how did I become a born again virgin?

I was out for a walk with a younger girlfriend one day not long ago and, suddenly, it dawned on me — out of nowhere — to ask her, “Are you a virgin?”

She confessed that technically, just by a hair (so to speak), she was.

And it was as I pondered this wonder that I realized that, in this calendar year, I am also a virgin. OMG, I thought, how in the heck did that happen?! How is it that, in 2013, I’ve had what — in retrospect — I’d call a dry spell?

I thought about the dating…relationships? no, not really the right word…more like dating situations I’d gotten into: two or three of them might have been heading toward physical intimacy, but with no great momentum or desire on my part. I was merely considering my willingness when things ended.

So it’s not as though I’m a prude or that I’ve intentionally abstained or that no one’s been interested. It’s just that I’m ready for something special, dammit, and I’m not willing to settle for another jerk or nowhere relationship!

Further, I’ve spent a great deal of time with toys, sometimes routinely using one each night for a period of days or weeks at a time. I found this had two effects:

I generally felt less needy or seeking of male attention.
I slept soundly all night.

Another girlfriend suggested I consider whether it’s had the unintentional effect of making me lazy in my “search.” Would a month of pent-up desire change how I behave when out among potential suitors? Or change my energy or appeal to them?

To define what I’m looking / holding out for more specifically: the last time a relationship felt truly special and magical was with my last boyfriend, who I met around this time (gulp) nearly two years ago. And we hung out a few times before feeling any emotional closeness. And we talked a lot on the dates we’d had. And, even though it took me less than a month to ask him to spend the night — and I really, honestly meant just to cuddle, but you know how that goes (especially when you haven’t really planned it out and end up topless after removing your bra because you failed to change in advance or have a tee-shirt ready) — it was sweet and tender and slow. It’s even fair to say I didn’t fully appreciate it at the moment but, if I could only use one word to describe how he behaved toward me and discovering my body for the first time, I would use “reverential.”

So I’m looking for reverence; that experience of someone who cares for me and is capable of tenderness and connection, someone who values me and cherishes my feelings, someone who genuinely desires the whole of me. And I’m just not interested in getting physically involved for anything less.

another one down

I cut another one loose a week ago. We’d been casually seeing each other for awhile and it just wasn’t going to work out: He described himself as a day trader who tried to live modestly (miserly). He wanted to travel the world, having never been much of anywhere by the age of 47. He didn’t text and communicated only by phone, often leaving messages that went something like this:

Hi, it’s Steve. Sorry I missed you. I just called to say hello. Hope you’re having a good weekend.

I know that sounds perfectly normal, except that when you’re a single parent, you kinda want they guy to call and say something more like:

Hi Beautiful, it’s Steve. Wanted to see if you’re free Saturday night — I’ve got some great ideas for dinner. Ring me back!

At any rate, he sounded a bit too much like Eeyore. I found myself screening his calls, waiting two or three days to return his calls and generally disinterested in seeing him.

So last week, I set up one more dinner. I think I meant to give myself one more chance to feel some magic. But I didn’t. He walked me to my car, then I drove him to his across the lot. And I let him know that I didn’t feel our relationship developing into anything serious. I thought it would be most respectful to do it in person. I thought it would be quick and easy: he’d get out of my car and drive away.

But he wanted to discuss: He asked me if there was anything specific he’d done or hadn’t done.

I repeated that I just wasn’t feeling it, that I was very busy with work and some remodeling projects and parenting…

He told me that, while it’s difficult to date as a single parent, people who want to work at it can be successful.

I said:

See, that’s just it: I’m not feeling that special something that makes me want to work at it.

All the way home, I thought about how good-looking and kind he was, how nice it felt when he touched me and kissed me, and how auspicious the size of his extremities appeared to be. We always seemed to laugh when we were together. I wondered if I’d made a mistake, particularly since I hadn’t yet verified a correlation between the size of his hands and…well, you know.

Then, while telling a co-worker about it the next day, she laughed and said, “You mean you were just too nice to be honest! You had an entire list of things you didn’t like about this guy and why it wouldn’t work.”

All those things came flooding back to me. I realized she was right. And that I’d made the right decision.

the dangers of infatuation

No doubt if you’ve been reading lately, you’re thinking, “Duh, lady; he’s just not that into you.” And it’s probably true.

