juicy hard dick into your hole (hole?!?),” “I want to smother (smother?!?) you with cum and lick it off,” “I’m gonna pound (pound?!?) you till you can’t walk and you’re screaming for more,” etc.  No longer feeling like a prostitute, but more like a porn star, I removed myself from his grasp and took a shower – alone.

When I came out with only a towel (my fresh clothes had been forgotten in the other room), I was shocked to bump into his MOTHER!  She had come over to help him decorate his new condo.  She had personally picked out his bed sheets!  As I stood there with bare feet, wet hair and a little towel, I wanted to protest her disapproving look; “No, it’s not like that!  We didn’t do anything on your new bed sheets - he couldn’t even get my bra off, and anyway I’m ending it!”  But instead, I politely smiled, shook her hand, grabbed my clothes, and ran into the bathroom.

The club has since closed, he is still working the airwaves, and I am out of the promoting business.  I’m sure mommy has fixed up his place, nice and tidy, and she is still popping in unexpectedly using her spare key.  I hope he has learned how to unclasp a clasp, kiss without killing cells, wait for the appropriate time for dirty talk, taken a class on how to talk the dirty talk, and ask a girl out without dangling her paycheck as bait.

What did I learn from the dates with the DJ?  Keep business and pleasure separate, especially if the pleasure isn’t pleasurable, and the business is short on cash.

And to those making fake postings on craigslist for models to be their playthings: find your whore on the street – if she’s good enough for Hugh Grant, she’s good enough for you.

College brought me a brand new group of friends, a brand new (to me) dorm room (for it was actually very old), and a brand new sense of freedom and rules.  What it didn’t bring was a new wardrobe - all my income and savings went to books, tuition and cafeteria food.  So I embraced my favorite pair of jeans till they burst on my expanding all-you-can-eat cafeteria food ass.  And more than the humiliation (they snapped wide open in a crowded elevator), I felt the loss.  They were my favorite pair; my tight little jeans that seemed sprayed on, that attracted the attention of boys and the envy of girls, the admiration of women and the lust of men.  They were more than just a pair of jeans; they were a comfortable best friend.  And they made me look hot.

The rip was irreparable; a jagged mess of fabric which no thread or patch would repair.  We had a good run, but it was time to move on.  I outgrew them, they let me down, and we split up: me to a brand new pair, they to the rag pile.

He was my best friend in High School.  The Wrestler was the boyfriend of a friend, and he and I became friends when they dated, and best friends when they split up.  He had it bad for her.  She didn’t for him.  And we helped each other through the split (for I didn’t get to double date his friends anymore).  We grew together through the tear.

He dated here and there as did I, and we shared horror stories of bad date after date over a pint of ice cream and some Monty Python.  We laughed and we cuddled, went out or stayed in, shared feelings and insults; we were best friends.

A year or two in, we went to a party.  The night was dark and the pool was lit from below, giving the backyard a romantic glow.  Filled with half naked teens on a moonless night, we were curious and scared, and not a parent in sight.  Like the water from the spa flowing into the pool, hormones were swirling; the heat flowed in and raised the temperature of the cool pool, cold was splashed onto the hot of the bodies baking in the spa, and the undecided sat at the lip – their bottoms heated by the spa with their feet dangling in the pool.

A game of Marco Polo broke up the weighted mood, but the “Marco’s” hand liked to linger a little long on the caught “Polo,” and the favor kept being returned as turns were switched.  The game petered out and this couple went here and that couple went there and they were spread over the backyard and into the house, eventually leaving me and best friend alone in the pool, which was now a little too cool…so, into the spa!

It was hot.  The spa was hot.  We were hot.  It was hot.  And we were just friends – and we wanted to keep it that way.  The silence of the night was suggestive and uncomfortable, so he tickled me to lighten the mood, and a wrestling match ensued.  He pinned me - but we were both winning…and losing.  He pinned me and I couldn’t catch my breath, not from the wrestle, but from his gaze.  Then I wriggled out (all slippery and wet, and remember, half naked), and pinned him – he was locked in a death grip in my impossibly long legs.  But he didn’t fight back.

His strong hand grazed my thigh, and my grip tightened and then quickly let go.  We each pushed off each other and changed the subject.  Floating to the other side, I raised my lean body up out of the water, stretched my arms over my head, arched my back and breathed a sigh.  I knew what I was doing, but I couldn’t stop myself.  “It’s so hot in here,” I falsely complained.  I playfully kicked at him to splash his face, and he grabbed my foot and began to massage it.

We kept the talk light to avoid what we both were feeling, but the strong foot massage turned soft.  Stop, I told myself, this is your best friend and you don’t want to ruin it, you don’t feel that way about him and he doesn’t for you, stop, stop, stop.  But my head was swirling like the water as he lightly tugged my foot and my body followed.  I floated to him and he gingerly placed me on his lap, facing away.  His wrestler arms encircled my waist, and a bead of sweat trickled down my cheek.

