The nurse, the housekeepers and Sharon

 

I fell asleep this afternoon and had a dream with Sharon in it. She was disabled and bedridden still, and I was living somewhat apart from her in our sprawling suburban home. I guess the house was big enough, and I had hired some help, so dealing with Sharon's daily care wasn't my main concern in life. 

Apparently, in this dream at least, my main job was that of hiding my infidelities from her. 

I was just outside the front door when, Gina, her hospice nurse approached me. She drew in close, as if she was going to whisper a secret in my ear. Instead, she pressed herself up against me, and I found myself the victim of a surreptitiously placed kiss. 

Torn between the instant pang of guilt and my rising desire, I reciprocated the kiss while weakly trying to extricate myself from her arms. We fell down on the grass together in a heap of tangled arms, legs and repressed sexual energy. Soon hands were on appendages, and fingers were in places that high school boys boast about.

"I've been wanting this for some time, you know," she said, giving voice to the unspoken tension. 

Like the song lyric, "It felt so wrong, it felt so right," there was no denying that I liked it, alright. Damn her devious ways, and damn my caddish oaf self for falling into the trap.

At that moment, the housekeeper, an English woman in her mid-fifties, sporting a Brady Bunch mom hairdo and the concomitant amount of '70s rouge, opened the door and spied me and Gina lying on the lawn. The housekeeper reached for a phone just inside the doorway and began speaking in hushed tones to someone.

"Can you come here?" she was saying. "Yes, come quickly. You'll never believe what I'm seeing." 

It was a rather awkward and unprofessional position for either Gina or myself to be caught in.  I was sunk. Busted, and I knew it.

I quickly extricated myself from the tangle of  lust on the lawn, stood up and approached the housekeeper. I was going to try to explain to her that it wasn't what she thought, although it probably was exactly what she thought. 

Instead, I took the phone from her and found that it was Sharon on the other end. I was about to explain to her what had happened and that it didn't mean anything, realizing how cheap and crappy that would make me look to her, to Gina and the housekeeper. The housekeeper interrupted me before I could speak:

"Just so you know, as of right now, Sharon doesn't know anything." 

Her words washed over me like a wave of relief. I didn't want to make Sharon's life any sadder with news of my actions. Apparently, though, Gina's kiss had awakened some kind of beast in my libido, and when I was handing the phone back to the housekeeper, I felt another spark of desire as my roughly stubbled face brushed her smooth cheek.

"I don't want your beard," she spoke reprovingly, "but I will take a beer for my trouble." 

"Right away, ma'am," I said, agreeing at once to the paltry blackmail.

I went inside to fetch the beer and found Sharon in the process of trying to transfer herself out of bed and onto a rickety manual wheelchair. This was not in her current repertoire, and she wasn't doing a very good job of it. She was dressed in an attractive evening gown, black with an aqua fade toward the bottom, where it ended in a kind of fishnet weave.

"That's a lovely dress you are wearing," I said. I wanted to give her a hug, but I was afraid that she'd catch Gina's scent on me. Women have an uncanny nose for news when it comes to the smell of other women.

"I'm about to poop myself," she announced handily. "That's why I'm trying to transfer by myself and get out of this dress. I wanted to save the housekeeper the work." Her innocent tone and selfless motivations made me choke up a little.

Another housekeeper, a large black woman wearing nurse's scrubs, arrived at that moment, ready to attend to the duties at hand. I felt guilty for not having any responsibilities regarding Sharon's care, so I offered the second housekeeper a beer as well. 

She graciously accepted the offer, and I went off to the refrigerator to fetch a couple of beers to pacify my conscience. They looked rather refreshing, and I thought of grabbing one for myself, but I stuck to the original plan. 

That was about where the dream ended. I woke up feeling like a philandering politician who has barely evaded discovery by the paparazzi. Though none of these type of events ever happened in real life, it was perhaps only due to lack of means and opportunity. I feel that there is an inner cad in me who might have jumped at the chance, had it presented itself.

The unhappy hooker and my shapeshifting cat, Meaty

I was on someone's laundry strewn bed in a dimly lit room with oily dark wood paneling and cheap louvered glass windows, like you might see on an older travel trailer. I was not alone. There was a young lady who looked all of about 23 on the bed with me. 

She began to engage me in some kind of lap dance, straddling me and flinging her long blond hair about wildly. Before I was able to fully enjoy the moment, though, out came her cardboard sign: "Anything helps. $1 donations accepted."

"Really? You're going to spam me, NOW?" I said, somewhat chagrined. I guess I figured she could have at least waited for the end of the dance before soliciting donations.

She ceased her gyrations and got up from the bed in tears and began to pout in the corner. I'd struck a nerve, and now I felt bad.

"I don't know why I'm so hung up about the idea of monetary compensation," I apologized. "I understand your dilemma, and I really don't object to your profession. I'm just cheap, I guess. Don't take it personally." My words didn't exactly comfort her, but she stopped crying.

"They make me do this," she said, referring to the cardboard sign. "I know it's not appealing. But we don't have health care, and my teeth are getting thin." She showed me a smile rowed with perfectly ordered, clean young teeth.

"I have the same problem," I said, trying to console her. I felt her lack of confidence was entirely unwarranted, at least regarding her appearances, and I told her so. She really was a flawlessly constructed Barbie doll who shouldn't have been suffering from any self-esteem issues, in my estimation.

She thanked me for being understanding and told me that I was the kind of client she'd enjoy performing for pro bono. But the moment had passed, and she put on her skimpy outfit and left.

I also left and went out driving around the neighborhood with my cat Meaty in the car. It was a somewhat rural area, with horse pastures and small ranchettes interspersed along the grass-lined, two lane highway. I stopped at an intersection and looked out the car window to the left and saw that my cat had managed to escape the vehicle and was sitting in a horse pasture.

"What are you doing out there?" I asked the cat. "You'll get yourself stepped on."

It was true. The horses weren't paying much attention to her, and she was in a pretty heavily trafficked area of the pasture, as indicated by the fine dust they kicked up as they trotted dangerously close to my kitty. 

I got out of my car to retrieve my cat, but she was having none of it. I called to her, but she ignored me. She did wander out of the horse pasture, though, and into the relative safety of someone's front yard. At that point, I noticed that this wasn't my cat Meaty, but a long-haired smoky calico. 

I wondered if I'd been mistaken about the identity of the cat who'd been in the car with me, and I began to assume that, for better or worse, this was now my cat. I sat down on some cement steps and started the long process of convincing the cat that I was alright, and that she should come with me back to the car. 

Between the lap dancer and the cat, I was kind of striking out as far as making the best impression. I woke up feeling that I really should try harder to be more sensitive to the needs of others, especially those who might be different from what I perceive them to be based on outward appearances.

God, Ver. 0.1.0 (Beta)

Another variation on the theme that God just hasn't gotten his shit together yet...

So, what if God, you know, the whatever or whomever that is, the one in whom all things consist, that all-encompassing, well, you know, the You-Know-Who-in-Chief, the big Cheese, etc, etc -- this guy, or gal...aw, fuck it. Where was I goin' with that thought, anyway? Move on. Complete  thoughts and sentences, already, Chuck. Please and thank you. If/then. Gotcha.

No, really. If that far up the corporate ladder is in sketchy territory, then we all are doomed. The Guy driving the bus is impaired. The Bus itself is impaired. There ain't no Mechanic, but if there was, you can bet that motherfucker would be impaired too. Probably drunk. And high. And using way too many inappropriately personalized Proper Nouns and Pronouns, as indicated by His wild and frequent use of Capitalization.

So, maybe this God guy hasn't even obtained enlightenment as to his own true nature? This big ol' God character is on a voyage of self-discovery just like his tiny mortal counterparts. Maybe he's just gotten his learner's permit, and we are all cautioned to "Watch out for idiot moves -- Student Deity." 

