Sex and the Single Soccer Mom

It may be time for me to take a break from the hardcore dating scene for awhile. I’ve realized that lately, even if a guy seems interesting, I just can’t work up the energy to actually want to date him.  It requires a lot of energy to email, chat, talk on the phone, set-up the date and then rush to get everything done so I can carve out the time for the actual date. Then I have to  try to be interesting and interested and attractive and charming. After the date, it can only go one of two ways: Start the process over for a second date (the preferred outcome) or find a way that doesn’t make both of us feel like crap (an impossible task) to let him know that we didn’t click. I must admit that the last couple of months, I’ve had to tell a lot of guys that we didn’t click. Practice does not improve the experience! Lately, I’ve begun to consider extreme scenarios that will get me out of rejecting any would-be suitors. Faking my own death crossed my mind briefly, but after looking at it from a practical standpoint, that would be almost impossible to pull off. Telling them I just found out I have a terminal illness was another idea, yet it seemed disrespectful to people who actually are suffering from a terminal illness. The one that would be the easiest would be to simply say that I’ve met someone else. That does not, however, account for me still being online. In the end, I know there is simply no way to get out of it. Which has led me to this point of apathy about dating.

For instance, I recently had a second date with B. I had hoped that the second date would help me to clarify whether there should be a third date. Much like our first date, there were no huge deciding factors.

 Pro: He was actually on time for the date.

Very small con: He picked a very common chain restaurant and was excited about it. This probably wouldn’t rank as a con, except for the fact that the trendy little Latin restaurant I picked for our first date seemed to make him very apprehensive. He also said immediately upon arrival that he really wasn’t into “tacos”. Which turned out to be fine, as this was clearly not a Tex-Mex sort of place. Still, it speaks to a certain lack of adventurousness which could prove trying to us both if we entered into a relationship. Certainly not a deal breaker, but a small nugget of information.

Pro: Other than the dental issue, he is an attractive guy.

HUGE con: He made sex noises while eating and drinking. Now, a small murmer of pleasure over an exceptionally good meal is fine. Making almost constant small moaning sounds after nearly every bite or drink is not. I felt as though I were witnessing a private moment and very nearly asked if he and his meal needed to get a room.

Con: When we went to a bar after dinner to get a drink, he made slightly condescending and disparaging remarks about our bartender within his earshot.

Con: I’d had a cold for a week and had to cancel our original “second date” plans a few days earlier due to illness. Although still sick, I was improved enough that I decided to keep the second set of plans that we made. Still, when he went to kiss me goodnight, I turned and gave him my cheek because A.) I was probably still contagious and B.) My head was full of phlegm and I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t feel particularly sexy or excited about having someone else’s tongue in my mouth. He let his disappointment be very obvious and when I kissed him on the cheek, sarcastically said, “I feel like I’m in Sixth Grade.” Gee…sorry for not feeling frisky.

So, now I am looking at once again trying to find the words that will express the lack of chemistry that I feel, in a way that doesn’t diminish him as a person. Fortunately, he seems fairly uninterested in having daily contact with me. I thought about going out with him a third time, but there is no point in trying to build a relationship on apathy. I don’t strongly dislike him, but I don’t strongly like him either. The dates were fine, even with the cons associated with them. I simply feel no desire to repeat the experience. The only reason I’d go out with him again is to avoid telling him I don’t want to. It doesn’t seem like a good enough reason. As I completely disdain apathy in others, it is upsetting to see it in myself. Time for a change.

So, I think I’m going to pull back a bit and try to get my bearings. Maybe try a different approach than Plenty of Pyschos. Which means that maybe, just maybe, I can actually squeeze in some yoga. Maybe I’ll get to try some new recipes, or practice my sketching. At the moment, not having a date for awhile sounds fantastic. We’ll see how long that will last…

I’m home and tucked in for the evening in my pajamas. I have a frozen pizza that I’m going to pop in the oven, a glass of red wine in front of me and some 50% off Halloween candy to enjoy afterwards. Tonight is all about the quality, baby!

I’ve been in a very contemplative mood lately. Of course, those who know me best would say this is a state that I am never far from. Still, several issues have surfaced lately that have me contemplating past decisions and relationships and how they have changed me. Who I am right at this moment, compared to who I was ten years ago, is so radically different that it is hard to recognize that other woman sometimes. Or perhaps who I am now was always there, waiting to have time and experience and relationships carve away what didn’t fit.

 I know I don’t want to be part of a cliché. Black and white is only an outline of a human being; we are fleshed out in gray and red and blue and green and purple. We are a full spectrum of color and emotions, some facets of our being cut so they only reflect when a certain light shines on us.

 I sometimes wonder if a conventional relationship will ever work for me. Perhaps that is only my paradigm from twelve years of very conventional marriage. Can one human being meet our needs in a way that doesn’t start to feel stale and forced after a couple of years? Can having multiple lovers/partners every truly work as a reality that is peaceful and not fraught with jealousy and insecurity? I find that the longer I am single and dating, the more questions I have about what I truly desire.

Wife will never again define me, even if I should one day decide to enter into matrimony. If I do not, neither will the more modern terms of “fuck buddy” or “friend with benefits” limit me. I am a human being, capable of a range of emotions and relationships: Friend, lover, mother, daughter, sister. Can’t we simply be human beings having a connection? Does it have to be laid out in carefully drawn lines? I find that most people I meet are uncomfortable in the gray; I am uncomfortable living my life within black and white lines.

