Don't Mince Words

Most people’s soundtrack for sex is that porny bern-chica-bern-bern. Not me. When I think of sex, I hear the theme of The Rockford Files.

Television was a big deal for kids growing up in the ‘70s. One of the biggest days in our household was the arrival of a second black and white TV for my parent’s bedroom. This served two purposes (in order of likelihood): (1) Programming conflicts among household members were resolved and/or my parents didn’t have to be in the same room together; and (2) My parents had a way to drown out sex noises from my brother and me.

When you are young, you learn to like what your parents like because you want to be with them. I quickly learned to like The Rockford Files. But seriously, what was not to like? James Garner was good looking and he drove a cool car. So, one day when I heard the theme, I ran to my parent’s bedroom and opened the unlocked door to see them naked and intertwined. I gasped and my mother let out an Amityville Horror “Get Out” command. My happy Rockford theme was permanently tarnished by that vision.

That experience and feedback from my married friends made me vow I’d never be one of those people that schedules sex. In fact, several weeks ago, I told GC to shoot me if I became one of those people. That was until today. I lunged and squatted in boot camp this morning. GC’s trainer kicked his ass too. Ironically, I sent an email to him and told him there was no way I could bend my legs to have sex tonight right as he sent an email saying the same. We conceded mutual physical defeat and agreed to a sexless date tonight.

Even Jim Rockford needs a night off once in a while, right? But I bet he’d lock the door if kids were around.

I used to look forward to Sunday nights to have an ocular orgy with David Duchovny in the X-Files. As I got older, Sunday nights became reserved for Tony Soprano and Carrie Bradshaw. Now I get to look forward to the kid drop off followed by divorced daddy sex with GC.

Last night’s pillow talk was a little different. I forgot, when dating a writer, there’s a chance he may actually read my blog. Dripping with sweat he said, “Oh, by the way, we’ve been dating for longer than 90 days.”

I’ve beat my LA relationship record. There must be a Hallmark gift for this. “Hey, so what do I get? Paper? A pen?” I asked

“You just got it,” he told me.

Oh yeah, that hot monkey sex with a real man instead of a machine. Yeah, that is the perfect gift. I’ve been paroled from bad LA dating.

Today a coworker changed his status on Facebook from single to “In relationship.” I realized, I still had my “Facebook is gonna get me laid” settings on. I changed it to “In relationship” looking to “network.” Holy crap, you would of thought there was a 7.0. I received one long distance call and dozens of emails and comments ranging from ‘congratulations” to “WTF.”

Everyone’s tragically heterosexual and single girl is now unavailable. Call the dogs off.

Today’s doctor appointment revealed that I could/may be cleared for sex and yoga in nine days. I have no good reason for why I am recovering so quickly except attitude, diet, and sex on deck.

While Beans pre-alibied a December absence, he reappeared when I was in recovery. He’s been quite present ever since, helping me out and keeping me company while his dick has been put on ice. We both joke about meeting a great person then “this” happens, but it has given us the opportunity to get to know each other better. For me, it means I don’t have to shave my legs or douche. All I do is cook and he’s happy. Simple times.

I’ve scaled-up the teasing with sex count down reminders. But here’s the rub: he’s going to be in Texas filming for nearly a 1/2 month when I’m medically cleared.

Yoga here I come.

My brother and sister-in-law left the kids with a relative and the three of us went to Key West for my birthday in the 31-foot Ultra.

We did what you would expect in the limited amount of time we were there. We drank and we shopped. By 10:30 p.m. I was tired and somewhat bored since I really don’t drink much any more.

The cab ride back to the RV park was fast and we retired quickly. The couple slept in the front over-the-cab area and I got to try out the back full size bed. I was prepared to get my first good night’s sleep in more than six days.

I was tossed awake – rolled from side to side in bed, like a sailboat hitting a wake. I sat up in bed and realized my brother was having sex 30 feet away from me. While the heat generator drowned out the audibles, the RV obviously did not have fully independent suspension. I was getting residually fucked on my own birthday.

I felt like I was in college. You know when your roommate thinks she can be quiet having sex. You want to say something, but you know it will be over soon. You are happy for her. This experience was something different. I was a part of this act. It was yucky. It was my brother.

When the generator shut off, the movement subsided. I imagine the fuckers up front were restratigizing their actions. About a minute later, it started again. I debated about what to do, then I figured it would be over soon. You know, they are married, they have to do things fast, in between soccer practice and Dora the Explorer.

