The Tao of Sex

     The world is won by letting things take their own course.

     If you still have ambitions, it’s out of your reach.

                     — Lao Tsu  (trans. Brian Browne)

 

     I walked into one of my very favorite haunts on Friday, hoping to kill a little time and meet up with a group of people I know:  I’d met a remarkable woman and her husband in the ancient bar just two or three weeks prior.

     Life, as usual, had other plans.

     I was due at a birthday party for a Goddess in a little more than an hour and a half.  I parked in back of the bar:  enough time to have one of the famous jalapeno-cream-cheese burgers and a glass of a remarkable Chilean red wine. 

     I was looking forward to the party.  The birthday Goddess was turning thirty-nine for the umpteenth time and she and her sisters were a Force of Nature at their family gatherings – I consider myself very lucky indeed to know them and still luckier to be welcome in their family circle.  I was due to be the only female marshmallow in a cup of very hot chocolate:  something I rather relish because I love overhearing jokes about WASPs.  (Why am I not offended?  Well, because so very many of them have a large grain of truth, dudes.  “How do you get a white girl to suck your dick?”  “I don’t know.  Ask her?”  “No, dumbass, dip it in ranch dressing!”)  Besides, I was slated to meet up with another friend of the family:  “our OTHER white friend,” as the Goddess’s boyfriend liked to term him.  That other white friend would happen to be Jack.  God damn.  Oh, God fucking damn.  Drop-dead gorgeous in a Black Irish way, built like a brick shithouse, and recently on-the-rebound single.  The Goddess’s sister (another Goddess) had set up the meeting.  She said she wanted to sit back and just watch the magic happen, watch me work it.   I was hoping she was right and that the chemistry would be exothermic.  But Jack was a little shy around me and came across as a bit inexperienced.  Then again, you never can tell about men, now, can you?

     So I had my doubts about organic chemistry when I opened the door to the old bar.

     I enjoy this particular bar because the tiny kitchen is open.  It is full of young male bodies slinging hash in the de rigueur white t-shirt, long apron and baseball cap.  I’m always an object of curiosity to these hardworking youngsters and one or two of them have a smiling-across-the-room flirtation going on with me, though only one has talked with me on one or two occasions.  I suspect it isn’t lack of nerve that keeps them on their side of the bar – it’s actually the unspoken and sacrosanct rule of most higher-class establishments:  don’t fuck the regulars, figuratively or literally.  The cooks spotted me as soon as I stepped inside.  The nudges began.

     Besides the grease-spattered flirtations, the place has background music that doesn’t assault the tympanic membranes and lends itself to intellectual discussion:  classical, in other words.  You can actually hear and follow a conversation.  Amazing, rare and much appreciated by yours truly.

     I noticed him as I paused just inside the door.  He was on his way from the back to the front of the bar.  He was blondish and had the most piercing aqua eyes I’d seen in quite some time.  I can count the times I’ve seen that eye color on one hand, so he caught my attention right away.  He didn’t smile, but nodded slightly and said hello on his way back to his seat.  He took a second glance at my face before passing through the crowd out of sight.  I found a seat one barstool away from the waitress station and settled in, spotting him: he’d managed to snag one of the good seats at the end of the ancient bar earlier in the evening, but was sitting next to a preppy-looking Muffy in an expensive black-and-white hounds-tooth wool suit with Mandarin collar.  She had the practical-but-sexless-pageboy haircut and pearls.  Her hair was dyed blonde and was thin and dead straight.  She was also thin and dead straight.  She seemed interested in Mr. Aqua, but was deathly afraid of showing any hint of actual sexuality.  Talk about a WASP.  Dip it in ranch dressing, dude!

     I shook my head.  No accounting for taste.  No pun intended.

     I ordered my glass of the Chilean red and the barkeep smiled (a rare occurrence, for this one’s a rather jaded individual and not quite sure of my character).  “My personal favorite,” he said.  The smile faded as quickly as a trout surfacing and missing the fly.  He turned away.  It was one of their busiest nights of the week and there was no time for small talk.

