Lecherous and Lewd and Lascivious, Oh My!

This afternoon, I was telling a friend how poor my memory has been of late. And it has. I don't know if it's a focus thing or, you know, an early-onset dementia thing, or what, but I've been struggling to remember stuff I shouldn't be forgetting. But on the way home from work, while driving past a house ablaze with Christmas lights, I found myself traveling down a rather pot-hole-y part of Memory Lane... right to a holiday party I'd rather like to forget...

Several years ago, I dated this guy -- a college professor. He was very nice and funny and attractive... and he drank. A lot. An awful lot (which I didn't actually realize until several months in, as he was rather experienced at hiding it).

Anyway, for the sake of this story, we'll call him Buzz, 'k?

So, as I mentioned, Buzz was a professor and, as such, he had several professorly-type friends. I met them all at once, at a university function, and found everyone to be nice and very friendly; they all seemed to like me. Two of them in particular -- a married couple -- liked me quite a bit.

Quite a bit.

If you get my drift.

They were older than Buzz and myself by a few years, but not many. They were quick with innuendo and double entendre, quick to fill your glass, should you find yourself lacking a boozy drink, and quick to express how much they liked you...

They were both rather, shall we say...

Tactile.

For the sake of this story, we'll call them Mr. and Mrs. Touchy-Feely, 'k?

Though the Touchy-Feelys were quite friendly and hands-on, they were not over-the-top. They let their fingers do the walking in fairly subtle ways -- not quite enough to make you feel really uncomfortable, but just enough to make you...

Wonder.

Fast forward from the start of the school year to December. There was going to be a big party at the Touchy-Feely house and Buzz was all abuzz (as normal) with excitement about it (open bar, natch).

So we got dressed up and we went. We socialized... we ate... we drank (some of us more than others)... we took a tour of the Touchy-Feely's house...

And in the bedroom was a photo of a slightly younger Mr. and Mrs. Touchy-Feely... all naked. All the important bits were covered, true, but they were naked. And it was a big photo. In a frame. On the wall. All naked.

Now, I'm no prude. I quite like photos of an erotic nature. I write stuff of an erotic nature. But I have to admit, I was not prepared to see a photo of our hosts... all naked. It threw me a bit. But I admired it duly, as you do, even when you're surprised by a picture of people you know... all naked.

Then we got to see the hot tub. And as I was commenting about how I wished I had a hot tub, Mr. Touchy-Feely put his arm around me, his hand dangerously close to my backside (and by 'dangerously close,' I totally mean, 'on'), and informed me that I could use their hot tub anytime I'd like. Mrs. Touchy-Feely nodded, with a wink and a lewd little smile, and Buzz just stood there, looking all boozy and very un-PhD-like.

Then Mr. T-F informed me that if I liked, we could stay after the party and have a soak. I said the first thing that came to mind, which was something regarding the fact that I didn't have a swimsuit with me... and I was informed immediately, by way of a decidedly lecherous, breathy little whisper in my ear, that swim suits were completely optional in their tub.

Hello! Of course they were. What was I thinking?

And so the party went on. And because Buzz wasn't keen to leave the open bar, we wound up the last couple still present at the end of the night. I was helping Mrs. T-F clean up a bit when Mr. T-F padded into the kitchen... in a robe and barefoot.

The robe? Not quite open. Not quite. Small favors, people.

But that man? Had some of the ugliest feet I've ever seen in my life.

They were troglodyte-esque, all knotted and gnarly and hairy, with thick yellow nails which needed trimming. Badly. They were like gory accidents affixed to the ends of his legs -- you wanted to look away, but you couldn't. They were feet that should have never seen the light of day, people.

Never.

I fought back the grimace... and the urge to throw up a little in my mouth.

Then Mr. T-F grinned a lascivious little grin and asked if we were all ready for our soak in the tub.

I laughed nervously and replied that I really needed to get Buzz home, as he was fading fast. Both Mr. and Mrs. T-F looked disappointed and protested. Buzz, thankfully, looked drunk and appeared incapable of putting up a fight (or he'd known me just long enough to understand the seriousness of the Stink-Eye).

I'd like to tell you I didn't stay because the Touch-Feelys were libidinous degenerates and they made me feel all weird, especially after seeing that picture of them... all naked.

