Monthly Archives: March 2012

“On Love”

I just finished reading “On Love,” a novel by Alain de Botton. He’s supposedly famous for “How Proust Can Change Your Life” but I’d never heard of him; this was his first novel. I found this book in my building’s “free box” and thought it sounded…interesting. Well, imagine a text book about love. With numbered paragraphs, the process of falling in love is carefully and logically explained by the protagonist who finds himself, quite suddenly, immersed in that process. It is, in ways, as logical and clinical as say, a treatise on Sociology (or any other -ology). However, being about love, which is anything but logical or clinical (or even explicable), the poor guy struggles with understanding his irrationality.

Sigh. That sounds like academic gobbledygook and doesn’t do the book justice. It was both interesting and charming, as in I felt “charmed” by the man’s words and emotions. As he desperately attempts to deconstruct love, his miserable failure to do so captures the way we all feel as we fall. And “falling” is the ideal word: that helpless experience of losing control.

There were a few passages I dog-eared because they were so great:

“In the oasis complex, the thirsty man imagines he sees water, palm trees, and shade not because he has the evidence for the belief, but because he has a need for it. Desperate needs bring about a hallucination of their solution. Thirst hallucinates water, the need for love hallucinates the ideal man or woman. The oasis complex is never a complete delusion; the man in the desert does see something on the horizon. It is just that the palms have withered, the well is dry, and the place is infected with locusts.”

How true this seems to me. It explains how someone who is a single, free-spirited dominatrix one day can become a happily married 9-to-5’er the next. She merely hallucinated her need for love and — voila! — the perfect man presented himself. Thus explains my inability to find “the perfect man”: I have not yet hallucinated the need for love. Perhaps next week…

“Dr. Saavedra had diagnosed a case of anhedonia, a disease defined by the British Medical Association as a reaction remarkably close to mountain sickness resulting from the sudden terror brought on by the threat of happiness. It was a common disease among tourists in this region of Spain, faced in these idyllic surroundings with the sudden realization that earthly happiness might be within their grasp, and who therefore became prey to a violent physiological  reaction designed to counteract such a possibility.”

This “illness,” anhedonia, made me curious. Was it a real illness? Sure enough, I looked it up and it was defined as “Loss of the capacity to experience pleasure. The inability to gain pleasure from normally pleasurable experiences,” and was a symptom of depression or schizophrenia. Hmm. The route being “hedonism” this was the opposite  and one might recognize the copy from antidepressant commercials. How odd — and sad — that there’s a medical definition for the inability to be happy. Having experienced depression I can say that yes, it happens. Thankfully I’ve come out the other side and now find myself often feeling inexplicably gleeful over the most mundane things: my coffee mugs lined up in my cupboard, a clean basket of laundry, the way a new sweater perfectly matches an old skirt. Even literally “stopping to smell the roses” can bring about a burst of joy.

But enough about all that happiness. I know my stats on here are always far higher when I’m cunty and grumbling. I’ll be back to discuss “On Cunty” soon!

Still Scared Sexless?

Still riffing off the whole “alone, lonely, single, etc.” stuff…

I’ve been thinking a lot about how negative I am on dates. Why the hell am I going out with men only to turn my nose up at them the second I sit down? I know before I meet these guys that there isn’t any attraction. (At least in most instances.) Why am I harboring hope? Do I think there will be some magical spell cast as soon as we shake hands? That while their looks haven’t swayed my mind (or heart), their pheromones might influence my libido? Am I putting up walls? Preventing myself from liking them? Or even being attracted to them? Or are they just sad-sack old men who I couldn’t force myself to fuck, thereby condemning myself to eternal fuck-less-ness?

I haven’t felt inspired (which is a euphemism for turned on) by a man in ages. I test myself as I go about my day — riding the subway or walking down the street. Could I kiss that guy? Fuck that one? Hold hands, even? And I haven’t had much luck answering Yes. Have my loins simply become incapable of being stirred? In other words, is it more about me than the collective “they” that I’ve been dating?