It eventually ended without an audio track, except the one in my head saying, “Happy fucking birthday.”

How a year of dating in Los Angeles made me appreciate books and batteries

My 2004 resolution challenge was dating bulimia – I would date as much as possible until I got sick. I feasted on the men of Los Angeles while Kathleen, a friend in New York, did the same. Our goal was to get out there and meet people and not focus on our careers. We began this social endeavor with low expectations. Shortly thereafter, we were ready to jam our fingers down our throats.

If I could make it to the gym four to five days a week, I decided I could tolerate one date a week. I let everyone know I was available. I trolled the internet. I exercised options at the gym. I loitered in the produce aisle. I wanted to just get out and have fun with no strings attached. My resume and professional interviewing skills were built up; however, my dating dossier and related opposite sex conversational skills were sorely lacking. I was going for quantity, not quality this year.

I managed to go out with 22 men ranging in age from 28 to 48. I almost hit my frequency goal as well with dates 48 out of 52 weeks (holidays and exhaustion permitted me to take some time off). My high volume yielded some great stories – from the emotionally unavailable comic to the offshore-educated doctor. My counterpart in New York didn’t match my volume, but she did manage to run into the same “types.”

Oddball – This guy is usually quirky, strange, eccentric, and probably a Trekkie. They are nice, but you wonder what’s in their basement. Chris was a 45-year-old tobacco chewing dot com guy that lost it all in the market down turn. His change of life career became day acting and one of his more notable roles was as an extra in Seabiscuit.

Successful but emotionally unavailable – They have it all except a desire to have a healthy relationship and healthy for them usually means sex on the first date. I met several guys in this category. John was a 40-year-old salesman that told me I’d make the perfect wife, if that was what he was looking for. He’s keeping me at the top if his list until he’s ready.

Rockyfella – The unemployed or cheap guy is everywhere. If you are going to date, you need to have the resources. One of my dates “accidentally” had no cash when the check came and he realized he left his credit cards at home. This 48-year-old man told me I could pass for 29 with my curls. That pre-check compliment didn’t earn him a second date.

Brainiacs – Smart is sexy, but when you need to bring encyclopedias on a date, smart can be boring. I went out with a university professor that was so intelligent, I couldn’t keep up. He couldn’t talk about anything nonacademic. We did get close when he admitted he used to have a backgammon addiction.

Hog tied – With this ring, I thee cheat. The married guys are sneaky. They pose as separated, divorced, and single, but what they really are is bored, married guys. One sucked me into his web then admitted he was married, but was looking for a monogamous lover while he kept his wife on the side.

Nice guys – They are everywhere, but hopefully they don’t finish last. Sometimes they spend so much time being nice that they don’t allow for chemistry to develop. Dave, a 46-year-old museum archivist, was a nice guy and we had good conversation, but no connection. He did tell me I was a nice lady.

Musicians – Los Angeles, like New York, is a creative town filled with musicians. I was due to date one on this coast. Brett was a bass player. The last bass player I dated left me to join the circus band. I said I’d never date a musician again, but I thought I’d give Brett a shot. Music was his mistress as well and his schedule didn’t permit regular dating.

Reruns –Reruns are men you’ve dated before, said you’d never do it again, and you relapse. Andy received his second shot in the fall. We originally went out in the spring, but had to break up because he wasn’t ready for such a “real” relationship. He was renewed as a rerun with a double-secret probation clause. He didn’t last 30 days before it ended with an emotional breakdown grand finale several days later. Show cancelled.

Jocks – this good time guy is always available for short term relationships. They are gamey, fun, and oftentimes dumb. Mike, a 40-year-old fireman and tri-athlete, met me for putt-putt golf on our first date. Within the first ten minutes, he challenged me to a thumb wrestling match. Twenty minutes later he decided it would be fun to see if he could unhook my bra in one take. He did, just like The Fonz. Heeeeeyyyyyyyyyyyyy.

It was a busy year for me. In 2005, I will take my 2004 lessons under advisement and revert back to books and batteries sprinkled with passive dating. While my dating spree has provided me with a stable of good material, I’m ready for quality now as Kathleen and I work on our book about dating. I enjoyed the feast, but I think I’ll enjoy my 2005 famine much more.