“Oh, Saturday sun, I met someone…” Vance Joy

I think I met the love of my life when I was 41. Well, actually I was 24 but at that time, we were passing acquaintances and I couldn’t get past his prematurely silver and unfortunately long ponytail.

Now here we are, making out like teenagers on the couch and I whispered in his ear “You are going to be such a good dancer” which got a good laugh out of him.

He calls me “Hon”and “gorgeous” but I’mpet names. More or less 14 years of singledom left me out of practice in terms of endearment. I’ve called some exes “hotness” and or “pookie” (jokingly, obviously). But CK doesn’t have a fake tan (or a real one for that matter) no a douchey frat boy haircut, although he did cut off the unfortunately long ponytail years ago. So “hotness” doesn’t fit.

I could see myself marrying him but it would probably go down something like this: I email him a link to some ring with skulls on it and ask “So are we going to do this shit or what?”

I write that even as it still feels premature to say “I love you”. Although he has said it in letters and my inner dialogue says “I love this man”. Also I’m afraid if I break that “I love you” seal then it will turn into that habitual, afterthought, obligatory “I love you” and not as meaningful.

I may be paraphrasing or outright plagiarizing another writer (Fitzgerald or his wife?) when I say I’ve met the one with whom my heart and soul is at rest. Like a shot of bourbon on an empty stomach, he blooms in my Heart.

Sometimes he still asks “Why are you with me?” Because he leaves love letters in my underwear drawer and draws hearts on the windshield of my filthy car. And I save them in a shoebox or tuck them into a Bible that I no longer read.


Satan says “Brush your teeth.”

satan says brush your teeth

I don’t know why I think that’s so funny. CK shares my humor as we brainstormed a series of children’s books starting with “My First Black Mass” starring the Satans: Lucifer, Lilith and their horde of demon spawn, Azazel, Beelzebub, et al. The Satans get a dog. The Satans get divorced. The Satans are starting to sound like The Simpsons, I warn. It’s marketable alongside Daddy Darth Vader and “Go the Fuck to Sleep”. Hipsters will love it, with or without kids.  (PS – this blog serves as a poor man’s copyright).

This is the bond we share. But (his words) “this” has an inanimate connotation though so he prefers “us”. He cherishes “us”; The fumbling discovery and watching my face when I dance. “Even health setbacks have helped us develop in ways that matter”. That resonates with me. He resonates with me. As important as sex is to me, I acknowledge the science behind the it: the release of oxytocin during orgasm that deepens the emotional bond, perhaps binding people that should not be bound together, creating a false sense of love. And so CK’s erectile dysfunction, although frustrating, gives me the sense that this may be the purest affection I’ve ever had for someone, because it’s NOT chemically induced or enhanced.

When I consider my past, those careless, loveless lovers, I shudder and mentally anchor myself in CK. He’s the Cloak of Levitation to my Dr. Strange. I may be gifted but fallible as any human. Logical but finite. Good but not nice. I may be enough without him but demonstrably better with him.

And yet I continue to question how I’ll make this work. Not so much of question of “will it” but “how to do it”. Can I face the rest of my life with a man that cannot, pardon the frankness, penetrate me? Even with pills, I realize now that his dick is like the broken stem of a daisy and a finger curled stiff with arthritis. It will not, perhaps cannot, magically stand erect. I also joked that celibacy has turned my vagina into Fort Knox and it might feel like he is slamming his dick against a brick wall. As he failed to breach me, I joked sympathetically, “Most men would think ‘Great! She’s tight!” but he’s thinking ‘Aw fuck, she’s tight.”  His quiet devastation at not being able to fuck his girlfriend was palpable and all I could think to do was hold him and try to reassure him that I was happy just having his naked body on my naked body, which wasn’t a lie. But is that enough? I still wanted him inside me and my brain was screaming “Please, G-d, Universe, Karma, don’t do this to us…” I kept kissing him, encouraging, writhing, grinding, begging…until I came. Unexpected and sudden, I shakily announced “Well that worked”. “Really?!” he asked with…was it relief? Disbelief? Was this enough? I can be satisfied but for the rest of my life with what amounts to a lesbian sexual relationship? I don’t know. So how do we make this work?