There was no more talk; my head wanted to avoid, but my body said let go.  Let go of me.  No, let yourself go.  His warm wet skin pressed against my back.  His hands moved tentatively but purposely around my waist, down my hips and along my legs.  His warm breath touched my neck, my ears, my face.  I was scared to turn around and meet his mouth and he was scared to turn me.

We sat in the heat for what seemed an eternity, just touching and being touched, exploring if it was allowed or forbidden, and neither of us objecting or talking or turning around.  I was wet from the water, the sweat and the heat.  And I felt him under me.  And as I felt his breath move closer to my neck, and as I felt his mouth press to my neck, and as I felt his tongue upon my neck, my head released all objections - I forgot that this would be a bad idea, and I let go.

He felt my body give in and he effortlessly flipped my long body to him, like the High School wrestler that he was, and he took his mouth to mine and we kissed.  And in that moment I knew all was gone.

The next day our conversation was stilted – awkward and probing.  He wanted to know what I was thinking and I wanted to know what we were doing, but neither wanted to bring it up.  So we played the game and pretended our friendship hadn’t changed, just added benefits.  But he was the boyfriend type and I wasn’t yet the girlfriend type and he didn’t really want to be with me and I didn’t really want to be with him.  We had liked who we were, but in that fatal moment we were weak and we made an irreparable rip.

We couldn’t patch it up, we were torn.  Over the years, we pieced things back together, but although we have healed, the scar still remains.  I don’t bemoan the choice, I don’t think sadly upon him, I don’t regret our past.  If it hadn’t happened that night, it would have happened another.  We just grew apart, like an ill fitting pair of comfortable old jeans.

There is a line.  It’s as gradual and hazy as the sunset on the ocean; the line between dusk and dark is elusive - it is light and then it is dark, but for a moment you’re in the gray.

He gave me a massage.  Don’t worry, he was accredited and referred by a friend.  He was maintaining his license and as such, needed to provide several free massages in exchange for comment forms.

A sturdy bit of a man – barely over 5’ tall with a girlish voice and disengaging personality, I felt immediately at ease.  His tiny but strong hands melted my knots and pent-up cares.  So much so that when his hands butted up against my “line,” I wasn’t sure whether to: A. Protest, or B. Enjoy it.

But where was this “line?”  He explored around it, cozied up to it, and ran alongside it, but he did not cross it.  So would protests be premature?  Was he just doing his job?  Did he not know better?  I didn’t want to hurt his little man feelings, so when he offered a second free massage for next week, I felt my protests melt away.

Second time around.  The “line” he had previously cozied up to, he now was ON.  Again, not crossing, he walked that line like a tight rope artist – careful not to fall to the other side, but placing his feet squarely on the rope.  My poor mind raced: it’s a free massage – but molestation shouldn’t be the price for free; he’s ½ my size and harmless – but Military-bound and 3 cups of desperate; my friends were going to him too, but many were broke like me and loved all things free.  Back and forth went my mind; back and forth went his hands.  The line was as clear as the smog induced Southern California sunset.

Third time around.  Why did I accept a third massage when I had previously been so uncomfortable?  Well, 1. I was jealous that some of my friends had had 3 massages with him and I wanted to catch up, 2. Minus the “line” butting, it was one of the best massages I had had, and 3. It was free.  The price was right.

So using his right hand as an anchor wedged between my thigh and my lip (yes, that lip), he used his left hand to rub down my neck as I lay face up.  His mouth inches from mine, breathing his hot breath into my lips.  Trying not to offend, I moved my head to the side, only to have him move it back – he wanted to keep it straight.  At this point, we’d become sort-of friends and how do I say to my friend, “I think you are molesting me and it’s making me a tad bit uncomfortable, please stop breathing into my mouth, and get your hand out of my hair (yes, that hair).”  I felt completely violated and yet utterly out of place to say anything.  I knew it was my fault for accepting a second and third go ‘round.  I had gotten myself into it and felt completely unable to get out of it.

That night I called my girlfriend to protest, only to hear a tale more sordid than mine.  On the way to her second molesting, I mean, massage, Mr. Fingers called to ask her out on a date, to which she consented.  So when he was rubbing down her naked body in his friend’s empty house, and his strong (but tiny) hands stroked her gently and sensually, and his hot mouth was moments from hers, she had a lucid, lurid thought; “If I move my mouth up just one inch, we’ll be kissing.”  One half horrified and one half tempted (he’s such a little, desperate guy, but she’s divorced and naked and turned on), she shifted her body just an inch and their faces met.  And it was on.  His practiced fingers already knew her body, and they had hot oily sex on the surprisingly sturdy massage table.