Maybe he's not even immortal. Maybe he just has slower heartbeats than we do. Maybe it's just that from our perspective the heartbeats of God appear to be everlasting, when in fact, it is because we are living our entire lives in a one second interval between ticks on the clock, where an infinite number of universes arise and perish within a blink of the cosmic eye.

Me, I'm the god of "all things Andrew." At least as far as it concerns my everyday consciousness. And a few autonomic functions that I'd be really screwed to be without. But this Andrew, Universe to Microbes, host to many friendly and unfriendly bacteria and the like, he lumbers along half-unconscious most of the time, blissfully unaware of all the various life-containing particles that may slough off randomly in a single skin flake, which could very well go on to be cloned and procreate an entire species.

Am I makin' any sense? I guess it doesn't matter, as yet. We are still getting the bugs worked out too, God. I guess we'll cut you some slack. You got a lot on your plate. Like, this Universe shit. Take your time. You'll figure it out. You're smart like that, eh, God? 

In the meantime, the rest of you, please enjoy your free trial version of "Life, existence and all that that entails." You will get one free upgrade, after which you will be asked to pay a subscription fee. You can opt out at that point, but you will lose your place in the queue, and it takes forever to get back in there sometimes. 

And thank you for taking part in this vast parking lot experiment that has been your life up until now. All of this could change in an instant, you know. Lightning, or a two by four, could strike you on the head, unlocking the secrets of all creation. Or you could get an aneurysm and have a lifetime of symptoms from the neurodegenertative effects of trauma to your delicate instrument of perception. 

You were selected at random, as part of the control group or as part of the experiment. It really doesn't matter which group you are in, ultimately we're all in the same big fuckin' group. The group of everyone and everything in all the realms of infinite possibility. That group. Big group. Impossible to opt out of. 

So, as Bob Dylan so eloquently put it: 

"I would not feel so all alone -- everybody must get stoned."

Back to Saturday...

Extra credit:

Q. Am I the voices in my head?

A. Who is asking the question? And which one does the answering? That's the one you are. The one who both asks and answers the question, "Who am I?" The rest of them are imposters. They are versions of you that were contemplated and discarded. Thought creations you brought into existence through the power of your mind. You are still the one steering the boat, and the rest of the crowd is just coming along for the ride and offering backseat commentary.

 

Q: Which came first, the chicken or the rabbit stew? And if not by me and you, then by who? 

A: There is no "A."

Q: Do I come with replacement batteries and filters? And if not, where might I procure some?

A: Good question. Check at CVS or Rite Aid. Maybe AutoZone, or even WalMart.

Q: Will the universe ever end, and if so, why hasn't it ended already?

A: That's a difficult question, but one which I'm glad you asked. Let's see:

 

1) Well, for one, who's to say it hasn't already? Ended, that is. I mean, which time? 

 

2) Or, it could be, that it hasn't ended yet because we all have one final test, in the form of an essay question, which we all must write together. 

 

3) That, in itself, should explain why it hasn't been done yet, hence, no getting on with the universe. We'd have to collaborate. Merge the streams of all of our consciousnesses at once and unleash the collective. Might be great, might mess up the space-time continuum and physically end existence as we know it. 

 

4) Don't you have anything better to do on a Saturday than to sit around and wonder about the end of the universe?

Dad, Joy Behar, Kramer and me, and a tiger make 3, or an eggroll, or whatever

 

I was in an upstairs apartment owned by my mom and Greg. It was a nicely appointed townhouse, with an understated white on white theme: white furniture and white walls adorned with white abstract artwork, and the carpeting, bed and bedspread -- all white. But it wasn't monochromatic or oppressive. Things were various shades of white, though without appearing dirty or mismatched. Just a tasteful pallet of all things white.

As I sat on the bed, thinking about dinner, my dad arrived, without much fanfare, for a visit. Except that I hadn't seen him for many years, so it was a big deal to me. He greeted me with a smile, and I noticed that his teeth were gleaming white, as well. 

I wanted to get a photo of the two of us, so I whipped out my trusty phone to take the typical selfie. A tiger, not white, but your average orange and black type, kept photobombing the shot, so I never wound up with one with just me and my dad. I'd get one with my dad and the tiger or the tiger and me, or ones with all three of us, but with the tiger crowding one or the other of us out of the shot.

Joy Behar was there, offering culinary advice, and possibly in a drug dealer capacity. My dad mentioned that he needed to score some kind of blood-based drug that was a part of an obscure Jewish rite involving pork, the tiger and a small amount of marijuana.

"I don't really smoke the weed anymore," he told me, "Except in small amounts, and only to activate the blood in this other drug, which I hope to get today from Joy, if she is agreeable." 

Joy seemed agreeable and went off to the synagogue to score the ritual potion. 

"So, you are using weed as a gateway drug to some other kind of drug?" I found the notion as cliche as a 70s PSA about the dangers of reefer. "So tell me, Dad, just how does the tiger figure in?"

I don't think even he knew that part of the formula, only that it was a critical element, like the pork or the mystery blood-drug which Joy was out procuring.

Kramer from Seinfeld was in the hallway examining some pork which had been brought out for the occasion. Several bags of frozen picnic roast had been left out atop a floor chest type deep freezer and were in various stages of thawing out. They looked good to the naked eye, but Kramer was having none of it.

"AHT-AHT-AHT!" He chided curtly, dismissing the pork as unfit for man or tiger. He sniffed one of the baggies and did a dramatic head-jerk away from the offensive frozen meat, making a "Yick-ick-ick" sound and squinching his eyes and mouth in revulsed protest. 

"This bad boy is gonna have to go back in the freezer for another occasion. It just won't do." He squealed out the last sentence like it was breaking his heart. Kramer set the bag back down atop the chest and walked away, shaking his head.

I don't recall much after that. My dad was still hanging around waiting for Joy to get back with his drugs, and we were running out of topics of conversation. I guess we'd talked about my childhood a bit, about my brothers and about how I'd been so infatuated with the movie "Jaws" as a kid, but no real memorable dialogue stands out. I think my mind was just too preoccupied with the blood drug thing, the tiger in the room and the rancid meat dilemma.

That and the fact that my dad's teeth were so damned white. Just how did he manage that at his age, I wondered? Oh well, at least he and the tiger got some good selfies together, with their perfect smiles and all.

The trials of a young newspaper copy writer

 

I was a young Clark Kent, working for the Daily Planet, and I found myself butting heads with the Editor-in-Chief, played by my mom. Ok, I wasn't Clark Kent. I was me. And it wasn't the fictional newspaper in the Superman series; it was some local rag. But the part about butting heads with my mom-boss editor is accurate. 

I was writing little stories and articles for the newspaper, and my mom and Greg were my direct supervisors. I kept turning in copy with objectionable content, but I never found out what, exactly, was so objectionable about it. I just kept getting the red-faced, steam coming out of the ears type of response whenever I'd leave a story on their desk for review.

After one such incident, I decided I'd had enough and decided to walk out, but not before telling my mom what I thought of her editorial tyranny. Her already explosive reaction to my work doubled in intensity, and she began screaming at me as I walked out of her office.

She followed me out of the building and down the street, haranguing me the whole way:

"You're an impetuous brat! Listen to me! Come back here, I'm not through abusing you! You don't care who you hurt, do you, with your little stories? Greg and I are the ones who have to cover for you, and it's not easy, let me tell you..." and on and on she went, her frustration with me not diminishing.

She crumpled up a piece of newspaper containing my story and a couple of random advertisements and threw it on the ground angrily. I picked up the paper and tossed it in a wastepaper basket. 

"I may be a lot of things, but at least I'm no litterbug," I told her snarkily.

"LITTERBUG?!!" she seethed indignantly. "I'll show you litterbug," and she stomped off to report my latest transgression to Greg.