 I know that I want love in my life; from my family, from my friends and from my lovers. I want meaning and connection and passion. I don’t want superficiality. I can accept and embrace the unconventional. I know now that I have the strength and the courage to do what feels right according to me, even if it isn’t something embraced by the majority. I have walked away from an entire life, because it felt like a fraud. It has taught me to stand firm in my certainties. Part of that is accepting that what feels right for me today, might not feel right for me a month from now. I am fluid and ever-growing…or at least that is how I want to be.

The quote that I have looked to many times in the past few years, by Anais Nin, is still one of my favorites. “And the day came when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”

Being bound by roles that don’t fit is painful. I refuse to slip into the ready-to-wear character costumes expected of me. Instead, I’d rather live by another Nin quote: “I disregard the proportions, the measures, the tempo of the ordinary world. I refuse to live in the ordinary world as ordinary women. To enter ordinary relationships. I want ecstasy. I am a neurotic — in the sense that I live in my world. I will not adjust myself to the world. I am adjusted to myself.”

I don’t have all the answers. Yet I’m content with continuing to try to find them and not looking to others to tell me how to live my life. Living in the gray makes life much more interesting…

As I sit down tonight to blog, I realize that it’s been awhile. I have so many different things I could write about that it is difficult for me to pick just one.

Do I write about my youngest child being diagnosed with a long-term illness and the effect that it has had on our lives over the course of the last month? Getting the news that we are going to be facing a life-long battle to help keep her healthy was upsetting; having her be hospitalized with a 105.5 fever that wouldn’t leave just two weeks later was traumatic. Sitting in the hospital while I watched the IV give my baby the nutrients her little body wasn’t able to get any other way gave me a lot of time to think. Thoughts of the transient nature of romantic love and how much time the pursuit has taken up in my life the past three and half years; or the fact that no matter who else comes and goes in my life, my children will always be the purest and most enduring love. I had idle time to reflect on the strangeness of spending so much time with the man who helped me create these little people and the sadness of realizing he is the one man who can completely get this aspect of my life…and the one man who seems to get so little of the rest of it.

I could write about A, the man with whom I had a brilliant first date, quickly followed by a second date. Funny thing about second dates is how quickly they can point out the untruth that was the first date. One day after our second date, during which I somewhat reluctantly agreed to a third date (I was getting a definite vibe of smothering), he was telling me that I needed to give him more positive reinforcement because I didn’t respond quickly enough to his emails of “Do you miss me?”; “When can I see you again?”; “I keep thinking of how soft your lips are.” Despite the fact that I did reply, I was at work and quite busy that day. Not to mention the fact that it all seemed a bit…excessive. Was he a puppy that I needed to pat on the head every five minutes? I mean, this was a man in his forties! I sent him back a message stating that perhaps we had different expectations for such an early dating relationship.  Then began the email, text and phone bombing. Every few minutes, before I could even reply, I would get a new email or text. Something along the lines of, “I’m the best man you could ever find, don’t be too hasty.” When I finally get to the point in my day when I can call him back, we talk for a long time. I let him know that I like him, but need him to back off because I feel like he is expecting too much, too quickly. He agrees and says he will wait to hear from me. Less than twenty-four hours later I get the message, “Is missing me as hard as I think it is?” Then the onslaught began again, finally ending with me refusing to answer anymore. The next day I get a text from him, “Want to check in with you before I make plans for the weekend.” Seriously? This is his version of backing way off? Still, the first date was definitely a success, so perhaps the tide is turning…

 Had a first date the other night with B. Con: He showed up thirty minutes late without even calling. When I finally called to find out what was going on, he told me he was on his way. Pro: He walked in with flowers. Con: He ordered his martini in such a complicated and pretentious way that the bartender actually had to try to keep from smirking; when sitting the drink in front of him, told him that “anything I can do to make this martini better for you, let me know.” Pro: As he told me that I was so beautiful that it made him nervous, his hands were shaking. Con: As he told me that I was so beautiful that it made him nervous, his hands were shaking. Yup…that one could really go either way. Pro: He insisted on paying for our first date, which I never expect, always assuming I will pay my half. Con: There seemed to be some sort of dental issue, of an indeterminate nature, which I didn’t want to pry about. Pro: Despite the dental issue, the goodnight kiss was quite nice. Con: He quickly became overly excited by the goodnight kiss and turned it into something akin to good-night kiss porn. So, basically, the jury is still out. We have another date planned. After all, second dates usually reveal much more!

Finally, spoke on the phone with a charming man with whom I had exchanged a day of emails. When the call dropped and he didn’t call me back (the first time it happened, I called him back, so I thought I would wait for him to call me back this time), I sent him a text to find out if we were done talking. Received a phone call back and was told, “If you ever text me again, I will have to cut you. Don’t think that this means you are special or bad, simply that you are not allowed to text me, ever.” Alrighty then.

Now, I’m off to play tooth fairy to my child who attempted to blackmail me into leaving additional funds since they are the oldest and their tooth is older and bigger. The blackmail comes from her cunning knowledge that while she knows I am the tooth fairy, her sister does not. Do I pay up in the hopes that she will help me maintain her sibling’s innocence a bit longer? Or do I take a hard and fast “The tooth fairy cannot be bribed!” stand? What the hell. An extra dollar might be one less battle to fight right now…

Sometimes, when reading profiles, I come across one that really catches my eye and when my curiosity is piqued, I will definitely drop an email with some small comment on something they’ve written. So, I was actually the one who first made contact with D. His profile was intelligent and written with some depth, he had intriguing interests, and in his pictures his eyes looked beautiful.

He messaged me back, asking if he could call me. When we talked on the phone the conversation was a bit stilted and he had some odd inflections in his tone, but I didn’t intend to judge him by one phone call. We made tentative plans to get together and I was excited about the possibilities.