I'd like to tell you that.

But honestly?

Honestly?

It was the feet.

Mr. Right

I've been single for way longer than I expected I would be. It doesn't always seem that long... but when I think about how old Ryan was when my marriage ended (five), or how old Sundance is now (nine), it hits me.

Ages.

I've been single for ages.

I knew I didn't want to date right after the split, as I had some healing -- and some work -- to do. The way the marriage ended was on him, but the failure was about both of us, and I had to accept and fully own my part of it. It was really important to me that I figure out what I did to help create and perpetuate issues and to ensure that I didn't bring those things to another relationship.

So I saw a therapist for a year. I wrote a lot. I went inside -- deep inside. And after that year, I took another year, just to be sure I was ready.

And then I started dating.

And I found out I probably wasn't really ready after all. But I met some great men. And a few not-so-great ones (but I sussed them out pretty quickly, so I'd obviously learned something).

And I fell in love with someone I thought was Mr. Right.

And I got terribly, terribly hurt.

And I took some more time off. Again.

Then I started dating. Again.

And I met some great men. And few not-so-good ones. And a few downright strange ones.

Some of those great men turned into really great friends -- friends who are in my life still; friends I adore and wouldn't trade for the world. But no one turned out to be Mr. Right.

And then?

I just kind of gave up. And that's where I've been for the last two years or so.

Two years or so.

And it's fine. I decided that it was better to be alone than to be in the wrong relationship. And I decided that, at some point, I really do want the relationship, and not the casual thing. I'm not talking about marriage, though. I won't say never, but I don't feel the need to ever do that again. But I do like the comfort and the security and the fun and the romance and the mundane togetherness that comes with an exclusive, monogamous, loving relationship. I do.

I don't need it.

But I want it.

And I'm willing to hold out for it.

But Mr. Right? Well, he hasn't fallen into my lap in the past two years. Or the past seven.

And I'm guessing? He won't.

Damn.

So a couple of weeks ago, a friend asked me what Mr. Right would look like.

That's easy.

Hellooo, Mr. Butler (or as I like to call him, Ryan's New Daddy)!

Heh. I'm kidding. I mean, I wouldn't complain (who in her right mind would?!) but looks actually don't figure into it much at all. A person just has to be attractive to me.

Anyway, I made a list -- a list of all the qualities I'd like Mr. Right to possess. And I was going to include it here, but you know what? I'm guessing it'll look a whole lot like the list most women in their 40's would come up with -- women who have learned a lot about Life and aren't concerned with the superficial things that don't matter; women who want intelligence, humor, kindness, and commonalities.

So I won't bore you with it.

I will tell you, though, that of all the qualities I'd like in Mr. Right, one of the most important ones he can possess is the ability to generate that floopy feeling in my stomach. I want the butterflies. I do. I think they're important. They are what distinguish those amazingly wonderful friends from Mr. Right.

Chemistry? Is important. This I know for sure.

Also? Timing. Timing is incredibly important. This I know for sure, too.

Sigh.

And I've actually found them all, really -- all the wonderful qualities... the chemistry... the timing...

I just haven't found them all at the same time in the same person.

So here I sit. Single.

I figure all the planets will align someday.

And if not?

Well, dogs make great companions.

That Boy-Girl Thing



Last year, my daughter, who was an 8th-grader at the time, took an anonymous survey in school, to gauge attitudes toward drugs, alcohol, and sex. It was designed (assuming the kids answered honestly), to determine who was doing what right then... and who might do what in the near future. I asked if she'd be willing to share with me how she answered.

I should note here that we talk a lot... about a lot. I grew up in a house where a boatload of talking went on, but not a lot of real communicating, and I vowed to make sure that would not be the case when I had children (or, as it turned out, child). With us, no topic is off-limits, and even if it makes me feel ooky on the inside, I try not to let it show... and if it makes Ryan feel ooky, I make sure she knows it's normal to feel that way and we'll talk our way out of it. And we always do. In fact, she has let a few things fly with me that have left me with my jaw hanging open, flabbergasted that they came out of my kid's mouth. But let me tell you, I'd much rather be flabbergasted at what she did say than blindsided later by what she didn't.