Greg was manning the desk back at the newspaper office, dealing with walk-ins, phones and other busy editor-related duties when my mom stormed in. 

"What are we going to do about THIS?" she demanded, throwing down a piece of the newspaper containing my tiny article. Greg looked it over, then at my mom, then finally at me.

"I think we all need to cool down a bit," was his even-handed reply.

They continued their discussion about my foibles as a maverick reporter, and I took my leave. I went to a local research library, a building with many floors and varying levels of security for each department. I was looking for the microfiche machines and the archived newspaper files that might contain older stories I had written. I was going to build a case for my innocence.

Getting past the guards on the floor seemed impossible, so I entered through the children's section on the floor below. The guards on this floor were on break, and I slipped past the turnstile unnoticed. Once inside, I headed straight for the emergency exit in the back and took the stairs up to the next floor.

At that point I got lost, and the hallways and staircases all seemed to turn back on themselves. I never made it to the microfiche department. I ran into random people who would point me in its direction, but their instructions never seemed to pan out, and I kept finding myself in a long narrow hallway with industrially polished linoleum and walls painted a dingy government beige.

----

I woke up bald. Yep. New day, freshly shaved pate. I got tired of sporting the chicken-pecked Q-tip look and decided to return to the more familiar turtle-on-chemo motif. 

Maybe it had to do with the comment in one personal ad response, in which a previously sympathetic respondent turned on a dime upon seeing a picture of my bearded mug. "You are simply too hairy," she said, not mincing any words. 

Or maybe it was the "Old Man" serenade by that kid in San Diego, followed by the chili cheese fries drive-by incident, which has never left my consciousness even months later.

Who knows. Who cares. My cats will still love me.

House of the Rising Tide

 

Dreams are squirrely little things these days. I can't get them to sit still long enough to get a snapshot. 

Last night I was dreaming that I was in a house on the beach. Like, right on the beach, built up on a pier-like structure. As would be imagined when living so close to such a volatile body of water as the ocean, life was a constant struggle to protect one's carved out niche of real estate from the ever encroaching tide. Anything left on the beach at night was bound to be washed away in the morning.

There was a jetty out in front of the house that acted as a breakwater for the largest waves, though it did nothing to keep the tides from going where they would. The jetty was a good place to fish from, and I found myself coveting a spot out on the rocks that looked like a superior place from which to throw a crab pot. 

Getting to it was another story. I spent a good deal of the dream eyeing a poorly fashioned wooden plank bridge that the more acrobatic members of the household would merrily skip over to reach the rocks. It was basically a couple of floating 2x4s, very narrow and rather unstable as far as walking on them went. One had to be either a very good tightrope walker, or be able to simply sprint across fast enough to avoid getting wobbly.

I contemplated which technique would work for me, and neither seemed viable. I had an armful of gear which I really wanted to keep from going in the drink. It wasn't deep enough to worry too much, but I really wanted to avoid tumbling into the murky water. Staying dry was kind of a priority, though I desperately wanted across.

Meanwhile, up on the terrace of the house, the guy who owned the place was sitting under a makeshift awning that I'd constructed. It afforded modest protection from the sun and wind, but it wasn't the most elegant addition to the house. I could tell by looking at the guy's demeanor as he sat surveying the horizon, that he was grudgingly tolerating its awkward aesthetic.

"Better than getting scorched by the sun or battered by the wind," I yelled up from the beach to the sour-mugged man.

His grimacing countenance told me what he thought of my sunshade/windscreen. He taunted me for my lack of confidence in traversing the tiny harbor on the rickety bridge:

"We've all had to go that way. We all have the same risk of winding up in the water. It's the risk you have to take if you want to get out on the rocks. What are you, Queen Elizabeth?"

Maybe I was, I thought, but I sure didn't want to find out the hard way how deep the water was or which of my possessions might float. Plus, there was an eerie, uneasiness about that green slimy water that seemed to conceal all sorts of hidden dangers just below its seemingly placid surface.

That's the gist of it. I never made it out onto the rocks. Too scared of alligators, or jellyfish or rusted underwater wreckage to hazard the crossing, I waited on the beach for a more favorable moment, perhaps when the tide was lower.

Dear G___ Letter

Dear G___

By now you've most likely written me off as simply a shallow, self-pitying old man with a poorly concealed, frustrated sexual agenda. You wouldn't be wrong in that assessment. I probably started out a little more innocently optimistic, glad to just have a friend to who seemed sympathetic to talk to. My perception that you initially seemed receptive to something more, even if only brief and physical, was fueled, in part, by your sending of racy photos and by the wild stories you shared with me. 

Hearing about your casual sex, the fact that you can indulge in it so randomly, of course gave me some fantasy about being able to insert myself into some scenario at some point. 

Meanwhile, you shared with me just about everything about your life, from your mental health to your somewhat unconventional relationship with N___, daily chit-chat and thoughts on a variety of topics. I felt comfortable enough to share with you things I've told only one other person in my life, and not even a therapist.  

I guess what I feel was most hurtful, and I'm not saying that it was intentional on your part, but to me, was the cold delivery of the news that I'd always and only be an intellectual curiosity to you. A science project behind glass. What do those lab animals feel, do you suppose? 

I realize that I can't write a letter to you without sounding pouty, petty and pitiful. And my nice guy status is laughable. 

I kept hearing you say how you were touch deprived, starved and what a tactile person you were. You were waving a flag and, I like a dumb bull, took the bait. It didn't seem unreasonable to think that, if you didn't find me physically repulsive or too mentally damaged, you might find it in your heart to think of me as a candidate to receive some purely physical expression of affection from you. A hug, some cuddles--anything.

I don't think all of your kinky storytelling and racy photos did me any good. It just made me want something that I would have been better off not knowing about. I'm not such a good friend as to be able to put my own desires aside and listen to your exploits without the pangs of unrequited desire.

Maybe in some future timeline, when I've become stable enough, when I'm not frustrated by my own lack of fulfillment, I will have a more altruistic base from which to be your friend. Altruistic, not alterous. I don't do half-way. 

But at the moment my amicable wizened sage status has been rescinded and membership privileges revoked. Moral high ground was a self-deception anyway, but it is always tempting to mythologize one's pain into some kind of righteous suffering, some unjust persecution that guarantees the sufferer's saintly status. 

I'm not buying into that, though. I'll freely admit my own emotional shortcomings. I felt teased and led on by you. Then hurt and pouty at your cool, scientific rejection of me. It would have been nicer to lie. Or better yet, don't put the fruit out on display with a sign that says "FREE, take one" with a line of impossibly small text at the bottom that says, "But not you, Andrew."  

I get that you are a person, and not a fruit stand. You may offer yourself freely, cheapening your sexual currency to fiat levels, but you still have value. As a person. Not a sex object. 

Whatever makes you tick and makes you OK with random stuff, group stuff and yet be simultaneously UN-attracted to me, well, I guess that's a nut I'm not meant to crack. And perhaps you can't crack it either.  

Calling it fray is just hanging a name on a set of characteristics. It makes it easier to label and identify people with certain tendencies. It's not a disease, like the flu, caused by a discreet organism. It's not a gene (or maybe it is, who knows). It is an observable behavior pattern. 

But how it translates into human social dynamics is--a lot of people get hurt by the likes of you. The more someone likes you, the less likely you are to feel attracted to them. The inverted formula for a loving relationship.  

This is sad, I feel, for you. Part of you probably aches for something like what "normal" people have. Stability. Lasting emotional connection. You can't really feel that people are so disposable. Or can you? 

Anyway, I'm not trying to start a debate, or argue with your lifestyle choices. I'm just probably not mature enough to engage in any more sex talk with you. And since that seems to be the biggest area of interest in your life, maybe we are not meant to have much more in the way of dialogue.  

