Hey girl! you are
dreamy! If you're ever planning to travel to NYC, please don't hesitate to
reach out to me (cell: xxx-xxx-xxxx; email: gonnaluvu@gmail.com). we can trade
pics for the fun of it! Ps. I have a vivid imagination and for a moment I did
fantasize somethin happenin between us lol - Jeff (Imurman)
Really? Imurman really
thought this was a good introduction?
Jeff – I'm sorry but
there won't be any pictures or visits. There won't be any more contact. This is creepy. I’m not interested. Jackie
Delete!
Since my first attempt
at dating again came up, well, a little short, I am looking at options farther
afield than the boys next door. It’s been a few months since I signed up for
EMatchHarmonyDating.com and started online dating, and I’m more callus now with
my responses as I sort through each day’s set of winks, looks, and messages.
The experience has changed from excitement over every visit to a routine of
sort and delete to get through the overwhelming numbers. To make things
quicker, I've come up with a clearing-house of requirements. Can't proofread
your profile or you use text writing? Gone. Don’t enjoy spending time
doing at least something more than golf or hunting? Gone. Doesn't read
or consider books important enough to list some favorite authors? Gone.
Obviously didn't read my profile? Gone. Bit by bit, I have refined my
profile and laundry lists for my “ideal man.”
One thing I've considered
adding is that my ideal man won’t be shocked that I’m interested in
talking about the subject of sex. I’m 50, for heaven’s sake, and I grew up with
“Our Bodies, Our Selves” on my reading list. It just makes sense to exchange
perspectives about this topic, particularly since it seems that everything I
read says midlife dating almost always involves some sex.
Talking about such things, though, reduces most guys to 5th grade
boys sneaking peeks at Victoria’s Secret catalogues.
After clearing out
Imurman, Wannameetyou, JCMachoMan, and ABS2435, I open the last message. It's
from Stanley, one I had told no because on the surface we have little in
common. He’s very particular and we have quite different interests. He wants a woman
with a minimal income that I don't have and he’s the vice-president
of a company that creates GMO corn. He hasn't taken “no” for an
answer, though.
You are right, our
back grounds and education as well as our situations are significantly
different. I think that’s the main reason why I continue to write
you. I would love to discuss success and education with you; that would
be a great conversation. Whatever position you take I'll take
the other side even if I agree with yours. Is there a connection between
the two and if so how do they influence each other?
I have to admit, his
persistence has a type of attractiveness to it. I still think we don't quite
match, so I reply:
I find you an
interesting man, but I still don't see the connections between us.
In less than 20
minutes, he comes back with:
Okay, why am I
interested in you? Just read your profile. If you are really the person
you describe then I can't wait to meet you. Your ability to write your
thoughts is evident and well done. When I read the last sentence (it's
the best I've seen) in your profile I was impressed enough to continue
“bothering” you.
Maybe he’s worth a try.
I don't have any other prospects, certainly none as tireless:
Well, you have
piqued my interest and so let’s continue this conversation. If you send me your
phone number, I can call you tomorrow. After a couple very annoying situations, I've learned to always be
the one to call.
After a couple phone
calls filled with easy talk and laughter, we coordinate a date on the first weekend of May.
“So where are you and
Stanley Sullivan going?” Stacey asks the Friday evening before the “big day.” Prom wasn't as anticipated
as this.
“Well, I thought we'd go
to Je Parle Français in Johnson City. He asked me to choose so I might as
well take the chance to eat somewhere I have never gone … or can afford. I
think it might mean something that he’s willing to come from Ithaca.” I'm sorting
through the clothes in my closet.
“He’s driving an hour
just for dinner? This does sound interesting. And… what are you wearing?”
“I was just trying to
decide. I'm not completely sure. Right now it’s between my
black dress that’s form fitting yet covers any extraneous bumps or my floral
flair skirt and white blouse. What do you think?”
“I definitely think
this is a little black dress situation!”
“Ok. I have another
problem. We're meeting there, but I really don't want to
show up in my little beat-up VW.”
“Take our Miata!
Dan just got it washed and detailed. You'll look really great pulling
up in a silver convertible.”
“I'll definitely
take you up on that.” I like the impression I’ll make.
On Saturday, though,
despite having my wardrobe and ride worked out, I am fraught with performance
anxiety. I think about how things had gone with Ryan and I take comfort that at
least my body – even as non-20ish as it is – isn’t going to be a problem. Jane
was right: for heterosexual men, a naked woman is a naked woman. But I don't have
a long history of partners. John and I had been each other’s “first” and
until the divorce, each other’s only, something he assured me. So here I am,
getting ready to go on a date that might, no likely will, end with both of us
being naked, and if Stanley is even a little more considerate than Ryan, that will
mean much more than distracted oral sex on his part.
I call Jane.
