Sunday, May 31, 2009

I get dumped

It wasn't by a girlfriend, or a lover, or a fuck buddy, or a friend with benefit. It wasn't by an actual friend, or someone I've even met. I don't know her name, I don't know where she lives, I vaguely remember her age. I've never seen a photograph, swapped phone numbers, or been invited to say hi to her at work. And yet, I was dumped, or maybe I did the dumping. It's hard to say, in virtual relationships.

I won't get into too much detail about who she is or how we met. We met online, let's say through a blog. Maybe my blog, maybe another person's blog, maybe her blog, if she has one. Leave it at that.

A few weeks ago, she hit me up late night on my anonymous chat, as some of you do. I love chatting with my readers, even the ones who are critical of me. I appreciate criticism as much, or even more, than compliments. Keep the comments, emails, phone calls and chats coming in: you all are helping me formulate better direction for my thoughts.

This gal was interesting in some ways, but droll in most. She felt like my anti-thesis in many ways. Our jobs surely were on opposite sides of the coins (although I do believe I would like her industry, and I surely will give it a go some day!). Our penchant for people are complete opposites. Our sex lives, opposite. Our motivations, opposite.

Maybe that's why I was OK with chatting with her so much, for so long. Often times she used emotional-verbal traps to try to guilt me into feeling somehow wrong about my decisions I write about. There's one thing people have to understand: I have one of the fastest minds you'll ever meet, able to contemplate many different outcomes from the decisions I make. I do not hold to social mores and norms; what you think is moral or immoral means ZERO to me.

You have to understand why I feel this way: society's moral structure was designed by powerful people to control the weak. It makes ZERO sense to try to structure our own lives around what powerful people say is right and wrong.

As I tried to explain to her, all people have needs. Our needs differ from others. No two people have the same needs. You might really love pastries in the morning for breakfast: Danish, a croissant, whatever. If we were in a relationship, and I didn't have the time or ability to make pastry, you would have to go outside of the relationship for your pastry need, correct?

All our needs are either met by us, or met by others. No one's needs are met fully by a second person. It's not possible. If you really think it is, you're in a codependent relationship.

She chastised me for sleeping with married women or women with significant boyfriends. She said if they weren't happy with sex, they should have broken up with the guys. I disagreed, saying that it may not be that they were unhappy with sex, but they had FORGOTTEN about passionate sex. I have a history of having passionate sex with entangled women, then turning them back to their significant others to reintroduce that flame of passion in their bedroom. In my opinion, I have succeeded almost 100% of the time.

It's amazing what a passionate man can bring to the bedroom that adapts the entire relationship for passion outside of it. I can prove, time and again, that passionate, monogamous sex is almost a barometer of non-emotional stability in a relationship.

And yet, I don't always say "yes" when an entangled woman invites me to her bedroom. In fact, I say "no" far more often. I don't just let a woman pick me up, take me home, and sleep with me. I learn about her needs, all her needs (in and out of the bedroom). I try to understand what the source of her pain and troubles may be. I try to judge if her problems stem from an honest hatred of her relationship, or something minor that can be helped.

Sometimes, I offer financial advice, as money can be the great disruptor in other parts of the relationship. More often than not, my advice revolves around trimming spending and getting a second job.

Sometimes, I offer advice regarding changing their appearance or personality. A lukewarm woman can show herself as cold and uninteresting just on dress and makeup alone. It's amazing what a significant change on the outside can do to a person on the inside. Ever get a haircut or even a car wash and just feel happy? Try it with clothes and shoes, go complete opposite.

Rarely, I offer sexual advice on how they can add spice to their sex lives, if they have them. I've written about this before as a way for married women to get their husbands interested in sex.

On VERY rare occasions, I let them proposition me to go back to my bed or theirs or a hotel room bedroom. This does not happen often, but it happens. I've never regretted it, and neither have they. If it happens, it is not just about my needs, but about re-opening a closed book in the woman, in her mind, her heart, her body, her soul. Re-opening sexual desire can re-ignite a stale relationship. But if the man has lost interest, that ignition can never happen.

The virtual friend who dumped me (or whom I dumped) hated that I used the word plebe in regards to many people. I didn't mean her, but I did mean some of the people she likely sees on a daily basis. I have no taste for the commoner whose life revolves around the EXACT SAME THING every day. I like to see people with passion in their lives in some way.

If people aren't passionate, I don't really waste my time with them. I'm on a path in my life. My life is not a single defined item. To most plebians, relationships are single defined items. I don't see it that way. As I've said before, relationships, ANY relationships, are two people ONLY who are moving on their own individual paths. Those paths are convergent for a period of time. Maybe it's the 2 years you used the same dry cleaner, or the 4 year love affair you had after college. Maybe it's with your folks, or with a neighbor.

Those relationships don't stay convergent forever. They move away, back together, criss cross, and sometimes bifurcate forever. You can't look at the relationship as a whole, but instead as a series of individual points of the two people, measure their distance from each other, track the progress.

How many relationships can be saved with infidelity? Few, not many. None, if one or either person is a plebian. But a passionate couple who has lost the spark of sexual passion CAN be reintroduced to it when one person has their eyes and soul reopened. It's usually the woman, too.

I don't regret pissing this woman off. She had nothing to offer me, really, other than hearing her sordid tales of trying to get laid with a new guy, or whatever it was that she had on her mind. She pretty much told me I will never know who she is, we'll never meet. She is worthless to me, beyond dead. I don't like virtual relationships for long. They wear me out. I can't see them talk, I have no idea if they're real, lying to me, lying to themselves.

But she didn't guilt me. If anything we ended exactly where we started: I am on a path, and she is running in circles. No loss to me. Good riddance, as I always say when a commoner points to the glow in my life and screams "sinner!" If you, too, hate what I write, you should take your leave now.

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Saturday, May 30, 2009

Losing a friend over sex

I've slept with friends and became friends with girls I've slept with. Sex has never ruined a friendship for me because my friends know that I can separate sex (a need) with love (a need). It's like separating eating hot dogs from drinking cola. They're both needs, but they don't always have to go together.

The one friend I lost over sex was an interesting situation.

Peg's dad had died. She was 23, I was 22. We were very, very close since the age of 18. Peg's dad was awesome and died under unusual circumstances. It was not expected, to say the least.

When I heard, I flew home immediately from doing business in Switzerland. I think the plane ticket cost me $3000 on cattle class. I was on a flight within 3 hours of getting the call, and back home within 11 hours.

I spent the night consoling her. I took her to the funeral. Peg and I were never more than friends, maybe even best friends. We'd judge each other's dates, we'd wingman one another, we'd laugh while riding roller coasters or riding horses or attempting to snowboard. It was a good friendship. Once, when drunk, the topic came up of why we never even kissed. I said that it was because she was hot, but not my type. She said she agreed, and I believed her.

After the funeral, I took her home and we talked until late at night. Peg and I had many late nights, and she always invited me to her bedroom to sleep. We never cuddled, never kissed, never even touched. It was just a big queen-sized bed.

This night was a bit different. There was no alcohol. In her bed, she rolled over and tossed me the ultimate High Fidelity question: "Sane, will you sleep with me?"

If you've seen High Fidelity, highlight between the lines to read the script:

“Listen, Rob, would you have sex with me? Because I want to feel something else than this. It’s either that or I go home and put my hand in the fire.”

I didn't understand her, so I told her I didn't think it was wise, because of what had happened. "That's WHY I want to sleep with you. I need to feel complete in some way." I thought about it for a good 20 minutes, and finally told her no. She kicked me out of bed.

In all honesty, I'd probably have slept with her given ANY other circumstance. She was pretty, had a great body, and I knew she wasn't cold in bed. We just never really hooked up because we found each other attractive for others, but not ourselves. So when the proposition happened, I didn't feel right about it.

We never really talked after that. I tried adding her to Facebook, but she declined. This is over a decade later. It amazes me that a friendship can be ruined from a LACK of sex. I don't think she had a crush on me or anything like that (talking to friends later confirmed that she always answered their questions saying I was cute but not her type). I believe I just dropped the ball on a friend that needed me, and I didn't fulfill her needs.

What would you have done, in my shoes, with full 20:20 hindsight?

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Friday, May 29, 2009

The Cuban that got away

I have a thing for latinas, as some people know. Not the native-descent latinas, but the ones bred of Spaniard and Andalusian bloodlines, mixed with black and caucasian and native blood over hundreds of years.

I'm sitting in a café in Miami's Little Havana district, Tinta y Café. It's probably the BEST cuban coffee purveyor in the country. It's in a strip mall that is more like Cuba than los Estados Unidos. Most people who look for it drive right past.

The friendly staff is decidedly Cuban islander, as are some of the people sitting around me. I love the Cubans: toned skin, gorgeous figures (men, too), they dance, they drink, they socialize. In Tinta y Café, you're likely to be hit up for conversation by someone else drinking a cup of fine Cuban roast.

Even though I have a thing for latinas, the Cubans have mystified me for decades. I can't seem to get a date, let alone anything beyond a date. My biggest failure is with oriental Asians: I have a 0% batting average in just getting phone numbers. My failure rate is so high that I don't even bother talking to them anymore. Cubans are a close second.

The closest I got with a Cuban was more than a few years ago, actually. We're still friends on Facebook (which is a bit scary because her and I have 10 actual mutual friends that date back 15 years for me, and I've never met her through them). She's dating a good friend of mine from a third circle, and she has pictures with 2 gals I've actually dated or slept with from a fourth and fifth circle. Scary stuff, worlds colliding.

I met her dancing in a Mexican club in Chicago. I have a few hearty Mexican friends who are right of the truck: cowboy hats, cowboy boots, tassles and fringe o their jackets. They're the perfect stereotype all over, with moustaches, whistling at cute girls that walk past, hard-as-rock hands and skin. I love the guys, and they love to take me out dancing.

We're in this Mexican club and practically every woman in there that is getting attention is nowhere near a size 2 or 4 or 6 (or 8): they're larger than I can generally handle well in bed. That's OK, because even the most handsome and sexy Mexican men are all in their face, hands on the bootie, whispering to them in Spanglish. Not my scene.

My Mexican friends ask me why I never hit on any of the women I dance with, so I tell them: "Son demasiado grandes por mi." (They're too big for me). They chuckle, interweaving why a woman with hips from heaven are good for wives. Maybe, but not this future husband. So they ask me what I like.