“How many times have you done that?” she asked him, knowingly, to which he replied sheepishly, “Oh, what?  Never…”  She knew better, and didn’t care, she thought she’d found the dream man – good with his hands, knew where to find the best oil, low-maintenance and low-pressure.  But Happy Fingers was anything but.  His nimble fingers knew more than bodies, they were best friends with texting and emailing and calling and borderline stalking.  The constant barrage of communication commenced and my friend’s nerves were once again frayed.  But this time she didn’t seek the massage therapist for comfort.

After I told her my tale and she told me hers, we knew Hand Job had to be stopped.  Several of our friends were seeing him and we wanted to keep the juices off the table.  “We know what you’re up to, and if we hear any mild complaint from any of our friends, we’re going to the Massage Board and writing you up.”    The texting trailed off and the emails slowly ended, and I eventually found my $20 for 1 hour massage place in Korea Town , where no line has ever been brushed, bordered, balanced on or breached.

The lesson is this: You must decide for yourself when dusk turns to dark.  There is a line in all the gray, but you don’t have to wait for the sun to disappear, the stars to appear and the stranger’s hand to grab your crotch before you say “stop.”  Don’t be a victim of “free.”  Free yourself to speak your mind, you know when a line is crossed.

And to Sticky Fingers: Stick to the ads in the classifieds.

“Well, I woke up, thought about going to the gym, but was kinda tired, so I just made breakfast.  Then I sat at the computer and did some stuff and took a nap.  I woke up, thought about going to the gym again, but just took a walk.  Then I came home and watched some TV.  What’d you do today?”

Who knew a surfer could be so dull?  I thought they were fraught with excitement and muscles (well, they do have muscles – note: obsession with the gym).  Was I wrong to be bored with this conversation?  Life isn’t always a thrill.  Even at an amusement park you have to drive to the lot, walk to the gate, wait to get in, walk to the ride, wait in line (a long long time), and then do it all again for another 60 second thrill.

So I wait, and I date, and I wait…for the thrill.  But it never seems to come.

A new one came, in the form or a very cute Auzzie.  The accent from down-under, swath of carefree sandy hair and lack of ties to the entertainment industry were merely perks to his sweet disposition, nice bod and his lively interest in me.  He took me out, and proceeded to bore me to tears.  He had nothing to say and nothing to ask.  Now, I know I can be a bit intimidating (with my anger issues and amazing legs), so I give allowances to bad first dates.  We went out again, then back to my place.  And maybe a minute into our bland first kiss, I drifted into sleep on his shoulder.  And that aforementioned sweet disposition of his allowed me to sleep – apparently a good 20 minutes.  I woke baffled and embarrassed.  And realized although I was done seeing him socially, I knew who to call when I was battling insomnia.

Two dates and not even a 30 second thrill between them.  My heart should flutter, not sink, when a guy I’m dating calls.  I’ve always ended it politely, “Gee, you’re great, and really, it’s not you, it’s me.”  Secretly knowing the truth: DUH!  It is him, not me!  But dull dates kept drifting through my life like lifeless, useless tumbleweeds.  And their dust seemed to settle around my feet.  And date after date I began to wonder, gee…is it me?

For curiosities sake only slightly more than for desperation, I attended a free Speed Dating event hosted by none other than Whole Foods.  Apparently Wal-Mart had been doing “Tie a red ribbon on your cart Friday nights if you’re single” and Whole Foods wanted to get in the market.  I thought, at least these singles would have an interest in health and an income (Whole Foods ain’t cheap).

Anyway, I gave it a shot.  I met 20 guys in 60 minutes.

There was “man who messed up rotation”: he started with me, came back 5 people later, and tried to end with me.  When it came his 3^rd time to be seated with me, my dismissive eyes scared him away for 15 seconds, until he popped up behind the wall, outside of the event, by my head to again attempt an awkward and invasive conversation.

There was “man who wore a magnet around his neck to ward off evil spirits”: It was given to him as a gift from a friend who was abducted from an alien space ship, so logically it warded off evil spirits.  Seemed to be working for him – I was warded off, big time.

There was “younger guy who tried to be edgy by confessing he attempted suicide regularly”, also: “my girlfriend just died,” “I’ve been living on the streets since I was 12,” “I sell drugs.  Wanna buy some?”

There was “tech guy who was too scared to talk,” “man who was too big to fit down the isle,” “eager guy with a list of routine, boring questions,” “the copious note-taker” and or course “Mr. Marketing his business at a social event.”  It was a regular romper room of losers.

And I came to the conclusion: It ISN’T them, it IS me.  They are who they are, and some woman somewhere will find their quirks charming and livable.  And although strange, I was never bored; I found great amusement in this park of weary wonderers.

The lesson in this: we have a choice – wait an hour for a minute of a thrill, or find the thrill within the hour, within each minute, within each moment.  Somebody once said “only boring people get bored.”  So while I wait for my big thrill to come, I’ll enjoy the drive to the lot, the walk to the gate, the wait to get in, the walk to the ride, the wait in line (the long long time), and even if my big 60 second thrill never comes, I’ll have enjoyed the ride.

