Just for fun

Several weeks ago, a friend sent me an email telling me that I should submit something to a new column entitled "How It Is" in the Lifestyles section of the local paper. She claimed I had "tons of stuff" I could write about love, marriage, dating, etc. So within a few hours I wrote and emailed two pieces to the editor. One of the them was published (posted here June 5); the other was not. This is the one they chose not to publish--written about experiences from a few years ago. Although it may read like a piece of fiction, it is not.


Wild Ride to the Mountain

So there I was—with my photo and blurb up on match.com.

The good-looking mountain climber from New York, 25 years my junior, who flies out here a few times a year to climb Mt. Shasta sounds rather intriguing. Not to mention he’s hot. But let’s get real.

So I hook up with this real estate guy, who takes me to a party in the East Bay. I become increasingly aware that the oversized blazer I purchased at Ross the day before will be returned on Monday. I’m feeling awkward and looking forward to going home, alone. But when 'Jim' invites me to his hot tub, I feel the tantalizing electric charge of a “dare.” I figure at my age I can make reasonable decisions. Plus I’m curious about where he lives because everything about him indicates wealth and extreme good taste. So I say ok.

The house is Tudor style and gorgeous, surrounded by trees and flora. He gives me a quick tour, which includes three bedrooms and a massage room. 'I give great massages, incidentally," he states as an aside, as we pass the room with a massage table in the center and head up the stairs to his bedroom where he gives me a white bathrobe to put on and gives me the option to undress in the bathroom if I choose. I do.

Feeling self-conscious about being naked, I disrobe quickly and slide in. We proceed to have a vivid conversation about his life and times preceding our having met online a few weeks before, which includes a few marriages and many girlfriends. Then he suggests we go inside for a glass of brandy. After offering me a joint, which I turn down, he makes it clear (with his hands) that he wants to have sex. I don't, and don't.

Now he hits me with his proclamation: “If there’s no sex during the first date or two that’s ok, but if by the tenth date we're still not having sex--that's where I draw the line.” I announce I’m going home. Two days later he sends me an email with an attachment. When I open it (at work) I discover a chart composed of twelve color photographs of the most private part of the female anatomy, each decorated with flowers and jewels. "I thought you would enjoy this," he says in his email. Next.

The lawyer seemed interesting via email—intelligent, no-nonsense, and distinguished. We agree to meet at a park in San Rafael. ‘Sam’ invites me to his condo in the wooded hills of San Rafael for dinner. Shortly after finishing the overcooked pasta and tasteless mushrooms, along with a fragrant glass of Zinfandel, I thank him for dinner and conversation and say I’m heading out. He looks stunned, "What? No sex?” I give him the benefit of the doubt and laugh. Then he says, "I'm serious. I thought us ex-hippies would go for a romp in the bedroom.” I’m thoroughly disgusted and find my way to the door. Fast.

Now consider the "tea guy." He suggested Starbucks, but reluctantly agrees to my alternative. While I order a chai at the counter, he stands behind me. I beckon him to step up and order. He asks for a cup of hot water, and then quickly steps back while I pay the bill. After we sit down, I ask if he usually drinks his hot water plain. He smiles conspiratorially, removes a tea bag from his pocket, and plunks it into his cup. "See, that's why I don't like coming here. At Starbucks they give me hot water for free.” Let’s move on.

Finally, the mountain biker. I like his spirit, his mischievous smile, his British accent, and his intelligence. But I should have heeded the warning he gave me himself. During our first phone conversation when I asked him, "How are you?" he responds. "Horrible." Then he jumps into a lengthy monologue about a woman who had apparently led him through the mud and finally ditched him. He’s clearly obsessed with her.

I suppose I was playing out my desire to be a psychiatrist, because every time we talk by phone or get together, conversations invariably turn to her. If he doesn't bring her up, I do. 'So, Steve, how are things with “M”?' (He never spoke her name outloud; he refers to her only by her first initial.) Believe it or not, I see relationship potential here. We both like the outdoors, he’s teaching me to mountain bike. We adore good food, wine, feel the same way about George W. and other key issues. Plus we have a penchant for things European. But eventually, when I find out he’s been seeing someone for a month, along with me, and that neither of us knew about the other--I call it quits, and not without a bit of rancor.

Dating in your fifties. Wow. I may just switch to women. (Although there is that mountain climber. . . )