When it came time to make definite plans for the date, he caught me on chat. While trying to arrange a place that would be convenient for both of us, he spotted a sub shop that he was familiar with from the city he lived in before. He says we should meet there. Now, I try to not be pretentious and snobby. Still…really? I could picture a sub shop for a first date when we were sixteen, but not necessarily when we’re in our thirties. However, he said that he was nostalgic for it and that they had good subs, so I agreed.

So that evening I drive to the sub shop and somewhat nervously go in. There isn’t anyone there, so I make little jokes with the teenage boys at the counter and ask them what is good to pass the time. After about ten minutes he arrives.

He sits down at the table with me and we exchange greetings and pleasantries. About five minutes into the conversation, I begin to notice something unusual. He doesn’t appear to blink. Nor does the odd half-smile, which I initially assumed was from nerves, ever leave his face. I find myself half fascinated and half-repulsed by the almost reptilian stillness with which he holds himself. Suddenly feeling even more nervous from his unflinching, unblinking stare, I ask if he would like to order.

“No. I’m not really very hungry. I had a big snack earlier.” He replies. My stomach rumbles in animal-like fury at him and I try to send it soothing thoughts. Sadly, I had not gotten the memo about having a large snack before dinner and I was ravenous,

“Okay.” I reply nonchalantly.

“I do believe that I shall get something to drink, though.” He says in a perfectly measured and even voice. “Would you like something?”

I say that I would and we both step up to the counter to order. After we’ve placed our orders, the cashier rings them up together and announces the total. There is an awkward silence. Finally I pull out my card and hand it over to pay for our drinks.

 Unblinkingly and with the same half-smile he says, “Thank you, ****.”

I am a bit taken aback by the oddness of him allowing me to pay for his drink without even an offer of money, yet I acknowledge mentally that women have been doing the same to men for years. So I head to the table, drink in hand, still trying to not judge.

As we begin to converse, I find out that D doesn’t believe in swimming in the shallow waters. No, he is an emotional diver, willing to scour the murky emotional depths even on a first date. I also find out that he is an engineer and works all day building tiny robots. This information will come in handy later, as I begin to sort through the evening to find some meaning.

Unblinkingly, half-smile firmly lodged in place and his body encased in stillness, he launches question after question at me with almost no expression.

“What would you do if you won the lottery?”

“Have you ever done anything in life that you regretted? Would you change it if you could? What did you learn from it?”

“Are you happy with your life the way it is? What would you change?”

As is my introspective way, I felt the need to ponder each question and answer from the heart. After my soul-searching and giving him a final answer, I would always ask him the same question. To which he unfailingly replied: “I’m not sure. I don’t know how I feel about that yet.”

Finally, as I was trying to take a break from plumbing the depths of my psyche, he asks, “Is there anything you’d like to know about me?”

I think for a moment, and then respond: “No. I’m fairly content to just let the conversation evolve organically.”

 His half-smile turns into a three-quarter smile. “Good. I can’t stand it when a date turns into a game of twenty questions.”

Really? Huh? I begin to wonder if I have entered an alternate dimension. Looking down at the time (and hearing the roar of my still angry stomach), I suggest that we order some dinner.

“You know, I don’t really like the food here. I think I’m going to pass.”

What the hell? As I have now gone without food for nearly eight hours, I have visions of grabbing his arm and biting down. Not because he looks particularly tasty, but simply because I feel that if I do not consume something within the next few moments, I actually may start viewing my date as prey. Not to mention the irrational fury that I feel at being forced to come to a sub shop for dinner because he wanted to, then having him refuse to eat because he DOESN’T LIKE THE FOOD!

“Uh huh.” I respond. I notice that after the draining emotional divulgence and the lack of sustenance physically, I am reduced to using single syllable words.

“In fact, I’m really cold and I would like to leave.” He states, his voice lacking any inflection at all.

I stare at him for a moment, speechless, until he clarifies: “However, I would simply like to go with you someplace that is less cold. I’m really enjoying myself.”

“Uh huh.” I reply. There is a moment of silence. “I’m going to order a Philly Cheese Steak.” I state firmly. While I’m waiting for my food, he approaches the teenage boys behind the counter and holds out his half-full drink cup.

“I believe that I’ve had about all of this I can drink.” He says solemnly. The teenage boys glance at each other in discomfort.

“Dude, you want something else?” One of them prompts.

D looks at him with a clear lack of comprehension. He again holds out his glass to them. “No, I simply have had all of this that I can take.”

Looking befuddled and nervous, the boys try again. “Is there something wrong with it? Do you want your money back?” (Uh…make that MY money back)

I sense D’s growing frustration. Seeing the problem, as well as having some experience speaking engineer, I step in.

“Everything is fine with the drink.” I tell them soothingly. “He’s trying to be considerate by not pouring the remains into the trash can or down your soda drain. While he enjoyed the drink, he’s hoping you can dispose of what is left in one of your sinks, to avoid making a mess.”

Comprehension dawns on their faces. D looks relieved. The time-space continuum is restored. Sadly, I don’t think Scotty is going to beam me up.

I order my sub to go; we decide to go to a coffee shop. I could really use a good stiff drink with my sub, but he doesn’t drink alcohol. Nor does he drink coffee. However, he decides upon hot chocolate.

You may be wondering: Why the hell didn’t I call it quits? What could possibly possess me to continue the date?