And so I ask myself Am I afraid of having sex with someone new? Afraid that no one will find me desirable once I’ve taken off my clothes? Or is it even simpler? Am I afraid of loving someone again, since the last time was so disastrous? I want to believe I’m not scared. I want to believe it’s all possible. And just around the corner. Can I still be scared sexless? Shit. I sure as hell hope not.

(New readers may want to read one of my old posts, written back when I wasn’t quite so happy: Scared Sexless.)


In keeping with my last post about the joys (and Freedom and Perils) of living alone, I clicked on the link to Its founder, Sasha Cagen, was mentioned in the segment of the article about odd eating habits and I was charmed by her description of how she “fashions dinner out of ‘discrete objects’.”   Another description of hers:

“Are you a quirkyalone? Quirkyalone: n. adj. a person who enjoys being single (but is not opposed to being in a relationship) and prefers being single to dating for the sake of dating. It’s a mindset. Quirkyalone is not anti-love. It is pro-love. It is not anti-dating. It is anti-compulsory dating.”

I took her little quiz and am, indeed, a “quirkyalone.” Which, of course, made me question my recent dating excursions and just precisely how happy — or unhappy — I actually am alone. Er, single. Yes, on the alone front, I’m enjoying it. I like my privacy; I look forward to being by myself and not having to make conversation. Or shower. But am I happily single? And that leads to the next question: is happiness a decision?

Well, maybe that isn’t as linear to others as it is to me. I believe I am happy because I want to be. It is work. A process. But I don’t believe I’m single because I want to be. At least I hope I’m not. If I were to buy into the whole “you create your own reality” then yes, I guess I want to be single. Or I wouldn’t be. Ack. It is circular. Do we tell ourselves we’re happily single so we won’t appear pathetic? I say I date to “meet new people,” to be “proactive.” (And to provide you with juicy reading material!) Are those really the reasons? Perhaps it would be smarter if I were resigned to being “quirkyalone” and take down all my profiles. Refuse to be fixed up with friends of friends. And hope the universe provides what I…want. What I need. And delivers it (him?) just at the perfect moment.

It’s certainly happened before. I was never looking for any of my previous boyfriends. They all just sort of appeared. But in this moment I’ll admit to experiencing impatience. I don’t want to simply wait. I feel compelled to make something happen. And yet, love is something that really can’t be forced. Or hurried, as The Supremes sang so convincingly. I suppose the best I can do is continue to put myself out there and hope for the best.

Celebrating Solitude

I get all my “news” from Facebook and the other day a friend posted a link to a New York Times article. Her added comment, “Yes, I talk to my cats.” caught my attention, as did the title of the piece: “The Freedom, and Perils, of Living Alone.”

I’ve really been enjoying living alone lately. After years of roommates, boyfriends and even a husband, I now have my own space. And a good amount of it. I eagerly read through the article to see what the perils were; I already know how great the freedom is. And the perils — such as they were — consisted completely of having that freedom…to develop (or indulge) what Eric Klinenberg, an NYU sociology professor and author of “Going Solo: The Extraordinary Rise and Surprising Appeal of Living Alone,” refers to as “Secret Single Behavior.” Of course, in my quirk-filled world, most of these so-called behaviors are pretty run-of-the-mill. One woman uses her drier as much to store her clothes as dry them, another admits to leaving her bra on her kitchen table. Since I don’t have my own drier — or kitchen table — I haven’t indulged in either of these oddities. But I do pee with the bathroom door open, as does the 70-year-old Portland resident and blogger, Ronni Bennett; I also keep strange hours and talk to my dog, none of which I’d call odd.

It was nice to learn that “ 1 in every 4 American households is occupied by someone living alone; in Manhattan, mythic land of the singleton, the number is nearly 1 in 2.” I don’t usually strive to be “normal” but in this instance I felt somewhat gratified that my singleness is so commonplace. I did feel bad for the poor guy who admitted that if he lived alone, he’d be “a fat, out-of-work alcoholic.” No need to live alone for that, eh? But the worry of becoming so comfortable with living alone that I couldn’t tolerate sharing my space with someone else certainly does cross my mind. It would be easy enough to stop leaving one’s bra on the kitchen table or clothes in the drier. It would be much more difficult to relish my solitude if I wasn’t alone. I can understand how “older” couples settle for two separate homes and just have sleepovers. Or whatever grownups call that. So I could keep leaving my bathroom door open…