” pull me closer if you think you can hang” M.I.A

Hes a good writer. Maybe even better than me. But as I’m the inspiration for his recent poetic musings, I dont mind that. And he has written for me the loveliest sentiments. I wish I had them on paper. Maybe Ill go back and transcribe them, as a reminder when the light goes out.
Because doesnt it always? She whispers and I glance down at the tiny, private spaceship tattoo that reminds me that I have suffered a lifetime of fleeting affections so why should now be any different?

But This time feels different. He’s different. I keep thinking of that silly eHarmony commercial about compatibility on a deeper level. I think they were probably just talking about shared beliefs on politics and parenting and I’m referring to how he measures up on paper (literally. Recall my List?) And our mutual goofiness as he calls it. Or maybe I’ve simply finally met my equal. I introduced him to my family and we haven’t even slept together yet.

Yeah, about that…

It doesn’t matter what I say about myself in an anonymous blog but I always hesitate to air something painful and private about someone else. But there’s no getting around it and there’s no sugarcoating it so I hope if he ever stumbles across this and takes the time to read it that he doesn’t judge me too harshly for it. So here it is: We haven’t been intimate because we can’t. At least not the way we would both like to. I don’t want to say that diabetes robbed him of his manhood but he might believe it. It has robbed him of the ability to get an erection and medication did not help in the past, he confessed. It affected him so profoundly that he hasn’t attempted intercourse in years. We had a grown up conversation about my needs and his health (as an aside, how refreshing to have candid conversations without judgement, tempers and hurt feelings!) And he has an appointment with his doctor this week to discuss treatment options. In the meantime, we just enjoy each other’s company and I no longer fret how slowly things are moving or question why he hasn’t throw me against a wall yet. I’m guessing he doesn’t want to start the engine until he knows he can drive. And I like him enough to wait. Although I can admit that when we do finally make it out of the garage, there’s the chance we may be compatible in every way except that one. And that would be a deal-breaker for me.

Be aggressive! Be! Be! Aggressive!

I cast an old radio acquaintance with whom I’ve rekindled a connection into an S&M fantasy role and I’m afraid I’ve doomed us before there is an “us” to speak of. After spending some time together in which we both sent mixed signals, we had a grown-up chat and admitted that we “like-like” each other. In the days leading up to our first official date, I fed that oxytocin monster by thinking of him hog tying me like a pro and then cradling me on his aroused lap.  Masturbating is challenging by the way, when the kitten I am fostering disregards my need for personal space and insists on nestling between my legs and thinks my vibrator is a toy to be pounced on under the covers.

Months ago, when I approached him about “hanging out”, I don’t believe I did it under false pretenses. I said “Pardon me if I’m coming on strong except that I don’t have any local single friends anymore which means I don’t have any friends anymore.”

I envy my roommate for his bluntness even if it’s inappropriate. On the way out the door today, he wished me “Happy fucking!” If he’s even remotely attracted to a woman, he tells her so directly and right away. Me, I wait for some sort of indicator or flirty signal from the guy before revealing any of my own cards. Partly because I don’t want to make him uncomfortable and secondly Im afraid of rejection. I also don’t want to blow a potential friendship even if the horny devil in me does.

This guy is sentimental in a way that speaks to my heart. Gentlemanly, I like it when his hand guides me at the small of my back. Considerate and not because he’s trying to win some popularity contest. He says he’s trustworthy and as the rest of him seems sincere I suppose that part is too. I like his wit. His nerdiness. The fact that he reads every night and shares my affinity for Winston Churchill. Like me, he writes “cranky blogs and bad poetry” (his words). I like his voice and he offered to read me to sleep sometime so yeah, i like- like him. He’s different from the other Mistakes and that unnerves me a little. The first man in a decade to invite me to meet his parents even before kissing me. Speaking of, I warned him that he’d better be good at that because I’ve broken up with men for Less. And if he’s not the type of man who will throw me against the wall, pull my hair or flog me, at least on special occasions and holidays, it probably won’t work between us.

