I’m single.  Yep, it’s true.  One time a few years ago I accidentally walked into a men’s room in an office building.  Seriously, it was an honest mistake and I was not trolling for a date.  I immediately knew I was in a men’s room, not because I saw any men standing around.  It was because of a pair of legs I saw behind the door of a stall.  And the trousers down around his feet on the floor.  No woman would ever, ever let her pants fall on the floor while she was dropping a deuce, even at home.  I ran out of there so fast you’d have thought there was some kind of national emergency.  In my opinion, it was. 

I’ve heard of the reason you shouldn’t dip into a public bowl of peanuts or popcorn at a bar (because of where a guy’s hands have been), but how can even any guy—except for maybe Sen. Larry Craig—let his pants just fall on a filthy public bathroom floor?   I mean, do their knees have to be open that wide?  

When I was in high school I remember we had a speaker talk about the satisfaction of a good bowel movement.  The woman was old, even, and despite the tittering from the hormone-charged audience it didn’t hit me until years later that it was a rather odd subject for assembly.  Except it’s true. 

It’s kind of like when my cat takes a dump and then afterwards she goes a little crazy and runs really kooky all over the house making little noises.  It feels exactly like that when it’s that good.   Also, post-dump is the perfect time for anal sex.  Except I don’t have a boyfriend, and it’s just not healthy to double dip with your vibrator.   Thank god the cup exists now, so that women no longer can accidentally contaminate their tampon string. 

Elimination tonight was particularly excellent.  Two plates of fresh, vegetable-filled salad will do it every time.   When I know a big one is coming, there’s no way it can be stopped.  There’s no ‘I’ll just wait until the commercial.’ All yakking on the phone must immediately cease.  When you gotta go, you really gotta go.  At least, I do. 

I amazed myself at this porcelain colossus.  Honestly, it looked like one of those Polish sausages folded in two in the package.  I almost took a picture, but even I couldn’t bring myself to go there.  Although once when I worked in the corporate world and had an assistant, he came running into my office and told me I had to go with him.  He’d rounded up a bunch of us and we all trooped into the men’s room.  There we witnessed nothing short of a dead anaconda coiled in the bowl.  Whoever had left it hadn’t even attempted to flush.  Egotist.  I just hope that thing wasn’t breech delivered, because if it was that sucker would have HURT.

I know it couldn’t have been my ex, because he refused to take a shit in a public restroom.  Every time we were out and he had to “go,” he made us leave and go back to his place so he could take care of bidniss.  Come to think of it, dumping him was equally satisfying.    

I’m single, yep it’s true.  For better, or for worse, I notice things.  Can’t help it.  Like this anal guy with whom I work.  He’s particular and opinionated, and he’s also very neat and well groomed in appearance.  Every morning for the last few months since I’ve been at this company I’ve noticed that when he takes his break he leaves the office with a white plastic container and a little spray bottle under his arm.   I’m like, what the hell is that?  I see this every day, Monday through Friday, and I’m trying very hard to figure it out without being obvious, invasive or obnoxious.   (Work, ugh.  It so interferes with your personal life.)  Finally, last week, it hits me:  the dude has a shit kit.

Of course that was just a guess, because, like how can you ask someone if they’re carrying around a shit kit.  I’ve never worked with anybody else who walks out of the office at 11:00 A.M. and returns at 11:10 with a plastic box in tow.  Finally, I couldn’t take the suspense any longer.  We’ve kind of gotten to know each other over the past six months, so I finally just asked.  Yes, that be a shit kit.   Apparently his wife not only packs his lunch but gives him wet naps for wiping his ass.  Plus he sprays the air—whether it’s pre- or post-dump I have no clue.   What guy carries around a personal air freshener, but I guess there are other things sold out there that are just as weird.

Curious to to know if this is common among today’s metrosexuals, I polled a couple of guys in my yoga class.  They’d never heard of this personal hygiene habit either.  But one guys gets all, “men’s restrooms are disgusting, and guys truly are filthy assholes in a public bathroom.  Larry Craig probably wasn’t tapping out gay code in that airport restroom, he was just shaking off some pee he’d stepped in.  A shit kit is actually a really good idea.”  I’m like, whoa.   For me, being the type who does not spend a whole lot of time in men’s rooms, it was a real eye-opener.  