May-December Mugging-Date

A story from NearSay, swiped (almost verbatim) from The LowDownNY (byline Ed Litvak), reports [and I am just pulling Mr. Litvak’s whole article, fully quoted]:

“Police are looking for a man who stole a wallet and iphone from a woman during a blind date on the Lower East Side.  It happened Friday, March 9. The woman, 50, spent some time with her date (who she met online) at Lucky Jack’s on Orchard Street.  She only noticed her personal belongings missing after leaving the man at the 2nd Avenue/East Houston subway station. It’s unclear exactly when and where the theft occurred.
Police believe the suspect is 25-30 years old.  He’s about 6’1″, 165 pounds and went by the name “Hayden.”  If you have any information about this crime, call Crimestoppers at 800-577-tips.”

Okay, I’m not here to comment on the ethics of online journalism. But I would like to point out that the woman was 50 and her iPhone-swiping date was 25-30. I can hear many readers saying, “Cougar bitch got what she deserved! Dating a dude half her age? Pfft!” She’s actually too old to be a cougar (as am I), since the term was coined for 30- to 40-somethings preying upon men fewer than 10 years their junior. Anyway, it is one of the many reasons I’m reluctant to date men who are considerably younger. Aside from the notch in the belt aspect or check that off my who-I’ve-fucked list (Asian chick? Black chick? Older woman? Woman over 50?), both of which fall under the oddities and experiences umbrella, there’s the fear of becoming a victim. Not being paranoid by nature, my mind wouldn’t have gone to “I’ll get robbed!” but, well, here’s real-life evidence that it’s a possibility. And they only had a few drinks together. Imagine if she’d taken him home. He might’ve walked off with even more. And since, well, let’s be honest, the main reason a 50-year-old woman would make a date with a 25-year-old guy would most likely be for an athletic romp between the sheets, the chances of the woman inviting him home weren’t exactly inconceivable.

Obviously any woman (or man) who invites a stranger into their home runs the risk of getting ripped off. It’s yet another peril of blind dating. Add in the whole May-December dynamic and, given that society considers it scandalous — particularly when the May is the man and the  woman,December — and a younger guy may be right in believing he has some sort of upper hand.

I’ve said I don’t want to be some kid’s punch line. I feel there’s less a chance of that happening if I were to meet a younger guy in person: in a bar or at a party. Planning to meet someone from an online dating site when there are a could of decades between us just doesn’t sound…smart. Of course, it’s working for at least one friend of mine. She has her sex delivered, hot and fast, just like a pizza. [wink] And that’s all it is: hot, fast sex. They don’t have much to talk about since, well, what does a 22-year-old have to say to someone twice his age? The few times I’ve wound up in bed with a guy that much younger, I was shitfaced drunk and not much in the mood for conversation. Which leads me back to not being completely opposed to a May-December hook-up of my own. Just not via OKCupid.  It’d be nice to have a young man charm the pants off of me. But you can be sure I’ll keep a close eye on my iPhone!

Compare and Contrast

Let’s engage in a little game of Compare and Contrast:

OKCupid is free. You can create a profile, send and receive emails, view all members and take advantage of almost all the site offers for nothing.
HowAboutWe is not free. You can create a profile and post a suggested date for free but in order to send or respond to emails or see who has viewed your profile, you need to pay. And it ain’t cheap.

Over the past few days (honestly, over the past few years, but you get my drift), I’ve been conversing with a number of men online. Many of them are of no romantic interest but seem interesting nevertheless. Since I make it pretty clear in my profiles that a casual meeting with the goal of friendship is probably the best plan, I’d been arranging meetings. Or trying to.

Yesterday, two men came to visit me at the bar. One from OKCupid and one from HowAboutWe. The only reason I was able to communicate with anyone on HowAboutWe was because they’d had a St. Patrick’s Day promotional offer: three days free. I took advantage by responding to the men who’d emailed me.