And maybe that’s where I went wrong.

We agreed to dinner and a movie at my place with me cooking. I put the dog in daycare to ensure I’d not have to compete for my date’s lap. My roommate left town for the weekend so I had the house to myself. I lit candles and mopped the floor 5 times. Made a dinner that was at least a partial success. But after dinner, two movies and 6 hours a close proximity, he did not make a move. Finally at the end of the night as he was getting ready to leave, I could see the gears turning in his head. He leaned in to give me a hug and…kissed my cheek. I told him he wasn’t going to break me and to squeeze harder, nudging him a little. I walked him out to the car and still, the gears visibly , grinding away. But did he step in close, embrace me and Pull Me In… no.  He leaned in and pecked me dispassionately, almost dutifully on the mouth. After he left I wondered, is he just shy or not a passionate man? Or is it me? Maybe he didn’t want to make a move.  As I watched the gears turn, I grew uncomfortable. I had hoped he would be aggressive, bold.

So now what? Did I put him under too much pressure? Were my expectations too high? No. No, my expectations are my needs and I will not apologize for those. But my interest will fizzle in the absence of sizzle. Even now, I should be working on school assignments, not stewing about the horse that never made it out of the gate. Just keep it in the friend zone, although I hate that term. But if we were just friends, maybe then we would be more relaxed around each other. No more dates, expectations, and awkward brotherly kisses.

“Look kids! It’s a rocket!”

“It’s a cock!” Robin Williams aka “Rainbow Randolph” screams.

What took me so long to watch this movie? Maybe our tongues are not the only  “tastebuds” that change over the years. In 2002, it didn’t look like something I would enjoy but here I was alone on Thanksgiving night, cackling at the slapstick. At the end, I studied Ed Norton as he kissed his character’s girlfriend and thought, “Ed looks like a good kisser” so later, I found myself fantasizing and…you guessed it! Started bawling. Sobbing over how pathetic it is to be masterbating to something so ridiculous as Ed Norton in a rhino costume.

The next morning was no better as I opened my eyes to a message from an acquaintance lambasting me for my failure at friendship. It started the day before when she coldly turned down my offer to bring her a plate of thanksgiving food from my family’s house and ended with her telling me how I let her down LAST YEAR by offering to bring her food but showing up with it “too late”. I felt so shitty! I apologized profusely, asked how could I make it up to her, asked why she didn’t call or text to ask me to speed things up or even give me a specific time that she wanted to eat by… but she continued to attack and guilt me until I was in tears again. She is a widower with PTSD and I worry about her. I keep her name in a prayer box on my altar. But my emotional bandwidth was maxed and by days end, I posted “I am a failure at love. A failure professionally. And come to learn, a failure at humanity. To everyone I’ve failed, trust me when I say I’d lay down my life if it would improve yours. But why would you trust someone who failed you…?”

A friend tried to put it in perspective and said “It’s never okay for someone to deliberately make you feel bad for trying to do something good”. He’s right but it doesn’t mean I am blameless in the failure department. Reflecting over a few days, I made a difficult decision to drop her from my contacts. I cannot be a lifeline for any more people than I already am currently and I certainly can’t be one for someone who inspires me to stick a barrel in my mouth. Although I did remember to unblock my Asshole Best friend a month ago so I’m not running from everyone.