I recently heard an article on NPR that there are two types of business folks, those who shower in the morning and those who wash at night, which translates to different work habits and accomplishments.  But I think I could make an argument for the third type, the one who washes WHILE he’s at work. 

So, Scooter, if you are reading, thanks for breaking the mold if not the wind.

I’m single.  Yep, it’s true.  I had “ex” sex last night.  Different from makeup sex, ex sex can be iffy because the components of anticipation and conquest of new territory don’t exist.  You already know what you’re getting, and that can detract a bit from the overall experience (which in this instance I rate an 7 on a scale of 1 to 10, 10 being best).  It’s those other three points that make for mindblowing, transcendant sex.  Which doesn’t mean that anything less is bad.  Au contraire, it was very good. 

For some, ex sex is about finally getting back together with the guy or girl you’ve never gotten over.  Only in those cases (or in Spinal Tap) could you rate it an 11.  Even though I was crazy about the guy at one point, I realized I could never get as high as I did when I was with him the first time.   Yet this particular encounter was nonetheless precious and welcome.  It was all about connecting with someone whom you trust. 

For me, the trust factor in this day and age is a prized commodity.   Good dates are not only few and far between, but the ones that occur can be truly weird, as I have faithfully documented previously within this blog.  Last night was definitely more than friends with benefits or a booty call.  It was the act of sharing common sensibilities, thoughts, bodies and history.  We both wanted, and needed, reassurance that we’re still desirable.  Jesus, I think I just described every couple in America who have been married for more than five years.  I’m scared.

In this day and age, it simply makes sense to blow someone you know.  The boy and I can and do talk about anything and everything, including a ginormous zit pit he had on his ass, right in the fold where the cheek meets the top of the thigh.  I had to hold back the laughter as he whined about how difficult it was to sit and to hide the pain when he was limping along in his office.  And I also knew, after he showered, that he was hoping I would tend to it.  Which I did.   I cleaned, swabbed and bandaged his bum for the same reason that a dogs licks it balls–because I could.  I know he trusted me to do that and care for him.  He’s doing the same for me, by taking my business card and passing it out at the conferences he attends all over the world. 

I therefore reiterate how valuable it is to blow someone you know, then let ‘im go, as I leave you with these parting thoughts:  Quid pro quo and fellatio.  Keep your kitty pretty.  He who has no washcloth beside the bed is lost.  You scratch my itch, and I’ll dress your ass wound.  Always.

I’m single.  Yep, it’s true.  Last week I was taking a yoga class.  We were doing what’s known as asanas, or standing poses, and the particular pose I was in involved standing spread eagle and then bending over from the waist and placing your head and hands on the floor.  As you’re bent over, you’re still spread eagle.  Remember this.

The teacher, a handsome, dark-haired Russian lad named Vladimir, who was subbing for our regular yogi, had throughout his stint been ready with a smile and a greeting every time we passed in the hallway.  He had even used me to demonstrate a pose for one class.  This evening, as I had my tale over tête, he headed straight for me to do what’s known as an adjustment or a minute correction of body alignment.  (By the way, it’s quite funny watching a guy heading straight for you when you’re upside down).  Apparently my hands were out of position.  But instead of coming around in front of me and bending down to make the adjustment where my hands actually lay, he bobbed his head up under my cooter area and reached through.  Excuse me?

Since I had on a pair of very short shorts, my first thought was OMG I’m so glad I took a shower before class.   It did make me wonder.  Seriously, his head could not have been farther away than an inch from the delta opening.  And then I remembered Joe, a guy I went out with for a short time before we parted and became “friends” (that stage is totally overrated, but we’ll get there another post). 

Joe had a fetish in that he preferred sex with women who were ripe—and I don’t mean of a certain age but of a certain aroma.  The stinkier the better.  I, being of the freshly showered type, had never heard of this.  This dude wasn’t Russian, he was an American.  Okay, Jewish could have explained it but I wasn’t sure.  So I played along.  We made a date for me to come over right after yoga (aha!) one evening.  I sweat inordinately, and all through class I couldn’t believe that at the end of corpse pose I was going to get laid by a smell creep. 