I've learned a lot from you. And I feel the worse for it. I had a semblance of innocent naivete that is irretrievably gone. The things I learned about myself were pretty ugly as well.  

This isn't to make you feel bad about yourself. I'm just letting you know how I feel. And since I'm sure you will go away thinking poorly of me anyway, at least this email can be your justification. No sense making up ideas about what you may not like about me when I've spelled it out for you.

Feel free to respond, not respond, correct, debate, ignore -- whatever. I'm not writing you off as a person. I'm just saying how I feel in this moment of time. And it's not so good. You'd probably do better moving on to other "intellectual curiosities." 

I guess time will tell if there's something that can resemble a friendship between us.

Ugly Selfie: The Law of Un-Attraction.

****The more I tried to edit this post, the more I realized that it is just an ugly state of mind that I was in, and that it couldn't be polished to look like anything other than what it was. I thought of deleting it altogether, like I never thought these things, but I'm too stubborn or narcissistic or I don't know what, so I am leaving it. It's not my best version of me, but since that guy doesn't exist, this guy has been occupying my space for a little while. It's not as over-the-top as some stuff I said in anger back in the 90s, but it reeks of something foul. So, go ahead and judge me, I have.****

---- 

                                                         

"What to do when your new #SoloPolyFray friend, who is a big ol' slut, tells you that you don't even qualify for pity sex?"

Cry? Be flattered? Be upset? Rage against the seeming unfairness of it all?  

I suppose there's nothing that actually can be done. Just relax into the fact that I'm less appealing than a plate of undercooked chicken livers. The sad part is, we'd become close enough friends that she's the first person I think of to confide in or commiserate with about my sad state of affairs. But I guess I can't do that now either. 

This person, I'll call her G__, answered my ad on the nasty ol' hookup site, DoubleList. Not too many women would probably want to admit, in the light of day, to using that site, at least not with their real names. But not G__. She wears the title "slut" like an armband. I found her honesty refreshing, and the frank discussions we were having about the casual nature of her sexual adventures were both educational and--umm, ah--stimulating. 

We discussed other things besides sex. We had a pretty nice email chat going for about a week and a half. I was starting to consider her to be a person who I could confide in, and she was very open with me about details of her own personal life.

To be fair, she never actually came out and said, "Yes, Andrew, I want to have sex with you." 

She did, however, send racy pictures of herself in revealing outfits, and she shared many stories about the nature of her kinky casual sex life. I came to the (mis)perception that I'd be a candidate for some possible future encounter with her at some point. I mean, she spoke about sex with strangers, even people whose behavior, appearance or attitudes were less than optimal. Why then, not with a person who seemed to connect with her as well as I did?

Well, it has to do with a particular brain-wiring issue that involves her "fraysexual" nature. Here's the quick definition, cut and pasted from the article I linked above, which she sent to me in an email:

"Fraysexual (adjective): a sexual orientation in which a person feels sexual attraction to someone upon first meeting them but that sexual attraction fades over time, particularly as an emotional connection is formed."

I hadn't actually ever met her, so I guess I thought that I could still qualify as a candidate for some kind of brief fling, after which she would lose interest in me sexually, and we could just go back to being what we were before that, which was just platonic friends. 

Nope. I guess if there was ever an initial attraction, as in why the fuck would she answer my personal ad on a hookup site, it quickly flew past that stage and landed, customarily, right in the friend-zone, the land of lost attraction. 

I'd become "too interesting" of a person on an intellectual level to be considered a possibility for ever qualifying as a random hookup. And emotional hookups are not a part of the repertoire, so that was never on the table. And the sad fact is that I'm shallow enough, and horny enough, to want to hook up with someone like this, even knowing all these things.

Please, I really am that shallow. Objectify me. Use me. Something. Christ. What's a guy got to do to get some cuddles?

And our 2nd "video date" was going so well. Right up until the point where she revealed to me my place in the hierarchy of potential sexual partners: nowhere. I had to admit to her that it didn't feel like such an honor to be in such a special niche as to be singled out for platonic friendship only, when she'd basically have sex with any random person just for the fun of it.

I mean, why not extend that benefit to someone you are friends with? Why not include me, an admittedly lonely, desperate old guy with slim chances of ever running into anyone else as liberated and easygoing about their sexuality?

I guess I'm not arguing a point that can be won. And I'm not making myself look like a nice guy in the process. I've now admitted to being OK with random hookups that have no potential for further emotional connection. 

I admit, there would probably have been more, not less of an emotional connection, on my part at least, after any such encounter. I'd probably get hung up or attached, and that would be incompatible with the "stick and move" philosophy of a fray.

I don't want to know about these terms and descriptors anymore. I wish I never did learn of such a seemingly dysfunctional thing as a solo poly fray, especially after being rejected by one. 

And why develop a new vocabulary when the old words work just as well? "Fickle" and  "tease" feel appropriate in this case, although "selective promiscuity" would be more objectively correct and less tinged with my petty judgements.

I don't like it, but I consider this bridge burned. And it's a bridge I hadn't had the benefit of ever setting foot upon, sour grapes that I've never tasted. But then again, I don't know how sour or sweet they might have been, since they were never within reach. The fact that I am unable to pick from even such apparently low-hanging fruit, has me feeling more disabled than ever. 

And the fact that I've chatted up three of four different women in the last week has me feeling a bit grimy and tarnished. I can't sequentially pursue each woman to the final failure point. It would take too long, and I'm too old to play the long game. Or any game. Time is running out. Just look at the counter at the bottom of the page.

But spreading my affections far and wide in all directions via text isn't quite working either. It feels disingenuous. I feel like I'm cheating, and I'm not even in a relationship. Like I should be disclosing to person A that I've indeed been texting with person B, but since it's not panning out, well, here we are, and please don't think I'm not totally into you, even though I'm pursuing other women simultaneously.

Maybe I'm too fucked up to be with someone else, and that is why I figured that casual sex with a slut would be a good option for me. No one gets hurt. Except me, I guess, when I get rejected peremptorily.

Dream of G___ fades back into the mist, and I pursue musical improv

 

After our video date ended rather abruptly, I was a bit agitated and couldn't get to sleep right away. When I finally dozed off at 4am, I had a dream about the exact scenario that had just taken place: She was telling me that she was breaking up with me, both as a friend and as a never having qualified candidate for a sexual romp. She was done with me. 

And to top it off, my nice guy card was being revoked because I was being pouty about it. St. Nowhere gets his halo repoed for bad karma points.

In my dream, after getting rejected by my slut friend, I went to an open mic night at a local nightclub. There were all kinds of routines being showcased, from comedy to solo musical acts. I showed up with my acoustic guitar and was preparing to do some damage.

Before I got onstage though, I experienced a total loss of ability to remember even one of the songs that I had been practicing. Some kind of mental block left me with no recollection of what chords to play or even a single lyric. 

After being told I would be disqualified from playing, I sat down on my bed, which happened to be next to the stage. I started strumming the guitar rhythmically, deadening the strings so as to make it sound like a percussive instrument. 

After a moment or two of this string slapping, the MC called me up to the stage.

"See?" he said. "You do have some ability. Why don't you make use of it, and give us some extemporaneous composition?"

I got onstage and continued my rhythmic pattern. It sounded like a rap beat, so I started to mumble some rhymes, incoherently at first, but with more confidence as I got warmed up. It wasn't going to win first prize, but I didn't get booed offstage either.

As I finished up and was leaving the stage, I got a few compliments among the stunned stares. They weren't expecting a rap to come out of me, and I had to admit, I did seem to be rapping beyond my talent level, like I was channeling Little Dicky or early Eminem.