“Help me! I don't know
if I can do this after all. I crossed that first hurdle with Ryan by getting
naked, but I didn't even consider before we were in his apartment the
potential progress. Now I’ve had time to think about things, and I don't know
what I'm doing.” I might be able to talk about sex in the
abstract, but the idea of actually performing with someone other than a
well-worn husband is frightening. To just not have sex on this date doesn't enter the picture.
“Jackie, don’t panic.
Be in control of the situation, and just give him a blow
job. There are few situations where you will be able to so thoroughly have him
be putty in your hands.”
“That’s part of the
problem. I didn't really ever figure out how to do that right.”
This was even more embarrassing than I had imagined, and here I was only
talking to Jane.
“Really? What did you
and John do?” I could hear her amazement through the phone. “Wait, don't tell
me. I don't want to be that depressed.” Oh great, pity. Just
what I want.
“Will you just give me
some ideas? I know you have some. If it helps, you can pretend you're working
with a particularly inept client.”
“Ok. Well here is my
best advice. Along with ‘confidence is sexy,’ keep in mind one phrase: ice
cream cone.”
“I’m supposed to use an
ice cream cone? Won't that be rather cold?”
“No, you treat his dick
like an ice cream cone. You know, when the ice cream starts to melt and you
need to catch the drips before they get all over your hand? Picture that you
are holding an ice cream cone and run your tongue around like you're catching
the drips, which, if this goes on long enough, you might be doing.”
This image equally disturbs and
fascinates me. I also understand why I haven't talked
about certain things with my kids, even now that they're in their
twenties. And suddenly I wish I hadn't thought about my kids.
“What about the condom?
How does all that come into this? Or onto this?”
“Oh that’s easy. Just
put it on the tip and then use your mouth to roll it down onto the shaft. Do
that before the BJ and Stanley will be so caught up with the sight he won't know
what hit him.”
I can't even
imagine what she just described. I want to google a video, but I don't really
want to risk my computer getting a virus while I learn how to avoid one.
It’s moot, though, since I have to get ready to go. I'll figure it out when it's time. I
put in my purse a box of condoms, a collection of gels, an extra pair of panties, a travel toothbrush, and eye-makeup remover
so my mascara won't get all over the place.
I park in front of the
restaurant and sit out on the patio with a glass of water. I'm glad I've worn a light sweater. A few minutes later
a brand new Corvette convertible comes up and a man who resembles Stanley’s
pictures steps out. I smooth down my dress.
Stanley looks a little older than I expected, but then he’s 56. He hugs me and
kisses my cheek.
“Hello, Jackie.
You don't know how excited I’ve been for today and to meet you after
our exchanges. You are lovelier in person than I pictured.”
“Hi Stanley. I'm excited
to meet you as well.” I forgot the awkward small talk of the
first meeting.
Once seated, I realize
as I read the menu that the only “French” food I've eaten is French fries
and French onion soup. Why did I pick this place? Still I
recognize the word “bouillabaisse” and “ratatouille,” the second one from the
movie. Maybe I will try those.
“I can't decide
what to order,” I murmur. “It all looks so … good.”
“I know how this can
get overwhelming. I spent a summer in Lyon and after fumbling for most of
the first week with eating in restaurants, came home craving a few dishes that
I see they make here. Why don't I pick us some appetizers and you see
what you want for the soup and main course.”
Now I'm really glad
this dress has a little stretch in it. I decide on the bouillabaisse, chicken with garlic, and a side of ratatouille. I mentally cross my
fingers that I'll be able to eat all of this and that he picks
something small for the appetizer other than frog's legs or snails.
Luckily, the earlier phone
calls between us, as well as the bottle of fancy wine Stanley picks out, help
the conversation develop beyond small talk. It turns out I do like real French
food, though I keep taking bites at the wrong time during the conversation. Finally the waiter clears our dinner plates, and Stanley picks up the dessert menu.
“Do you want dessert?
Cherry clafoutis is usually amazing.”
Do I want dessert?
When don't I want dessert? I feel my stomach
pressing against my dress, though, and accidentally groan.
“Are you ok? Did I
suggest something wrong?”
“No, not at all. I
would love dessert but I have eaten too much, I think. Maybe we could have ice
cream cones later?” As soon as I say it, I mentally throttle Jane.
“That’s a great idea,”
Stanley coolly waves over the waiter for the check. “Ok, then what do you want
to do now?”
We walk outside and I
look at his Corvette and blurt out, “Take a ride in your car!”
“Sure. We can drive to
my house. The hills and curves are great in this baby.”
Thirty minutes later Stanley is driving the back roads at about
90 mph while the wind whips over the windshield.
“Don’t worry. I grew up
here and know these roads like the back of my hand.”
I grip the door handle
anyway, use my other hand to keep my hair from winding into a matted mess,
and though I try to “breezily” laugh, I end up
giving out unconvincing gasps. He might know these roads well, but how does
he know if anyone is coming over the next hill?
We finally pull into
his driveway. That just took a lot less than an hour.