In the end I suppose it came down to wanting to be decent. He was clearly a man more used to dealing with machines than with humans. He didn’t seem like a bad man, simply one who hadn’t a clue how to interact on a social level. In the big scheme of things, one more hour wouldn’t make or break my evening (well, truthfully, it was pretty much already shot), but it might make a difference to his dignity.

We talked, more of the deeply intellectual stuff of which he seemed so fond. He indicated several times, in engineer speak, that he found my brain sexy. I took it for the compliment that it was. Finally I let him know that I needed to go.

He walked me to my car, then hugged me. He expressed how much he had enjoyed our date, then mentioned seeing me again. I replied, “Well, I know that we’re both busy people.”

“I’m sure we can make time for each other.” He said simply.

I sat in my car until he left, then went back into the coffee shop and ordered myself a hot chocolate as well. I needed comfort. As I drove home I contemplated the fact that if I were able to overlook the unblinking, reptilian, robot stillness; or the fact that he had incredibly limited social skills (after all, I’d had to translate his engineer speak for the sub shop humans), he actually was a pretty interesting and deep human being. A beautiful soul trapped behind the robotic and scientific cage that he had wrapped around himself. Not to mention the fact that he did, truly, have beautiful eyes.

Still, as the lyrics to a Styx song popped into my brain as I pulled in my driveway, I knew that this was a beautiful soul with whom I simply could not mesh.

You're wondering who I am 
Machine or mannequin 
With parts made in Japan 
I am the Modern Man.
I've got a secret
I've been hiding under my skin
My heart is human
my blood is boiling
my brain I.B.M.
So if you see me acting strangely
don't be surprised
Domo Arigato (thank you very much)
Mr. Roboto
Domo Arigato (thank you very much)
Mr. Roboto

This seems to be the week for facing up to the ugly side of dating: Rejection. While I’ve never enjoyed receiving it or inflicting it, usually I get a bit of reprieve to build up courage and fortitude before I move on to the next round. Internet dating takes the “Dear John” letters (or emails) and awkward phone conversations to an entirely new level of stress, very much like the speed round of rejection. Sadly, the need to reject increases exponentially with the number of people you date; It’s a matter of simple statistics. I have briefly considered continuing to date people that I knew I wasn’t well-suited with, simply so I wouldn’t have to face the ordeal of telling them.

Of course, I always try to be gentle and kind and preserve ego. I even have a formula that I feel is pretty good: Express my thanks for their time and that I enjoyed meeting them. Compliment them on the qualities that I thought were special (i.e., you clearly are an attractive, intelligent, sweet, funny man). Then express my disappointment that despite their obvious charms (sometimes this is true!), I simply did not feel that we were well-suited romantically. It sounds good on paper…

Clearly, though, this is still going to smart a bit. I’ve certainly felt the sting of rejection, no matter how delicately phrased. Everyone chooses to handle this in different ways, yet lately I’m getting a crash course in dealing with ego.

So far this week I’ve been told by one incredibly ardent email suitor, who took rushing things to a new high, that my tagline should be “alluring, but aloof”. His parting shot was that he hoped I enjoyed the sweet and filling, yet ultimately unsatisfying “Twinkies” that I was currently seeing, as I clearly didn’t want to move toward anything more long-term. I reassured L, to whom I lamented about the written slam on my character and intentions, that I definitely put him more in the French pastry category, rather than highly processed and artificial junk food.

That was poetry compared to the “cold-hearted bitch” that I heard from someone else. One very sweet man told me that “if you don’t feel it, you shouldn’t be kissing someone”. When I reminded him that I kissed him on the cheek and he turned it into more, there was an admission that was truth. He followed it up with expressions of frustration that so many women seemed to only want to be friends. I felt it was the wrong time to comment that I hadn’t expressed a desire to be friends, merely a lack of desire to be lovers.

As I have never been one to take emotions, either mine or another’s, lightly, this has been somewhat exhausting. I have a date tonight, which I am looking forward to. Yet I find myself already cringing a bit at the possibility that next week or the week after, I will be writing another “Dear John” email.

Dating etiquette is also a bit murky to me. After a single date, are you required to tell the person by phone or face-to-face? Does an email suffice? Personally, I think that I would prefer to get an email after a single date than have to face the rejection in person. Still, it is a difficult judgment call to make sometimes.

I’m trying to keep my head and chin up and stay positive amidst the rush of negativity, yet this is simply one of the trials of this unnatural internet dating process that I’ve chosen to participate in.

Last words are never fun to hear, especially when they originate from a place of wounded pride and ego. I can only hope that the men with whom I am parting ways can hear the words and move on to the next experience, ego and heart intact.

Of course no parting words are quite so famous for me as a man with whom I had a brief and passionate month-long affair, which culminated with us in bed. After the disastrous attempt at a sex act was over and he had run rough-shod over my feelings (a story for another time) before the wet spot on the bed had even dried (Sadly, a wet spot CAN be produced within ninety seconds), I essentially asked him to leave. He awkwardly dressed and stood there for a moment before steeling his features into composure. Then he leaned over and kissed me briefly, then stood with what he considered great dignity. In a deep and regal voice he intoned:

“Usually, I am an Athenian, but tonight, I will leave like a Spartan!”

Indeed. May all of my rejected suitors be more Spartan-like in their response and less Athenian. Although I do have to wonder if this somewhat selfish desire makes me alluring and aloof and somewhat of a cold-hearted bitch…

Sex is a glorious, beautiful act of pleasure. Or in the famous words of George Michael, pop star extraordinaire, “Sex is natural/sex is good/not everybody does it/but everybody should”. Still, it can have its hazards. Oh, of course there are the obvious dangers of disease and unwanted pregnancy. Still, the protective gear to which I refer is not the sort that would protect against babies and STDs.