And to all those guys I said “it isn’t you, it’s me” too – I guess I wasn’t lying…

When did vacation sex come home?  What was once a quickie with a hottie and lack of a date or commitment or STD test has now become a regular dating life.  They all wanna “be spontaneous,” have “no rules,” and be able to shut it off when a “line is crossed.”  Men fear the “rules” of women, but why don’t we as women fear the hidden and socially accepted “rules” of men? 

My friend travels, so he has several quickies across the country.  When one of his regulars asked “so, what are we?” he said, simply, “over.”  She had broken his number one rule: don’t tie me down, bitch!  She had proposed a clarification, or a rule.  Which he don’t play by.  But he never realized HE was the one imposing the rules; and when she wanted to see the rule book, he snapped it shut.  His rule was this: I want my relationships – or lack thereof – to be of my choosing, I want to come (and cum) and go as I please, I want to fuck whomever I wanna fuck, I don’t care what you want, and if you don’t agree – we terminate.  He made HER abide by HIS rules.  Yes, rules. 

And we, as women, kowtow.  We agree out of fear, for we don’t wanna break their rules.  We’re afraid to have something real for ourselves, because we’d rather have a little bit of something than nothing. 

I have a birthday looming on the horizon.  Every morning, the birthday shines brighter, blinding my sight and my reason.  I fear age, I fear illness, I fear being alone.  And every morning and every night my birthday rises and sets and creeps quickly towards me. 

And the thought of settling comes a knocking. 

Hot Pot Head emailed me literally the day after I erased his email from my address book.  A few months had passed, and he was out of my head, so I took him out of my contacts.  And up popped the weasel.  I had moved on by the time I read his probing email, so I thought, well, why not?  A week passed and I wrote back, still not sure what I wanted from him if anything.  A quick response from him let me know…well, I don’t know what it let me know.  I didn’t write back, so days later a text from him confirmed his dogged interest. 

I can do this, I thought.  I can separate my heart from my body – for it had been some time since I let my body be touched, and an orgasm is always better than Tylenol PM.  So I went to see him.  And I couldn’t cum.  Two weeks later he asked for more, and still I couldn’t cum.  And now here I am, with a birthday looming, living by his rules, panicked, unfulfilled and wanting to cum. 

I can’t do it.  I can’t settle.  I can’t live by someone else’s rules.  My heart is part of my body and that’s the gift I’m given as a woman.  Rules aren’t made to be broken, they’re made to protect us and guide us.  My rule is this: I love with my heart and mind and soul first, and only then second with my body.  My rule, not his rule.  And if he don’t like it, it’s time to close the book. 

A lesson hard learned: a little bit of something is nothing.  A “little bit” clouds our judgment and makes us settle for really, nothing; but embracing “nothing” keeps us open for the real something. 

And my message to vacation sex: stay on vacation!

“He’s got a great personality!”  Number 1 trait women want in men: humor.  So every guy’s a comedian, especially in LA.  Wonder why Seinfeld got the big bucks?  Humor’s hard.  It’s a gift few were given, fewer developed, and fewer still hold as a skill.  Yet, we still want a guy with humor, personality and the ability to make us laugh. 

So when I met Pun Guy at a popular Mexican Restaurant, I was thrilled this reasonably attractive guy – with a great sense of humor - was my waiter, and was flirting with me.  With a shared smile and a margarita on the house, my girlfriend and I were giggling at our dumb luck – not only was he the only straight waiter, he was FUNNY!  Yippie!

He took me to a movie and along the way, we passed a pretzel shop.  “Hmm,” said Pun Guy, “Let me see if I have any DOUGH.”  Oh, ha ha ha, I politely giggled.  “Well,” he continued, “maybe we don’t KNEED it.”  Ooh, he he he, I politely stammered.  “I’ll get you one…if you’re KNOTty!”  Hmm, aahhh…I politely trailed off. 

The puns came in waves, drowning me with the sheer force of volume – for every 3 sentences he would utter, 1 would be a pun.  1 of 3.  33%.  Just like my income, a third of this date I wanted a refund.  I could have confessed to him; a close relative just died.  To which he would have responded, what, her hair?  Died / dyed, get it?  Dear god. 

The movie began and he fought with the actors on the screen – trying to out-joke them.  I don’t recall the movie, but I’ll never forget the happy joke man next to me who received an hour and a half’s worth of angry glares, stares and shushes.  That did not stop him, no; it only stirred up the tide pool where jokes go to die.  The wilting looks were fodder for his amusement – he thought he had an audience and played it to the hilt: a bag of goobers = “call me nuts!”  Popcorn = “is this corny?”  Coca-cola = “Coke?  I don’t do drugs!” 