"Spanish olive skin, light eyes, prominent face, small tits, round ass, slim tummy, booming smile, taller than shorter." They laugh, telling me a woman like that would be ignored by the real men, the caballeros. I shake my head and go dance, edging my way towards a mass of latinas who are having fun.

Not fifteen minutes later, I hear my cowboys screaming and whistling, "Sano, sano, su princesa está allá!" I look towards the door and see 4 of the "hot ones" walk in, but behind them I make eye contact with a girl whose eyes are just over the shorter ones' heads. I'm dancing and end up stumbling a bit in shock. She makes eye contact just as I practically fall off the 6" raised dance floor, and she laughs. Damn it.

So I make a physical move of dusting myself off, just as I do when I tumble off a horse and land in a pile of dust. I didn't fall, but I'm around cowboys so the hand gestures change. I look up after checking myself out, and she's still staring at me. I smile, she smiles. I return to los cabelleros for another round of tequila shots.

The boys ask me "Why aren't you talking to that one?" I tell them about my many failures with Las Cubanas, and latinas in general. They laugh and pound me on the back, telling me she's easy prey. I disbelieve and disagree, seeing as she's the prettiest woman I've seen in a club, any club, in over a year.

As the night progresses, she's obviously being ignored. She makes shy eyes when people are talking to her gal pals, and as she sips her drink slowly, she sends me a side glance every so often. Damn it, I need to talk to this woman. I'm usually not one to get flustered and lose my confidence, but for some reason the banishment from the latin tribe over the years has taken its toll. As the night progresses, my boys keep noticing me checking her out, and her checking me out. It's driving me nuts.

Around 1am, they tell me it's now or never. Some mexican clubs have a tendency to kick people out earlier than last call because of the onslaught of people leaving the bar at the same time, causing a ruckus with the gentrified neighbors. They push me towards her, half a bar and a lifetime away, and she notices it. She laughs cutely as she returns to talking to her friends.

So I walk over there doing my best stroll. She turns her head to me and I get a bit nervous, and then the worst happens: I forget about the 6" raised dancefloor corner, clip it with my foot, and take a tumble, drink and all. Less than 4 feet from her party. No one seems to notice but her, and she gallops over as I look up and give my most embarassed grin. It looked like galloping because she was that much taller than her friends.

I get up, and she's right there. "Are you ok?" No. "Are you hurt?" My ego is bruised. "It was cute. Didn't you see that edge?" Her accent is giving me chills up my spine. I forgot. I was looking to see if you were going to leave. "I was wondering why you didn't approach. You're not latino, are you?" No.

We talk a bit, and her friends are pushing her to leave. I ask why and she admits it, "They don't like you very much." Why? "You're dressed like a gringo." I _am_ a gringo. "I know, but it's like wartime in here. Gringos get the door." I don't see you talking to anyone here. "To the guys, I'm a gringa." Oh, that sucks. What's your name? "Hondra." Huh? "It's from Alejandra." Oh, I like that. Can I call you? She smiles and pulls out a card, her number already scribbled on it. Do you keep those ready always? "I was going to give it to the bartender to give to you."

I blush. Not a minor blush, but a full-range blush that is overpowering the blue and green disco-style lamps on the dance floor. She notices it and lowers her face without breaking eye contact, her own blush pushing through the now full-lights-on club.

Thanks, I tell her. "Ok, good night." Poise, posture, princess. God damn it, I want this woman on my arm, on my lips, in my bed, on my horse, on my island, in my castle, in my world. Well, maybe that's the tequila talking, but she's amazing. Crushes suck.

I call her a week later and get her voice mail. Try again one more time, voice mail again. This is a rule: call twice, never call again. Chagrined, I delete her number and toss her card. Damn it.

Months pass and she's long forgotten. I'm already dating someone now, the French girl who wowed me at a book reading and discussion. It's not serious, but serious enough. We'd had "the talk" about being closed to dating others. And then Jandra calls. Shit.

"I'm sorry I didn't call, I had family problems and they had to be dealt with. I didn't want to bother you." You should have called and said so. "In my culture, a woman doesn't do that if she's too busy." I'm seeing someone. "Oh. Well, I am sorry, I will not call again." Damn it, I put her off. The French girl is great and all, but this woman had such an effect on me that I didn't know what to do. We said goodbye and that was that.

A year passes, the French girl and I broke up because she was moving to London. Very amicable parting, still friends on Facebook. I'm at another Mexican bar with friends, and there is Jandra. With a gorgeous latino. He's so gorgeous that I'd say he was gay, but who knows, really. Gay, or latino?

She sees me across the room and smiles. I smile back, really uncomfortable at this point because my super crush returns in full force. Fuck me, I can't win with latinas. I need to stop coming to these bars and clubs, but I love dancing, I love tequila, and I love the air of passion from all.

A few days later, she calls me. "It's Jandra." Oh, hi. "From the club a year ago." I remember you. "I say you at Black Cat the other night." I know, I saw you, too. "Why didn't you come up to me?" You were with a guy. "That's my boyfriend, but I can still have friends." I don't want to be friends. "Oh. Well, I understand. I wouldn't want to just be friends either." You don't know me. "We latinas have a sense for men from their walk and their eyes." Your boyfriend is perfect. "He is a pretty man, yes, but far from perfect." If it doesn't work out, call me. "I can't think about this now, but I have your number." Again we say goodbyes and my heart flutters a bit.

Another year passes and I'm dating a girl from Texas, half Mexican half Irish. Cute as hell, great in the sack, amazing body and face. She's really insecure, though, and I feel it won't last long until she can break herself over her issues. I'm happy, she's happy, but there's a demon in the closet, growing bigger and bigger. And, of couse, I run into Jandra at a gringo jazz club, with the Texan on my arm. Fuck. She comes to talk to me.

"Hi, again." Hi. Where's the supermodel? "It didn't work out." You didn't call me. "I got a new cell phone and honestly lost your number. I wish I had it." Oh. It's OK. This is Samantha. The ladies introduce themselves, and Jandra says her parting goodbyes and returns to her table, which is thankfully behind ours. Sam stares at her off and on, though, throwing dirty looks.

"Who is that?" Someone that never worked out. "Did you date her?" No. "Did you sleep with her?" No. "She's gorgeous, stunning." She is. So are you. Don't worry about her, she doesn't even have my number. "I'm jealous." Don't be. "She's prettier than me." She isn't, I lied. Sam doesn't believe me.

Years pass. I never call Jandra, she never calls me (not having my number). We bump into each other, over and over, but we're never single at the same damn time. She meets a guy, an old friend of mine who owns a bar. They move to Arizona in 2005. She adds me to Facebook in 2007, through the guy she's seriously dating.

We talk on the phone here and there, laughing about our mutual crushes on the other. She admits that she wished she had my number many times, just because no man has ever been so off-handed about pursuing her. I told her that every man I've seen her with is ridiculously gorgeous, but she brushes it off. "Pretty men are confident and talk to women." I'm confident, and not pretty. "You're more than pretty, you're dark and brooding and ridiculously secretive." How did you know then, we just started talking recently? "Latina women can tell."

She never married that bar owner, and they broke up in 2008. We still talk, and she's with another guy, a better guy, not as gorgeous at all, but solid. She said they're going to marry, make her grandmother happy. I'm glad for her, and will likely attend her wedding. But the crush still reignites on occasion when I think of the one Cuban who got away. Would it have worked? Probably not, but damn it, I wanted her flesh on my flesh, her heart against my heart, her smile beaming at me, even her hair in my shower drain and her tampons in my medicine cabinet.

That's how it is when timing isn't right. Time. It's fleeting. It falls away. We miss opportunities, connections, loves, affairs, jobs, parties, funerals, weddings, births, and all. Sometimes it isn't chemistry or attraction, it isn't a lack of desire or hope. It's time. Don't let it pass you by one more day. Take a risk. Jump on the smallest shred of hope and learn from your failures. It'll make you a better person. It did for me.

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Thursday, May 28, 2009

A Touch (A Fantasy), Part II

This is a multi-part story that starts with Part I.

We continue our embrace, your arms pulling me into you, grabbing my back, my shoulders, my arms and my ass. I keep my hands off of you, pressed up against your head to prevent me from smothering you with my attacking kissing. We break to catch our breath, and I roll you over, me on my back, you on top of me.

I tell you I want your breath on my body. You slink down to my neck, attempting to kiss my neck. I push your head away slightly and feel your breath on my body. I shudder slightly at your warm breath, and you try to kiss me again as I push you away once more time. Just breathe on me.

You pull my shirt off my shoulder and move your mouth to my shoulder, again trying to taste my flesh as I pull you off. Just your breathe. Your hands are on my skin, and your lips are bare millimeters from my tanned body. Your face moved down to my chest and your mouth breaths warm air on my nipples, on my chestbone, on my ribs as you work your way down my body. Every time you try to kiss my body, to lick my body, I pull your hair harder to punish you for violating my rule.

You work down to my abs and I shudder again as your breath runs through my belly hair. Your hands are on my belt as you unbuckle it, popping the fly buttons from my jeans. No lips, I remind you. You pull my jeans under my ass and I lift it as you pull them clean from my body. Your face is less than an inch from my cock, still hidden from my boxers but showing the urgency of my need to be in your mouth, in your throat.

Your breath leaves my boxers and my cock and moved down to my thigh, causing me to slightly arch my back. In doing so, your lips touch my thigh accidentally, but I pull on your hair harder to remind you what you're allowed to do.

Your head shifts down to my knees, one of my most sensitive spots. As you breath on my knees and inhale my body's scent, my cock jumps in my underwear. You look up and notice, an evil smile on your face, mixed with your own frustration from not being able to touch me with your mouth.

As you're down by my knees, you hand snakes up and pulls my boxers down to my knees. You crawl up slowly, using one hand to slide off my boxers and your other hand lands on my hip. Your face is now inches from my cock. You open your mouth, as wide as possible, and try to put your mouth over my cock without touching it. Every time you fail, I pull on your hair, causing you to scream once from the pleasurable pain. To punish me, you hold your mouth over over my cock, now pointing up and ending at my belly button. Off your tongue comes a large drop of spit, dripping onto the underside of my cock head, causing it to jump and emit its first dose of precome.