I’m doing my best to keep my head on straight and just enjoy the blissful anticipation and agony associated with my not-particularly-secret crush. But the truth is, I’ve entertained so many fantasies that I’ve already decided I like him. And this is what’s dangerous about a situation like that…which is, in fact, infatuation:

Before he’s ever asked me out, before I’ve experienced whether he behaves like a man and treats me like a woman, before I’ve even experienced one-on-one time in a dating situation, my mind is made up that I like him. And that’s not always a good thing.

You see, we’ve done the colleague happy hour thing — and he’s lovely and genuine and always picks up the tab and surprises me a warm hug each time we’ve gone out — but that’s as a colleague at happy hour. I’ve felt a few people out: he’s as well liked and respected as I suspected…in a professional context.

But the other day, I ran into him and he picked on me. Being smarter than my fifth-grade self, I thought, “this boy likes me.” Yet few adult women really want to receive affection in the form of being picked on. Teased yes; picked on no.

So, if we ever did go out, it would be interesting to see how he behaves toward me in that context. Would he be different or the same as he is every day? And the purpose of dating is for two people to explore whether they have a connection or like each other or their values and desires match. So when one of two have already decided…well, feelings can get hurt.

And that’s why I’m dialing my feelings back, enjoying whatever flirtation or interaction there is, smiling and being friendly, and just enjoying the exciting feeling of having a crush. If nothing more comes of it…well, the sense of anticipation and possibility still feels wonderful, and I may as well enjoy it!

love triangle

I have a thing for a man at the office. It’s odd, really: He’s not the tallest nor darkest nor handsomest man around, yet my insides turn to mush when I run into him in an elevator or hallway; I blush and prattle on nervously when he chats me up; I thrill at the sound of his voice…

And I’ve no indication he feels anything for me.

Another guy at the office does have a thing for me. His feelings are, perhaps, every bit as strong and real and enduring as mine for the other. And I don’t feel the same way.

Isn’t that just the way of things? We don’t want what is offered to us but, rather, what is unattainable or impossible. (Note to self: stop believing this nonsense and perhaps it will go away!)

Far too many daisies have been plucked apart, petal by petal, in my imagination; far too much mental energy consumed with musings and fantasies. This confounding desire has driven me to distraction. It must come to a stop.

Were it only so easily done as said! If only all the mental math and magic I’ve invested had a payout at the end! Yet things are always sweeter and better when they come as a surprise, so I shall let go, step back and trust that higher powers have my best interests at heart.

You have my oath:

I shall stop trying to influence the outcome. I shall be a vessel of feminine energy. I shall stop envisioning him lustfully impaling me atop a credenza…

On second thought, that is a rather racy and enticing vision; it would be masochistic not to allow myself that much.

dance with me, mr. adorkable

Here is an attempted re-creation of an instant message / chat session with the fellow who kissed me two weeks ago and then…nothing. Okay, the odd flirty text or so. And this, with the man I shall now refer to as mr. adorkable:

…

Him: im such a dork!

Me: u r adorkable…which is hardly as embarrassing as me practically throwing myself at you off and on for the better part of a year (with no discernible results, I might add)…i can only hope you’ve found it more flattering than repugnant

Him: on and off?

Me: mostly on

Him: top?

Me: you’re the one with the c in your title…you’re in charge

Him: my bold advances are always followed by retreat. embarrassing!

Me: indeed

…

This exchange took place as I searched a variety of travel applications on my mobile for nearby hotel rooms, fantasizing that we might be able to leave our respective offices early and meet in between for a couple of hours. Alas, it was not to happen.

And so I spent my evening on a date with another less interesting (though nice enough) chap and, while the band played, imagined mr. adorkable’s hand was pressing in the small of my back, our bodies close and that this very public act of dancing, while socially acceptable and appearing to be innocent, was charged with enough desire for it to be considered foreplay.

You see, one of the truly dorky things I happen to know about mr. adorkable is that he has some experience with ballroom dancing…and, while I’ve no formal training, I’m fairly adept at following a strong leader on the dance floor. After brains and status, perhaps the sexiest thing a man can be is confident enough to have (and confess) such an obscure interest — particularly one that suggests that he knows how to move his hips, that he can lead and presumably has a sense of rhythm.