     Another regular sat beside me, a gentleman of about sixty-something.  He was curious about me and my choice of drink, but didn’t strike up a conversation.  He sat quietly and leaned forward on the bar, doing his subconscious best to block my view of the man with the aqua eyes.

   I sipped my wine and looked around, then watched the cooks at work.

     There is one particular cook I love to watch:  a small, very Mayan-looking brown man with black eyes who takes his job seriously.  He’ll glance at me once in a while in a very cursory way as I watch, but my watching doesn’t make him self-conscious in the least.  As he works, he moves gracefully and purposefully, with a barely suppressed passion.   I’m pleased that he always has a slight, knowing smile when he realizes I’m watching him.  I suspect he knows exactly what I am thinking and I suspect he finds it very flattering, especially since the younger, taller cooks talk about me when I’m in the bar.  I never see him join in their speculative conversation.  And what am I thinking as I watch him move about with that barely suppressed passion?   Mostly – okay, exclusively – I wonder what it would be like to take him to bed and fuck the living shit out of him for days.  No, I’d never touch him in real life: he’s married and I know because I asked one of the other cooks.  (Yep.  I take my reconnaissance seriously and I never, ever cross that line.)  But it doesn’t stop me from imagining my hands on the bare skin of his back and belly, his hands on my skin, and his mouth on my breasts, on my mouth, between my thighs.  He never, ever shows his thoughts in those cursory glances and that knowing smile:  I’ll never know whether his thoughts about me follow the same vein.  And this is just fine because it tells me he is good, solid man and every inch a man – man enough to be a man passionate about his woman.  A very, very passionate man who takes it all home to mama. 

     But this nice little morality disclaimer aside, that little Mayan man is fried sex on a stick.[1]  Just the briefest thought of him makes me tingle and squirm.  And he was working that night.  Glory Hallelujah.

     I also tried to glance from time to time at the man with the aqua eyes.  He had his arm out and his hand on the bar between himself and Muffy, separating himself physically.  He was looking at me while he conversed with her.  His stare was a little unnerving because he didn’t smile.  When I met his eyes, he didn’t look away, either.  He looked into my eyes as if assessing me, as if curious about what made me tick.  His eyes never strayed from my face, never took the downward plunge, though I was dressed to show off The Girls.  (Meeting up with Jack later, remember?)  Predictably, when she noticed Mr. Aqua was watching me, Muffy became more animated, bouncing in her seat in a girlish way at least fifteen years too young for her.  She began playing with her hair, fingering her string of pearls and leaning forward, trying to catch his eye.  Her efforts were futile and still appeared about as sexy as a Yugo.  I smiled at him slightly, then someone else caught my eye.

     Mark, another regular, was sitting just two seats away from him.  Mark waved at me once and I knew I’d get a visit from him soon because, well, Mark is Mark and absolutely everyone knows him.  He’s a lovely man and I am always pleased to find him at the bar.  Like Saturn’s rings, people of intellect and humor seem to circulate around Mark.  I would guess the barkeeps hand out a fair share of free drinks to him.  If they don’t, they should:  he’s very good for business and brings in the right sort of clientele.

     Because the kitchen was overwhelmed and there would be a wait for my burger, I went outside on the patio for a smoke.  I stood on the other side of the glass of the back door and listened to the music on the outdoor speakers:  Mozart.  I watched the wind in the trees over my head, humming along with the overture.  I realized about two minutes later that there was a visual straight shot between where I stood and where Mr. Aqua was sitting.  I glanced in his direction, but all I saw were the cooks, every one looking out at me, or, rather, at The Girls.  Like a flock of startled birds, they turned to different tasks as soon as I noticed them.  Every one of them had been watching – except for the Mayan man, who was still tending the grill and smiling his knowing smile.  Sex on a stick with an extra- spicy dipping sauce, even.  I put my cigarette out in a puddle, tossed it in the garbage, and wandered back in, taking my seat again.

     I sipped my wine and ate my burger with relish, running out of the wine about half way through my feast.   Jalapenos, cream cheese and one of the best burgers in town:  heaven.   The warm cream cheese squeezes out and gets on your fingers as you eat.  I hoped Mr. Aqua was watching as I licked the white stickiness off my fingers, but didn’t risk a glance to see if he did.  The barkeep gave me the next glass of Chilean gratis because it was the dregs.