After it was over, Joe sympathetically placed a hand on one of my armpits and said, “this part was pretty good, but this area” (he pointed to the cooter), “was only so so.”  And he did that hand gesture.  “You weren’t quite smelly enough.”  In any country in the world, except possibly in Eastern Europe, that statement is a compliment.  My pussy not smelling like hot goat cheese was a bad thing?   Honestly, I thought I’d heard every piece of crap that could be uttered by a guy, but obviously I hadn’t. 

And now I return to Vlad the Russian yoga instructor.  What if Vlad had the same fetish as Joe?  What if he had been innocently-on-purpose copping a smell for his sexual gratification?  What if copping a smell was, in fact, his entire raison d’etre for becoming a yoga instructor?   

When I think about the reference to guys who come “sniffing” around, I guess it’s more apt than I ever realized.  Perhaps scent amplifies sex pheromones, those invisible chemicals of attraction that enter through the nose and leave through the seminal fluid.   Whatever.  If smelling bad is another way that women can attract and manipulate men, then I say lose the soap.

I’m single.  Yep, it’s true.  For a woman who’s growing older, whose gal pals by the age of thirty have started getting married and having babies, female friends are becoming a rare commodity.  On top of that, the ones that I do have don’t want to go out and do the same things they did when they were twenty-nine, and they hardly ever want to stay out late. 

I’m pretty much the same person now I was then with the same joie de vivre.  Although I admit to more sophisticated tastes, it would be great to have a wonderful female friend with whom to hang at a bar, split that great new bottle of cab franc, and not have to get home by 10:00 P.M. because I need to be there when the husband gets home—or simply that I just want to get in bed and sleep…alone.

I even put an ad in Craigslist for older gal pals who still liked to party, despite my concern that the only responses I would receive would be from lesbians.  Lesbians or not, I just wanted gal pals of similar sensibilities who liked to have fun and not be limited by family obligations.  Please understand that by “party” I don’t mean fixing heroin or snorting cocaine.  I never did the former even when I was twenty-nine.  But what’s wrong with really letting it rip on a Saturday night, only in designer clothing with an expensive pursue clutched in your manicured hand.

It just so happened that the most interesting response I received from my Craiglist post was from a lesbian. Cool.  All the other women were the types who wanted to hang out at dive bars (and not the good kind) where the men were wearing cowboy hats and bad Celtic bands were playing.  Or they wanted to go to a restaurant with dinner dancing.  So when I saw Pat the lesbian, wearing a plaid work shirt as she got out of  a giant pickup truck in front of the restaurant where we were meeting, even better I thought.  Except the plaid work-shirt wearing black-truck-driving lesbian never really panned out.  Turned out she had several adopted children, which put her in the same unavailable to party category as my married friends.  She really needed a coffee clatch or a knitting group, and that’s just not me, although I do hope she found a few buds.  Pat, if you’re out there, hope the transmission is doing well.

I love my gay friends and acquaintances.  Ben, Tom, Hernan, Lars, Keith, Joe, Nathan.  There’s just something about each and every one of them that exudes acceptance.  If I didn’t have them, I honestly think I’d have shot myself long before now.  My friend Ben, especially, is a testament to everything that’s worth living, having and observing in the world.  His taste is impeccable.  His sense of style and design are flawless.  Yet he’s not a snob about people, which is where I come in.  If I had to have a designer profile in order to have true friends, it would prevent a lot of people from hanging out with me.  But not Ben.  My outrageous side compensates for a lot, but it’s his generosity of spirit that counts.  He’s honest and knowing and respectful and witty and very, very talented as a designer, photographer and graphic artist.  That aside, there’s just something about him that I adore to the point I feel he’s the family I never had. 

A few years ago, when I was traveling to Paris, Ben suggested that I connect a friend of his living there named Aaron.  Aaron, originally from Santa Barbara, had been living in City of Light at the time for more than fifteen years.  His California coastal accent was now a strange European patois, and while he sounded a little off in his English he spoke French perfectly.  So I telephoned him when I arrived, and Aaron agreed to escort me just about everywhere, including a transvestite Thai restaurant and a gay disco where we danced till dawn. Sigh. 