----

Now, as to the question on "What to do, when...," I'm going to mow the lawn. Life goes on. Too tired to yawn, feeling like a french fried prawn, a pawn in the game, a face with no shame, inviting the blame -- lame. Serendipitous sluts, poly-amorously disengage us, not making the cut. Like what. The actual fuck. Or not. Sucks to be us. Gonna rage with the machine against the grass so green it makes wizards pee emerald just to be seen. 

Speaking of which, that emerald green piss wizard will be me, if I don't get off this couch and press the resume button on my life.

 

It's all path, baby

 

When asked about the low to seemingly non-existent level of my spiritual practice, and whether or not I think I've strayed off of the path just a little bit, from behind my wire-rimmed bifocals, I will say in a surly voice: 

"Strayed off the path? However could I do that? It's all path, baby."

Bugger drives a Hummer (explicit, implicit -- you know the drill)

 

So, I was in this guy's apartment, naked on his bed watching TV. Only there was no TV, just a projection from some device which left a barely visible ghost image on the wall. 

I asked the guy, "Hey, what's up with your TV? I can't see it at all."

"You have to view it from a certain angle," he said. "Dead on. Come over here," he motioned for me to come closer.

I sidled up an inch or so, and it indeed made quite a bit of difference, just that few inches. The other difference it made was that I was now closer to him, which was probably his intention all along. 

Yup. Buy a fancy projection TV costing thousands of dollars, aim it at a spot on the wall where the only clear view for two people in his bed would be from a position where they were scrunched right up close to one another. A long game player. I knew the type.

Well, it worked, I guess. He started doing some stuff to me which aroused some pleasure centers. I was a bit nervous, however, because his bedroom had a window which looked out into his living room, and the curtains were only halfway drawn. 

In the living room, sitting on the couch, eating a bag of Doritos, was Manuel Silva, aka the Mongo Man, an ex co-worker from Honda. Mongo kept glancing around the living room and in the direction of the window. I tried to keep out of view because I was more than a little embarrassed to be caught in a scenario such as this.

I shut the flimsy curtain and walked back around to the bed. At this point the guy asked me if I was ready for my asshole to experience some pain. I told him that my asshole was indeed not ready, and I walked around to the other side of the bed. He promptly flipped over and displayed his own ass, squeaky clean and ready for some kind of action. 

I went ahead and took the bait, inserting my tongue into the pristine orifice. One would never have guessed that this rosy little opening's day job was a poop delivery system. After a lick or two, I'd had enough. I decided to exit the apartment, still naked and with the guy following close behind.

"I have somewhere else to get to," I told him.

"That's fine. I'll take you there," he said, and we both got in his Hummer, sans clothing.

We were leaving the grounds of his gated community when a guard approached the vehicle to question our coming and going. Damn those overprotective homeowner's associations anyway. 

The guy jumped out of the vehicle and told me that I'd better take it and continue on my own. I did, flooring it past the guard and doing a bit of 4-wheeling over some decorative boulders that had been placed there to prevent just such an escape.

The boulders were no match for the Hummer, though, and I easily evaded the guard and made it onto the main highway. A few more boulders lined the side of the road, and I amused myself, running over them and putting the vehicle's suspension and traction control to the test. It performed flawlessly.

After the boulders, the road got rather steep, and its surface had become slick with a greasy sand that kept the vehicle from getting good traction. I put it into low gear and, once again, it delivered on its promise of being an all-terrain vehicle.

I found myself headed back to the condos, where the naked Hummer owner whose butt I had licked earlier was still being detained by the guard. I guess I figured I'd try to help extricate him from the situation, though I didn't really have a plan.

And that, my friends, was that. Another homo-erotic dream ended unceremoniously and without a tidy conclusion. I'm not going to try to interpret the dream or offer some convoluted rationalization of why I don't feel that I'm gay, despite having this kind of dream on occasion. I'm not gay, but that bugger driving the Hummer sure had a few different ideas.

NRA gun club: Join or be grounded, mister!

 

I dreamed I was living with my mom and Greg, in a condo in suburbia. I felt like I was a grown-up, maybe in my 20s, but it's entirely possible that I was my current ripe old age of 56. Whatever the case, the dynamic was that of a couple of parents trying to coerce a sullen teenager into doing something he didn't want to do, with the expected results of a whole lot of shouting and tension.

What was it that they were so fired up that I do? They wanted me to join a local gun club that was affiliated with the NRA. They had a whole plan for my social life that revolved around me getting this membership and spending all my time hanging around at the club and participating in the various programs and events that they sponsored. 

They were fixed in their position that I do this, like a couple of parents might be who wanted their kid to go to college or join the swim team. I was equally determined not to join because, well, that kind of shit didn't interest me. And this was a free country, and I had rights and so on. 

"We need to sit down and talk about this," said Greg, in an even tone. 

"There's nothing to talk about. I'm not joining, and that's that," I said. It may not have come out quite like that, though. It may have been something more like: 

"I'm not joining your fucking gun club, so you can both fuck the fuck off." I remember a lot of fucks being thrown around by me.

"You can't talk to your mother that way," Greg said, still not raising his voice.

My mom, on the other hand was livid, and her face began to turn red, starting at the neck and working its way up to her ears like a crimson and pink tequila sunrise.

"How about we just change your schedule?" she seethed through clenched teeth, her face now beet red with rage.

"Why would you need to do that?" I asked her, without the fucks this time.

"Well, you don't want to be seen with the NRA crowd, and they do their shooting in the daytime, so you can just switch everything around so you do it in the middle of the night, that way you won't see them and they won't see you," she reasoned tersely. Her logic was irrefutable, but only because it didn't appear to be present at all.

Apparently, living next to the shooting range like we did, appearances were everything. Either you were a member of this fine organization, or you were a damned commie, suited for only one thing: target practice. I guessed I'd rather be shot than join or change my schedule. I offered some kind of response indicating this, and it just pissed my mom off more. Things kind of escalated from there, and Greg had to intervene:

"Well, maybe Andrew has a point," he said, taking my side for once. 

He took me by the arm and gently led me back to my chair. I suddenly felt a wave of gratitude and regret for my mistreatment of him over the years. Perhaps I'd misjudged him. He wasn't so unreasonable after all. 

My mom was reading a brochure which had a page resembling a Little Caesar's pizza flyer, full of coupons offering discounts for the gun club's various membership options.

"Why won't you at least look over the brochure?" she demanded, and she began reading off some of the choices. 

I looked at the page of coupons, and in the fine print, the offers of "10% off membership" or "10 free shooting lessons" all required that the member purchase a condo from the organization.  I pointed this little requirement out to them, and it gave them pause. We weren't just ordering a pizza, and they didn't have an extra hundred grand to throw around. (The condos were in the $100,000 range, 1980s prices, to be sure, and probably indicative of the time period in which the dream was set.)

The dream ended with the two of them discussing whether they should ground me just on general principal for having a rebellious teenage attitude, or just forget the whole thing. I'm not certain what they decided. I woke up feeling a slight spike in adrenaline from fighting with my parents in my sleep.

Aaaand---

Just when I think I've got to get up, I remember this other tidbit: 

I was fishing with Bob Orrick and Morgan at a lake in the high mountains. There was a dock or a boat ramp on which it was necessary to be stationed during certain times of the day, due to rapidly rising lake levels. I had a feeling of unease, and wanted to get to the next fishing spot, but the fluctuations in the water level kept us near the platform. Bob was discussing the finer points of baiting hooks and netting fish and the like, while Morgan and me were scheming about how to get to the next the platform. 

Bob wanted to go home and get a pork roast out of the freezer to use as bait. I was against this idea, for one, because it would take too long to thaw, but also, I had a feeling of compassion for the pig. The pork roast in question was an entire piglet with eyes and snout and curly tail. Bob insisted that this was the natural order of things and that the giant predator fish that we were seeking would find this bait irresistible. 