You breathe your way back up my body, to my face as you breathe onto my mouth. I unzip your jeans and remove them completely, then use my hands and feet to remove your panties, too. You kick off your socks over the edge of the bed, and lay on me, your tits on my chest, your pussy on my cock, your face close to mine. We stare into each other's eyes and kiss again, deeper than before. I can taste your hunger for me on your lips, on your tongue as it enters my mouth.

"Fuck me now" you tell me, pushing your wet pussy lips up and down my rockhard cock. No, not yet. I roll you over onto your belly, my cock resting between your checks as I torment your back with my own breath.

I start at each shoulder, pausing to warm your neck when I pull your hair above your head. After the shoulders, I work down and up each arm, slowly, finding the spots where my breath's warmth and pressure cause you to wriggle. I pin your hands down sideways to prevent you from daring to touch your clit for release and relief. When I get to your spine, I let a little spit drizzle off my tongue, then breath out a warm gust of air following by a slow cold exhale. Your body writhes, goosebumps form, tingles move from your head to your toes.

Your moans get louder. "Please, fuck me, please." I slide my cock from between your cheeks and work my way down your back, stopping at your sides with a large open mouth of slow warm breathing. Your goosebumps appear every time I do this, and when I breath slowly and move across the bottom of your back, the goosebumps follow my breath.

I continue to drip some of my saliva onto your spine, watching your goosebumps disappear for a second and then return as my breath down. I get to your cheeks and breath on them softly, watching the same goosebumps form. I pull your cheeks apart slightly and let my spit fall into your ass, giving you shudders from the touch that you need. I let go of your arms and remind you to keep them there as my face ventures between your slightly parted legs, my breath on your pussy, your clit, your thighs. You squeeze them together tightly to try to grab my head, so I slap your ass hard, leaving a red mark.

Your scream is cut short with a bite of your lip, and I can tell from your scent that you knew you deserved it. As I work my way down your legs, you moan "No, please, lick my pussy, eat it," which I ignore. Your thighs, the back of your knees and your calves are incredibly sensitive, so I focus more on the areas that cause you to stick your gorgeous ass up in the air slightly, as if to meet my cock plunging into your wet pussy. I laugh evilly when you realize I'm not there against you.

Then I get to your feet.

(To be finished in Part III)

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Room Mates

I'd known Carla for years. Her and I dated for maybe 6 weeks. It was a beautiful short term relationship. Both of us had gotten out of longer relationships, with us being the breaker-uppers. We met at a wine tasting, with her admiring my happy attitude and talkative rapport with other guests. She approached me.

We chatted, sipping wine, laughing about some of the horrible plonk the store was trying to pawn off on those who don't know better. We chatted about cheese, about favorite secret wine bars, about cigars. She was younger than I would have guessed (25, I guessed 27), but right in line with my age range. I was 23 myself.

She wrote down her number on the back of a business card. "Don't call the number on the face, I let that one go to voice mail." Home number? "Yeah. Call me when you want to get together again." I would.

I was doing a lot of travel, so I honestly didn't get around to calling her the next week but the week after. She answered when I called at 7pm on a Thursday night. We chatted for about 10 minutes, and I pitched her the idea to get together the following week. She was busy both nights (Monday and Tuesday) but said she'd make any other day free, offering Wednesday. "I'll buy." I agreed, and appreciated that she'd cover the date because she counteroffered.

The date went well, and we slept together on the third date. It was a little bit out of the blue: she was interested in me, certainly, but I felt that her attraction towards me fell short. After our short term love affair came to a close (mutual), she did admit to me that I was not really her body type, but that she loved my energy and mood. We agreed to be friends, and we were.

For years Carla and I would run into each other in very odd ways: I met her at a wine tasting in Kentucky (don't knock it, some Kentucky wines are really good). I ran into her crossing planes in Denver (she was getting off the plane I was going to board). I ran into her in Chicago on occasion, once doubling up our mutual dates into a 4some that was hilarious and a little bit scary (I think my date liked her date, oops).

We'd hang out at her place, popping open old bottles of wine I discovered on my regular treks to France. Sometimes they were amazing, other times they were vinegar, or worse.

In 2001, she called me up and said her roommate needed an uplifting experience. Her boyfriend of 6 years was cheating on her, and she needed to just drink and drown her sorrows. Who better to take a sad gal out than Sane, she thought. I agreed, and we made plans for the next night.

That night was a raging experience of ridiculousness. I hired a limo since the 3 of us were going to get plastered. I set us up with bottle service across the city, and we hit 3 clubs before 4am closed us off. The limo took us back to their place, with her roommate, drunk, falling asleep on the couch. She hit her bedroom, so I took the roommates bed myself. My head was spinning even when I woke up at 7am.

They were knocked out, so I took it on myself to help them out during this depressing time. I did their dishes, cleaned up the bathroom, and even ran 2 loads of laundry for them. Breakups can cause total shutdown of the person dumped or the person hurt. There's nothing wrong with pitching in for friends when they need you. I know some women are aghast at the idea of a man doing their laundry or cleaning their bathroom, but it was the least I could do.

Around 1pm, the roommates still blacked out, I returned to the roommates room to take a nap. I needed it, I was dead tired from working hard for the past 5 hours. Around 4pm, I woke up to the roommate, Ela, kissing my cheek. I slowly opened my eyes to figure out who it was, and found her in her bed with me.

"Good morning. Afternoon, I guess. I noticed you cleaned up around here." Yeah, I'm an early riser, regardless of what time I get to bed. "Thanks. You have no idea how much I needed that done, and not by me." Of course I know, I've been there. You're kissing me. "That's not the only thing I need."

I turned to her and pressed against her and enveloped her in my arms and my mouth. She moaned quickly, and often. "I need you today." I smiled and nodded. As our clothes slowly fell away and the sun was beating through the window around 5pm, her door opens. Carla notices what's going on and yelps a bit. "Whoa, you two, what the fuck?"

I turn to look at her closer and smile. She came to me, not the other way around. "It's cool. He's mine for today," Ela told her. Carla seemed a bit perplexed, but she closed the door behind her and ventured into the room. "How about we take care of that thing?" she told Ela.

Ela looked at me, Carla looked at me. What thing? "You know. Have your way with both of us." I smile and explained to them that the fantasy is usually better than the reality. Unless they had any digs for one another. "No, just you. Ela knows about our wild ride so long ago," Carla said, in a cute-but-sexy manner.

Ok, but understand I'm just one little boy. "I didn't think you lied," Carla chuckled. She was in bed with us, down to her panties and bra, snuggling in behind me as I returned to kissing her roommate.

I kissed Ela, but also kissed Carla. Ela grabbed Carla's hand when I removed her bra and nuzzled up against her breasts. Carla had the best nipples I had ever seen, and she definitely liked attention on them. I made sure to do it teasingly, but didn't avoid them as I usually do. Ela, who had much smaller boobs, didn't like them played with so much (maybe because she wasn't secure with their smaller size). I teased her too, and the two girls held hands while I wandered their arms, their bellies, their thighs and their calves. At one point, both completely naked, they hooked one leg each over at the knee, giving me a great view and a quick path to switching roommates.

I asked them why they didn't kiss. "Ummm," said Ela, "it's a bit weird." I looked up and saw that Carla was looking at Ela, with Ela looking at me. Don't you find her amazingly attractive? Ela turns to Carla, and Carla kisses her. That's better.

And what a kiss it was. The hands that were previously held starting pawing at the other's body. If it was a guy and a gal, I would yell at the guy for being such a tiger, but in this case there might have been months of pent up desire from one combined with intrigue from the other. I proceeded to go down on Ela, who was obviously more turned on that Carla. While they kissed and bit and pinched and pulled at each other, I brought Ela off in my mouth in very short order.

I got out of my boxers as I stood up to go wash up. The girls were entwined in each other, with Carla on top of Ela, kissing her deeply, both running theirs hands through each other's brown locks. It was quite a site.

I came back in and searched for condoms. "They're in the bottom drawer," said Ela. I found them and tore a package to get one on. Ela had her legs spread with Carla on top, both their mounds touching and rubbing. I spread Carla's legs as best as I could and pushed in. Carla's pussy is the perfect tightness for me, and she never was worn out even if I fucked her for hours. I forgot how much I loved it: not too wet initially, but it would get wetter and wetter as I pumped into her.

Carla came in less than 20 minutes and Ela held her as she did. That was sex worth waiting so many years for again. As Carla relaxed, I started to pull her slowly from Ela's mouth. They were kissing for over an hour. Carla's darker skin was beautiful on Ela's pale skin, but I wanted to see more. Carla grabbed at the sheets a bit, knowing what I was doing as her face passed Ela's neck, her tits, her belly. As her own pussy was sitting over the edge of the bed, her face was perfectly aligned with Ela's. She looked a bit nervous as she threw me a side-glance. Ela looked down and begged for her to do it.

She did.

I hadn't come yet, so I removed my condom and went to the top of the bed, sticking my hard cock in Ela's mouth. She wasn't that talented, but the sounds of her moans pushing through the sound of spit and precum was amazing. I grabbed the back of her head, turned sideways toward me, and slowly pushed my cock head deeper into her mouth and throat. She gagged once in awhile, but eventually loosened up and I was able to slowly slide into her almost fully. Her eyes would always open whenever I breached the back of her throat, but she didn't gag again. When I turned to see Carla lapping up at her, I had enough. I warned her that I was going to come, and pulled my cock out just in time for my first stream to spurt across the edge of her chin and onto her tits. The second stream was a lot stronger, landing closer to her belly and some into Carla's long hair. The third one landed on her tits, and the fourth in her open mouth.

As she accepted the rest of my load, she came. She had her hands in Carla's hair, running her fingers through the hair, my come load, and her scalp. She came hard, too, harder than when I went down on her. As she was coming down, Carla crept up to her, running her tongue up her body, picking up some of my come along the way. She looked up at Ela, and then looked at my face and smiled. Some of my come was on her chin, too. It was a lovely view.

I was still hard, holding back my orgasm so I wouldn't make too big of a mess. Some women are picky about come on their bodies, on their faces, in their throats, so I wanted to be a gentleman and reduce the mess. "You still taste amazing," said Carla. "Yeah, you do. I could go for more of that," said Ela. Carla rolled off of Ela, and the two of them noticed my cock was still hard.