Perhaps our most memorable evening was at an intimate glacier, patisserie, restaurant and salon called L’Ete En Pente Douce, just down the steps from the Sacre Coeur.  We shared a bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape, and he ended the meal with a lemon-prune tart while I opted for the chocolate.  Dusk melted into night, the lights of the city started to spark, the soft sounds of the other diners merged with the realization that I was in one of the great cities of the world having one of the best times in my life.  And somehow, that evening, I fell in love.  With a gay man.  As we walked to the Metro and he waved from inside the train, my heart broke.  Although it had been my wish to go to Paris with the man I loved, since I was single I figured I’d better go ahead and have the experience by myself.  Yet I did kind of fall in love, and I’m grateful for the memories. 

I think of Aaron fondly, although he never knew my feelings.  Maybe he did see me cry as he sped away.  As for Ben, I’ve often thought that there are only two people in the world I’d take a bullet for, and he’s one of them.  Of course, it would have to be in a very fleshy, non-life-threatening part of the body.  But still.

I’m single.  Yep, it’s true.  Life takes some strange pathways sometimes, and yesterday I received a request from a newish friend by email as follows:

btw: can I take a picture of your vaginer??  I’m working on a new
piece and need pic’s [sic]

I’d say it’s a new piece!  My friend is an artist, a real one, a photographer and videographer who just had a show at The Getty.  (For those who don’t know, The Getty is currently the top museum in the world as far as prestige and funding.)  So it’s actually a very big deal for an artist to have a show there.  Even a vagina-photographing one.  Especially a vagina-photographing one.

It will just be a straight beaver shot, she explained.  And if I know of anyone else I can ask, please do she requested.  Of course I’m going to call up my other gal pals (or transgender friends) and ask if they want to do a “layout.”  Not.  And, during the session, I truly will be laid out, though not getting laid.

And here’s the conundrum.  I do want to use the vadge in the traditional way and soon.  If I do not, I think I may explode.  It has been quite a while, boys and girls.  I cannot bear even to write the timeframe.  It’s not women who are fickle.  It’s men.  There is one person on the horizon, an ex who has suddenly materialized again, and I really don’t care if he loves me or he doesn’t love me.  I just need to connect physically with someone, in addition to the vagina photographer.  Just like any red-blooded American woman, I simply want a luscious boy to nibble on my taco.  I’ll gladly provide the hot sauce and napkins.

The last time I “did it” was with the same guy.  Only it wasn’t the same.  I had been getting less and less interested because he’s kind of a strange dude.  Artistic, full of emotion only not expressing himself except through his music.  Yet, frat boyish and sensitive.  Typical male with a guitar.  But I must say the boy’s labial skills are the very best I have ever encountered.  Tongue and fingers and technique and enthusiasm all combined into pure lust on both our parts (literally and metaphorically). 

It’s great to be desired.  He claimed that my responsiveness to him made him even more responsive to me.  So the more I panted, the better he performed, the better he performed, the more I moaned and groaned.  And so on.  Isn’t that the exact point of hooking up?  

I haven’t spoken to him in over a year—and now the smart ones out there can figure out how long it has been since I’ve had sex.  I’m planning on the next encounter.  All six foot four inches of him.  I’ll let you know how that and the pussy posing goes. 

I’m single.  Yep, it’s true.  Like miniskirts and women over the age of 35 who should not be wearing them, leather pants are only for really skinny, shirtless, teenage male hustlers who’ve inked their own artless tattoos on their knuckles and whose greasy hair is always in their eyes.  Any other application of leather pants is passé, not to mention sweltering on the inside, no matter how well made the pants are or how rich or shapely the wearer is. 

I advertised for a boyfriend on Craiglist last year, in a post that garnered more than a few interesting comments and one unforgettable meet ‘n greet.  I call them “meet ‘n greets” because you should never, ever agree to spend more than one hour, maximum, with a potential date.  Meet them, greet them, and then walk away.  You can always email later if there’s any “there” there, as the fabulous Ms. Stein said.  Always have an out, agreed to up front on the phone, before you meet anyone.  And, yes, you must speak on the phone beforehand, lest you end up sipping a double tall nonfat latte across from a guy who talks like Mickey Mouse.  Unfortunately, I learned these things the hard way.