“I hope you choke in your sleep while you’re dreaming of me” ~ nothing, nowhere


I’ve read somewhere that relationships can recover from anything but disgust. Hurt, anger, betrayal, even disinterest are not nails in the coffin but once you have lost respect for your partner, it’s dead. So this wasnt a “real” relationship, according to the Flake. Sex, love, friendship, manipulation…walks like a duck talks like a duck but it still wasnt a duck if you ask him.
I trembled as I typed. I always spared his feelings before but now I told him the dark side of my opinion of him: that he is a narcissist. Also frivolous, unreliable, spiteful, mean-spirited and as manipulative as any bitch I’ve ever encountered. “Now I am really done with you.”
I blocked and deleted his phone number. Blocked his profile and ability to message me on social media. I also did something I hadnt done yet:  blocked his email.Closing not only all the doors but all the windows as well.

But damn if he didnt find a manhole and come at me through the sewer: As I tried to steady my pulse and stomach, I got a hateful response  “I’m done with you too…” I didnt read the rest. I immediately blocked that number and deleted the message. Guessing it was from his google voice number that he uses for work but I didnt know that one so I couldnt preemptively block it. Maybe I should have never attacked, just blocked the doors and windows without a word.  Maybe I shouldnt have hit below the belt, calling him a manipulative bitch. Being deliberately hurtful does not come naturally to me and I don’t feel good about it; Even if there is truth in the things I said about him. Even though he’s been deliberately hurtful to me over the years. I could have cut him off without calling him out. I could have taken the high road.
But it’s done.
And we never had “that kind” of relationship he said, I don’t need to be nice.
Now I can move on.

I consider those nights over the past few years, crying myself to sleep because I was ill and lonely. Because who doesnt feel pathetic and want to be cared for when they are sick? Suffering is easier when you have someone to lean on. Or crying at the knowledge that I’d never bear children. That is a reality I still struggle with. But of all the times I’ve been the most depressed, it was usually over a relationship (well, once I was suicidal thanks to too high a dose of Wellbutrin).  Which makes me think maybe romantic relationships are detrimental to my health. I already suspect that I’ve been chronically single (no serious relationship lasting more than 6-8 months) over the last 13 years means that I am less tolerant of others. Hey you damned men, get off my lawn! Maybe it’s better to share a bed with only dogs and cats. I can’t say there aren’t days that I don’t wake up, stretching and rolling in the sheets (as much as I can. The Zoo are bed hogs), thankful that I don’t have to answer to anyone but G-d…

” I just miss you, and I just wish you were a better man” Little Big Town

I’m so lonely, I’m combustible. My emotions aren’t raw, I am a live wire. Always have been. Passionate, honest. Eight days flew by.

Miles of abandoned beach means “clothing optional”. Tons of sand dollars and washed up jellyfish that look like breast implants but still no sea glass. Pushed myself pretty hard the first few days in Yosemite. Climbed a no-shit mountain and developed a stress fracture in my foot. Followed by a sinus infection because It snowed the 3rd day and all I had was open toed Tevas and a light windbreaker. When I was packing, the forecast called for 85 degrees in the day, not 34.
Sadly, there is no way to escape the crowds in Yosemite. There is always someone in front of you or riding your ass, chattering away loudly in a foreign language. But it was beautiful and wonderous at moments in a way that the Scottish Highlands were not. Except for the Sequoias. The grove was a graveyard of burned up and dead. The living were centuries away from being awe-inspiring.

Although with every trip off the grid, I think I should have done something else with my life, career-wise. Been a botanist or environmental scientist. I wouldn’t have gotten rich but probably would have had a stable job for the rest of my life that may have been more rewarding than my attempts to save humanity

Napa/Sonoma was a like Disney: overpriced bougie boredom. The Flake’s new home is a paradise. Although I still think SoCal suits me better, being part lizard n’ all.

After Yosemite, I decided to “take it easy” hiking around Point Reyes National Seashore. The oasis amidst soul-sucking San Francisco, one trVwler called it. Limping along mile after mile of California coastline, leaning heavily on a piece of sequoia from Yosemite. The foot slows me down but doesnt stop me. What stopped me was a herd of Tule elk in the path, less than a mile away from the tip of Tomales Point. I considered walking around them but the stags began yelling at me “Dont even think about it, lady”.