Perhaps I and my partners over the years have simply been a bit too enthusiastic. It could be my sense of adventure that has led to some romantic misfires. Then again, I can’t discount simple clumsiness. Whatever the reason, the sex act has led to some odd and somewhat embarrassing injuries over the years. As I begin to list them out in my mind, I wonder if rather than lacy panties and scanty negligees, I should be suiting up in body padding and swallowing some ibuprofen beforehand.

Some “battle scars” from the act of love are fairly common: Love bites, soreness, or even the occasional handprint from an excited spank (of course, maybe that isn’t common to everyone!). Others are a bit more extreme or even bizarre.

The dismount is probably the most common injury I’ve suffered or inflicted during love-making. After talking with girlfriends, I know this, at least, happens to many couples. Enthralled in the act of thrusting, one small misjudgment of depth or speed can lead to moans of pain rather than pleasure. This can range from mild enough that you’re able to pick up the rhythm again almost immediately, to severe enough that the man rolls into the fetal position, moaning, and all activity ceases.

Then, of course, there are the objections that my body has given to the bending and contortions that are often required. Leg cramps are an awkward and not very sexy thing to explain to your man when he is on top of you. Of course, so is discreetly trying to stretch out your leg or give it a good shake to get the muscle to unclench. Not to mention the fact that sometimes, if my legs are in a certain position and tensed for a long time, I find myself having a hard time getting them OUT of that position. Another thing that doesn’t scream sex goddess is requiring a partner to assist you in un-bending your limbs.

The first time I attempted a strip tease, I somehow managed to get my erotically hiked leg entangled in the metal footboard on the bed. My ass, as well as my vanity, was left bruised from that experience. Although I have managed to pull it off since that initial attempt, I still have a slight twinge of apprehension. I call it my Stripper Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (SPTSD)

Once, at the moment of orgasm, I involuntarily head-butted my partner in my excitement. We laughed about it afterwards, but the red bump on both our foreheads was not what you typically expect to walk away with. I’ve talked with girlfriends about elbows in the face, fingers in the eyes and all other manner of unintended injuries during love-making.

Still, these are all somewhat explainable and in no way border on the bizarre. Sometimes, things can get a little frisky in a very wrong way…

Like the time that my lover was bringing me pleasure. So much pleasure that right at the moment of climax, he decided to put an intense finale on it. I shrieked a bit during the sharp pain, yet it quickly blended into other sensations and I thought nothing of it. However, nothing takes the glow off post-coital bliss like having your lover point out, with great concern, that there is blood all over the bed. To his chagrin and my embarrassment, we assumed that my monthly visitor had arrived in an untimely way. The next morning, however, I was still bleeding. The source of the bleeding, as well as some soreness, made me question the initial diagnosis of menstruation. So I decided to do what any concerned woman would do: I got a mirror. As I bent and twisted and turned to try to figure out what was wrong with my body, I suddenly spotted what appeared to be a tiny wound, right near my happy place. It was still bleeding slightly. I thought back to the night before and the sharp pain, the blood on the sheets. Suddenly, the room began to spin; I woke up several minutes later on my bathroom floor. What can I say? I don’t handle blood (or my delicate parts being bitten) well!

I’m not completely certain, but it may be the only time anyone has ever passed out from oral sex.

In time, I recovered from the vampiric cunningulus. Enough so, that one day I decide it is time to spice things up with my lover. So I drive my soccer mom van to the local sex shop, to peruse the “marital aids” and see what catches my eye.

I pass up some of the scarier items (I couldn’t see my lover indulging in anal beads or wearing a gimp mask) and head to the lotions and oils. While there, I spot something called “The Magic Stick”. Intrigued, I pick it up and begin to read the back. The “Magic Stick” claims to retighten certain body parts with natural herbs, thus bringing increased pleasure to both partners. It also claims to be a technique used in Asia for hundreds of years. Pondering, I finally shrug and throw it in the cart.

I follow the directions, and then wait for the magic to happen. I can definitely tell it is working; there is increased sensation! However, other than having a harder time actually having sex (maybe THAT explains the increased sensation), I can’t say that either of us are overwhelmed with the “Magic Stick”. I continue to notice, however, throughout the evening, that everything down there still feels…different. The next morning, after my lover has gone, I go to the bathroom. I feel very swollen. Exploring with fingertips, I discover to my great fascination (and a bit of horror) that everything “down there” is swollen…shut! I literally cannot even explore my own body! Trying not to panic, I continue to go and…ahem…probe, all throughout the day. My nether region remains sealed tightly shut. The only “magic” this stick had worked would be the kind that ultra-religious parents might favor, because absolutely nothing was getting in there. After about thirty-six hours, my nether region returned to normal and I breathed a sigh.

I suppose it only makes sense that with two bodies coming together, moving apart, changing positions (sometimes rapidly), and reacting to some incredibly intense sensations…well, sometimes mishaps occur. Adventure can have mixed results; any contact sport worth playing has potential for hazard. For now, I think I’ll skip the protective gear and continue to play with an appropriate amount of caution. Watch the arms and legs, try to avoid knocking out your team players, and watch the teeth. Above all else, avoid inserting things that are advertised as an “Ancient Chinese Secret”.

For weeks now, I’ve been hoping for a “vanilla” date. Someone who may not be THE ONE, but isn’t intensely weird either. All of my dates have bordered on the extreme and intense in one way or another. Whatever happened to simply grabbing a drink with someone and enjoying the conversation, without feeling like you were in the Twilight Zone the entire time?