Imagine the fantasy: We opt for drinks at his place one evening. He turns on the stereo and mixes us each a drink. Something romantic and jazzy comes on…something like “Sugar in My Bowl” by Nina Simone. I suggest he ask me to dance. He takes my hand and pulls me close. The energy between us is intoxicating. We move together, very slowly. I can feel his breath hot on my skin. He teases my lips with his, then moves onto my neck and down to my collarbone. Slowly, with each song, he removes one piece of my clothing. I do the same, first loosening his tie, then unbuttoning his shirt, eventually unbuckling his belt… We are still swaying together in our undergarments as the sky grows dark, parts of our bodies taut with anticipation until, finally, he leads me to the bed…

That, my friends, should explain the dire situation in which I find myself today: mind in a fog of fantasy, confused about what thoughts or intentions he might have, and with batteries run out. Help.

defenseless

Finding love at my age is a completely different endeavor than I ever might have imagined. I find myself surrounded by swarms of attractive and successful men — and they all seem to be married. Or gay. I guess, in a way, it’s like it seemed in my twenties…times ten. So, naturally, I’ve ventured online.

And the online game is largely one of filtering. Filtering out the jerks and misogynists for sure, but probably adding in a few too many random and irrelevant criteria, as well. Take, for instance, one of the fellows pursuing me now: I literally have to force myself to keep an open mind because I don’t like the suburb he lives in, the car he drives, his education or his career. Yet if I met a guy who was as nice and good-looking and seemingly emotionally mature in real life, I wouldn’t place quite as much importance on those things.

Online dating simply serves to exacerbate the filtering, the judgments and the show-me-what-you-got attitude. If I wasn’t conscious of approaching dating that way before (because, frankly, I don’t believe that I did), I sure as heck see an unlikeable dimension of myself emerging the more I meet people online. I haven’t made it easy on most of my dates!

But what I’m really getting at is that I can continually add criteria and easily dismiss dozens of men over the course of a year and then, BAM! the guy who’s short, not particularly handsome, doesn’t live in the city and is not even particularly available (given his custody situation) can simply circumvent all of my defenses — all the criteria and filtering and requirements — and get straight to my heart without even trying. Against my better judgment, I’ve developed feelings — for only the second time in a year (and the first was a miserably failed experiment, I can tell you!) — that cause me to open myself to possibility, to hope, to taking risks, to the willingness and, yea, likelihood of making a complete ass of myself.

Instead of that show-me-what-you-got attitude I find myself copping when I meet a man online, I’m evaluating what I have to offer this fellow, wanting to meet half way, seeing him as he is and caring for him anyway — regardless of where he lives or what he drives or what he looks like — and wondering if any of my gifts might appeal to him in the way that he appeals to me. I’ve been described as a strong woman, and I know I can be a hard woman, as well. But I melt in this man’s presence. And that’s a rare enough feeling for me to take notice.

The problem: despite his having kissed me recently, I have no idea how he feels toward me. Clearly attracted…

I’ve spent entire days agonizing about it — and, by that, I mean the glorious agony of desire or unrequited love — and I’ve come to a decision: if the opportunity arises, I will tell him how I feel. I’m not going to stress about it; I’m going to keep on being me. I’ll flirt and be fun and kind, but I’m not going to lower my standards or become some sort of contortionist in an effort to reel him in. Perhaps he has feelings for me and perhaps he doesn’t…no matter; there’ s nothing for me to do about it. Regardless, hearing his voice and being playful with him is the best part of my day.

So I will go on feeling completely, utterly defenseless. Honestly, I suspect practicing this genuine, open vulnerability will be good for me.

shocking new updates from the land of liking boys

My stomach is all aflutter after a rather scandalous happening a few days ago: The gentleman about whom I wrote in my last post, object of many a fantasy, planted his lips on mine and kissed me, therein setting off a series of delicious, physiological responses including the aforementioned sensation in my stomach, weak knees, racing heart and, most dangerous of all, careening thoughts. A brief moment of shock and wonder was followed quickly by euphoric reverie and then, only hours later, confusion.