"You fucked me, you gave her head, what's next?" asked Carla. I grabbed another condom from the night stand as I stuck my cock in Carla's mouth. She was amazing at head, one of the best. Surprisingly, Ela took it deeper and with fewer problems, but Carla just knew how to do it right. In a few minutes, I shoved her face from my crotch and put a condom on.

Carla rolled over Ela to her left, and I approached her from her right. I grabbed her legs and turned her 90 degrees. I pulled her waist to the edge of the bed and asked her to pull her pussy lips apart. She was still wet, and did what I told her.

I stuck my cock head right up to her pussy and waited. "Please." What? "Fuck me, please." I did. Slowly, but with deep force, I pushed inside. Ela was ridiculously tight, and I didn't want to tear her. After a few minutes, she was opening up to me, incredibly wet and gorgeous with my cum smeared on her body and chin. I was standing, and Carla knelt on top of her face, her pussy put right up to Ela's lips. Sadly, I was not able to kiss Carla as her roommate licked her clit, but I put my hands all over Ela's body, caressing her with every stroke in and out of her.

I pumped hard into Ela's tight pussy, it grabbing me with each stroke. She had her hands on Carla's thighs, and I could see her tongue stabbing at Carla's clit and into her pussy. It was an incredible site, and I actually had to focus on what I was doing or I'd have come too quickly for sure.

We fucked in that position for 15 minutes when Carla said she was tired. I pulled Ela out without warning, flipped her onto her belly and told Carla to lay down so she could finish. As I pounded into Ela in this position, she started to moan loader, which caused Carla to moan from the clit tickling she was getting. I licked my finger and shoved it into Ela's tight ass as she came on my cock, on my finger, her tongue on Carla's pussy and her hands on her hips.

As Ela came, I forced another finger into her ass and pushed down, feeling my cock pumping inside. Carla saw what I was doing, and then she herself came. I kept pumping into Ela as she came down, and Carla finished her orgasm at almost the same time. Carla's hands fell to the sheets, and she collapsed on Carla's mound.

I pulled out of her pussy, and I snuggled up to both of them as Ela also found motivation to move up to nuzzle into Carla's neck. I pulled my condom off, knowing neither gal was able to handle anymore.

The sun had set.

Finally Carla looked up and noticed I was stroking my cock. "Not done?" I can finish. She nudged Ela, who may have dozed off. Ela rolled over onto her back, and I knelt up near her face. I popped my cock into Ela's sleepy mouth, and she grinned. Carla reached up and stroked the base of my cock as I fed it only partially into Ela's mouth. "Come for us, Sane. On us, whatever you want." It didn't take long with them both begging me to shoot my second load.

And I did. I came across their tits, their necks. Carla licked some off of Ela's neck as I shot my third load into her forehead and hair. Ela finished my final spurts in her mouth, with Carla licking her clean of any evidence of the fact that I emptied a big load across her body. I collapsed, with Ela rolling over to cuddle against me, and Carla spooning into her roommate.

We all napped for a few hours, one of the roommates waking us all up at midnight. "I'm fucking hungry." I turned on the lamp on the nightstand and looked at the room. It was a mess: clothes strewn everywhere, condoms and wrappers on the floor, two beautiful 20-somethings in a bed I was napping in just half a day ago. I kissed Ela, then Carla, and asked what they wanted to eat.

We ended up driving to a Burger King that was open late: Carla wearing Ela's shirt, Ela wearing Carla's. We talked and laughed and told stupid jokes. We all ate double Whoppers, drinking Diet Colas, munching on onion rings. At 2am, I dropped them off, getting a last kiss from Ela who sat in the front seat. We all had a great need fulfilled, and I knew it wouldn't happen again.

Ela and I fucked a few times after that, with Carla's blessing. Carla was sort of seeing someone and it was taking a serious turn, plus the roommates discussed the threesome a few days later and both loved each other more for it, but were not looking to duplicate a night of lust and passion and desire and love. I don't think they've done it again, but I still talk to both on Facebook, and I wonder if all 3 of us will be single, lonely, and hot for contact. They don't live with each other anymore, but one can dream.

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First Date Expectations

I'm a dating son-of-a-bitch. I like to date, for many reasons:

1. I get to meet a large variety of women, some way outside of my usual attraction areas.
2. I get to have fun with someone new, adding a little more excitement to life.
3. It's always an ego-boost.
4. It helps to try many brands before you settle on one.

I am also a tough inspector. I would say that 70% of women I date once don't get the chance for #2. I'm rough. I have very high expectations for a first date. And no, I will never accept "She's having a bad day" as a reason to violate my rules.

My rules for first dates are simple:

1. If she doesn't touch me, she's out. A woman's touch is the supreme indicator of physical attraction. She's got 2 hours, then she's relegated to friendship status. There is absolutely no chance of anything serious once that happens.
2. If she talks about exes, she shouldn't be focused on one. I don't date women who are hung up on a guy. Get over him, he's just a guy. It didn't work out, move on.
3. If her cell phone comes out more than once, I end the date immediately. I don't care what is going on in life (best friend is going through a breakup, dog is sick, etc, etc, etc): if you're out with me, you're convincing ME to go on a second date.
4. If she's scanning the room constantly, she's out. Focus on me, or focus on us.
5. She has to smile and laugh at least sometimes. Overly serious women are never called back.

It's harsh, and I know it is. I am, by far, one of the best catches out there. I don't lie, I don't cheat, I don't steal. I am financially comfortable, but don't brag about it. I know every restaurant, dive bar, club and secret digs. I'm hella fun, cute-but-not-hot, a great dancer, and I'm a rocket in the sack. I don't need to lower my standards. There are likely 100,000 women in my dating spec in Chicago alone, not including the burbs. Be special, show interest.

So I called the gal I met at a bike shop last week. She was attractive, she definitely shot me eye contact throughout the store. I'm fairly certain she came to the accessory area I started talking to her in, in hopes of me talking to her. She gave me her number, fast. When I called today, she said she was very excited that I called her and wasn't expecting me to.

She reminds me, a little, of Winona Ryder: small frame, big eyes, short hair, great smile. Way outside of my usual spec for dating, but I like to change things up. Our phone conversation was very simple:

Her: "Hello?"
Me: "Hi, it's Sane."
Her: "From the bike shop?"
Me: "That's right."
Her: "Oh, I'm really excited you called. I didn't think you would."
Me: "Why's that?"
Her: "You seemed like you were in a rush. Didn't have time to talk."
Me: "I prefer to do that over drinks or appetizers. Let's get together next week."
Her: "Ok, what day were you thinking?"
Me: "I'm free Tuesday and Wednesday. Day or night, depending on your work schedule."
Her: "I can move things around. Tuesday is great."
Me: "Ok. Where do you live?"
Her: "Just south of Skokie in Chicago."
Me: "Give me your address and I'll pick you up at 8."
Her: (gives address) "8 is great."
Me: "Perfect. Gotta run, I'll see you Tuesday at 8."

Done. Easy, quick, simple, over. I have no desire to talk to her on the phone. We didn't swap email addresses. I gave her two options, she picked one. If she said no to both, the game is over, then and there. I will accept a woman who offers a counter-date, because schedules can be packed, but I really don't have time for a woman who is so uninterested in me that she won't adapt for a first date. Again, there are many fish in the sea.

On Tuesday, I'll pitch her two options: a bar for drinks, or a restaurant for apps. Of those two picked, I'll pitch her two options for places to go. I offer simple options, she does the choosing. This keeps it exciting for her to guide the night, with me doing the final picking. It's win-win.

I don't have a lot of hope for the date, but who knows? I'm in a real crux right now in terms of what I can afford to offer a woman. I definitely don't want a girlfriend at the moment. I don't need any more friends, either. If it gets past a first date, I will lay down what I'm looking for on date #2. I don't like to waste time getting to know someone who is obviously not a match for me, and vice versa.

Methinks she'll be a great girl, probably a great girlfriend for someone. I just have that feeling. But I like dating, I love first dates, and you never know what chemistry can happen in a short 2-hour meet-and-greet.

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Unpaid Rent: Evicting a "Friend"

I got some heat (in comments, in emails, in chats, and even one on the phone) over what I said a few days ago about getting rid of some gal pals who offer me nothing. In real life, most of my friends agree.

Miguel, my gay hot mama, told me I'm absolutely right. Miguel is usually right about women issues, as odd as that sounds. Maybe he's hiding a pair of ovaries.

On the other hand, a confidant of mine said that I'm stupid for nuking some friends: she said that having a bunch of sideliners means I will always have something to do.

I'm going with Miguel on this one: Gay Male 1, Straight Female 0.

Let's look at the relationships I want to break off:

1. We're JUST friends (either I don't find her attractive, or vice versa)
2. We only hang out when I send the invitation
3. They never call/email/text unless it's something emotionally wracking
4. When we do hang out, they're all about me being a wingman for all of 15 minutes
5. When we do hang out, it's always about them
6. Some actually think it's OK for me to buy them dinner and drinks all the time
7. There is no chance of anything changing
8. Their complaints or items of sadness never change

Honestly, I see not one reason to keep them in my life. There are a few I'd consider moving to fuck buddy status (at least I get something out of it), but I'm not their type, or they prefer to play the field until it's brown and muddy. That's not my type.

I talked to Miguel yesterday for a bit, and we made a list of 11 women who are ready for the chopping block. I'm fairly lucky because I'm in the driver's seat in terms of handling it easily. Here's how I break it off with a friend:

1. Delete them from Facebook. People rarely notice right away.
2. Delete them from my phone contact. If they text me, I won't know who they are anyway. Experience: people aren't too happy when you text them "Who is this?" It's usually a sign that I have no time for them anymore
3. Don't prioritize them in my Inbox. I get about a billion actual emails a day. Thanks to Google's filters, I setup many people in various priority groups (tags) and go through those groups in order of importance. People not in a priority group get dumped to the basic Inbox area, and it can take me 2-3 weeks to get back to them.

Of the 11 who I am getting rid of, ASAP, 4 won't notice. 4 will notice, but only after they're screwed over by another identical moron they're dating who does the same shit as the last one, only hoping to get in their pants. 3 will notice right away, but there's no time to spend reinvigorating a friendship.