     The regular next to me rose to pay his tab, freeing the line of sight.  I glanced down the bar and saw Muffy rising to leave, as well.  Mr. Aqua was smiling at her, still seated, arms crossed, saying goodbye, doing his best to be noncommittal.

     The regular who’d been sitting next to me this whole time spoke to me as he rose, making small talk.  I smiled and nodded, then looked pointedly at his left hand and the little band of gold that gave me my Out.  He took the hint and left.  Another regular took his place, one that has always given me The Creepy Vibe.

     I turned slightly away from Mr. Creepy, stiffening my body.  He’s been watching me for some time since I started coming in the bar months ago and I didn’t want to encourage him.  The last time I had been in the bar, I had been talking to a librarian and her husband on one side while Mr. Creepy was sitting on the other side of me, listening in and trying to rub his thigh against mine.  I remembered trying to eek my way toward the librarian and away from the uncomfortable warmth of his leg.  Just as I was about to turn and tell him to go fuck himself, he’d gotten up to go to the bathroom for a few minutes.  He came back smelling strongly of semen.  (Believe me, a woman who hasn’t had any for a week can smell a drop of that particular tasty elixir a quarter mile away.)  At least he kept his distance after that.  But this was another night and here he was again.  Fuck off and die, glick.

     So my eye contact with Mr. Aqua was over because I didn’t want to encourage Mr. Creepy.  As the French say, life sucks sometimes.

     Mark appeared just as the barkeep cleared my burger away.

     “Hey, Good Lookin’!” he said, putting his arm round my shoulders.  He patted my back like I was the center for his high school football team, God bless him.

     “Hey, Mark,” I said, smiling.  “What’s shakin’?”

     Mark told me he was going to the D.U. hockey game with a couple of buddies.  He pointed them out.  They were standing behind Mr. Aqua.  We talked hockey and birthday parties for a few minutes, then I leaned in toward him.

     “Listen,” I said, pointing through Mr. Creepy.  “You know that guy at the end of the bar?”

     Mark stood on tiptoe to get a look.  “Green sweater?”

     “Yeah, that one.”

     Mark gave me a crocodile smile.  “Was talking to some blonde chick earlier.”

     “Yeah.  She left.  You know him?”

     Mark shrugged, still grinning.  “No.  I’ve seen him once or twice, maybe.  Why?  You interested?”

     “I don’t know,” I said, quietly, meeting his eyes.  Mostly because of his young personality and little because he’s good-looking and built like a brick, Mark is a very attractive man for any age, which happens to be sixty in his case.  Again, that little band of gold keeps me far, far away. . .

     “I could say something to him,” Mark said, his grin widening a little.

     I caught a glimpse of Mr. Aqua.  He looked about thirty-two.  “Seems young.”

     “How old are you?”

     I smiled at Mark, raising my eyebrows.  He raised his hands to fend me off.  “I know, I know, never ask a woman her age.”

     I smiled and held his eyes for a few seconds longer, then I told him.

     He smiled and shifted on his feet.  “You look early thirties, girl.”

     My smile turned into a grin.  “Thanks.  So they tell me.   And that’s why the young twenty-somethings are the only ones I end up dating.  Because most guys like him over thirty,” here, I pointed around Mr. Creepy, “never have the guts to come over and strike up a conversation.”

     “What about where you work?  You’re a professional woman.  What about the guys there?”

     I laughed.  I took a sip of my wine.   “You have no idea who I work with.”  I laughed again.  “Besides, that’s just asking for a whole heap of trouble, dating where you work.”

     “True,” said Mark, crossing his arms and looking over at Mr. Aqua.  “And probably very wise.”

     “Besides, any man who hasn’t got the guts to cross the room and strike up a conversation hasn’t got the guts to deal with a strong, independent woman like me.”  I said it trying to sound matter-of-fact.  It came off sounding a little sad and lacking in conviction.