I don't remember much more than that, and I'm sure I've gotten those few details mixed up or even fabricated them entirely. It was a fishing dream, and that's about it. I dreamed it first, but then my hard drive started getting full and my brain had to overwrite my next dream onto it using the same space, corrupting the original data.

Dreaming about writing and writing about dreaming, art imitates art, and life goes on without me.

 

I only vaguely recollect what I was doing, only the faces of who I was doing it with. I was in a kind of a sitcom-like indentured servant situation with Pierce Brosnan or Charles Shaughnessy (from the TV series the Nanny) playing the dapper but endearingly inept boss. Yvette Nicole Brown, a black actress from the TV show Community, was my comedic sidekick and was also working under our Englishman employer. 

I don't know what our job was, other than to make him look less inept and to fetch him sandwiches. He sat at a computer terminal, struggling with the keyboard in front of an 80's era CRT monitor reminiscent of the computer labs at Cerritos Community college. 

The room was a white windowless void: white floor, ceiling, counters, all featureless and barely distinguishable from the white background. The only items that had form were myself, Yvette, our English boss and his white computer monitor and the sandwiches we kept bringing him, but never quite got right. We had to taste the sandwiches first, which led to us eating most of them, requiring us to start over, since we couldn't very well serve him leftovers.

Before that, I was outside, standing under the covered hallway of an elementary school-like courtyard between two rows of buildings. It had the feel of my old school in Santa Monica, Will Rogers Elementary. I was digging in a trash can and overheard a teacher talking to a group of students about the need for computer programmers. I found a book in the trash which just happened to be a programming language textbook.

"I took COBOL in the 80s," I said in a quiet voice which somehow caught the ear of the teacher. He stopped his lecture and looked directly at me, causing me just a little discomfort. 

"We need you, then," he said to me. "The languages of today are basically the same. You'll make a great addition to our team."

A girl in the dream mentioned to me that she was not a fan of the short paragraphs in today's written prose. She had been reading something I'd written and was displeased that I seldom strung together more than three sentences before breaking for a new paragraph.

"It's all about the phones, sweetheart," I told her obtusely. "I used to think like you, but then I realized that everyone was reading everything on their phones. No one wants to scroll through all that shit. It's too much work. You gotta break it into little bite-size chunks, or they will lose interest." 

That little bit of wisdom, I had come across myself when I was re-reading some of my earlier blog posts and was confronted with the impenetrable walls of text that I used to call paragraphs. For real, but also in the dream.

And finally, my last brief recollection was of another boss/underling relationship I had. I was in the livingroom of a condo which I was appointed to clean. My boss was Reiner, the ex-mini tyrant from my Yuba City Honda days. I was moving furniture around to make it more to his liking, but I kept doing it my way, since I felt I had a better feel for the feng shui than my millennial age employer. 

"How did you wind up my boss, anyway?" I abruptly broached the question which burned me in my guts whenever he would issue me orders.

"Right place at the right time, I guess," he said, not the least bit condescendingly. He did always manage to keep it professional, though I could sense that somewhere in him was a capricious Nazi, capable of workplace atrocities.

I accepted his answer and kept on arranging the furniture in my own way. He seemed content to let the situation continue and left me to it.

----

That's about it for dreamland. I want to write about the real world experiences I've been having with the two dating sites that I am on, but the only time I sit down to write in this blog is when I'm just waking up and trying to recollect the dreams that I have just been having. I write the descriptions of real events, like my daily activities or observations on life, love and the like, in texts or emails, as they come up in the normal course of conversation. 

I wish I had a search engine capable of gleaning the few brilliant things I've written, off the cuff, to my friends, relatives and women I've pursued, from the volumes of drivel I've inundated them with over the years. I could write a book. At least that's what they all tell me I should be doing. Maybe they are only telling me, in a kind way, that if I am going to be using ten-dollar words and writing treatises on every subject I discuss, that I ought to put it between the covers of a book, which they could then put up on a shelf, rather than having to bother with my pompous verbosity every time they open an email from me. 

I think of my words as my little bastard children -- so many, many of them -- going out into the world, starting lives of their own, some of them dying of neglect in some dead internet thread, others perhaps being passed on, influencing the random stranger. I could wish to claim them, to gather them up and make them mine, but why? I am a product of free love. I was conceived in the sixties, without conscious intent. I was raised in a discipline-free environment, for the most part. Why should I foist an agenda on my prose? Let those little buggers run free. 

I will have to bring some of them back for a family reunion someday before I die. Maybe that will be done for me, in the form of a life review. Isn't that what they say happens when you die, when all your words and actions are shown to you, including all of the karmic effects they had or could have had in various alternate timelines? 

I had better get off the couch, or I will wind up writing myself right into my deathbed through my own stagnant immobility. It's called life. Live it, man, don't just talk about it.

A Road Between Two Somewheres and the Bearded Sexmonster of San Diego (explicit)

 

Dreams have been scarce lately. Only thin threads are left upon awakening, whose wisps evaporate like the mist on a summer lawn. I want to say, "I remember..." but even that sentence is a falsehood, since by the time I begin to type it, I simply don't remember. And yet I know there have been dreams. I can feel their weight, an extra blanket over my consciousness, receding like the tide, taking all of the life it contained back out to sea, or scurrying beneath the smooth, wet sand.  

Ah, one little sandcrab managed to re-emerge momentarily, and now I know where to dig. A little detail of some kind has left its calling card, a roiling air pocket in a tidepool betraying its attempt to conceal its escape. I'm onto you, little sandcrab.

I was on another journey. It began in the city and was begun too late in the day, which guaranteed that I wouldn't be returning before nightfall, if at all. I was on roller skates, and my neighbor Stan was on a motorcycle. I was able to keep up with him in the city, where the roads were smooth, and I could skip the restrictions of traffic lights by weaving in and out of traffic or jumping up on sidewalks, going through parking lots and taking shortcuts. 

Once outside the city, the journey got harder. I had to travel uphill, and the traffic was thinner, but more dangerous, as it was moving faster, and cars would come up on me and pass me on the narrow two lane road. I had to watch out for the little reflective road dots, which spoiled the otherwise smooth asphalt canvas upon which I glided back and forth in an uphill slalom. 

The terrain got more tricky when the road turned to gravel up in the higher elevations. My rate of travel slowed as my roller skates, slogging in the loose rocks, made me struggle like someone trying to run in chest high water. I kept going as long as I could, but eventually it became clear that I wouldn't be able to go any further. 

It was getting dark. We were trying to make it to some destination like a lake or mountain retreat. If we couldn't get there by nightfall, we would have to turn back, undoing all of our progress, and the journey would have to be repeated the next day. I thought perhaps that I could camp out somewhere, but there wasn't any place to do so. It was just a road connecting distant two places, with nothing in between. 

Back down the hill I went, through the gravel, back onto the two-lane and into the small town on the outskirts of the city. Stan's house was there, and I stopped briefly to move a sprinkler on his lawn. 

He'd left the sprinkler on because there was a fire somewhere nearby. I positioned it so that it would water a large tree in the middle of the lawn as well as some of the grass near his driveway. The overspray from where the sprinkler had previously resided was causing the grass to encroach on his gravel driveway, the green patch ruining its otherwise tidy appearance. 

The dream, which I am sure contained more than these few scant details, ended at this point. I'm now awake on a Saturday, stuck in my house because of the plume of smoke from the fire in Colfax being funneled through the foothills and into the valley below. I just happen be smack in the middle of this river of smoke, a purple band of hazardous air which indiscriminately chokes out all life in its path like a plague of death. 

Dit-dit-dit

This little nugget dislodged itself as I was washing some kale in preparation for my breakfast:

Prior to my dream of a journey between two somewheres, I was in a summer vacation setting, similar to the one I visited this June in San Diego. It was a little more seedy, though, and people were sleeping on couches and doubling up in beds, even if the person next to them was a total stranger. I was alone under the covers, in a mattress on the floor, when I felt the warmth of another body press up against my back. 