Like a stale serious relationship, stale friendships are better off gone. The amount of time and expense I spend trying to keep a friendship from getting stale is not worth my time. I meet new people every day, and many of them are more aggressive about sticking to my secret rules of being in my life.

I will miss 2 of them, both gals that I'd have liked to pursue as more than friends, but was rebuffed. I did like spending time with them, but I was breaking a rule: get turned down, keep your crush, lose the friend. Pretty simple rule, and I almost always abide by it.

I don't have any sadness when I do this. It happens about every 6 months. You know who your friends are, you know who your friends aren't. I'm actually happier knowing I'm getting rid of dead weight, and I'm starting my eviction process today. I'll post updates to see how many notice, and how long it takes.

Sidenote: This is NOT passive aggressive. Someone who has no interest in generating ideas on things to do is pretty much useless as a friend. It's too one-sided, and I don't have time for one-sided relationships of any kind. Let it be a lesson to those who are pursuing people and not getting pursued back: send them packing.

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Monday, May 25, 2009

The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus

I am sad that The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus, a film by my favorite director Terry Gilliam, is getting horrible reviews at Cannes. I've attended Cannes twice in my life, and it's not for me. Pompous, self-congratulatory and self-serving Hollywood types that I want nothing to do with.

But I had very high hopes for this film. The Gilliam trilogy of fantasy are my favorite movies to this day. This would be the 4th, and I believe I will still love it. I can't wait until opening day September 9, but I think I'll get at least 2 sneak previews before then.

The character played by the late Heath Ledger, Tony, reminds me of me. In many circles, I am a mysterious outsider, as Tony is. Due to Ledger's death, the character of Tony has shifting faces played by Depp, Law and Farrell. I, too, have shifting faces, sometimes to the surprise of people who have known me for decades.

The troupe of characters in the movie come across Tony as he is about to be hanged. They know nothing of his past. I have a dark past that I don't share with others. Friends and lovers have queried me, but I remain silent. Also, I have a memory that loses pieces of itself when I don't write about my experiences.

Tony has a wit for comedic dialogue, as do I. The troupe Tony joins is on a path to save a girl. My life has seemed centered around being the ears and arms for helping many women through troubling times, although I do not consider myself a "saver."

Tony is an outsider, as am I. We say things that others don't believe or understand. We see things that others miss or are too busy to figure out.

It's an intriguing character, and I wonder what else we have in common. I guess it's 3 more months, at most, to find out.

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The Touch (A Fantasy), Part I

You tried it again. You tried to touch me and I smoothly avoided it while looking like I had no idea you even attempted it.

I can be smooth like that. I know you want to touch me again. The first time you did, it took you 3 tries in an hour, I was so good at avoiding it. When your hand finally fell on my back as we walked, I could hear the sizzle that went from your palm, up your arm, into your shoulder, and through your torso. I smiled inside, but my outside was completely smooth.

That second touch took you longer. You managed to snag the cuff of my dress shirt (epic fail reach for the hand), you almost touched my neck but my mop of hair got in the way. When I grabbed you to lift you off your feet, your hands almost made it around my back but I dumped you down, stepped backwards, and asked what you were doing jumping on me like that.

I laughed and turned away. You laughed too, but I could see the look of chagrin on your face, peripherally.

Why do you want to touch me so bad? What do I have to offer you that the other guys harassing you with late night texts and daytime emails don't? They're attractive men or boys, they sort of have a good way of pretending to have their shit together. They've slept with far more women than I have, and you still keep them around. Why aren't you going after them on this gorgeous afternoon? It makes little sense.

Maybe it's because you know I'm avoiding your hands. Sometimes I make it obvious, but most of the time, I don't.

So when you finally push me against a wall and grab my hands, I can see that all the waiting and teasing was worth it. The look in your eyes of anger and frustration and domination melts when I pull you towards me and you kiss me. Is that the touch you're waiting for? The way your body falls limp in my arms leads me to believe it's part of it, but not everything.

When we break from The Kiss, you try to grab my hands but I pull them behind my back, spin away from the wall, and ask you what is taking you so long, we'll be late, get your ass in gear, little girl. There's that face of anger, of frustration, of the desire to dominate me. Not now, little girl.

I can tell you want to scream "I'm a woman," but you know how much I laugh at people that have to use words to explain what they are. It's one reason I don't explain what I do for a living. Words are unimportant. You increase the speed of your step, and when I hear your footfalls are closer I walk faster. We're almost there.

The show was fun. You stood slightly behind me, to my left. I noticed, peripherally again, that your eyes went from the band to my face and back. I never turned around to look. When I felt your body step forward to be closer to me, I turned quickly and said I would go get another round of drinks. There's that face again. Your hand pops up to touch my arm when you say thank you, but I turned and walked too quickly. Another epic fail for you.

We leave the show and you're looking perplexed. I ask if I should hail you a cab as we approach my car. It's obvious what you want and who should give it to you. Or are you taking the cab to meet up with him later? I forgot. I am forgetful, but I didn't forget this. You had late plans, and I am just fine with taking my leave and finding another place to retreat to. You bite your lip, look down at your shoes. If you prefer, I can wait with you here. You know I don't drive women to meet guys. Ever.

"Can we hang out more?" you finally ask. If that's what you want, but I'd hate for you to do this to me if I was the guy waiting for you later. Go see him. I'll be around, we'll hang out again.

You step forward to give me a hug but I unlock my car door and open it. Be safe, and have some fun! No hug. No kiss. Just a wink and I'm in my car. My engine is on before you can say anything, but my window is closed anyway. You wander off and find your own cab.

The date with him wasn't as good as it intended. He pawed at you, grabbed at you, said inappropriate things that sounded funny at first but thinking back were completely a doofus showing his card at a high stakes poker table. He's really not that manly. Sexy, maybe. Attractive, for sure. But he's a wimp on the inside. His muscles could possibly harm my body, but my mind and my depth and my attention to details would leave him panting, bloody, and broken. There's no match for a man, not this man.

When you texted me at 11, I ignored it. You tried hitting me up on chat, I closed the window on my phone. I'm having fun, with a new friend, in some random bar. Finally, you call. I answer. "I'm free, want to come by?" I'm busy, but how about next Tuesday? "Oh. If you free up tonight, just come over." We'll see. Good night.

I could hear your voice cringe at the thought that I might end up in someone else's bed. Maybe she's more feminine, or prettier, or wears nicer clothes. Maybe her tits are bigger (or better yet, smaller). Maybe she shed that tummy fat now instead of 4 weeks from now. Maybe she's a woman, what if I think you're just a girl?

I really don't, We all have issues, we all have frustrations, we all have needs and desires and goals that aren't being met. I'm just better at looking past those problems myself. I'm not Mr. Perfect. I'm not Mr. Right. I'm not Mr. Everything. I'm Sane, and you know me by the way I walk and talk and smile and listen.

I decide to bail on Little Miss Better Than You, so I call you at midnight. You answer in 1 ring. Desperate much? I'm on my way, I hope you're not too tired. You sound it, and I mention that.

I get there and you're nursing a cup of coffee instead of the usual shitty beer you like to drink when you're down. Your eyes are awake, your makeup was recently touched up, and your hair looks fantastic. My hands are behind my back and I display two DVDs for you to choose from. You look at both and smile weakly. Movie night! "Oh, ok."

I sit on the single chair in your living room, leaving the huge, big, make-out-friendly couch for you. Your throw your feet over, aiming at me, and we put in a DVD. I watch, still noticing you watching me. "Do you want to sit over here?" I'm comfortable in the chair, you relax, you need it. "Oh, I don't mind." You deserve it. "Oh." Back to watching the movie.

I offer to pour a glass of wine, but you have none. Beer doesn't do my body justice, so I grab a bottle of water from your fridge and ask if you want anything. When I bring you a glass of cold, filtered water and put it on the table in front of you, your hand covers the hand I have on the glass. I look at your face, and as my hand leaves the glass you pull me down to you, on top of you, covering you. Instead of kissing you, I look at your face, giving you my best isn't-that-cute face. Your face shows stronger anger, desire, need than ever before. Your hands run up my entire body, over my shoulders and neck to my face. You pull me in for another kiss, maybe bigger and better than The Kiss, because you needed this so badly. Why don't people give you what you need, instead taking what they want?

We kiss until you can't stand it anymore. You try to remove my clothes, your clothes, anything that will allow you to touch me much closer, much more intimately. I refuse, pushing your hands above your head, holding them down so you can't remove anything. I kiss you again, then work my mouth down to a button that I deftly remove with my teeth and lips alone. You moan.

I have to remove my hands from your hands, blue from the force I used to keep you at bay. As I move down your torso, slowing removing buttons, you try to force your hands down further to do it yourself. I almost bite your hand in punishment for you moving too quickly. Finally, your work shirt opens, and I work my way back up your body, staying as close to the middle with my lips as possible. Can you even feel my lips, touching so softly as to possibly go unnoticed? Your breathing proves you do.

As I get closer to you, I fend off your hands from my side, from my chest, from my back. I move my face up to yours, and finally allow you to touch my face and my neck, to pull me into you. I accept your kisses, and start to kiss back myself.

"I want to take my shirt off." I already did. "No, completely off." Ok. Close your eyes when you do. You close your eyes, and remove your shirt. You also remove your bra, eyes still closed. I push my body against yours, my chest now unclothed as well. You open your eyes and I kiss you for the first time. Your hands touch my back and you shudder; this time I don't force you away.

To Be Continued in Part II

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Sane's List of Predicaments, Item #2: Fake Spooning

The Stace decided to call me this afternoon. I've been praying for a distraction for 2 days now, but I'm not sure there is on person in my life that would know how. Tuesday (tomorrow) I visit another horse for lease. A big one. But the weather looks crappy. Indoor training area is not the same as birds, cars zipping by, and other noises to see if the horse is easily distracted. An ex-racer gelding of supreme height, I hope it's a fit.

She called, for I believe the first time ever. I can't recall if I gave her my number. I did call her once. But it's all over the Internet, so looking me up is easy. I've had the same cell phone number for 13 years. No one who wants to keep in touch has an excuse not to.

I answered. "Hi, Sane?" Good afternoon, Stace. "Just seeing how you are." I'm good, you? "You're always good. I'm fine. Work is hectic lately. Long weekend, and I guess I find myself bored today." I'm a bit bored myself, hard to make plans when all my friends are hungover. "Want to get together this week?"