For some reason I had become quite excited at the prospect of this particular meeting.  It started when I received a photo he’d sent of himself, sitting inside a gorgeous vintage Porsche convertible.  Leaning out over the driver’s side door, he looked awfully cute, what with his silvery brown hair and hip black glasses.  And then he telephoned and sang me a song while he strummed the guitar (The Wreck of the old ’97—what can I say, I’m a sucker for rockaballads).  Turns out he’d been a music producer in the ’80s, and I all could think was royalties! 

I went to Nordstrom’s half-yearly sale and found a gorgeous Furla bag at a bargain, and then I found the cutest pair of orange Pucci wedges.  The nails were done, the makeup went on, the eyes emerged with shadowy drama, the designer halter top looked perfect (and felt great with a lot of skin exposed to the summery night air), and I hit all my pulse points with my two favorite perfumes.  The promise of life beckoned, and I was on my way to my rendezvous, a lovely cottage restaurant in the heart of Hollywood, with a candlelit patio bedecked in heady night-blooming vines.

Mr. Man had told me he was around six feet tall and 45 years old.  I’m 5’6”—probably around 5’9” in the shoes—and nowhere near his age.  I’d told him I’d meet him in the foyer, yet at the appointed hour the only person I saw was this scrawny old dude who didn’t even come up to my chin.  Worse, he had to have been about 65 years old, an age he was trying to hide by wearing a white dinner jacket and (drum roll, please), a pair of black leather pants.  Let me say that again:  Black.  Leather.  Pants.  On a guy who was no taller than 5’3” and had been taking advantage of senior discounts for at least ten years. 

The guy had the temerity to reach up, stroke my cheek and declaim my skin as beautiful.  I immediately pulled back, knowing I had fallen into a horrible pit and not knowing how to climb out.  Should I walk away without saying a word and leave him standing there?  Excuse myself to go to the ladies room and slip out the back door?  Accuse him of lying and fling a glass of water in his face?   I did none of the above.  Instead I sat down and agreed to chat.

He ordered a bowl of ripe fruit with vanilla ice cream.  I ordered a glass of water.  Body language is nowhere nearly as telling as ordering language.  As we waited to be served he told me he had grown up poor in Pennsylvania and had managed to overcome nearly a decade of heroin addiction.  If I had had my glass of water, I would have done a spit take. 

My water and his bowl of fruit arrived, a lovely mound of strawberries, blueberries and raspberries, and he asked if I’d like a bite.  I reached out with my newly manicured hand and delicately, gently plucked a single raspberry from my side of the bowl—and was promptly yelled at for not using a fork, which of course is the polite way to dine according to Mr. Man.  At this point, inside my head, I was starting to panic and actively looking for all the exits to make a dramatic escape if need be.

And then he casually threw into the conversation that he didn’t shoot drugs any more.  The only shot he did these days, he claimed, was a mix of testosterone and human growth hormone.  “Puts lead in your pencil,” he mentioned, with a wink.  Oh.  My.  God.  He had basically just let me know that at his advanced age he could take care of me…sexually.  And that was when I excused myself to go to the ladies room…and never returned.

So while there may be basic rules of decorum about wearing leather pants, there are absolutely no rules about ditching assholes.  Gals, you gotta do what ya gotta do.       

I’m single.  Yep, it’s true.  Recently I’ve been dating a Dutch dude who’s, tall, good looking, generous and with a very nice smile.  Upon my meeting him, one of the things this Dutch dude told me was important to him is conversation.  The dude, who’s a polymer chemist, can certainly yak on a million subjects.  On the other hand, every time he told me how important conversation was to him he would add ”just like it was when I was in college.”  Dude, you graduated at least fifteen years ago, and we are not in the Netherlands.  We’re in L.A.

Our second date, for drinks, ended with some innocent making out. (Although he had bad breath, I had to forgive that one because I am sure he came straight from work and I don’t know many guys who take a spare toothbrush to the office.)  I left, teetering on my Ferragamos and knowing I had made a conquest. 