Im a big fan of the hostel though and their slogans “for travelers, not tourists”. I met a dutch woman who confided that she worked the same job for 17 years, then after a misssion to South Africa, decided “I cant do this anymore”, put everything she didn’t want to part with in storage and began traveling the world. But

But i still didnt engage with anyone, not for long. The only romantic encounter i had was with myself, nude on a deserted beach, fantasizing about an attractive single man coming along and asking if he could help.

I walked for miles on a deserted beach until after dark and didnt bother to mark the narrow entrance to the foot path. I know better! Mild panic set in when after a few false starts, i realized i couldn’t simply plow my way through the growing wall of seagrass and 9 foot high brush. Iraise my eyes to the mountains shuffled my feet and sang to warn off the nightlife that chittered and howled around me. Then turning back toward twin lights on the beach, it was a couple of Japanese guys night fishing, wearing headlamps. Thank g-d, they led me back to the path.

I sent him a picture on a nude beach. Tit for his repeated tat. He said it was sexy and turned him on. He asked where i was. He knew exactly how close i was and for how long but never said “I want to see you”. I admitted to him that i teared up driving past his house on the way to the airport. He said “That makes me sad too”. I doubt that. After all, he could have had me with a word.

“I just wanna be somebody to someone” – Banners

The booty call, I don’t even think I can call him that since we only hooked up twice and it was several months ago, went swing dancing for 5 hours last night followed by an additional 2 hours of salsa at another club. I had considered going to both dances and ultimately went to neither. I was so anxious to get back from Montana to dance and return to a “routine” and yet I’ve been back for 3 days and have done Jack and Shit.

I purchased books in the airport, one on Winston Churchill (I’m a history buff and a closet fan of that complicated man and the era he led in) and another book of recently published scraps of stories and plots from F Scott Fitzgerald ( and it may forever remain unbeknownst us how much is plagiarized from his wife). I remember a time when I devoured books and now I can’t remember the last one I made through its entirety. It’s not that I’m disinterested, it’s that I struggle to focus. It doesn’t matter the content, my attention Trails off after a few pages and then I can’t recall what I read. As if I can’t even comprehend the words on the page. What is wrong with my brain? How will I ever find another decent job if my mind is mush? And I’m pretty sure I blew both interviews this week. One for saying the wrong thing out right and the other, the dreaded brain fog or hiccup, words escaping me all together. I used to be unfailingly articulate. Now, its as if English were a second language.

A Eulogy

My Trusted Agent closed down his blog over a year ago because instead of catharsis, it fed a dark, destructive need. But sometimes he needs to get it off his chest. So I offered to ghost-publish his e-message in a bottle…


I drove by a familiar spot in my past. (It’s been awhile)
Just a random restaurant with a private parking lot.
What made this place special
that I would meet “Marti” there from time to time.
We were like two teenagers in heat. Kissing, grabbing at each other and when possible,
fucking like crazed rabbits.
I met Marti while on a business trip a 1,000 miles from home. I was still recovering from a recent death  of a close family member.
We were both in a dry spell in our marriages.  We filled a basic need for each other.
No promises, drama, plans or chains.
We made sure each one finished, at least once.
When it rained was the best.
The droning on the windshield, and the extra layer of privacy made it even better.
We would meet at my office after hours, at each other’s house when everyone was away for several days.
We were a perfect “fit”.
Our rhythm was always spot-on.
Whispers and moans, encouraging each other to do this and that.
Complimenting on how something felt or how long it had been.
When she was on her knees, she was shaped like an elegant musical instrument.
Her hips and back were a thing of feminine artwork.
The line of her spine and dimples on her lower back were burned into my mind.
She tasted sweet.
She always loved it on top.
I mention this not out of cheap sensationalism, but in the fact she would hit her perfect spot and would come several times. She would roll her head back with her eyes closed and had a half smile on her face. Sometimes her face would contort and she would gasp from the tremors and convulsions in her body. She would always tighten up. Her wetness was always just right.
She knew exactly what felt good and how to get there. It was a goal and she was determined.
She was one of the few women with whom I could go twice around with without stopping.
It was like fucking the Sun at times.  The warmth and danger always present.
We drifted apart as life got in the way. We had our own lives to focus on.
A few years later we managed to catch up. (Years before that these calls/texts would lead to on-the-fly hookups)
She told me she had major heart issues and surgeries.
I wished her well and said goodbye.
Today as I drove by that parking lot, I looked her up online to see if she still worked at the same office (I just wanted to say Hi) and that’s when I found her obituary.
How do I grieve for someone I should have never knew or touched?
I’m empty.
These days I’m trying to be a good person…husband…
But this is such a sudden hole in my past. Like a page ripped out.
I feel ashamed at the same time.  A familiar guilt of not deserving certain people in
my selfish life.