M first contacted me three years ago, immediately following my separation. We emailed and chatted and it was friendly and light-hearted. He continued to ask me out, yet I had a great deal of reluctance to accept. For one thing, he is six years younger than me. For another, I was simply in a terrible place emotionally and mentally. I ended up in a relationship with someone else and we, of course, lost contact.

So, here I am back in the online dating scene. I’m seeing many of the same singles that I saw three years ago. We are like hungry fish, all circling the same tiny pond. So when M messages me, I’m not incredibly surprised. He expressed delight at discovering me online and single; I respond with the same friendly and light-hearted conversation that I did originally. This goes on for about a month, while he continually expresses interest in meeting.

While M seems sweet, I am reluctant (again) to go out with him. The age difference is STILL six years (funny how that doesn’t change).  I just get the feeling that he is a sweet guy who will bore me to tears. Plus, there is a lingering humiliation over a half remembered phone call between the two of us.  I was drunk and barely able to focus on his words and kept nodding off, while he earnestly discussed his past relationships. It wasn’t one of my best moments. After several weeks of emails, I finally get an email from him that says: “Aren’t you ever going to make time for me? You might even like me.”

I feel like a jerk. The kid (oops…man) has been pursuing me, off and on, for three years and I can’t given him a couple of hours of my time to at least give him a chance? So I take the plunge and agree. We set up a plan to meet at a local pub and he sweetly and enthusiastically emails: “I don’t want to wait! I wish we could go out right now!”

We agree to talk on the phone the evening before the date and when he calls, I get a sinking feeling after only a few minutes of conversation. I suddenly wonder if my inclination to nod off during our phone conversation three years ago was due less to my drunken state and more to his monotone delivery and choice of topics. I now fear the date, which I feel honor-bound to keep, is somewhat doomed.

The afternoon of the date I receive the knowledge that my youngest child is going to need an invasive medical procedure in just a few days. I’m rattled, to say the least.  I consider canceling for the evening, yet realize that will leave me alone to contemplate complications and ramifications that I don’t want to dwell on. Not to mention the fact that this date has been three years in the making and I don’t want to reschedule. I am discouraged by the fact that I feel more resignation about the evening than enthusiasm. The worry for my child has also lent a heavy feel to the evening. Still, I try to put on a happy smile as I enter the pub, realizing that going into the date in a morose state of mind is not fair to anyone.

What I get is surprisingly pleasant. M is sweet and earnest and is able to carry on a conversation quite aptly. Of course, he also looks eighteen and reminds me somewhat a small, Irish leprechaun; or perhaps a cocker spaniel, with his huge brown eyes and dark eyelashes. After an hour and a half, I let him know that I need to call it an early night. He sweetly asks to walk me to my car; I decline and tell him I will be fine.  At which point he kisses me goodbye, a sweet kiss, despite the lack of butterflies on my part.

On my way home, I think of his big brown eyes and know it is going to feel akin to kicking a puppy when I have to tell him that I don’t want to go out again. I briefly consider accepting a few more dates, wondering if the blow will be easier that way. Of course, I know it won’t be. This is the part of dating that sucks completely.

It occurs to me the vanilla date that I was hoping for may be the worst date of all. Extreme weirdness, attempted groping and offers to spray artificial cheese product on my body are all very easy to turn down. A sweet, brown-eyed boy (oops…man) who continues to text me with enthusiasm for an hour after our first date is not.

I suddenly remember a very bad profile that I had happened upon the day before. One sentence jumped out at me and tugged at my heart: “I just want to find someone to love me.” This very basic human need, to find someone who thinks we are special and funny and beautiful and amazing, is what is driving every single person out there searching for someone.  It is the desire to be loved and cherished and held, despite our flaws and quirks of personality.

Suddenly, I found myself overwhelmed by melancholy.  M, with his sweet smile and puppy eyes, did not have the power to move me the way he indicated I moved him. Yet I wished at that moment, profoundly, that he did. Wouldn’t life be so much easier if we always wanted the people who want us? It is a cruel joke of life that it can’t be that simple; that love and attraction and desire is so cursedly complicated and confusing.

My heart was aching with regret for the hearts that I’ve bruised or broken, as well as the ones that have done the same to me. I was overwhelmed with worry for my child and the ordeal that they would have to undergo, as well as what the results might reveal; I also felt an intense desire to be held and loved, yet recognized the irony of having just left someone who was interested in doing both.

I text L, who’s arms are loving and can often offer sweet solace. No reply is forthcoming and the boundaries of our relationship leave me uncertain if calling at 10:00 at night, when he is clearly otherwise occupied, will be an infringement.

All these thoughts swirl through my head and the only clear thing I can latch onto is the need to remember that every single person I come in contact with during this journey deserves at least the respect of acknowledgement. They may be weird, or distasteful…they may be sweet and earnest. In the end it doesn’t really matter. Everyone just wants to find someone to love them. I may not be able to offer that; the least I can offer is the courtesy of a response, some kindness and the willingness to acknowledge that deep down, we might be searching for the same thing.

I’ve heard my whole life about men and “locker room” talk. I accepted a long time ago that when it comes to dishing the details about the opposite sex, men have absolutely nothing on women. Women, especially close girlfriends, take tales of sex to a whole new level.

My girlfriend and I will talk about the sex act in glorious detail. How long? What position? Had you ever done that before? Did you come? Did he come?

When I have unthinkingly revealed some of these girl-talk conversations to my partners, they have reacted with horror. They make me promise that I won’t talk about them with friends. They profess to never share details. I am stunned and somewhat disbelieving. How could this possibly be true?