I politely stopped all polite laughs, sunk into my seat, and waited for the movie – and the comedy set – to end.  Ready to go home, but guilted into dinner, we were again at a Mexican Restaurant.  Trying to make the best of this worst situation, he offered, “Can I tell you a joke?”  I felt a snap in my brain, and he continued “I made it up and it’s my favorite joke.”  My brain was numb, I didn’t protest.  “Ok.  What does a Spanish Cow say?”  My mouth moved, “I don’t know, what?”  “Mooey.”  What?  “Mooey.  Get it?  Cows say Moo & Spanish people say Muey, so…Mooey!  Get it?  I made it up!!” 

What on earth could’ve been worse than this date?  You got it, running into Pun Guy at a second job interview.  In the room, with two other hopefuls, Pun Guy started his set.  And the room was his – his high energy and excitement were contagious.  But I’d previously caught the virus and thankfully was Pun Guy resistant.  Then the inevitable turn of the tide…Pun Guy went from humorous, to hokey to horrible.  And he pulled me down with his sinking ship – he told the interviewers we had dated.  “Once!”  I screamed in protest, “we only went out once!’  Too late, guilty by association.  And down into the murky waters I sank, Pun Guy and me, two fish in the sea.   

Why do we want a guy who can make us laugh?  Well, it’s fun to laugh and you can burn a few calories, but really?  A guy who can make me laugh knows me; he listens to me, he’s smart and can see the smart in me, he can take me from a place of pain and not just pull me out of it, but relate to it.  A guy with a “personality” is simply a guy who listens. 

So the lesson today is to the men, not the women: Men; when women say we want a man with a sense of humor, don’t audition for The Last Comic Standing, don’t ask us “Does your face hurt…cause it’s killing me!” (dad’s signature joke), don’t get your personality from Mad Libs – just listen to us, respond to us, and if the mood’s right; tickle us. 

And don’t talk about the damn pretzel, just buy it.

Click!  Flash!  My bright eyes sparkle in the glow of paparazzi, and a giddy laugh wafts into the warm night air.  With a toss of my freshly blown-out hair, a mischievous dip of my pert chin and a sultry smirk that plays straight to camera, my adoring fans scream my name and I lovingly throw a kiss with my fingertips.  Stunning, in head to toe Oscar de la Renta (borrowed!), I thought it fitting: an Oscar for an Oscar, what a night!  As I glide gracefully down the red carpet, my heart catches a beat.  A familiar face.  One I have not seen in years.  A face that I loved and that loved me back for longer than he or I’d ever loved before.  He’d hurt me and left me and never let me contact him again.  And here he is, amongst a sea of faces.  And I look spectacular.  Never looked better.  Ha Ha!!  I win!  First time running into THE ex and I LOOK GREAT!!  I’ve dreamt about this moment, and damn it, look what he’s missing!  Boy, isn’t he sorry now!!!

Unfortunately, it didn’t happen remotely like that.  No.  When the chance meeting occurred, I had been up all night dancing, drinking, fighting and crying till the wee hours of the morning and my face and belly were bloated with tears and buffet food, respectively.

He was my first long-term love.  My savings had just dried up, my back had just collapsed and over the phone he broke my heart.  I was broke, broke, broke.  Tears of rage and hurt and anger and sorrow and hate streamed down my face as I crawled (literally, I could not walk) into my bedroom and onto my bed.  I didn’t want to see him ever again.

But a few months passed and I wanted that elusive thing called “closure.”  He had gotten his say over the phone, but I hadn’t the courage to say my piece.  And that ate at me.  So I dropped him a line, and when he heard it was me, he dropped the line.  I discovered he moved into my neighborhood - I sent him a letter, to which he never replied.

Years passed and the broke went away: I worked and fed my savings account, I saw my chiropractor 3 times a week and fixed my back, I dated and slowly mended the crack.  Yet I still dreamt of that chance meeting when he would see me, thin and healthy and popular and stunning, with my hair blowing in the…yeah, yeah, yeah, you know where I’m going with this.

5 years passed, and for the last couple I had only google-stalked him once or twice – to see if he was still alive.  And shortly after the start of the new year (last year) I said to the universe, I’m letting him go.  And I did.  And I never thought of him again.

A few weeks later I was sunning & stuffing myself on a 5 day cruise.  The endless ocean and buffet – nothing could make this California foodie any happier.  Then night 3 of 5 happened: 3 girls met 2 boys and my jealous friend took her unhappiness out on me.  A drunken, teary, sleepless night etched its way onto my face, and the next morning I was haggard.  But hungry.  So onto the buffet.

Headed to the salad bar (it was time to clean up my fried chicken, pizza and cream-filled pastry ways), I thought I heard my name whisper-shouted.  Pausing, but thinking my hangover was playing tricks, I almost walked on.  However, something nagged at me and as I slowly turned, a man who was holding a buffet tray over his face shyly brought it down.  And there appeared THE ex.  No shit.  He had been within a mile of me for 5 years and I never ran into him, yet here he was, on a cruise, with me, saying my name, bearing a sheepish nervous shit-eating grin.  I’m not much of a curser, but all my mouth could form was the word “shit” and occasionally in front of it, “oh.”