Hmm. I considered it. We had really, really, really good sex. She's gorgeous. Great body, amazing mouth, tits a guy like me could die for. She finds me attractive and said so, twice.

I'm not sure getting together is a good idea. "I've thought about you lately. Well, since that night." There's not much to think about, you don't even know me, really. "That's why I've been thinking about you. You say you're an open book, but I don't really know much of anything." Google me, it's all out there. "I did. Geez, you have stuff online going back to the late 80s. Was the Internet around back then?" You were probably 3 years old then. I've been around a lot. "I'd say. Are you seeing anyone?" There are some opportunities. If they're interested. "So that's no. Ralph's left me alone since we hung out." That's good. You need your space.

I didn't ask her if she's seeing anyone. She should be. At her age, long term relationships can lead to BAD rebounds. She needs to flex her independence. I told her so. "I am independent. I just wouldn't mind more guys who hear me and see me for who I am." It's not hard. Get away from what you typically like. You'll be surprised. "I've dated. I'm not surprised." Date different. "So you really don't want to hang out?" I do, but I don't see it working out. You have a fantasy about me that isn't real. I'm just a normal, boring, average guy. You deserve much better. "We can just get coffee." I don't think you and I can ever just get coffee. "Ok. Call me sometime." I might do just that. "Bye. Hope things are OK." They are. Thanks for calling.

I need a distraction something fierce. I real distraction, not just virtual stuff. I love the virtual stuff, and I'm making headway into some real friendships, but the face-time is something I need more of. So instead of waiting for my friends to get back into town, I'm going to write. I'm going to write 20, 30 articles to post at a future date.

This is one of them.

Oh how I love a woman in my bed. Who doesn't? She's there because she wants to be there. It's comfortable, we're both worn out, and we're just lazy enough to stay where we are.

Post-sex, I'm into the spooning. Not because I love you, not because I need you, not because I want you; it's just a great end to all the writhing, pumping, hair pulling, teeth grinding, surprised-eyes, oops-theres-spooge-on-your-ear night of frisky behavior.

Here's the problem: spooning for me is very, very temporary. I have a BIG bed (king sized) in a small room. I love my space in bed. I tend to sleep off to one side of the bed so I can kick one naked leg out from under the covers and over the side. That gives me room to stretch my other leg way out, my arm way out, and my cat can still take her own space.

When a lover stays over, I will usually spoon until she's asleep, and then roll over to my side and stay there all night. If she's one of those types that prefers waking up in my arms, I'll respoon before she gets up. It's a bit of arcane wizardry or trickery, how I know when someone else will wake up and be up and in position before they do. Sometimes it's having coffee ready, other times it might be me sneaking out of my own place to give her some personal space after.

I know some women love the all night spoon, but it's not me. I wish it was, really. I'm not anti-you, I'm glad you're here and that we combined bodies for a few hours. It's not your body, it's not your heart, I just love my place and my space. I once had a lover who used to spoon me and I could never sleep. I need a little room (read: a LOT) and even when I'm solo my king size isn't enough. This is a reason why threesomes usually end up with me hitting the road. 1 person in a king size is almost too much, 2 people can get entangling, and 3 people? Forget it. Unless they're munchkin sized and sleep at the foot of the bed horizontally. Maybe even then it won't work.

I've been called out on my spooning trickery. "I woke up to get water at night and you were way over there. What's wrong?" It's not that I don't like you or Little Fire Hydrant wouldn't be putting out your fire inside. It's not that I am selfish (wait, I am) or hate the touch of a woman. I just like to open my own body up to the open air or my own blanket and not get sweaty and restricted when I sleep.

It's ok, though. If you come over when I get my bed back, you can take the bed and I'll hit the couch. That way we both get what we want: during the passionate moments, and after. Unless you're a full-night-spooner, then we'll have to talk.

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Why I can't change. Why I won't change.

I see it often, in real life, on blogs, via email: people making decisions to change something about themselves, something significant.

I'm not talking about getting your hair cut, bleaching your teeth excessively, or trying a new style of clothes. I'm talking about a lifestyle decision.

Recent ones I've heard in the past 2 weeks:

"I'm going to stop sleeping around with guys who are bad for me."
"I'm going to lose weight."
"I'm going to go back to school."
"I'm going to find a second job."
"I'm going to move to New York." (times 15 people)
"I'm going to pay off my debt."

Some of these, on the surface, are really important changes. The difficulty that I have with all of these statements is that they have a fleetingly temporary feel to them. It's not about permanent change, not internally, but about making a change to some part of themselves they don't like RIGHT NOW.

When I've changed, it was more adaptation than an actual change. The changes I made were not forward-going but even backward-going. I didn't change something for tomorrow and on, I adapted myself so that I could look back and see the bad parts of me as temporary then. The adapted me is the real me, the permanent me, the me that I want to be and that works on me.

When I gained a ton of weight (thank you, long term live-in significant other), that was not me. I didn't decide one day to just lose weight, I decided that I was fat. "What happened to me, this isn't me." I returned to my preferred weight quickly, because that is who I am. That is who I was. This fat, digusting bloke was not me. I'm not sure who he was. Maybe one of the many neighbors I have. So I adapted permanently.

I have friends who are in a boatload of debt, but they're not ready to adapt back to their pre-debt selves. It's sad, actually. "I'm not going to Starbucks anymore." No, but you're going to keep paying $1200 a year for cable TV. It's like trying to take a shortcut through a public park in your Hummer: you'll do it successfully a few times, but then you'll be back to driving the long way. Real change isn't about tomorrow, it's about yesterday. Adapt by going back to who you were before you became the person you are now.

And then there is moving. People feel that moving brings change their lives, but in reality it just causes a rethinking of daily processes: where you eat, where you sleep, where you drink, where you shop. A city doesn't make you. Your job doesn't make you. Your friends don't, your lovers don't. It's not the clothes you wear or the realization that you always need to have a warm body next to you. What makes me, what keeps me the most sane person you'll meet, is that what makes me is the path I am on. Location means nothing. People, even, mean nothing.

I like the path I am on. I like where it took me, even the bumps and potholes and veers to the left or right. Not one thing in my past is anything more than the path I continue on. I'm here, aren't I? Moving won't change my path. It might mean a new job or new friends or a new lover or a new apartment, but the actual path is not transitioned. It's still a solid line that I can trace from where I was to where I am. The future is about the line, not any single point on the line.

Lovers. Sex. Fucking. Oops-who-are-you? Here's a big one for me. I am a complete manwhore who turns down sex more than some of the prettiest boys in Chicago. I love a naked woman, I detest a boring nude girl. I seek out sex as nothing different than a cup of coffee or a trip to ALDI: they're activities that I do when I need something for me, and I have something for the person who can provide it. At ALDI I trade a few dollar bills for cheap bologna. ALDI and I both profit from that transaction.

Sex is the same: I have something I need, you have something you need. There's nothing immoral about both of us making a decision to take care of the other person's needs, but we're doing it for ourselves. We're selfish fucks (literally).

The problem I have with all of my friends who are trying to cut down on sex is that they're mixing up the act of sex with the parts of themselves they need to adapt from, taking many years backwards in steps to find their true selves. Are you hooking up with people because you're drinking? When was the last time you DIDN'T do that? Go backwards. I don't pick up women when I drink, or when they drink. Rarely ever. A first date can end up in my bed or hers, but a first date comes AFTER the first time we meet, usually. Because I've gotten to know them, and because we're relatively clear-headed, sex is just a matter of an exchange of needs with another individual seeking the same.

Once alcohol is out of the picture, the second biggest problem I see with sex is the self-destructive friends (I would say 90% of them) who just need someone in their lives to feel a sense of completion. It could be a fuck buddy, a boyfriend/girlfriend, a side lover, or a bunch of one-night-stands. You can't change yourself from this once you have the feeling of loneliness if you don't have someone you can text message at 1am to come over. You have to step backwards through your path and discover why this is the case. The path we take can sometimes bounce in reverse significantly, but it's still a path. Find what causes you this ill thinking or emotional emptiness, and adapt back to before that point. It's just a point on a path, it can be retraced.

I went to see one of my best friends last night, a lesbian girl with a ton of headstrong attitude. She missed her lover, who was out of town on business. We generally hang out when she's alone. She doesn't need me there, but she likes me there. She does fine when she's alone, too. She always asks me why I don't sleep around more, why I don't date women more than once or twice in general. For me, the path is important, but the points along that path are ones I don't want too many of. It causes clutter in my head, in my heart, even in my soul. I know a great many wonderful people who regret so many points in their past that they can't look at the point they're on now, or the next point in their life upcoming.

I don't regret things, not much. Regret means you wish you could go back and remove the point, or change the path to another point in time. We can't do that. The only way to overcome regret is to track backwards to the place where you feel you made a regretful error and fix it. Running around in circles means you will still see the point of regret over and over and over. Running in a new direction means you'll still see that regret when you look back over your shoulder. It doesn't disappear, and you can never remove it entirely without tracking back and taking a closer look.

So I will never change, ever. I will adapt myself to a previous place, a previous person I was at a previous time. To do so means real work, sometimes traveling back over roads we've long since forgotten, finding people who were us but are unrecognizable to us. I've done it often in my life: "Holy cow, I was like this guy?" I was that guy. I passed him on my way backwards in time, in life, and discovered the guy I used to be that was more like me than I am today.

I don't regret. I don't fear the future or the past. I don't decide to change myself one day and then hate myself for not doing it 6 months later. I move forward in time, but sometimes I circle back to a place where my life took a shift to the wrong. I address it, figure out why I did it, and then move forward again to a different point.

I am this path. This is who I am. I love the adventure, the excitement, the boring days, the days of lust and love and loneliness. I love the frustrations, the angry moments, the feelings of sadness and gladness. It's not any one point, or any ten points, it's the entire arc and curve and circles and loops and dives and jumps that I call the path. This is my path, and I'm glad yours intersected along the way.

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Sunday, May 24, 2009

How I spoil her

In a Google Talk chat with a new friend, she mentioned how I seem to like to spoil my women, and how she wouldn't like it because she likes her independence.

I took slight issue with her view on spoiling, because it has nothing to do with overwhelming a woman or taking away even a bit of her character.  It's not about changing her, it's not about molding her.