     Mark laughed and looked into my eyes, putting his arm around my shoulder and giving me two hard squeezes.  “Very true.  But keep hanging out here.  The intellectual types hang here.”  He smiled again.  “You know, if you leave the party early, you can always come back here.  We’re coming back for the after-game.  Got a couple of single friends who’d show for you.”

     I looked into his face.  “With this party and this group of Goddesses, I’ll be lucky to make it out of the party by sunrise.”

     Mark leaned in close, flirting a little.  “Sure you don’t want me to hook it up?”

     I shook my head.   “If he hasn’t got the guts. . .”

     Mark let go of my shoulders and stood back, nodding.  “You’re absolutely right.  Most women aren’t that smart.  They’d be chasing him.  That always backfires.”

      “That and I’m not desperate.”

     Mark smiled his crocodile smile, glancing at The Girls.  “I’ll bet not.”

     Mark’s friends yelled from across the room.  After giving me one more squeeze and a couple of noisy pats on the back that were enough to inspire me to win one for the Gipper, he was off to join them.

     I had trouble meeting the barkeep’s eye to tab out.  The place had gotten busier.

     I have no idea what Mark did between his friends and the door.  I suspect he hooked it up.

     I shifted in my seat, trying not to brush up against Mr. Creepy as I gathered my purse and coat.

     Mr. Aqua was standing right behind me, hands in his pockets, watching me.  “You’re leaving your seat,” he said, simply.  He looked into my face.

     “Yes,” I said, quietly.  I glanced at the end of the bar and saw someone had already stolen his former seat.  “You may have it if you like.”  Five seven, maybe five eight.  And damn, this man is sexy.  I had on clogs, which made it harder to tell how tall he was and made it harder for him to tell how short I am.  He was a very, very handsome man of medium build.  He had an air of outdoors-but-not-extreme-sports.  I had to stand close because of the traffic and not wanting to brush up against Mr. Creepy.  I could smell Mr. Aqua’s neck: he smelled like a man.  God help me, I love that smell.  No, never mind, God, don’t help me: I love loving that smell.

     Mr. Aqua nodded, glancing at The Girls for half a second, then looking straight ahead.  “I thought you were here on your own.”  He looked at me sideways for about two seconds, then straight ahead.

     “I am,” I said, looking at his face.  He looked into my eyes, again.  I felt a little jolt.  He held my eyes and I forced myself to not look away.  “I have to get to a birthday party in about fifteen minutes.”

     His face looked hopeful, his eyes smiled.  “Birthday parties are fun.”  He gave me a sly smile.

     I smiled at him, amused at the brazen hint.  Not a chance, bucko.  I don’t know you and you don’t know what you’d be walking into.  I have no idea whether you would be able to relax and have fun or whether you would say something stupid and/or get drunk off your ass and ruin the whole evening for the birthday girl. 

     I let the hint slip by.  I held out my hand.  “My name is Titania.”

     “Rob,” he shook mine with just the right amount of pressure.  His hands were large, strong and warm.

     “You come here often, Rob?”  I asked, putting on my coat.

     He shrugged and looked away.  “Only about once every six months or so.”

     He’s telling me I’m missing my chance, here.  Too bad, baby.  I’m not desperate.  I shrugged my shoulders to get my coat in place.  “I come here about every other Friday,” I said.  “It’s half way between work and home.”  And I’m telling you where and when you’re likely to see me again if you make the effort.  AND I’m telling you I’m worth the effort, dude.  And if you don’t think I am, then fuck it: your loss.

     I gathered up the straps of my purse.  He glanced at The Girls again while I was doing so.  I took out my cell phone and checked it for texts as a hint:  I was giving him some time and a visual cue to ask for my number.  He didn’t ask.

     He shifted, shyly, unsure of himself.  “Birthday parties sure are a lot of fun.”

     I smiled, sadly, tucking my phone back in my purse.  I sighed.  “This one is going to be a bunch of wild women and only a couple of very, very brave boyfriends and husbands.”  And it’s not my party and not my birthday.  It would be rude to invite a stranger to a family gathering.

     He looked into my face.  His eyes were sad.  He rocked on the balls of his feet.