The chance encounter.  My puffy blood-shot eyes, splotchy makeup hastily thrown on, greasy hair and certainly not brand-name bright orange (not my color) cover-all were nothing like my red carpet fantasy.  Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

“I want you to meet my girlfriend.  I told her all about you.  She’ll be here in a second,” he said as I noticed something on his left ring finger.  “Girlfriend?”  I inquired, pointing to his wedding band.  “Girlfriend.” he stated emphatically.  A weird moment.  Thankfully, she was here in a second.  “Nice to meet you,” “Nice to meet you.”  Then the turn.  With a dismissive wave of his hand he said, quite simply: “Go.”  What?  “Go.  Go get your food, go do what you need to do.  Go.”  Stunned, I stumbled to the salad bar, blindly made a salad and turned to leave.  And who was turning my way the same time I was turning his?  Yes, Mr. “Go.”  Oh, shit, I did not want to see him again.  A stern hard voice spat out my name and I was forced to face him down.  He pierced my eyes with a cold mix of “get the hell away from me I’m still in love with you” and “don’t mess with me, I’m with someone else.”  He turned his back on me and left his fiancée/wife (or “girlfriend”) standing there as shocked as I was, so I coughed out “What’s your problem?”  No response.  “What’s his problem?”  No response.

Shaken like a baby with a bad nanny, I lurched outside to meet my friends.  Trying to laugh it off, I sat my salad filled tray down and started; “You won’t believe who I just…just…just…” but I couldn’t finish because the tears were choking me.  I ran the length of the deck to the nearest bathroom with my friend in tow.  Bolted into a stall and let them flow.  “I…I…I…just…just…just…saw my…my…my…THE ex!  And he was so mean to me!  And he had a girlfriend, and she was cute, but I’m way cuter even though I look like someone socked me in the face, and he was wearing a wedding ring, but said she was only his girlfriend, and I’m over him, but I haven’t seen him in 5 years and I never had closure and I know you can never have closure, but we REALLY had no closure and it’s just so weird seeing him here and I can’t believe I’m crying and I didn’t expect it to hurt so much and I’m over him but I’m still crying!!!”

The tears dried up and we had a laugh and went back to my salad.  Then to the gym (after I applied more mascara and slipped on a super cute top).  Got all dolled up for dinner and made an ass of myself in the conga line just to make sure he saw me having SO much fun (although I hate conga lines and was certainly NOT having fun).  And when I saw him the next morning in the breakfast line, I made sure he didn’t see me see him and laughed SO hard at the fake joke I made (and made my friends fake laugh too).  And when I saw him in the passport line, I made sure he didn’t see me see him and I flirted with the guy next to me (and he flirted back – although he didn’t know it was a fake flirt).  And we drove home, and I unpacked, and I wanted closure.

The weekend passed and I came home to a blinking machine…with his voice and number on it.  I sank to my knees and laughed, and cried, and asked my brain, what should I do?  And it said, don’t call him tonight, wait a few days.  A few days passed and I asked my brain, what should I do?  And it said, don’t call him tonight, you’ll call him, but wait a week.  A week passed and I asked my brain, what should I do?  And it said, you don’t want to call him, there’s no point in calling him; he’ll just hurt you again.  But Brain, I said, I want closure.  And it said, well wait a week.  And I did, and I’ve waited a year’s worth of weeks and I’ve never called him back.

Is there a lesson in this?  So many lessons.  But one that hits hardest is this: listen to your brain when it says don’t call back a married man who says she’s only his girlfriend (did I forget to tell you he’d been married twice before?), men like that will give you something, but it sure ain’t closure.

And to both Oscars’ – I gave you a shout out, so can I have a dress and an award?

I never questioned my sexual orientation until a college Jazz dance class.  She was sexy and sharp with a killer body.  I freaked myself – and my current boyfriend – out with my hesitant fantasies of her.  The flirtatious way she gazed back at me made my palms sweat.  Most boyfriends would get hot at the thought of his girl with another, but he was honestly afraid of losing me.  I played with the idea in my head, but couldn’t wrap my brain around her parts – familiar as my own, but foreign as a lover.  

Graduation freed me of my thoughts and of my current boyfriend – too insecure and needy - and my girl-crush dissolved as an isolated incident.  Never before or after was I attracted to a woman.  Not from fear, I just realized I preferred boy-parts.

When I was challenged years later into kissing a woman (a Playboy Playmate nonetheless), I accepted.  If Miss November couldn’t switch my team, no one could.  Her soft voluptuous mouth was warm and wet and still remains in my list of top 10 kisses, but when the kiss ended I continued flirting with the male who challenged me in the first place.  As hot as she was, she didn’t turn me on.  And that ended my brief foray with women. 