Anyway, back to the survey. She gave me her answers. And it was very clear she didn't just tell me what I wanted to hear (which was that she'd never do drugs and wouldn't drink or have sex until she's at least 30)...

She said that she really didn't expect to ever be interested in doing drugs (whew).

Alcohol was another story. She said she couldn't be sure that she wouldn't ever drink in high school.

OK. Honest answer. And though we've talked about alcohol in the past, her reply simply opens up a new avenue of discussion. It's all good.

Her answer to the sex question opened up a few more avenues as well... she said that although she didn't figure she'd ever have a boyfriend, if she ever did, she couldn't say that she wouldn't have sex.

Gulp.

Again, an honest answer. And honest is way better than dishonest, even if if's not what you want to hear. I can work with honest.

So... fast forward to freshman year in high school.

One month in...

Boyfriend.

Gulp.

Now, when I mentioned this little turn of events during a break in a training meeting at work, two women spoke up right away, declaring that they would never let their 14-year-old daughters have boyfriends.

They wouldn't let them have boyfriends.

I understand not letting your kid have an iPhone. I understand not letting her go to a concert un-chaperoned. I understand not letting her have the second piece of cake after dinner...

But not letting her have a boyfriend? That one seems like not letting the tide come in. It'll happen, whether you want it to or not (did they never see Romeo and Juliet? Or Westside Story?). But while the tide will come in before your eyes, the boyfriend thing will happen behind your back, because at 14, your children are not with you every minute of every day. They are in school and at social functions and they are living a big portion of their lives without you watching.

So it never occurred to me to say 'no boyfriend.' But ground rules were established right off the bat, with regard to what she could do and what I wouldn't allow (no car dating until at least her sophomore year).

And then I met him.

And he's adorable. He's also a year ahead of her in school... and since my girl is one of the youngest in her class and he's one of the oldest in his, there are nearly two years between them age-wise.

Gulp.

But he's adorable. And he's so nice. And he comes from a really nice, really involved family. And he shook my hand - firmly - when he met me. And when I speak, even if it's not to him, he looks right at me and he makes eye contact and he smiles genuine smiles.

There is not one iota of Eddie Haskell in this boy.

I like him.

My girl really likes him.

And he? Really likes my girl. He tells her she's awesome. And smart. And funny. And pretty. All of which she is. And when she puts herself down, he hollers at her, just like I do. And he's kind and funny and he respects his parents.

He's a good one, I think.

So, we talk about him. And them. And the stuff that comes out of her mouth flabbergasts me. Not in a lord-this-child-has-no-filters-! way (which happens often), but in a lord-how-did-this-child-get-to-be-so-wise-? way.

She knew, right from the beginning, that his being cute wasn't enough. He liked her before she liked him. And when I asked why it took her so long to work out that she liked him, because he's so stinkin' cute (i.e. how could she not?), she informed me that his being cute wasn't enough. She had to know if she really liked him, too.

She knows that this isn't a 'forever love,' the way so many teenagers look at every romance. She understands that it will end eventually and when it does, it will feel really bad, but it won't be the end of the world.

She understands that public displays of affection will make the people around them really uncomfortable (because she's really uncomfortable when people do it around her) and there is a time and place for them... and she understands that time and place is not behind a closed bedroom door in a house where no parents are present.

She understands that the words, "If you love me" will never precede anything she should feel obligated to do and that if a person is using those words? He/she needs to check him/herself. Immediately.

She feels good about this relationship. She genuinely likes this boy and she can give you a list a page long of all the legitimately great qualities he possesses and things he does that make him so likeable.

She also worries for a friend who is in a situation that doesn't feel good to my girl, based on what she's observing. She's worried that her friend has not figured out some of those things listed above... the things it's important to understand when you're diving in to a teenage romance. She's worried that her friend is going to find herself in a situation she can't get out of and that she'll wind up doing something she'll regret.

Last night, she said to me:

"If you're going to be in a relationship with someone, you have to be friends. You have to have things in common. You have to be able to talk about all kinds of stuff with each other... and not just make out on the bus ride home."

She went on to say that if the only thing two people have in common is that they like to make out with each other? They're doomed.

She's 14. If I had been so wise when I was 14... or 21... or 26... or 42, my life would look far different than it does today.