Now, days later, my body seems to cycle rapidly through feelings of elation, befuddlement and horror. I have identified two primary root causes of this array of emotion:

I have proven myself colossally bad at choosing appropriate mates and I am already convinced that this will end horrifically…at least for me. Unless it doesn’t! I mean unless he truly is as sweet as he seems. Simply put, I am already terrified for the end of something that has yet to even begin.
By flirting suggestively with this fellow months ago, I’m afraid I’ve likely given the impression that I seek a mere lover. While my desires have changed dramatically, I cannot be certain I’ve informed this fellow of my changed set of requirements. Put another way, I’ve no idea his intent: does he mean to submit himself for the role of lover or boyfriend? Or neither? (Only serious applicants need apply.)

Having positively obsessed about this situation for a full two days, I’ve decided that the only practical approach is to be blithe and nonchalant, as I am while dating men I’ve met online. This proven approach, which requires I simply enjoy myself with complete detachment to the outcome, seems to work much better when I don’t know whether I like a fellow. (Worked like a charm on the man who became my last serious boyfriend!)

You see, while dating men one has met online, it’s quite easy to be biased against the likelihood of anything ever working out. What are the chances? So one sits through a coffee, a drink or a meal, all senses on the alert for warning signs of misogyny, prejudice, misguided political leanings or other wrong-headed beliefs, cheapness, poor taste and all manner of other sins, always at the ready to employ a sensible “slow to hire; quick to fire” policy.

This fellow, however, is someone I’ve gotten to know rather slowly. We have drifted in and out of flirtatious encounters and might already be dating were the logistics not so nearly impossible. After a happy hour a couple of weeks ago, I made a startling discovery: I feel a strong impulse to be sweet in his presence. This is revelatory because it is not at all how I’m feeling during most dates (see paragraph above) and because, while I am often kind, charming, gracious, considerate, helpful and even loving, I very rarely feel sweet. Something about his quiet strength makes me feel those lovely feminine qualities of softness, sweetness and yes, maligned term though it may be, submission. Ladies and gentlemen, I cannot state this strongly enough: I feel I might be able to submit to him, a sensation so foreign to me I don’t know what to do with it! Surely you can understand why I’m in such a tizzy.

But onto other loose ends, as well:

My former boyfriend and I talked the other day: I find myself both yearning for the love we shared and also wanting to sock him in the face, all in the course of a single conversation. He is infuriatingly self-righteous and smug about certain things I can only hint at here.

The fellow (and I refuse to say “gentleman”) who vowed to spend yesterday with me doing yard work did not follow through on said plans. There is something charming and in earnest about him, and I’ve always envisioned he and I would find ourselves fast friends, so I was rather disappointed. Still, it’s probably for the best, given all that’s a-swirl in my mind. Unfortunately, he seems intent on wanting something to come of whatever time we spend together, rather than simply enjoying getting to know one another.

Finally, I went out Friday night on a third date (second to some, perhaps) with a fellow I met online. As usual, I was half dreading the encounter and, thus, ended the evening on a high note, having had a far better time than anticipated. He is taller and better looking than the kisser, his sun sign is more likely to be compatible with mine and, in all likelihood (if you believe what they say about a man’s hands and feet), better hung. Of course, while he was holding my hand, I was daydreaming of the fellow who’d kissed me the day before.

$@#%&!!

And so life goes on in the land of liking boys…

not on my knees

Not long ago, I told one of the guys who’s meandered in and out of my life for the past many months that we needed to have a “come to Jesus.”

He asked hopefully — and via text, I might add, as so many of our important conversations take place these days — if that meant I’d be on my knees.

And that’s exactly the issue with this fellow; he cannot be taken seriously. He claims to have serious interest in me and then, when we eventually start putting together some plans, he texts me that he’ll be over around 11:30pm. That’s booty-call-thirty to most of us.

Men and women can have a few different types of relationships: they can be siblings, friends, co-workers / colleagues, casual lovers or two people with mutual love and respect who want to grow old together. I realize that some of these types of relationships — and by no means is this list comprehensive — can take place on a sort of continuum. Yet I suspect the type of relationship I’m looking for — long-term, committed and rewarding — is unlikely to begin with an 11:30pm visit to my place.