This might be OK, I thought, as the gentle pressure led to an arm around my shoulder. I turned to face my new companion, but it was relatively dark, so all I could see was the outline of her face. I thought maybe this was going to lead to a kiss, but of course, wouldn't ya know, the moment was spoiled when more people came tumbling into the room. The pitter-patter of little feet and the clomping of those of their parental units disrupted the sleeping or semi-sleeping residents of the crowded room. 

"SHH," one mother chided. "This room's all full up. We'll have to go back in the other room and make do."

Good, I thought. Maybe now I could get back to whatever it was that was about to happen with whoever it was it was about to happen with in the bed. It didn't, however. I must have conked out, because the next thing I knew, it was morning, and I was there alone in bed.

Later that next day, I was out on the town, standing outside some kind of bar or hole in the wall dining establishment in a less than bourgeois area of the small beach town. The paint on the wooden door had mostly eroded, exposing the porous planks, nailed together barn-style. Shabby chic, it would be called, but perhaps too shabby for even a yard sale. More like a shabby shack.

I was on the stairs of this cheap venue, when who do I encounter but the mystery girl from my bed the night before. She was dressed in jeans and a black leather motorcycle jacket, you know, they type with the zipper on the side and a diagonal flap open and buttoned in an asymmetric lapel. Once again, she was silhouetted, so I couldn't see her face, but I recognized her voice right away.

"Do you want to kiss me?" she asked coyly. 

I felt like I did, but when I moved up closer to her, I could see that she had a full beard of coarse curly red hair. This was surely not the same girl, I thought. But it was. She just happened to have a beard that would make a pirate proud. I was kind of torn about the kiss thing, but I decided to just close my eyes and go for it. I felt a mixture of exhilaration and disgust, but I guess the exhilaration won out because we entered the bar together and headed to the back to make out a little more.

Now the next part gets a bit graphic, so you should probably tune out or avert the children's eyes from reading the text of what I am about to describe.

Things progressed rather rapidly from that point, and she began to grind on my leg, dry humping it in a most arousing fashion.  She, or he, or what, I don't know, began to climax in a vociferous and quite effusive fashion. When I say "effusive," I mean it in the literal sense. More than just gushing, there was a sea anemone-like squirting going on. "A squirter," to use the crass vernacular. 

The squirting was coming from an appendage which protruded from the open fly of her jeans. It looked suspiciously like what you might expect to protrude from that location: a penis. But it wasn't. Or it wasn't quite. It was a fully engorged "something" which had a blowhole on the top, from which the highly pressurized projectile emissions were sprayed. 

"It's a clitoris," she assured me. 

I looked again and wanted to convince myself that this was true, but it was surely like none that I'd ever seen, and I've seen a few. But I started to believe her when I noticed that her face, previously a crimson-bearded Brillo pad, was now as smooth as a Maybelline model. Either she'd surreptitiously shaved during the few moments between entering the bar and getting jiggy with it, or she was some kind of sexual chimera, a hermaphrodite werewolf, whose transformation back into a fully human female form required a release of bodily fluids. 

Whatever the case was, she was grateful, and I was somewhat relieved. The whole experience was pretty far over on the exotic side of the spectrum, so I was glad to have things return to whatever normal might be. 

We now return you to the Saturday breakfast program, already in progress...

Plenty of Fish

 

OK, it’s time for me to come up with a new kind of personal ad.  The "lead with your faults" strategy is my way of preventing a lot of unnecessary tire kicking.  I'm not trying to create a false persona so that I can get a ton of likes, or dates even. I'd rather find the one unique (crazy) individual who can put up with my idiosyncrasies, and who has quirks of her own that I might find endearing.

I think that finding the right person has much less to do with writing about all of the cliche BS that people say to sell themselves and more to do with being raw and honest about who you are and what you want, so that likeminded spirits can find you.

"Balding, bi-focaled, gray bearded recluse, 56, seeking the company of a compassionate female."

I’m a widowed WM, just an everyday guy, perhaps a little damaged from life’s bumpy ride, but at my age, who isn’t? I would just like to experience something fun and pleasant with an amenable female. Would I like for there to be a meaningful connection? Of course. I'd love to find someone to share my life with, exclusively, committedly, forever and ever, amen, fireworks and butterflies included. That may be a little unrealistic, though.

At this point I would settle for pity sex with any girl with a pulse, who is just bored and has a sympathetic, slutty side. (Did I just say that out loud?)  What I meant to say was: chat, meet, go for a walk, maybe hold hands or share a nice hug. Something. It’s been three years, for God’s sake, can you blame me? I'm not talking about hooking up, like we were some kind of home stereo components. Let's call it creative loneliness management, or two souls physically sharing a mutually pleasurable experience.

Hmm. This isn't going as easily as I'd imagined. I'm editing, revising and reviewing, and I'm not making a very good case for myself, am I? More like, mental case, right? Well, here's some more:

I am a homeowner on a fixed income, SSD, if you must know. I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder after my wife died three years ago. I try to keep fit, eat healthy, etc. but the loneliness gets the best of me sometimes. I live alone on 5 acres out in the country. It’s nice out here in the spring, fall and winter. Summers suck, but hey, I’ve got AC and no set schedule.

I am not looking for a nurse or a maid. I can look after myself. I wouldn’t say no to a nursemaid though, wink wink. I feel that I am a genuinely nice guy, although I do get a bit frustrated at times. I am too old and creepy to flirt properly, and I never learned the proper social protocols anyway.

What am I looking for in a woman? You mean besides a pulse?  Sure, I admire classic beauty, but I'm a realist. I am no prize turkey. Besides, the real beauty is inner beauty anyway. Tall, short, young, old, fat, skinny, black, white, blonde, brunette, I'm not picky. If there is chemistry, warmth and good communication, you have already won me over.

**I probably couldn't date a cigarette smoker, junkie or alcoholic. I'm not a moralist, but these things don't work for me. Cigarettes make me ill, hard drug users make me nervous and sloppy drunks just make me sad. Here I sound all judgey, I know. People aren't just the sum total of their addictions; they are human beings, after all. But sometimes it can be pretty hard to distinguish the real person from the years of substance inflicted damage.

And at the risk sounding hypocritical, I have a couple of well-moderated indulgences of my own.. Nothing earthshakingly wicked, just something that I do most Saturday mornings while making music in my downstairs man cave. Why am I being unnecessarily enigmatic? I don't know, just trying to make it sound interesting.**

Is this the the part where I'm supposed to say that I enjoy long walks, or that I love animals and sunsets? That beneath this whimsical false bravado lies the tender heart of a hopeless romantic with a seemingly incongruous sensitive side? That I prefer a blues band to a rave, good conversation, cuddling and a quiet night in front of the TV to a wild night on the town? Those are all true of me, but still fail to provide even an adequate thumbnail.

I'm new to this site, and I find it a bit intimidating. So many, many "fish" -- all unique individuals, some with very specific lists of things that they like or don't like. We don't have to share every single interest in common. I'd just like to connect on a basic human level, and perhaps we can build something together.

I should, perhaps, try to play up my positives a little more. I'm a musician (not in a band, but perhaps someday) and a writer (still haven't written that novel yet). Hmm, I'm beginning to see a pattern here.  I should have quit while I was marginally ahead. I'm not a professional profile writer, in case that wasn't obvious by now.

----

 

The above text is my actual live ad on Plenty of Fish, an online dating site. So far, it has garnered 99+ likes, landed me a few chats and one possible date. It's possible to succeed even when you put your worst foot forward with it hanging out of your mouth. I'm not pinning any hope or expectation on this, however. It is still too early, and besides, I am never going to be satisfied with any version of an ad in which I must try to describe or sell myself. 