When I spoil a woman, I do so to highlight the parts of her that I like most. It has little to do with her needs, really.

If I buy a woman nice clothes, it's because I want to see her look nice: for me.

If I take a woman to a nice dinner, it's because I want the companionship of a lovely lady at a dinner I would like.

I spoil, yes, but I prefer independent women.

I spoil by treating her like a woman, but not like a baby or a girl. Too many nice guys try to spoil by overdoing it, which is horrible. I'm not a nice guy. I know what my needs are, and I fully expect to have them fulfilled, or I hit the road. I don't intimidate or push what my needs are; I wait to see if the independent woman I am with can read my needs and fulfill them because she wants to, or she likes to.

I spoil a woman by how I look at her face, forcing her to step up her game for me to notice more than it. Women love to command attention, but once they get it, they're usually a little underwhelmed.

I spoil a woman in bed by forcing her to want my touch more, to want me for just another minute. I spoil her after we have sex because I know when she's just past the breaking point of enough, but is laying there amazed at what her body can do and what I can do to her body.

I spoil a woman with conversation that is interesting to her, and then obviously interesting to me. I don't talk about myself, I let her talk about what she has inside of her. Women are verbal creatures, they need to vent and air and laugh about things.

I spoil a woman by being a man who leads, but giving her limited choices to direct. A woman needs a producer, a man needs a director. Women who are attracted to me love to grab my arm and let me lead them. They love to grab my face to kiss me, or grab my ass to pull me in deeper or for a longer period of time or a pause.

I spoil a woman not by giving her compliments that mean nothing or gifts that are contrived. When I compliment a woman, it will mean so much more because it is rare. When I give a gift to a woman, it will be something thought out, something she was missing or needed but didn't realize. I will learn her so I can treat her to the nice things that I want her to have.

I spoil a woman by listening when she's sad, not interjecting my male-views on her problems. I spoil a woman by understanding that a kiss is not a fuck, a hug is not a kiss, and rolling around making out on the couch may just be a great way to say bye until next time.

I love to spoil a woman. The damned problem is that most women I know are just girls, and they're so messed up that even they don't know what they want. Even worse, they prefer to be messed up rather than take the obvious task of working on their issues (something I am actually quite good at assisting in). 

Spoiling a girl is something that bores me.  Spoiling a woman is something that doesn't change either of us, but emphasizes the best parts of us so we both shine together.

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Weekend away from Sane's, Part II

This is Part II. You can read Part I here.

Woke up too early, considering I went to sleep at 3am. It was 7am, and I am starving. Checked to make sure the cabbie who drove my car home did, in fact, drive it home. Looked fine.

A few of my neighbors were hanging on the lawn, so I asked them if they wanted some breakfast. I love to cook for others. 10 of them agreed, so I hopped over to the local convenient store, picked up 2 dozen eggs, some odd cheddar, some fresh-ish veggies, and returned. Cranked up my grill and spent the morning making awesome omelettes, sausages, etc. Everyone was happy.

11am and my grill is clean. I shower fast and hit the road, looking for a bike to buy. I'm picky. It has to feel right, be very light, easily broken down, and made with fit-and-finish quality in mind. Price is not a problem, quality is.

Bike shop in the city was horrible. Bad service, ugly bikes, shitty quality. No, thanks. While walking through Boy's Town, I picked up a sashimi platter for $50. Decided to stop by the House of Two Gays to see if they were up yet. Hung out with one of them for an hour (ate the sashimi). The other guy didn't make it back. Miguel was mad because he came home with the guy from the bar, who ended up not being gay. I think the guy was closeted and freaked at their ultrapink love lounge living room. I told Miguel how long it had been for me, and he flipped. 3 basically one night stands in 7 months is more individuals than I'd prefer, but a lot less sex than I'd like.

Miguel always hooks me up with great women. Pretty, fun, solid lives. The downside is that either they don't find me attractive, or vice versa. That's dating. I need to do more of it. He runs down a list of the gals I hang out with, and I explain why I'm not dating any of them. He agrees that I need to cull them down to about half. It can get frustrating going out with gorgeous women and then shovel them off with the douchebag of the weekend at the bar. I agree with him, but for every time I've wingmanned for someone, they've wingmanned for me nearly equally. He gets it, but we promise a future man-date to decide who to dump and who to keep.

I leave his place and walk the area, unsure of where I parked. Chatting with friends on my phone (google chat), checking out the shops and stores and beautiful men and women walking past me. It's a perfect walk day. I circle another street corner and decide to walk to the beach when I see my car parked there. Oops. Guess I was wrong about where I originally parked.

Instead of doing the beach, I hop in my car and decide for a mini-roadtrip. I grabbed some MP3's from Miguel's system for my iPod, so fresh tunes is a great predecessor to a road trip. Texted 2 gal pals who have wanted to go roadtripping, but both were out of town. Solo it is.

Did some quick shopping at a produce store to make a salad for my mom for Sunday. Rose petals, carambolas (starfruit), spices, cucumber, etc. Rose Petal and Starfruit salad is my specialty. Stick it in my Whole Foods cold bag and drive to the highway.

Zip up to the burbs to check out a bike shop. Friendly staff. ALMOST found a bike, but it was too small for me. While shopping, I kept making eye contact with a cute olive-skinned gal also shopping. We ran into each other in an accessory section, so I asked what she rode. We chatted for 3 minutes and I asked for her number. She smiled, looked at my face for about 20 seconds, and whipped out a pen and a piece of paper. I'll call her next week. She's pretty and has a nice butt, so who knows? At least it's a date. I have about a 50/50 ratio of gals accepting a date after my first call, so it's a step in the right direction.

Got back to the city in 35 minutes. Fab non-existent traffic. Drove around looking for something to eat, and picked Sultan's Market in Wicker Park. Yum. Dined in, and immediately lost my spring horniness when I saw the fat, gross and ugly hipster girls en masse.

Drove to Portage Park after to meet 2 friends for dive bar night. This dive bar in the city had a 10:1 girl to guy ratio, and yet not one gal gave me "the look." Waste. Had a drink, and we all hit the road for the Burlington.

Started to watch my friends get drunk. I had a fine night previously, so I decided to take it slow. Diet Coke for Sane. We chatted with a few hipster girls who obviously had bad taste in bad music and bad dress. Great DJ though, played 4 of my requests back to back ($20 tip helps).

Zipped to another dive bar with my pals. Wanted to play pool, so 3 girls invited me to join them. I made small talk with all 3, but none were that interesting, and none were interested in me. We hit the road again and ended up at Crobar at 1am.

It was PACKED. People waiting in line. I haven't been here in years, but I rolled up, said the secret word, and all 3 of us were in. VIP room, first two rounds of drinks on the house. I still only had one. We ordered a bottle and chilled while my two friends picked up on obvious whores. I saw no one worth my time, so I danced a bit but got bored. No liquor in my blood, ugh.

We all hung out with some TV idiots, who knows what show or who they were. Got a bunch of business cards after I mentioned I did VO work, but I don't like big media types. It's too fast of a life: over before you know it. I like it slow, steady, passionate and with some stamina. Hollywood offers nothing for me.

Jumped from Crobar to get some Mexican, and then ended up at Continental. I hate Continental, but I wanted one last drink and my friends wanted to get laid. While hanging with them, an ex-girlfriend of mine who still has a crush on me squeals and runs to talk to me. I make eye contact with a GORGEOUS latin girl: tall, short brown hair, beautiful eyes. I smile and she smiles back. The ex notices, so she starts hugging on me and bugging me. Every time I look at the latin girl, she's looking at my eyes. Great smile, great eyes. Can't burn the ex who is drunk and falling over. I decide to go and talk to the girl but she's sitting with 2 guys, and I can't figure out if she's with one of them or not. Fail. Prettiest girl I've seen in probably 6 months. Damn it.

I turn and both my friends are talking to girls. They'll get laid. I'll get home. One last shot for the road and off I go, sober as can be. The shot will hit me in an hour, but my home is only 15 minutes away.

Overall the weekend was FUN. I danced, I hung out with good friends, I saw on cute girl (got her number) and one GORGEOUS woman (didn't). Worked out a plan to "dump" some of my single cute gal pals who are doing nothing for my life in any way, shape or form. Made plans to hit boystown with the Two Gays more often, they're always a trip. Did some writing, made a salad for my mom, grocery shopped, bike shopped, road tripped, danced, drank, ate with my neighbors. It's pretty fun, but not terribly exciting.

Off to the next week in this chapter of my life.

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Weekend away from Sane's, Part I

Is it Sunday afternoon? Geez, the weekend flew by.

Up EARLY for work (I cut payroll). No one wanted to work so I let everyone off at 11.

Had an amazing lunch (French bistro - Cyrano's), 4 course meal. Found a lovely lady who was free, so we had lunch, chatted, made promises to hang out more, and cut bait. She's very pretty, but sadly has no eyes for me, so it ended with a hug. I am starting to realize that I have way too many cute/pretty/hot single female friends. Summer will be time to cut about half of them out of my life. I have enough lunch buddies, losing a few who are uninterested in an afternoon smoochfest is probably wise and will cost me very little in terms of viable friends to chill with.

Got the car washed (inside, not out). Need a good wax job, put it on the list and made an appointment for Wednesday. We'll see if I remember it.

Rounding up to 3pm, tried to find anyone who was in town to do something with. Texted about 30 people, 26 of them were out of town. Ugh. Made plans with another gal pal to help her with errands later (dog walking) around 7pm.

Hit Whole Foods to pick up ingredients to make a friend a cashew and maple cheesecake. Also had to buy a cheesecake pan because mine was bashed out of shape. Unfortunate.

Around 4pm, driving around town, I noticed SO many cute and happy couples. Had a minute of the lonely-twinge, but it passed. It comes mostly in spring, which is why it makes sense for me to stay out of the sack with anyone just in case I accidentally create a long term relationship when neither of us are ready.

I have an email address dedicated to items I ship or that are shipped to me. It beeped, reminding me of a FedEx overnight delivery coming: my new voiceover mic. My neighbor was going to sign for it, but he texted me to let me know he was leaving for 4 days at 6pm. That means traffic. On a holiday weekend. I drove, slowly, back to the house.