But why bring this up?  While it’s accepted (and sometimes encouraged) for women to experiment and figure out their orientation, it’s still taboo for men.  Which poses not only a problem for the men, but also for the women they date and often marry.

A girlfriend of mine just discovered what I had told her from the start: she was dating a gay man: a good-looking, fitness-obsessed actor-slash-model.  Now, if a male preens in the mirror longer than his female companion, that alone does not make him gay.  If, however, he doesn’t attempt to kiss you on the second date or make the first move on the third, or cum after 45 minutes of oral sex (which, by the way, is her “thing”)…you’re looking at a gay man. 

You’re also looking at a gay man when:

1. All his friends are gay and he’s the “token” straight man

2. He won’t cuddle with you because lying on his side will create wrinkles on his face

3. He has sex with men to pay the bills

A recent trip to Mammoth led me and my girlfriend to meet two extremely hot 25 year old guys, who to me from the start clearly liked to hold the big stick.  My girlfriend, on the other hand, was recovering from a traumatic breakup and was convinced they voted for bush.  A trip to the Jacuzzi allowed them to strip to their boxers, and the heat of the water and the moment swept her away.  I left them to their moment and went to the room.  Coming in later, she confirmed my suspicions: it was hot and heavy with Number 1, her top came off revealing ample breasts, Number 1 ditched his shorts and wanted to go bareback, Number 2 got jealous, tossed his boxers and asked his friend – not to share – but for a 3-way.  To both men’s disappointment, my girlfriend said no. 

Would this relationship transfer to the real world?  No.  He texted her he didn’t want to see her again.  And why should he?  He merely wanted permission to be gay.  Have you ever known a straight man to do a 3-way involving another man?  Never!    

So the lesson in this: Men: it’s OK to be gay, just don’t pretend to be straight and get our hopes up for dating the only clean, well-dressed, sensitive guy with a killer body in the neighborhood.  Women: if he’s the only clean, well-dressed, sensitive guy with a killer body in the neighborhood; he’s gay.  And it’s OK!  Just don’t date him.

And to Miss November: You’re still in my top 10. 

Have you seen Cheaters?  1 of a couple thinks the other is cheating so has spies follow them to gather proof and then confronts them when they’re with their “other.”  I think I was the “other.”  I didn’t see cameras, but I swear they were there. 

But first, let’s back up.  A couple of years ago I fell hard…for Country.  Yes, it’s a made-for-TV-movie in the making: “big city girl loves country bumpkin,” but I fell for the romance of it all; the music, the tight jeans, the dancing and the cowboy hats, dear god, the cowboy hats… 

So I go to a country dance club with dreams of Tim McGraw dancing in my head (Faith Hill gets fat and he leaves her for me – I still think about it sometimes).  And when a cowboy hat sweeps me (and my 2 left feet) up to dance, my heart gets caught up in the whirlwind.  He holds me tight and my hopeful heart skips a beat (along with my feet) and fantasies of us and our future ranch gallop in my head.  As he says goodnight, it strikes me; I don’t know what he looks like under that hat.  Too late, I have a date with him the next night. 

What a difference a hat makes.  His head glistens in the glow of my porch light, his tight lips are tense and pursed like a hawk and his colorful vertical-striped button down shirt is out of a dressy 80’s catalogue.  What happened to Tim?  Faith sucked the life out of him! 

In my tiny outfit and heels he places me in his bright yellow 80’s sports car, all shiny and bright like his head, and with a roar of the motor and blast of cold air, we were off! – to RIVERSIDE .  Shivering, I feel the blast of cold air on my bare legs.  As I reach my hand to divert the flow, it is SLAPPED away by my Cowboy!  “Don’t touch my car” he snaps; “Don’t slap my hand!” I counter.  Silence.  For 10 minutes.  Oh god, I’m in a fast car with a near stranger driving out to RIVERSIDE , it’s the 909!!!  Help!!

Tentatively Mr. Tight Lips attempts a half apology.  20 minutes later we arrive at the restaurant, which happens to have valet parking only, which he grumbles about and which he drives all around the surrounding streets – 4 blocks away – to find non-existent free parking.  I remain silent.  I’m not the type to care about valet or not, but when I’m in a nearly naked outfit paired with heels and an angry date, I’m not walking 4 blocks to eat.  Yet, I did not say a word.  After 10 minutes of futile searching, he gruffly concedes “You win.”  “What do I win?”  I wonder aloud.  “We’ll park valet.”  “Oh, that’s me winning?” 