My girlfriends have been acting as a social mirror for as long as I can remember. Women watch other women. We watch how they walk, how they dress, how they flirt. We assess their eyes, hair, lips, breasts, ass and legs with voracious intensity. I notice attractive women five full minutes before my date will. Right or wrong, assessing our own physical assets or flaws by comparing ourselves to the same sex is an age-old social game. Are her boobs bigger than mine? Well…maybe they are, but my ass is better. Wow! I love her hair…wonder if mine would do that?

Add to that the fact that women form strong physical and emotional bonds from an early age. Little girls hold hands on the way to the playground. They braid each other’s hair, hug, trade clothes and jewelry. They go to the bathroom and chatter away while the other one pees. They check a girlfriend’s teeth for stray food once she has eaten; give tampons to the friend in need, and empathize over cramps and heavy flow once a month.

It only makes sense to me that once we become women and begin our sexual journey that it would be other women that we look to for answers, reassurance, sympathy and a listening ear. Emotionally, we’ve learned as women to process…and to make sure that we process in detail!

It could even be that after yearly exams that probe our delicate bits with steel and indifference, letting the cute teenage boy in the checkout ring up our tampons, or allowing five medical students to observe our vagina stretched into an unrecognizable shape by an emerging head…Well, the prudishness tends to go downhill.

My girlfriend knows how many partners I’ve had and how I would rate them. She knows who I count as a “half” partner because he only lasted ninety seconds. She also knows about the partner that I don’t count at all because I literally could not tell that we were having sex. I’m actually still not quite certain we even did (yes, it WAS that small).

So it seemed only natural to relay details of a recent sexy weekend to her on my way home from work. She listens, asks questions and makes all the right affirming noises.

Somehow this leads us into a discussion of the differences in the male appendage. She is discussing her partner’s concern over not being totally straight (and I’m NOT referring to his orientation).

“I tried to tell him that I don’t even know any men that are completely straight.” She explains. “At which point he started to cover his ears and insist that I was a virgin before we met.” Yes, her children are, apparently, from God. “So then I just said, well **** has been dating for awhile now and she says none of her partners are ever completely straight.”

“I’m so glad that I get to be a whore to save your marriage.” I respond in a dry tone.

She laughs and we embark on a thorough discussion of length, girth, right-leaning, left-leaning, straight up, straight out, cut, uncut, dark complexioned and fair complexioned penises.

As I describe one that was, for me at least, a startling color, she comments: “Are you pumping gas while on your cell phone? You know that you could blow yourself up?”

“Whatever. What are you doing?”

“I’m putting the meatloaf in while the kids watch TV.”

We laugh together for a moment at the absurd practicality of discussing our sex lives over domestic chores. Still, what else is a soccer mom going to do?

I knew when J first contacted me that it wasn’t going to turn into anything serious. I had already glanced at his profile and skipped over it when I came across the bold (and prejudiced) assertion that he was “looking for a woman who isn’t on anti-depressants”. I was even somewhat amused that it knocked me out of the running. After all, between this man and my happy pills, there was really no contest.

When he emailed me, I quickly followed up with a reply of, “Sorry, I’m on anti-depressants, so clearly we aren’t a good match.”

He counters: “So, I’m a smoker. No one is perfect.”

Unwilling to be drawn into a debate about a prescribed drug that treats depression versus nicotine addiction, I simply respond: “Clearly, our dysfunctions don’t line up well. Thanks for the message though.”

“So, want to meet for a drink?”

A couple of weeks of witty email banters are bandied back and forth between us. I’m not looking for anything from him and certainly don’t think he’s going to be “the one”, but I finally agree to take him up on his offer because he seems amusing. I think that it might be nice to simply enjoy a relaxed evening of conversation over a glass of wine, without the pressure of determining if we work well together. For me, the determination has already been made that we don’t. So this will be a cake date: Fun, with no pressure.

As soon as he shows up it is clear he is his biggest fan. He is witty and charming and funny and outrageous, at least in his own mind. I feel absolutely zero physical chemistry, but I’m still aiming for low-key fun. I’m getting a strong bad-boy vibe, with a deep thread of geek running through and, as the conversation progresses, I’m admitting to myself that I find his company annoying.

After the first hour, his conversation is studded with phrases that he seems to consider edgy and clever. Referring to his roommate’s refusal to drive him to the restaurant: “I said, cunt, it’s only a few blocks.” When I suggest ordering food, he loudly calls out, “Feed us, bitches.” He punctuates every few minutes with a shoulder bump and a loudly intoned, “Cheer up, will ya?”

I’ll admit it. I began to focus heavily on my wine. Even more so when he started to hold and kiss my hand, then leaned in while I was chewing and kissed me. Chewing! Does the fool know nothing about women? As time passed, he morphed from a merely annoying and juvenile forty-something into a human octopus. Everywhere I turned, there were his hands. He continued to lean in at will and kiss me randomly, while petting my back (much lower than I would have preferred), my hair, my face, and my hands.

Since when did slobbery PDA become acceptable on a first date?

I escape to the bathroom to text L, my on-again, off-again lover and friend. While that statement, in and of itself, may seem to require explanation, it would take too long and I digress from the events at hand.

Me: Oh, dear lord

L: LOL…that bad?

Me: Ugh…A geek with as many hands as an octopus. I have escaped to the bathroom.

L: Like touchy feely?

Me: Oh yeah

L: You poor thing

Me: Ok. Back into the fray to try and wrap up this night so I can go home. Pray for me…

L: As they say, pimpin’ ain’t easy

Me: ..to whatever deity you need to

It occurs to me later that some might consider it odd to text a lover from a bathroom stall, while you’re on a date. Nevertheless, in a sea of dysfunctional and distasteful dating companions, I find L to be a reassuring presence in my life.