But enough about me, let’s talk about what you think of me

I re-blocked The Flake yesterday. Did I tell you he took a job in Monterey, CA? My dream (our dream) to live on the Pacific Coast and he got there before I did. Last month when he was going through the interview process, I took his calls and texts, to offer encouragement and advice, to be the “better” person. But it’s always about him, only him. He called again today and when it went straight to voicemail, he was compelled to leave a message to say “Either you blocked me again or your phone is off…” Fine. Here is my next letter to him:

“I encourage you to re-read those letters I sent you last year explaining why I cut off contact. The one-sided fact of our “relationship” (I can’t say ‘friendship’) and me wanting (and deserving) better, than you were willing to give meant that I could not be “just” your friend. Now, I don’t want that from you but the one-sidedness remains. You only reach out when you need something, when it’s convenient to you. You never look at MY pictures when I travel or ask how school or treatment is going or ask about my dancing or ask to see the video of me singing or how my mother is doing…it doesn’t even occur to you because my life simply doesn’t interest you. If it doesn’t affect you, it doesn’t matter to you. You’re so wrapped up in trying to impress others that I wonder if you know what real friendship is?

My phone is often off or on DND because I am usually in a class or otherwise busy. I return your calls and texts if they genuinely important because I care about you. But I am not here to entertain you and fill the silence when no one else is available. I have neither time nor interest in investing extra effort in someone who only thinks to reach out to scratch his own itches.

I also don’t appreciate the manipulation. A picture of you wearing my shirt NINE months after you took it off me, coyly asking “Is this yours?” You damned well know it’s mine. Followed by the Google Earth picture with a circle around your new home on the Pacific Coast… I don’t know, and you may not even be self-aware enough to know, truthfully if you are gloating or sharing. But frankly, your intent doesn’t matter at this point. All that matters is how it makes me feel, which is like crap.

Nothing has changed except that I no longer have any hopes or expectations with regards to you. Not as a friend or anything else. You are still not good to or for me. And every time you contact me, it picks open a scab. Or perhaps you are not the man I thought you were.

I hope your mother is doing as well as can be expected. And congratulations again and good luck on the new job and fulfilling the dream of living on the Pacific Coast. Hopefully I’m not far behind but you won’t know if and when I am. Mainly, because you lack the interest to ask.

Please do not reply. At all.”


In other “news”, I aced my law final. Maybe the difference is I was engaged and interested in this class so I grasped the concepts better. Or maybe I tried harder because I was starved for approval from my professor, a federal judge teaching for the hell of it. When he said my work was “among the best I have seen in many years of teaching…I am very impressed. I commend you on your effort and skills”, I ate it up. My friend “S” reminded me that he thinks I’m incredible too and I said “Thanks but that’s a bit like my mommy telling me I’m pretty”. Of course it counts but we also crave external validation. Not exactly Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs but my emotional pyramid of Love/Acceptance needs includes, from most to least important, from close friends and family, then from respected peers/authority figures, and then the least important but still registers like a pebble thrown into the lake, love/acceptance from strangers.

And my inner voice asks “Can’t you just say ‘thank you’…?”