Naturally he emailed to go out the next weekend, and I agreed to meet him at this very groovy wine bar.  We eased into the conversation with a startling revelation on his part:  that he has an uncut cock.  Said he wanted to prepare me, as an American girl, that he is uncircumcised because in his experience we always find it a shock.  When I heard that I…went into shock.  I suddenly saw myself from above sitting at the bar with the dude, kind of the like those people who claim they’ve had a near-death experience.  I tried to be tolerant, but I’ve never been with a guy who was not circumcised.  He asked if his not being cut was okay with me.  What could I do but just smile and order three more drinks?

He was concerned that I might be a “germophobe” about sex and uncut cocks as some American girls are. At the mention of the idea, the nebbiolo almost projectiled out my nose.  The dude is trippin’ if he think I a nun, oh-kaaay?  He was wearing this godawful Hawaiian-style shirt with billiard balls all over it.  (That should have been my clue right there.)  “Germophobe,” thinks I.  I’ll show you “germophobe.”  Right in the middle of the restaurant, at the bar, I snaked my hand under the shirt, past the waistband of his trousers and into the crotchal area.  

But instead of meat I got only potatoes.  Honest to god, it was the size of my thumb.  It kind of moved like the tentacles on a snail, all slow and unsure.  I may have vomited in my mouth just a bit.  I seem to recall him saying in a voice not dissimilar to that of Arnold Schwarzenegger that for an erection to occur he needs to “kohncentrite.”   
 

All I know is that if I had kept my last boy waiting for three dates and then finally put my hand down his pants he would have been on me like one of those cartoon wolves whose jaw drops to the floor, eyes bulge, tongue curls up and down, steam starts blowing out his ears, and feet start flapping in the air.  Therefore, Dutch dude’s behavior leads me to several suppositions: 

1.  He’s a freak who can get hard only in the presence of a transvestite dwarf in red stilettos and a black leather jock strap.

2.  He’s gay and needs a beard for business purposes.  

3.  He’s impotent with alarmingly low levels of testosterone and requires hyperstimulation (see conclusion #1).

4.  He’s totally not into me but he’s lonely. 

5.  He’s totally not into me, he’s lonely and he’s looking for a green card.

6.  He’s a submissive and looking for a dominant, and while I am happy to boss a guy around he needs to be the man in the bedroom.

7.  I’m not into him at all, don’t want to look for anything else in his pants or any other areas.  I shudder to think what that could be anyway, it’s just too terrifying.

I want a big guy, with a big wallet and a big dick.  This is not a case where “two out of three ain’t bad.”  Trust me.  Once I had touched his thing, all I wanted to do was go home, wash my hands over and over, and then get in bed—alone.  Which is exactly what happened. 

The week goes by and sure enough he’s calling again.  I tell myself I wasn’t going to go out with him again, yet I do.  This time we meet for a movie, have a cocktail afterwards at a nearby bar and then that’s it.  He didn’t try anything, just hugged me and gave me a quick peck on the lips. 

And this is what I don’t get, in him or myself:  I don’t want to be his girlfriend.  I don’t want to have sex with him.  But what I was enjoying is that here’s a guy who is acting like a perfect gentleman, paying for our evenings out and being interested in what we discuss.  There’s no requirement on my part at all, except to show up, smile and engage in the back-and-forth (which I would prefer to be in and out if only it were the right person). 

 
In this regard that I believe I have ascended the Relationship Ladder, struggling up one rung from asshole to oddball (or possibly gay guy).  So, as I munch on my second Nutrisystem dessert for the day, I will try to look at it as a victory on my part and allow him to spend a little more money on me.

I’m single.  Yep, it’s true.   I’m in the process of looking for a new car, one that doesn’t cost a lot or guzzle gas.  I have to admit, however, I’m partial to trucks.  I like the fact that you can haul stuff if you have to because I’m a thrift store shopper and occasionally need to load up right then and there with something I’ve spied and simply have to have.

Not long ago I answered an ad posted in the Men Seeking Women section of Craiglist.  Craig, by the way, is one of my best friends.  I don’t really know him, I just love his site—warts and all.  The ad was fairly straightforward, a request for a woman who was adventurous enough to want to get out and discover the best restaurants in Los Angeles.  But straightforward usually isn’t a concept that Craigslist is known for, so I had to ask a couple of questions up front like “what’s the catch”?  He responded there was no catch, that he just wanted a congenial dinner partner who appreciated good food and was available to dine on a Saturday night.  Did he expect sex, I shot back.  No way was he going to sucker me into that one.  “Not at all,” he answered.  He claimed he was the perfect gentlemen.  On top of that, his ad started out with the word “handsome.” 