The first to arrive was Phil. Our correspondence on OKC had been entertaining. The man is brilliant: witty, clever, has a wonderful way of words. He is also 70 years old, which puts him just a wee bit outside my usual age parameters. But the fact that he was funny and smart made me want to meet him. I had suggested coffee or tea or a local diner but after a few back-and-forths and late responses, he wound up sitting across the bar from me. And he was just as smart and witty and personable live as he’d been online. His hearty laugh, full head of hair and British accent didn’t hurt a bit, either! He was a delight. I look forward to seeing him again. As friends.

The other man was…shit, I can’t even remember his name. He had responded to my “HowAboutWe…rendezvous while I’m working. I’ll be behind the bar, you’ll be in front of it. And if we hit it off, who knows? I work Wed. & Sat. noon till 8pm. (Sorry I can’t respond to your emails. I haven’t paid to join.)” Our correspondence had consisted of 14 back-and-forths, mostly about the logistics of my “HowAboutWe”: What if six different dates show up at the same time?” He was somewhat argumentative but since my goal was one of possible friendship and not true love, that didn’t bother me much. Nor did his asking me, “I’m 4’11” and you’re 5’10”. Is that a problem?” Why would it be a problem? I wasn’t planning on marrying the guy. When he showed up, he was as hostile as his emails had been. He was also 60 years old and, yes, 4’11”. Diminutive. Elfin, even. I introduced him to Phil and he ordered a beer. The three of us talked about our online dating experiences and he boasted of his many successes: a number of year-long relationships. He asked me why I would invite multiple men to visit me (as he’d asked in our emails: “Is this working for you? Sounds like a great way to drum up business.”) and wondered how it would work, using the situation at hand as an example. I said, “You and Phil are both here and the chances of my dating either of you are zero. But that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy each other’s company. Maybe you’d like to meet one of my many interesting friends. Or attend one of my singles’ events.” Then his tiny little mouth puckered into a distasteful smirk and I added, “Ya know, I take that back. I think you’re probably too square for my friends.” The unpleasant exchange lasted a while longer but I can’t remember exactly what was said. I can say he came across as condescending and paternal. Not a good idea when speaking with me, motherfucker! As he was leaving, his parting words were, “If you want my opinion [I didn’t], this is a really bad idea.” I thanked him for his sage advice and said I would take it under advisement.

My one other interaction from HowAboutWe was on St. Patrick’s Day. He had taken me up on my suggestion to visit me at the bar, even though I told him I thought any day other than St. Pat’s would be better, and was one of about a hundred people in the place. He was older (61, to be exact) and I didn’t recognize him when he sat down, mostly due to the fact that his photo wasn’t of just his face and I’d been viewing him mostly on my iPhone. When I set down his second beer, he flashed his phone at me and there I was, smiling back at myself. I guess it was his way of telling me “I know you from an online dating site.” It might’ve been smarter to flash me his profile photo. Either way, I didn’t have a moment to chat with him. When I emailed him later, apologizing for being too busy to talk, I asked why he didn’t introduce himself. He said he thought flashing my photo at me was sufficient to let me know who he was. I asked, “Um, did you think you were the only person I invited? It was an open invitation to everyone on the site.” As all HowAboutWe dates are. Hrm.

My other most recent interaction with a man from OKCupid was the result of their new iPhone app’s “Locals” feature. It’s sort of a stalking tool, letting you know who’s “nearby.” I love to check it occasionally and see if anyone I’ve been interested in is, you know, nearby. I clicked on an interesting looking guy Tuesday night and within a half hour we were having drinks at 2A. He was good looking, 46 years old and in good shape — not a fat ol’ Santa. Oh and he’s 6’5″! Looks aside, he was interesting and hilarious and intelligent and our conversation never flagged. I’m not embarrassed to say that I’m looking forward to seeing him again!

So is the takeaway that guys on OKCupid are superior to those on HowAboutWe? I don’t know. I haven’t met enough men from HowAboutWe to make that judgement. But I can say that based on the two I have met — and the few I managed to correspond with during my complimentary St. Patrick’s Day celebration — I won’t be spending a goddamn dime to join their site anytime soon! And I’ll be making better use of OKCupid’s “Locals” feature more often!