But perhaps the semi-transparent approach of non self-aggrandizement will pay off. It is probably narrowing down the field of prospects nicely. I didn't want to generate a lot of interest in a fictitious persona which would easily be seen through, should I ever meet any of these women in person. All the rejections happen without my knowledge, as people read the profile and quickly swipe the other direction.

Personal ad addendum

 

Lonely old farts need love too, part ii

I wanted to add a few things to my ad, but the little text box wasn't big enough for my enormous additions. (see Lonely old farts need love, Part 1)

I’m a widowed WM, just an everyday guy, perhaps a little damaged from life’s bumpy ride, but at my age, who isn’t? I would just like to experience something fun and pleasant with an amenable female. Would I like for there to be a meaningful connection? Of course. But at this point I would settle for pity sex with any girl with the aforementioned pulse, who is just bored and has a sympathetic, slutty side.

It’s been three years, for God’s sake, can you blame me?

I am not looking to reform your sexual psychopathy (like it was a bad thing). I am under no illusions that I will be rescuing a princess or charming the queen out of her knickers. You are on DoubleList for a reason, are you not? Well, so am I, and who am I to judge another’s proclivities anyway?

A picture will be provided upon request to anyone curious enough to know more about this freak, as well as a detailed physical description of any part of my anatomy that you desire to inquire about.

I know I am probably not playing this game correctly, being all wordy and such, but this is just who I am. Admit it, ladies, wouldn’t you like to know more about a potential sexual partner than than just age/sex/location and how big it is? (it’s just fine, by the way.)

What else would you like to know? That I enjoy long walks, or or that I love animals and sunsets? That beneath this false bravado lies the tender heart of a hopeless romantic with his own seemingly incongruous slutty side? That I prefer a blues band to a rave, good conversation, cuddling and a quiet night in front of the TV to a wild night on the town? Those are all true of me, but still fail to provide even an accurate thumbnail.

Perhaps someone would be kind enough to let me know the optimal amount and type of information that a girl requires or desires of a guy these days, before consenting to strip down to her panties and engage in some consensual fun with him.

Just putting it out there, is all. A guy can dream, can’t he? If it strikes a chord with anyone, great. Please be a doll, and respond if this is you.

Details: 56 years old, in (Yuba county foothills)

Over the hills and far away

 

I was having another traveling dream. Something lay off in the green land beyond the foothills. Whether it was as it a princess to be saved, a dragon to be slain or a wizard to be confronted, I don't know. It had the feel of some kind of mission or quest. 

OK, it wasn't set in times of yore. There were cars and streets and stuff. I still lived on my property, but it had the Narnia-like lushness of a world that was new. 

In the first part of the dream, I was in driving my '86 red Toyota SR5 coupe in Marysville, near where highways 20 and 70 intersect. Taking a shortcut through an alley between a gas station and a liquor store, I drove through a graveled parking lot where someone had dug some deep ruts and created giant speedbumps, making a kind of barrier intended to prevent people from cutting through.

I got myself high centered on one of the speedbumps and sank into the loose gravel. I was able to back the car up and hit it again, diagonally this time, making it over with minimal scraping of the undercarriage.

I next found myself at home, or near my home. There were relatives there and neighbors camping out in a trailer. They were about to have a picnic with hotdogs and ice cream, which they wanted me to attend. I told them I'd love to but that I had somewhere I had to be first, some kind of errand, mission or task that I had to complete. I ran into Ronaldo Carrington (my black Panamanian congo player friend and ex-roommate from the cult days) and he also begged me to stay, but I persisted. 

I walked down the front of my property through the middle of my pasture, suddenly noticing that everything seemed to have a more vibrant feel, like my sensory perception had just been turned up a few notches. There were giant pine trees lining both sides of the pasture in orderly rows, giving the pasture a long, tunnel-like appearance, like an entrance to some Midieval court. The tall, dark trees filtering the sunlight and the thick, lush pasture grass all sparkling and dewy made the air feel about 10 degrees cooler and gave the place an other-worldly, almost magical quality. I whipped out my phone and began taking pictures, backing up and changing views to get the exact perspective that accentuated the effect.

I think this next part is out of sequence, or else the story just jumps around, I don't know. But at some point, I was on a dirt driveway, still in the foothills, doing some work on a line of new cars that were parked on a hillside. RJ from Bible Study was there, also doing some work on the cars. 

He kept wanting to show me something audio related and jumped in one of the cars I was working on, while I was busy doing something with the license plates. The license plates were paper thin and made of a crinkly metallic foil, like a space blanket is made of.

"Come on!" He insisted enthusiastically, "You've got to check this out." He began to tear off the protective plastic film from the car's dash, so he could mess with the radio.

"Hey! Leave the film alone," I told him, "You know we can't start fiddling with the radio just yet. We have to finish the PDI first." I guess we must have been doing Pre-Delivery Inspections, which explained the flimsy license plates. 

I was on the left side of the vehicle, telling RJ to knock it off, when I noticed a few coins on the ground, buried in the hard dirt next to the car. I pried out a nickle and examined it. It was an older one, with an Indian head or something on it. 

"Finders keepers!" I said, excited at my find. 

I kept digging and wound up with five or so more coins. One of them first appeared to be a quarter, but upon closer examination, I found it was made of gold and had much different emblems and text . I put all of the coins in my pocket and decided that I'd done enough work. I felt I had somewhere else that I should be getting to.

I took a couple of the license plates, which had now grown much larger in size and were made of a sturdier material. The two plates were able to freestand in an A frame configuration, like a sawhorse made of tin. I jumped on and attempted to ride the two license plates, initiating motion by bouncing up and down in a pogo stick type of manner. 

This was only slightly effective, and it had an unpleasant effect on my crotch, which had to ride seated on the point of these narrow pieces of metal. Further, the license plate, being made of tin, had very little spring action, and so the hopping was just me trying to force the plates to move as a horse would. But my stubbornness paid off, and I was able to hoppity-horse my way down the hill.

I wound up at gas station near the middle of Loma Rica. There was a bathroom there, and I went in to use it. Two guys were already in there and so I had to wait to use the single dingy toilet stall. In the meantime, I struck up a conversation with one of the guys.

"So, you are a musician?" I guessed this because of his odd Mohawk-like skunk hair dye job. It was black on both sides with a white stripe down the middle.

"Yes, you got that right," he told me. "I'm the only white black guy you'll ever meet. And a damn good guitarist, if I do say so." He kept mixing up the phrase "black white guy" and "white black guy," making all kinds of combinations. 

"I'm a white guy who is black, or rather, a black guy who is white. A black and white guy. White, with black, see?" And he pointed out his t-shirt, which was black with white stripes, or black with white stripes, depending on how you looked at it. His skin, which appeared ashen, also had the strange quality of being a mixture of black and white with facial features of an indeterminate type.

I told him I hoped his music career was successful and that I'd be looking out for him in the future, but I was just saying that to be polite. Guitar players are a dime a dozen, even if they did have a gimmicky stage look, like the one he was affecting. 

I hopped back on my painful metallic horse made of license plates and headed southward. Laura Prepon accosted me before I could leave the parking lot and entreated me to stay and join the picnic still in progress back on my property. I told her I couldn't, but that maybe I'd come back this way and pick her up on my return trip. I felt that perhaps my trip would involve saving her or having some princessy type adventure with her at some point, but for now I had to leave her and pursue whatever lay beyond the foothills.

I struggled to find the correct passage through the hills, however. I kept encountering gates that my license plate horse couldn't get past. I would travel a few hundred yards in any direction and these gates or barriers kept redirecting me back to the gas station. Undeterred, I set out time and again, but never got very far in my journey. I woke up still no closer to my goal, and I never found out what my mission parameters even were. 

Hey, sounds like a life I might be familiar with. 

Well, I got a thing. Gotta go. Text dingy and then mow.