So our “come to Jesus” conversation was a series of texts over which I basically told him that, if he wants to be taken seriously, he’ll need to change his strategy. Ultimately, I’m no soothsayer; I can’t predict the future, so I might be open to a booty call…one just couldn’t possibly expect it would turn into anything deeper.

This fellow knows me well enough and for long enough so that, if he’d been taking notes, he’d have an entire list of possible restaurants to which to invite me on dates, activities I enjoy, music I’d like to see in concert, etc. to show me that he values me as a human being (and not just a piece of ass). He’s likely to know that I think the best relationships begin as friendship. Hell, he’d probably have the first five years’ worth of birthday and Christmas gifts covered if he’d been listening.

I mean to say I’ve made this easy. I’ve practically handed out written instructions for how to win my heart, in the event he was interested. That’s why it floors me that he wants to come over and “give me a back rub” late at night while proclaiming he views me as the “total package” — brains, beauty, breasts. The most important of those is wasted entirely at that time of day.

At any rate, this last go-round, he ultimately declined to come over after this “discussion,” so no booty call for me. Now he claims he’s going to come over and help me do yard work one day, which is much more likely to win me over…

I may have my fingers crossed this fellow can manage some follow-through, but I won’t be on my knees.

ginger discrimination

The other day my chatty chiropractor told me he thought I’d be a great match for Prince Harry.

When I asked him why, he gave two reasons: first, I’m worthy of being a princess and second, we’re both gingers. I can argue with neither point.

But I felt I must tell him I’ve never been particularly drawn to ginger men. (Nor am I drawn to ginger women, for that matter, aside from that pretty character in Pitch Perfect.) He agreed that red-haired (more accurately orange-haired) men are often not the most appealing, but then opined that Harry is an exception. I agree; never mind the blue blood or age difference…

This conversation sparked further discussion on a topic I’ve been thinking about lately. Why waste my time thinking about such superficial things like hair color or complexion? Well…it seems ginger men often find me attractive. And their feelings of attraction toward me are rarely reciprocated. When one recently found my online dating profile, he seemed ecstatic — and he seemed to think my response would be equally jubilant.

My first reaction? “Ew.”

People like to point out that my anti-ginger bias seems contradictory. After all, I am a redhead. And my own father is a ginger — with the pale skin, every inch of that which has been exposed to the sun covered in freckles…and I am fond of my father. As I age, I also find that my skin is more sensitive and likely to burn in the sun.

Still, I don’t identify as part of this particular group of people with certain hair and skin pigmentation in any way that endears them to me particularly, at least not any more than I suspect dishwater blondes feel camaraderie toward one another based on hair color. In fact (perhaps as a result of several years of childhood torment), I am quick to point out these distinctions: my hair is auburn, my eyes are dark and my skin tans with exposure to sunlight. I am covered in “angel kisses,” not freckles (and, no, they are not the same thing). I can see no reason for joining in any sort of ginger convention — I tend to choose my tribe based on other like characteristics. The enormous crush I had on the son of my father’s best friend when I was 13 years old notwithstanding, I am simply not attracted to ginger men.

But I’ve often heard that I should keep an open mind and, further, I’ve learned first-hand that some people are just not as photogenic as others. So out with him I went, determined not to make lifetime happiness decisions based on such superficial criteria.

And here’s what I found: despite his relative financial success, despite his spontaneity, despite his sense of humor, he proved overeager (edging toward stalkerish) and further creeped me out with intimations that I reminded him of female relatives. (After all, I’ve seen my father in his skivvies, and that makes it less — not more — appealing to think of seeing another ginger in the flesh.) In summary: not attracted.

If all of this reveals me as a sort of superficial bigot, so be it. Perhaps I am.

touch starved

I get what I call “touch starved.” Meaning: I can spend all the time in the world snuggling with my children, but it doesn’t fulfill a certain need. That loving, nurturing touch is great, but it’s not the touch of a lover.

This is what I was feeling when I entangled myself in the debacle of last fall. I was physically desperate and thinking I’d get my itch well and thoroughly scratched.

As you now know, I didn’t get what I’d hoped from the brief tryst, but I did equip myself with better toys. Now I’m not feeling nearly so needy.