Tawk (ward) ify

In my neverending search for true love — or additional blog fodder — I signed up for Tawkify. It’s an even more complicated way of meeting people than the usual online dating sites: you join, then Elle magazine advice columnist E. Jean Carroll and her staff match you with other members. You and your “match” receive a phone call that connects the two of you. You then have a very brief seven minutes (or 10, or 12, depend on what, I’ve no idea) to hit it off. Uh, yeah, I know. Anyway, ever the eternal optimist, I gave it a go.

The first phone call was not only brief but awkward. I can’t remember the guy’s name or anything else about him. The second (and more recent) phone call was with David, someone E. Jean crowed about as (another) great match, a writer and a lawyer with “a lot to say.” Our call lasted a whopping 12 minutes, most of which I spent in a panic about our conversation being cut off mid-sentence; it’s part of the process. The rest was small talk and, again, awkward. I suppose it doesn’t make sense to delve into a total stranger’s psyche during a severely time-circumscribed phone call but saying, “That sounds like fun” in response to my telling him “I blog to keep my writing from getting rusty, now that no one’s paying me for it” came off as a bit shallow. I mentioned my web site and within seconds he was looking at my photo. I have no idea what he looks like. I also gave him my phone number. (I KNOW!) I was about to tell him not to call immediately after our conversation got cut off because a friend was on his way over but…I got cut off. And he called. And I told him a friend was on his way. When I asked if we could chat later, he said he was going to bed soon. At 11. I guess he wasn’t excited enough about talking to me to stay up past his usual bedtime. Oy.

E. Jean is interested in getting members to become matchmakers themselves and I think I’d probably make a better matchmaker than match made. I’ll assume the offices are in Manhattan, since E. Jean has made repeated references to the dearth of decent men here. I also responded to an ad today on Craigslist from a matching making service. We’ll see!

More Men I’m Not Meeting

It’s been a while since I’ve updated you all on my dating ridiculousness, mostly because there hasn’t been much. The last date I went on discouraged me so much that I’m reluctant to do it again. Of course, my profiles are all still online so I keep receiving emails. They are, as always, hilarious. A few of the latest:

Another Youngster
would you ever consider seeing a 22 year old?
Seeing a 22-year-old for what? Dating? Marriage? Or just sex?
whatever you want. You seem like an open type….. I think it would be an interesting experienceI am an open type of person but don’t want to date someone just because dating me would be an interesting experience. I don’t like the idea of any sort of relationship being something you (or anyone) would just be checking off their list of “interesting things to do.”
so then you would just want sex?
Uh, no. I don’t want to be “an interesting thing to do” for anyone. If we were to meet and actually like each other, who knows what might happen. But you’re seeking older women…for what? To say you’ve been with an older woman?
No not at all. I just have an attraction to women who are older than me. All the girls my age who I meet just seem to be……incoherent or just…..too know it all. I don’t know. I’m sorry for saying it seems like an “interesting thing to do”. I’m glad I found you though…….
Well, come visit me while I’m working sometime. See if we even get along! 

I need to be honest with you, because I want you 
-I’m a virgin. I’ve got this huge shield of shyness blanketing me and so I’ve never asked a girl out. Don’t get me wrong, I talk to girls all the time. It just never turns into a relationship or sex. 
-I’m 5’8, average weight. 
– I won’t be home for 4 weeks. I’m a student studying abroad in Japan. I was hoping we could have conversations until then. 
I want to be completely open with you because, like I said, you seem like an open person who is accepting. I do hope that you will still consider me. You definitely seem like the type I’d like to meet.
Ok, well, email me when you’re in NYC and we can figure something out.
can we e-mail until then?
Can I see a photo?
I didn’t choose the best one, so you’d like me for maybe who i am instead of what i look like
ok so can i get your email address?
[Unfortunately, I sent the guy my phone number instead of my email address. And as he then pointed out, he’s in Japan. Whatever. Not like much would come of it anyway! I am addlepated!]