     “It was nice meeting you, Rob,” I said, gently.  I meant it.  He seemed sincere, not at all a player.  I could tell he had a tendency to be frank.  I felt it might be quite something to know him.  On the other hand, five more minutes might reveal him as a raving asshole.

     I was suddenly aware of about six pair of eyes watching me from the kitchen.  I smiled and blushed, involuntarily, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, cursing myself for my sudden shyness.  Ask for my phone number, dammit.

     He looked into my face.  He looked slightly puzzled, as if he’d never heard the word no before and found it very attractive.  He opened his mouth to say something.  I waited, but he closed it again.

     “I hope to see you again, Rob,” I said, gravely.  I do.  I mean it.

     He nodded and sighed, resigned.  “Me, too.”  I couldn’t tell if he meant it or not, but he did look into my eyes and smiled slightly.

     I turned and left the bar.

     I smiled all the way to The House of the Goddesses.

     Jack didn’t make it to the birthday party.  I was disappointed only for a moment.  How can anyone be disappointed in a room full of randy, loud, funny and tipsy women? 

     I didn’t get home until I’d sobered up again – after three.

     Will I see Rob again?  I have no earthly clue.  Do I still hope to?  Yes and no:  I don’t feel I missed out on anything, but I was struck by his eyes and his quiet frankness.  Like Penny Marshall says about comedy, “It’s all about the timing, kid.”  Life is timing, too.  Everything is difficult and nothing is easy.  But both the difficulty and the ease lie within:  the hardest part of making the right things happen is letting go and acting only within wisdom.

     I wouldn’t do a single thing differently, given another chance at Friday night.  It’s not often I feel that in sync with the Tao. And all Deep Thoughts bullshit aside, I’m still having loads of fun playing while waiting for Life to bring me a regular gig with my own personal bit of fried sex on a stick.  And what is more Tao than that?

 

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[1]     In the South, if something is good, to make it even better, you deep fry it.  To make it even better than that, you put it on a stick.  Hotdog to corndog.  Fried Snickers – on a stick.  Funnel cake – on a stick.  Sausage and a pancake – on a stick. So fried sex on a stick?  Honey, we’re talking BEYOND sexy into something that makes even sexier-than-hell taste like cold, leftover oatmeal.

How to Close the Deal (You’d Never Guess)

In the name of quasi-scientific research, I’ve been roaming the wilds of Denver putting a recent theory of mine to the test.  Oscar Wilde once quipped that a woman will lose a man to anything — except another woman.  Well, I’m here to tell you this still rings true.  Although myobservation is subjective and I didn’t have a control group, there’s something out there that you young guys should know.  Read on, Grasshoppers. . .

I searched for couples who were not married.  Judging by conversation and body language, it was obvious they had just met at the bar or were on a first date.   All couples had the same thing in common: interested man, indifferent woman.  Body language was important:  invariably, she was in the I’m-listening-but-closed position, arms crossed and resting on the bar or table in front of her, looking straight ahead or at something on the table, trying not to make too much eye contact with him.  Without fail, she had classic I-don’t-want-to-encourage-you-too-much behavior.  He, however, was always engaged and always turned toward her, arms open, receptive and trying to find a way in.  He was leaning in, trying to close the deal. 

This is where all couples started.  By the end of my experiments, I was closing the deal for him 100% of the time. 

Here’s how it worked:

I sat in his line of vision, perpendicular to the woman.  I made sure my cleavage was amply displayed and waited to make eye contact with him.  He’d look at my chest first, then raise his eyes to my face.  I’d smile.  Immediately, he would look at her, not wanting to give the wrong impression (bad move, guys — you’ll see why).  She was still in closed position, fiddling with her cell phone, playing with the napking or coaster, still faced straight ahead, acting like she’d rather be just about anywhere else but sitting next to this guy.

Eventually, after I made eye contact with him and smiled a few times, he would smile back.  This evoked a strong reaction from her.  She would look over to see who he was smiling at, and give the once-over to my cleavage, and frown.  IMMEDIATELY, she would lean back and turn slightly toward him and begin making eye contact.  She would never, ever look back at me.  But he would.