Hung out at the house and tried to finalize plans, but most of my douchebag friends are broke. One gal who I am sort of interested in texted me to see if we were hanging out. I texted back, asking if it was just us. "Group thing." I don't do group dates, sorry. I texted her back that we'd touch base another time. I doubt she'll text again. Thanks, but no thanks.

Banged on my neighbor's door for 2 hours or so. He was asleep. I had to be at the dog walking friend's place at 7pm, and it was inching on 6pm. Her place is 15 minutes away with no traffic, but on a holiday weekend the Kennedy can be horrific. He finally stumbles away at 6:20, I grab my mic, quickly open the box to stare at it. I contemplate blowing off the dogwalker, but I'd rather walk some dogs with a cute gal than sit and talk to myself in one of my 47 voices. Trust me, neighbors have thought I had big parties when it was just me.

Hit the road close to 6:30, with a deadline of 7pm. I really, really like to be on time. I texted the gal and made a case for breaking the law. Yes, I drive on the shoulder on the highway. I'm that asshole.

Pull up to within a block of the destination she gave me (an intersection) and texted her where to park. She gave me a vague area to park in. I zipped into the spot and arrived at 7:04pm or so. Not too late. She was going to walk the dogs toward me, so I wanted at the corner.

5 minutes later, here comes a little package of power with 3 huge dogs. We chatted, I grabbed 2 of them (the older ones) and we wandered her area for quite awhile. I love dogs, and dogs usually love (and listen to) me. My next girlfriend will have a roommate with dogs. Preferably not her, so we can travel on a whim, but a roommate with dogs is a great idea.

My Hollywood voiceover and hockey announcer voice kicks in for some strange reason. I'm having fun, we're being goofy. It's an eccentricity of me; I have no actual normal voice. She laughs at me using the word "poopie" in hockey announcer voice. Laughter from a lady is always a way to cheer me up.

We finish our walk and she drops me off at my car (knowing which one it is because I mentioned the color). She wanders off with the 3 pooches, and I storm off in a hurry to nowhere. Boredom sets in very quickly. A little earlier my two gayest friends said they want to go dancing. I concur. Around 9:30 I get to one of my gal pal's houses in the Pilsen district to grab her. She's VERY sexy, but alas I don't find her attractive. She's propositioned me a few times for a sleep over, but I'm not into her body or face that much. She is sexy as hell, just not my type of sexy. She wants to go dancing, so we high-tail it to the House of Two Gays.

I pulled out $500 from my ATM just in case the night gets crazy. 4 of us in a car heading to Polish town. We arrive at a huge dance club packed with gorgeous European women and their fivehead boyfriends. Yum and gross, combined.

I buy a bottle of Belvedere for our table which is very quickly sucked down by the 4some. $250 gone. Waitress smooches me for the tip (ugh), and we leave the table for another party because we're off dancing.

My gay friend Miguel steals my cell phone and sends some tweets out. Then he texts practically every girl in my phone "Let's fuck." Saturday is basically a day of turning down those who said "Ok" and explaining to my MOTHER what that text meant. Oh, my sister, my cousin, one of my clients, and a few girls I was actually interested in brutalizing (in a way they want me to). Scratch that.

We were VERY hammered. My gal pal meets a guy who is absolutely disgusting looking in every way. I say nothing, and she says "He's hot. I'm going home with him." He was NOT hot, but I have better taste in men than most single women in their 20s do. The guy was an obvious basket case, 3 of his credit cards getting declined for $14 worth of drinks. They leave.

My gay friends also meet their own boys and leave. I'm drunkish, but not wasted. I call a cab and tell him to bring a pal. They drive me, and my car, home. The cab stand is literally 3 blocks from my apartment anyway.

3am, off to bed. Chat with some friends before I do, and realize I REALLY need to meet someone fantastic for this summer. Being single SUCKS. Hooking up SUCKS MORE. I'd love a friends-with-benefits that I can also spoil on my weekly shopping sprees. not a sugar baby, just a friend who likes pretty things. Will have to put my mind to it soon, it's becoming a shitty spring in terms of makeout sessions and the backlog from the Condom of the Month club (kidding about that).

More on Saturday in Part II.

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Friday, May 22, 2009

Definition: Enty (Enties)

The Enty is almost always a woman, usually one with an aggressive behavior. I came up with the term "Enty" about 20 years ago when I was stuck on coming up with funny sentences based on word spellings.

I had a girlfriend at the time (I was in my teens, she was 20) and she was a real bitchfest of drama. I have no idea why I stayed with her, she was bitchy, PMSy constantly, and loved to blow things way out of proportion. Most items she moaned about were not even important: "Why did you leave your closet light on this morning? Don't you know it kills people!" or "I really don't like rye bread" So why did you order it? "I don't want to make a fuss." Then she'd moan about the rye bread she ate for the entire day.

After about 4 months of dating, I had enough. I didn't really like her, and every moment I spent with her I found her less and less attractive. I had decided to break up with her that weekend, and worked hard not to make any plans with her. This made her even more bitchy, which was almost a positive side effect. "Movies?" I'm not sure. "Dinner?" We'll see. "Come over to my place?" If there's time.

Friday rolled around and I hopped over to her place. She was bitching to me the night earlier on the phone about how we didn't make any plans. This taught me how to be adaptable, so I learned at least one positive thing from the short term relationship. When I was in her place, she nagged at me for clashing my shoes with my belt. Yes, mother.

I never argued with her, I never fought back. There's no purpose, it's useless. I'd just nod, not really agreeing with her verbally. Eventually she calmed down.

I think this relationship is getting worse by the day. "What do you mean, worse?" I don't think we should be seeing each other. "Am I ugly? Fat? Boring?" I wanted to say yes, yes, yes but the fact was that she was none of these things, not in reality. In my mind, she was all of them. We just don't click when it comes to managing our feelings. "That's because you're cold!" I had just had a bad week 2 weeks ago, and almost had reduced myself to tears. When she saw it, she said "Don't be a baby."

So she ranted about why I was wrong, why we were fine, why things were only getting better (mostly because she taught me to shut my trap and I never talked, ever). I listened. Then I said I appreciated her thoughts, but I wasn't happy and it was obvious that she wasn't happy either (this part was a lie, but it worked). She thought about it and asked if we'd be friends. I said maybe, but not right away. In reality, we were never friends again until many years later, after she took a poor sap of a husband and introduced me to some of her gal pals (who generally hated her, but put up with it).

We hugged. She cried a little bit. I told her she's beautiful and the right guy will come along, and I'm glad she understood. I was a little sad myself, but I can't think to this day of WHY I was sad. It wasn't that serious, and I didn't like her much. Maybe it was because she was pretty (I don't fall into that trap again!).

As I turned to leave, she said "See you around, Sane." I repled "See you, Enty."

She never got it.

Now, whenever I meet a woman who is a bitch of a woman, I'll call her Enty to my friends. I know two women who are roommates, and they're horrid people. I call them the Enties.

For those who don't understand, highlight below the lines:

See You, Enty = C U N T
See You, Enties = C U N Ts

Get it, now?


So be it.  It works for me.

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Definition: The Comerag (a female douchebag)

I feel I need to set up some definitions of terms I will use in the future. Here is the first one: comerag.

I hate douchebags, douchebaggery and fake confidence in men. They abound in Chicago, and run the whole gamut of scenesterism: hipsters, dudes, rock stars, playahz, frat-things and worse. You can usually tell who the douchebag is by his company of followers, but if he's traveling solo, it can be a bit more difficult to detect.

While douchebags are a-plenty, there is a secret society of female douchebags which I have coined the come-rag. I think it should have the same flow as douche-bag. Douche bag, come rag. Douchebaggery, comeraggery. They both sort of have the same game plan: meet lots of members of the opposite sex, pick one to go home with, repeat within 48 hours.

I have no problem with casual sex. I try to get to know my lovers sober before I'm in their bedrooms, but at the very least I do agree that sex can be a necessity for many people. The problem I have with douchebags and their female counterparts is how inappropriate their lives are beyond just getting plastered and hooking up.

I like Estelle's bar in Chicago. It's a 4am (5am on Saturdays) pub in the heart of hipster and trendsters central: Wicker Park. When the douchebags/comerags are unsuccessful at getting the hookup before the 2am bars close, they're all off to Estelle's at 2:30. It's a great place to watch monkeys mating. Some of my friends are douchebags or comerags. Yes, I call them these titles to their faces. They're oblivious to it. No one will get in the way of them leading the pack of vermin on the hunt for a haggard, sloppy lover.

The female douchebag has worse problems: she gets VERY pretty as you drink. I don't get beer goggles (actually, women get far uglier as I drink, which is probably why I don't hookup drunk), but most people do. In the daylight, the comerag looks quite average, but as the night progresses, she gets more and more attractive. Once that "I'm drunk" look hits her face (after the 7th PBR), her eyes start scanning the room, trying to find the next new boy in the scene that she hasn't bumped uglies with.

It's annoying, which is why I try not to hang out with ANYONE who goes out just for the hookup. I'm an exceptional wingman because of my strong peripheral vision. I can see everything around me without obviously looking. For a friend who hasn't gottne any in awhile, or is actually looking to meet someone to date, I'm all in. For my friends who have slept with more people in 3 months than I have in my entire life, I'm out.

I made the mistake last fall of going out with a douchebag and comerag I know. Together. They had slept together once or twice (they're not sure), and we finally landed at Estelle's at 2:30am. Instead of being able to talk to friends and possibly make new ones, I was fielding the same damn questions from both: "She's cute, is that her boyfriend?" or "I wonder if he has a big dick, what do you think?" It was incessant communications with no amount of real banter, comedy, sadness or even diligence other than "I need to get laid."

When they were out of PBRs, they asked me to cover a round. No, thank you. I won't instill support for this horrific way of life. When sober, they have nothing. They hate their jobs, hate their lives, hate their useless degrees, their families. Their ties to friends seem fleeting. They throw people and possibilities away.

I used to have sympathy for them, even empathy, but that is long gone. Like the bipolar who don't seek help, or the sociopaths who ruin lives behind them, the douchebags and comerags in my life are more wasted time than I can acknowledge. Get drunk, have sex, miss rent by 10 days, cell phone gets disconnected monthly, borrow $3 for a beer, check out that dude/chick for me, repeat. Why do I bother?

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