Mr. Neanderthal
Greg here new to area, how are you–happy Monday! Can you see me and my pic? love to talk…well, whats your name on yahoo or e-mail?–I am … [Hmm, wonder what “bigbigger” refers to?] I can send other pics too. [I’m sure you can. What of, may I ask? Your “bigbigger?” No thank you!] Phone is easy way to chat too, expedite this meeting thing, here is my cell 000-000-0000..yours? hope to talk soon! And.. well if I saw ya for the firsat time walking down street, what would I notice first( and second? to know) 🙂 Greg
again phone or e-mail is easiest..,lets connect!
Hi Greg,
You aren’t really in my area. You’re pretty far away. [His profile said Pennsylvania.] Do you work in NYC? Or visit often?
If you can make it into the city, I bartend on Wednesdays and Saturdays and it’s usually slow between noon and 3. Of course, this Saturday will be insane since it’s St. Patrick’s Day…
I don’t really do the chat thing and prefer to meet in person rather than talking on the phone. It only increases the intimacy and chances of disappointment.
MY CELL IS (484) 410-1341 [Again? Yeah, got it, thanks.] YOU? AND AM AT BIGBIGGER1234 ON XXX.
Turn off your caps lock.
And I already said I don’t like to chat or talk on the phone. Come by my bar tomorrow if you’d like to meet in person.
hmm what bar?
Double Down Saloon, 14 Avenue A. I’ll be there tomorrow noon till 8.
ok question your cute you curvy riught?. [Cute and curvy? Um, you saw the pictures. That’s for you to decide.] chesty too lol? [Chesty? CHESTY?! People still use that term? Are we living in the 50’s? Okay, pal-e-oh!]
Yeah, see ya! [That means goodbye, by the way.]
woman of few words.. so your a bartender..and talk there right.
why nopt talk on phone? [Did you not read why when I explained it earlier? Duh.]
i need to type… rather than talK! am a chest guy lol you look dd’s right?? 🙂 [Double Ds? WTF? Does this guy think he’s Dean fucking Martin? And now, for the inevitable…]
I’m not interested.
Thank you.

Neanderthal Squared!
72% Match
49% Friend
34% Enemy
[I felt compelled to include the photo here because, well, just look at it! Which one is joeycupid? Or is it a two-fer?]

hey sexy
Is that workin’ for ya?
And how about that photo? Which one is you? The one showing the bottom of his bare foot or the one with the cigarette hanging out of his mouth?
Open shirts showing guts? Are you auditioning for Househusbands of the Jersey Shore?

Mr. Smooth
hi our match is only 32% but I’d still be intersted in meeting err stalking at the Double Down 🙂 you look great !
Thanks, Frank! I’m there every Wednesday noon till 8!
ok so I have permission 🙂 I hate to stalk haha I’ll be out of town next wed but will go the following one then. what are you up to this weekend?
A friend coming into town tonight, cocktail party in my apartment Friday night, two parties Saturday night.
someone’s busy 🙂 [No, someone has a life.] how’s it been on the site-met a lot of guys? I can’t see you dating any guys older than you. love the tats btw. how many doyou have?
The site has been only okay. I don’t enjoy men older than me but don’t want to date men too much younger.
btw you’re in better shape than 25 year olds so keep doing whatever you’re doing!
Thank you! As for tattoos? I have a lot.
that’s awesome. I’m actually 43 to be honest. do you have a type? say tall dark or whatever. 
I can’t believe your writing gig isn’t going anymore. i thought that would never end. go figure! [My writing gig? Who is this guy? Does he know me?]
No, I don’t have a type. And you’re 43? Why are you saying you’re 34?
I sent this account up a while ago and never fixed it. hey at least I’m honest.
Honest enough to say you’re lying!
haha I guess you’re right. well can I still come in on Wednesday? at least I’m in your age range now. haha
Of course.
good have you ever dated some in their 30s or too young? where in town are you? I’m in the east village/stuy town. was in soho but got priced out of that place. (it was the ugliest building in soho haha but worked for me) 
I’m in the East Village.
Why does it matter if I’ve dated guys in their 30s if you’re in your 40s?
And no, I haven’t.
My rule is to not date anyone young enough to be my kid. But I’ve had sex with guys half my age.
[And that was the end of him. Bumbling imbecile.]

I Forgot to Have a Family!