I return to the table slightly buoyed by the texting and announce that I’m very tired and that I need to go home and go to bed.

“I think you’re wonderful and beautiful, young lady.” He says with what I think is meant to be a tender smile. “You could always go home to my bed.”

“No, really, I think I can’t.” My smile is frozen in place as he leans in for another kiss. I wonder at his ability to misjudge my reaction, as his tongue darts out to attempt to find an entry-way to my tightly sealed mouth.

I stand abruptly and begin to walk toward the entrance. My disgust is such that when he offered to pay, despite my innate inclination to go Dutch, I readily agree. I figure after the slobber and octopus hands, I could handle a free meal.

At the car, he ignores the distance I am keeping between our bodies and swoops in and takes me in his arms passionately. Leaning me backward, he again attempts a full-on mouth assault.

“Kiss me.” He intones passionately, his smoker’s breath panting in my face. “Kiss me like you mean it.” Awkwardly caught between my door and his body, I kiss him chastely on the lips and then dart backwards.

“Thanks for the pizza. Be careful on your walk home. “

Then, blessedly, I am on my way home. As I daydream about my bed and sinking into unconsciousness, in the hopes that I can rid myself of the sensory impressions he left me with, one more thought occurs to me. I text it to L.

Me :I’m going home to gargle…with bleach.

L: Ouch

Somehow, that seems to sum up the evening quite nicely.

I never realized how complicated dating, relationships, love and sex could be until I got a divorce. Granted, I married young and was married for over a decade, so I wasn’t exactly hip to the dating scene. Gone are the days of boy-meets-girl simplicity. Sometimes,  it seems, you need a full-blown contract that lay out all the terms and conditions of the “arrangement” that you enter into.

These days, there are lots of non-traditional forms of getting your groove on with the opposite sex and they don’t exactly scream “committed”. Now, sex without commitment is not exactly a new concept. Still, I’m finding that there are a few twists that can be both liberating and extremely complicated.

 The One Night Stand

A fairly simple concept; a one-time hook-up, often (but not always) accompanied by adult libations. The concept has never been very appealing to me personally, but apparently there are more and more women who are willing to enjoy the occasional romp with a stranger. In fact, one acquaintance posted on her Facebook page after a night of bar-hopping: “Since when did it become so hard to find somebody to fuck?”

The Fuck Buddy

This is a step above the One Night Stand in that it is a standing arrangement for as long as is amenable to both parties. Gone is the fear that someone won’t find you fuckable. It is like built in sex insurance. The relationship does not involve commitment; often it doesn’t even involve friendship. Rather than hit the bars when you feel the need, you simply call up the fuck buddy and hope that he is available. Hanging out as friends is probably best avoided, because otherwise it can escalate to the next stage…

Friends with Benefits

Hanging out is a strong component, because the relationship is about more than just the sexual intimacy. For one reason or another, the relationship doesn’t cross over into “committed”, but it isn’t platonic either. After all, you have a great time together. You’re both hot and sexy. Why not double the pleasure?

Non-Monogamous Lovers

A variation on the Friends With Benefits theme, in that you clearly have more going on than just friendship and more going on than just sex. Yet…there are just so many other people out there! Maybe neither partner desires a committed relationship. Maybe neither partner wants to limit their options. It could cross over to committed, but for right now you’re just enjoying the ride (no pun intended).

 These twists and turns on the way to true love have their pros and cons. Today, “single” rarely means “celibate”. To find the option that meets your needs for physical and emotional intimacy, while waiting for “the one”, can be tricky. As you move through the hierarchy of uncommitted intimacy, the potential for payoff and disaster rise exponentially.

In the end, it is all about boundaries. With a one-night stand, it a little more clear-cut: This is about the pleasure of the moment and not being alone for a few hours. That is, if both parties understand…

With the Fuck Buddy and the Friend with Benefits, what boundaries do you draw around the relationship so that neither gets hurt? Is dinner with a Fuck Buddy acceptable? Do you cuddle afterwards? Or might it smudge the line if you eat pizza before you have sex? For that matter, what is the line? With a Friend with Benefits, what happens when one person decides that they feel something other than friendship? What happens when one of the parties involved meets someone they want a relationship with, therefore ending the “benefits” portion of the relationship? Can the friendship survive?

If only human relationships were like contracts, with places to initial and sign on the dotted line. Perhaps it would make this modern dating scene easier to navigate. Then again, perhaps it wouldn’t help at all. Aren’t love and sex and all the emotion that surrounds interplay between the sexes fraught with potential complications, despite the “terms of service” that you might choose?

Yet it is surprising how much grayer I see love and relationships these days. Perhaps it is getting older. Maybe it is realizing that if the person that promised to love and cherish me until death (and had what is very nearly a contract saying as much!) can stop doing both, then there is really nothing that is permanent. It could even be that now that I’m a mother, my children are very beautiful time markers, always making me aware of the forward movement of time. I’m not sure that I want to go without someone touching me, holding me, cherishing me (if only for an evening) until I find the person I hope to be with long-term. I’m trying to live much more in the present. Commitment, wedding rings and white picket fences don’t guarantee forever.

In the end, I believe in love; I think that two people who work at it can find long-term happiness together if they choose. I’m simply no longer certain that I want to pass up the opportunity to grab life and love right now, simply to wait for an ideal. Sometimes, being held and knowing that no matter where that person will be the next night, they are with you at the present moment…well, that is a shade of gray that can be a beautiful thing.