Once seated in the festive Mexican Restaurant, we get some drinks, some food, listen to the band, and his company is not unpleasant.  Until…he spots something.  A young girl is quietly roving around the dining floor with a basket of roses.  I barely notice her across the room.  Mr. Pleasant leans in and tenderly shares with me; “You absolutely deserve a rose…”  Wow, I think, that’s sweet, I don’t need one.  He continues; “But I hate that they parade it in front of your face, so I refuse to buy one.”  Wow, I think, that’s sweet, I don’t need him.
 

Unfortunately, plans include the country dance club, that’s why we are in RIVERSIDE .  We arrive and an odd looking blonde approaches Mr. Tightwad, and as I’m not the jealous type and as I’m definitely not jealous for him, I give them space. 

The blonde storms up to me and demands, “Are you his date?”  “Um, we’re friends…but I guess we came together,” I stumble.  “I’m his GIRLFRIEND.”  To which Mr. Slappy exclaims; “No you’re not!”  “Then what were you doing at my house this afternoon?  ARE YOU HIS DATE?”  “Um…um…”  “I’m his girlfriend and we’ve been together for 6 months.  Are you one of the girls he’s been dating online?  I know he’s been dating online!”  This is too much for me, especially since they start physically pushing each other.  “I’m gonna go to the car and let you guys sort out who’s dating who.  When you’ve figured it out, I’ll be at the car.” 

I leave the club in a daze, get to the car, turn around and see Blondie and Mr. Boyfriend racing towards me.  They’ve been thrown out of the club and she still needs to know who I am.  “We met last night, you can have him, he just needs to take me home.”  But their fighting only escalades.  Then the thought: “Am I on Cheaters?  Am I on Hidden Camera?”  Unfortunately I speak my thought.  And the love birds do not find it funny.  Fortunately their hate for each other trumps their hate for me and more fortunately for me – BOUNCERS!  Hallelujah!!  They come running towards the loving couple and BREAK IT UP!  Kicking and screaming all the way, they throw her to her car and we get tossed in ours (sorry, HIS). 

The long, quiet ride home.  So I think.  No.  He can’t shut up about her and insists they broke up months ago and she’s been stalking him.  I don’t debate.  I’ve had my fill of country bumpkin and found out, I don’t like the taste. 

The story does not end here, oh no, it continues for 2 YEARS.  I tell him to take my number off his phone, never call again.  He calls for a few weeks then seems to give up.  Months later, Blondie calls! in a lawsuit with Mr. Bumpkin and she wants my statement.  “How did you get my number?!”  “It was on his phone.”  “PLEASE erase my number.  I can’t help you, I barely knew him - and you didn’t leave a great impression either.”  Then HE calls a few months down the line, wanting a statement for his countersuit.  “No!”  A year goes by and he shows up at my work – he TRACKED ME DOWN!!!  And wants a statement for a restraining order against Blondie, who, he claims, is crazy.  “You’re no prize yourself – you probably made her crazy.  You are stalking ME now.  If I see you again, I’ll see you in court.” 

The moral of this story is: Faith Hill is NOT fat, Tim won’t leave her for me or you, so don’t try to live a movie, just go to one…it won’t follow you home.

And to the producers of Cheaters: seriously, did you get any of this on tape?

“Too Many Teeth Guy” DID listen some, but when he spoke, the words that tumbled out filled suitcase after suitcase of baggage baggage baggage; “I’m broke, money’s tight, I have child support, I have 1 child, plus 1 step child, I have 1 ex-wife, and she’s not the mother of my child, the mother of my child is the devil, we’re waiting on a record deal and times are tough, instead of taking you out, why don’t I come over and “hang out?””  So now my ears ached along with my chipped tooth – oh yeah, he was a tooth-banger-kisser who pretended to blame his teeth-banging ways on me! 

All the while, “Mr. Loves the Pursuit” was calling, but first the dentist had to fix my chip (no joke), so “Mr. Pursuit” called and called and called.  I was busy, he was out of town, I was sick, he was working, I was tired, he was tired – we were a perfect pair!  After 2 months of this, we had our first date.  He was tall and strong and cute.  He came over, picked me up, opened my car door, took me to a nice place, bought me lunch, flirted a little, and then talked and talked and talked…into the air.  He never looked at me.  The air was fascinated with his story.  So I played a staring game, I never took my eyes off him and waited to see how many times he’d look back.  Well, he looked at me as much as I talked, and for once, I had nothing to say!

But strangely I still had hope, he was sweet and don’t forget - tall and strong and cute.  So I let him take me home and he tickled me on my couch, played the “am I going to kiss you? game” (which ended in a flirtatious “no”) walked me to my door, and said goodbye.  An hour later he called to tell me he wanted to see me again very soon, but I guess “soon” meant “never” for he never called again. 

So the lesson today: Listen to him talk, but if he doesn’t listen back, listen to your heart, and give him the number to “the air out there.”  And if he does have things to say, but the things would sink you to the bottom of the ocean, tell him there’s no room in your boat for extra baggage. 

And my new resolution is to stick with my old resolution: NO DATING ARTISTS!