The flip side of being an aging single woman, with all its hand-wringing and mirror-hating, is being an aging single man. Yes, many let themselves go and surrender to pleated pants and the oft-accompanying paunch. And some enter a sort of Peter Pan limbo, where they continue to age yet refuse to grow up. Some men are only emotionally single, preferring to stay in loveless marriages for fear of becoming one more elderly bachelor who washes his socks in the sink and eats frozen dinners. But the men who manage to hold onto their looks — and that elusive vibrance — can live the life of Riley. Or Dorian Grey. Witness Hugh Hefner, the ever-shining example of a man who continues to get the hot young babes even into his final days. If he actually has final days.

In this instance, as in so many others, men seem to be the luckier gender. While a single woman may face her twilight years by becoming a cliché — collecting cats, wearing caftans, generally sliding into “kookiness” or merely becoming invisible — a man may face his mortality by deciding to have children. I’ve communicated with more than one 50-something man who mentions in his profile a desire to start a family. Whatever your opinion on May-December relationships, you can’t change the fact that time marches on, regardless of one’s perception of — or distance from — death. I mean, it is a process. First the guy needs to meet a woman. They need to conduct some sort of courtship, however brief it may be. Then they get married. Or just pregnant. By now he’s at least a year older. Which means that he’ll be 69 years old when his first child (or first of his second set) graduates from high school. And that’s the most optimistic scenario.

If a woman wakes up one day and suddenly remembers to reproduce, it may be too late; she can only get pregnant while still fertile (modern day medical miracles notwithstanding). But men can impregnate at almost any age. So. There’s yet another segment of the single male population that is out of play: over-the-hill dudes who just realized they want to be daddies.

No Cunty for Old Men

Okay, sorry, but OMG! That title just popped into my addled brain! I crack myself up! Now, on to your irregularly scheduled bloggage:

I’ve been trying to become attracted to older men. Trying to envision myself having sex with guys who have grey hair. Or a paunch. Everywhere I go I look around and attempt to imagine a scenario in which I might be successfully seduced by…that guy, over there, with the pleated trousers and receding hairline…or that man, across the way, with the stained tie and frown lines as deep as the Grand Canyon. Or maybe that man in the coffee shop, who looks like his life was over a decade ago. No? No.

I saw a man on the subway who was handsome in a rugged, carpenter sort of way; he had great hands. I could’ve caressed his face, even though most of the youth had been drained from it. And a few days ago a lanky, grey-haired guy walked into the bar and I felt that “zing” you hear tell about. Sadly he wasn’t as moved by me. In fact, I don’t think I even registered on his radar at all. He may have been my age but I’d bet his girlfriend isn’t.

There’s this guy in my extended social circle. Let’s call him Bongo. For some inexplicable reason I hate him. HATE him. He’s about my age, short, somewhat round with lots of white hair. He’s a seriously happy person, always smiling manically. He looks sort of like a garden gnome. I’ve never actually had a conversation with him so I don’t have any rational reason for my hatred. He appears in party photos bare-chested and sweaty and it makes me cringe. I think, “Look at this old man, hanging out with the hot chicks and pretending he’s still in his 20s.” And then I think, “Hmm, I’m sure people say the same thing about me.” Shit.

It didn’t take too much introspection to realize that my hatred of this man — and all saggy older men — is merely self-hatred. I hate that I’m getting old. Older. Er, too old. Or whatever. I hate hate hate it. It doesn’t matter how I look. It doesn’t matter how I feel. When I click 1959 as my year of birth, I’m automatically categorized as a senior citizen. The dating site logarithms match me up with men who look like accounting professors. If I were to actually show up on their doorsteps I’m sure I’d induce coronary arrest!

It was bad enough back in the 80s when the media said a woman over 30 had as much chance of getting married as being struck by lightning. Now my chances of finding romance are somewhere around being struck by lightning, like, a dozen fucking times. I’m sure I’ve said it before but any guy over 50 who has all his hair and can see his cock without the use of a full-length mirror believes he deserves a younger woman. Way younger. Which leaves me at — yes — no cunty for old men. And no cock for cunty. Boo fucking hoo.