So the conversations will continue - the ones about drugs and alcohol and especially about sex. I'll do everything I can to make sure she's armed with all the information she needs to continue to make smart choices. I will forever worry about my girl, because I'm her mother and that's my job. But I have to say, I think she's going to OK. I really do.

Yeah. She's going to be just fine.

The Boy From 30 Years Ago

Once upon a time (nearly 30 years ago), a girl met a boy.


She was the sort who embraced convention, while secretly longing to step out of the box. He was the sort who quietly kicked the box aside and did his own thing. She liked him. A lot. He liked her. A lot. They spent time together. A lot of time.

Eventually they turned awkward flirting (which consisted mainly of her messing up his carefully spiked hair and him pretending to be annoyed by it) into a sweet romance. With kissing. A lot of kissing.

Over time, their feelings for one another deepened. The flirting and the romance turned into love.

First love.

But neither the girl nor the boy was very good at actually saying how they felt. Or understanding how they felt. They were young. Their hearts were both strong and terribly fragile at once… their egos and confidence even more fragile than their hearts.

But still, they loved each other.

Until the girl made a mistake. A terrible mistake. Her ego got too big and too loud and it couldn’t hear what the boy's heart was saying... or what her own heart was saying.

And she broke them.

She broke their love. She damaged it beyond repair. And when she tried to fix it, she couldn’t. The boy was hurt and sad and angry and proud… and he pushed her away.

And it was over.

They were over.

She didn’t know it, but he still thought of her.

He didn’t know it, but she still thought of him.

But it was over.

And they went on with their lives. They fell in love again, with other people. They lived -- in new places, with spouses and children, with happiness and hurt, with endings and new beginnings.

And every now and then, they thought of one another.

Then? A long time later, they reconnected through the magic of the Interwebs.

The girl was so happy to find out that the boy’s life was good. She was thrilled to see he’d achieved the happiness he so deserved. And they traveled down Memory Lane and laughed about old times.

Then they went their separate ways again, this time knowing there was a thread tying them together… and this thread had always been there, even if they hadn’t known it... and this thread would always be there.

 

And there was great comfort in knowing it was there.

And then? Something happened to the girl and she needed support… and the boy was there, the thread pulling them back together. His words soothed her spirit and made her forget, if even for a moment, that anything was wrong. He made her remember why she’d loved him so many years ago…

 

And he made her love him all over again.

But this love? This love is different...

With this love, there is no ego… no awkwardness…


There is no romance... no flirting...

With this love, there is just heart.


Just friendship.

And the knowledge that time can make whole what was once broken.

Deep Water

Have you ever had a conversation that suddenly, without any warning, illuminated something about yourself -- something you'd been doing or causing or creating, without even fully realizing it -- and illuminated it so clearly, you felt like a complete and utter idiot when you saw it?

That just happened to me.

I am on a perpetual path of self-discovery but I've realized there are things about myself I simply don't want to acknowledge... because then I'd have to make a choice (gah!) to either deal with them... or ignore them.

And dealing with them would be hard.

And ignoring them would make me feel like a failure and quite the opposite of self-discovered.

Self-hidden?

Whatever. You know what I mean.

You're curious, aren't you?

OK, for the last couple of years, I have been finding myself attracted to men who are unavailable -- whether it's because they live too far way, or they're emotionally or psychologically not ready for real, grown-up relationships, or their life or work or family situations won't permit them to enter into relationships.

Simply put, they are not free.

And that? For me?

Is safe.

I don't have to risk.

Anything.

Except time. And we all know there is precious little of that in anyone's life.

I never have to really try. I never really get hurt. But I never really experience the joy that comes with true intimacy either.

Oh, I get the benefit of the attention, from a distance... the flattery... the comfortable (and sometimes exciting) repartee...

But that's not tangible... it's not tactile...

And it's not enough.

Now I have to work out why I do this. I know part of the story, which is about someone else and the intense desire to avoid hurting someone I care deeply about... but I know it's only part. There is more to my reluctance (fear?) than I'm acknowledging. 

More self-discovery is in order, methinks.

It's time to get down off the high ground; it's time to get wet; it's time to surrender to the current...

And swim.