Continuing to smile every time he looked over, I watched her body language.  The more he smiled at me, the closer she would lean toward him, eventually turning her back to me and facing him full on.  Her gestures would become more exagerrated, to attract more of his attention: she would begin playing with her hair and putting her shoulders back, showing off her chest.  He would still look once in a while but lean in toward her.  He would smile at me once in a while.  By now, their heads would be very close together.  She would say something that caught his attention (it was obviously something sexual).  He would begin looking at her face: eyes and mouth.  He’d still glance at me, but his smiles were gone, now.

Eventually, she would begin touching him and he would begin to ignore me.  They would start acting like lovers.  Within five minutes of her beginning to touch him, they would leave together. 

On the way out, she would give me a smug look of victory (like I cared — I was in research ).  I never failed to get a smile as he made his way past me.

This happened 10 times.  All 10 times, the guy closed the deal.  What happened after they left, I have no idea,  But he’d found an in.

Interesting, huh?  And what have we learned today, kids?  Sometimes, the right move is counterintuitive.  And women are just as competitive now as they were in Oscar’s day.  Some things never, ever change.

What Men Need to Know About Women in General

     I’ve read a few complaints about how picky some women are about choosing their sexual partners.  Let’s reframe this issue so you men understand.  Believe me, it is purely to your advantage to read on, dudes.  Pay attention and learn something you can use tonight.  This is pure self-interest.

     Let’s take a step back from The Dance and look at things from a purely rational perspective, both in terms of 1) the physical act and 2) the evolutionary reasons behind the physical act.

1) The physical act of fucking:  WE LET YOU INTO OUR BODIES.  Think about this for a moment.  “Hey, do you mind if I take THIS part of my body and stick it into that part of your body over and over again, maybe even violently?”  This is exactly what happens in sex, whether vaginal, oral or anal.  We let you in.  We take you into the warmest, most personal part of ourselves.  From this perspective, is it any wonder we’re picky about who gets that privilege? 

     Any woman who isn’t at least a little bit picky has serious issues with her own self esteem.  Not your problem, I know.  But think about it this way: any woman who allows you in without the slightest amount of prudence probably let him and him and that other guy you don’t even want to think about into her lovepocket just before you showed up.  And your lovemonster is stirring the soup left by him and him and that other guy.  That soup has been in a warm, dark place, simmering.  It was added to by all the other dudes who came before (literally).  (There’s more than one way to take sloppy seconds.  So wear a condom.)  And don’t even try to lie: when a woman doesn’t have the self esteem to even be choosy, you guys treat her like a fuckhole and don’t respect her as a human being.  What?  You totally do respect her?  Oh, whatEVER!

2) And then there’s sex.  Hell, yeah, it’s great fun, but it’s also kinda the way we reproduce.  Remember high school biology and the Mendelian grids?  Recessive and dominant genes, etc.?  We’re in that part of the playground for a moment.  And most of this stuff is hardwired and subconscious and has very little to do with conscious choices.  I’m talking reptilian brain, here: this stuff ain’t intellect, it’s visceral.

     Think about things in terms of evolution: you men are hardwired to produce as many cute little DNA packets (i.e., offspring) as you possibly can.  It doesn’t really matter in the short term what kind of incubator those little DNA packets happen to inhabit, you’re just wired to deposit your chromosomes in as many places as time and opportunity will allow.  (Remember the soup and wear a condom.)  You men only choose a certain kind of incubator when you are ready to settle down and invest some time in your own little DNA packets – until then, your reptilian brain is screaming for you to make as many little versions of yourself as possible.  You produce millions of sperm daily in order to accomplish this task.  Hence, your “uh, okay!” mentality toward sex.  (Yes, I fully realize I’m oversimplifying here, so keep the science geek , sociological nature/nurture comments to yourself.)

     Women, on the other hand, don’t get unlimited chances to reproduce, so we choose “the best available” for every opportunity.  We’re supposed to be picky.  It’s what our reptilian brains are telling us to do: we were born with only 300 or so eggs.  We don’t make more.  We have a tremendous drive for sex (and to produce those cute little DNA packets).  However, we also invest a great deal more time and energy into reproduction, so our little alligator brain is geared toward being selective precisely because our opportunities, energy and time are limited.  As for “the best available,” that definition depends on the woman.  Some of us like smart men, some like jocks, some like the sensitive type, some like slender men. . . you get the picture. 