When I read posts for guys looking for dates that claim they’re sexy and handsome, what’s the point?  Aren’t those things in the eyes of the beholder, as they say?  Even if someone is handsome to some women, that person may not be good looking at all to others.  It’s much classier not to mention it and just be a nice person.  But before I could even ask for a pic (which is way normal in Craigsland), the guy suggested that we just surprise each other without a photo.  This, dear gals, is a disastrous proposition that usually means he’s ugly.  However, since he didn’t know what I looked like either, he would also be taking a chance.  I could be horsey looking and hideous with hairy moles on my face just like Sarah Jessica Parker.  On the other hand, it could mean he was desperate for a date, any date.  On the other, other hand, we had selected a very nice restaurant.  As long as he didn’t stink, like the homeless guy who stops to pet my dog every day, how bad could it be?

Before our date we had several conversations, in which we found we had a few things in common and certain sensibilities that seemed to make each of us laugh.  So far so good.  He told me he’d be wearing a dress jacket with a turtleneck and jeans.  Classic.  I went for a more urban chic look with a designer jean skirt, knee stockings, kitten heeled shoes from Harrod’s and a black Mark Jacobs jacket with a huge black leather bag.  As I circled the block, I saw him waiting in front of the restaurant.

I parked, walked up to him and introduced myself.  Okay, so he had short graying hair and glasses.  And I must admit that he had the vague look of a rodent, with eyes that were very close set.  So now I knew why he didn’t want to send a pic—because he would never have gotten a date with anyone except a professional, if you know what I mean.  Most importantly, he had small hands.  Don’t ask me why, but I can’t deal with guys who have tiny hands.  I suspect it has something to do with feeling safe being held in them, but it’s a real turnoff for me.  On the other hand, I know that’s irrational and I was determined not to let that bother me.  I can endure anything for a couple of hours, and, I thought, perhaps he’d turn out to be a nice guy.  Because that’s exactly what I’m looking for. 

We were seated, wine was ordered, and we even discovered we had an acquaintance in common.  During dinner he sat back and admitted he was worried I might not have shown but that he was glad I did.  He could not have dreamed up a better partner, he said.  He wasn’t a bad conversationalist, but politics were not his thing at all.  When the wine was poured, he picked the bottle up after the waiter had placed it on the table, and he proceeded to fill his glass to the brim.  Slightly déclassé, but whatever.  It’s something that was terribly, oddly noticeable, however.  And soon he ordered another bottle.  I had only a taste, because I can’t drink a whole bottle of wine without being totally wiped out.  I was not there to get wasted. 

Now here’s the bad part.  When the bill arrived, he asked me if I wanted to split it.  I was aghast.  Not only had I emailed him in advance as to any catch the evening might have, I wasn’t about to pay for a first date—especially for one that was $400.00.  I looked at him and said “hell no.”  And then he argued that the post had had been in the platonic section, which it totally hadn’t and which I later emailed him to prove it.  He did pay the bill, complaining, and then asked me if I’d drive him home because he was drunk and had taken a cab to begin with.  Are you fucking kidding me?  Cabs, I believe, drive in the other direction as well.  Then he asked me if I was a dinner whore.  And then I asked him if he looked like a possum all the time or only when he was drunk.  I left in high dudgeon, going over all the details of the evening.  I mean, email is such a hinky medium sometimes.  Could there have been an honest misunderstanding? 

He emails, I don’t answer and a week goes by.  And then it just so happened that I see him drive by the dog park where we both take our dogs.  My heart did a little syncopated dance as I noticed he was in my favorite vehicle, a giant black pickup truck.  Which then reminded me of his small hands—you know, the measurement rule by which women can gauge how big a guy’s dick is by the size of his hands.  Thank god I dodged that bullet and finally had the proof I needed:  The bigger the truck the smaller the fuck.  I’m sticking to my Prius.