So how does this help you increase your odds of finding a willing sexual partner?

     Your job is to figure out what kind of man a woman is after and to know thyself.  Don’t let out a rebel yell and make a blind charge at us without getting a clue first.  If a woman just broke up with the center for the Broncos, chances are she’s not looking for the intellectual artist type.  If you’re the intellectual artist type, you’d find better odds with the other chick who brought a book with her.  Listen and watch for a little while.  Move in and eavesdrop on the conversation.  In the army, it’s called reconnaissance.  It can save you a lot of embarrassment, time, and get you a greater return on your beer investment fund.

     Now see the section How to Pick Up a Cougar.

How to Pick Up a Cougar

1) Forget about lines.  We’ve heard them all and we’re more than likely to laugh if you try that tack. 

2) Don’t drink too much.  You’re not much use to us if you do.

3) Smile, say hello and stand or sit down next to us. 

4) Be polite and respectful.  If we’re interested, we’ll take the conversation from there.

Yeah, I know:  simple, huh?

For more information on WHY you might want to do this, see: WHY COUGARS ROCK and WHAT YOU REALLY WANT IS A COUGAR.  Just spreading the wealth.

The Virtual Man

      This is something entirely new to me since I’ve been in the Wilds.  I can’t claim to have discovered the species and call it homo titanias, but I can describe its characteristics:

      He’s a young man, usually in his 30s, who seems to like sex only in 2d.  He approaches a woman, chats her up, and asks for her cell phone number.  She’ll never see him in the flesh again.  Instead, the virtual man pesters her to no end about her sexual preferences and begs for phone pics and video.  He doesn’t want “real” sex.  Instead, he wants the two of them to do it together-and-alone in texts or on the phone: solitaire porn, mutual but isolated masturbation, sex twice removed.

      Maybe he’s afraid of women.  That’s one explanation, and the simple one, to boot.

      My other theory is that the virtual reality of video games is slowly changing the way people interact.  In virtual reality, there is no actual sex, just a fantasy version thereof.  No smells, sounds, tastes, or messy entanglements.  Another, similar version of the same phenomenon:  two young people out to dinner together, not speaking across the table and texting third parties.  They are out to dinner with one another, but not really.  They aren’t speaking, there aren’t any awkward silences, and they are endlessly entertained.  It’s as if we are slowly becoming isolated to the point that we don’t have to bother with social interaction:  soon, we’ll be able to do everything from the privacy of our own homes – including picking up new sex partners and having virtual one night stands.  It’s not porn precisely because it is interactive.  But it is interactive only in the vaguest way.

     Maybe the virtual man convinces himself he is a player because his library of pics and videos is so extensive.  But he’s not a player per se.  He is acting out a watered-down version of the-notch-in-the-bedpost fantasy, only there’s no bed.  And he does this risk-free: he can always hang up or block a number.  And if some better looking pic or vid comes along, well, no need to get rid of the old ones until the memory’s low.  Then he can weed out the worst, but not until then.  How many women can he text-fuck at one time?  I suppose that depends on how seriously his carpal tunnel is acting up.

     Perhaps he’s married.  This is one way to keep a woman at arm’s length and still get a taste of the passive-aggressive thrill of cheating.  It’s the new, low-risk adultery: no risk of bringing home an STD and no risk of the virtual woman showing up on the doorstep while Mom’s downstairs and he’s upstairs drawing Junior’s bathwater.  (That is, unless that virtual woman happens to know how to GPS your ass, dude.)

     Even scarier, from a step away, his collection begins to resemble the trophy collecting of serial killers.  Perhaps the virtual man wants power and control over women-as-objects/pictures.   Yes, I know men are more visual than women.  I’m not talking about the guy who wants his girlfriend to send him pics while he’s out of town on business, though.  I’m talking about a man who collects women.  And I thought collecting butterflies was creepy. . .

      Frankly, I’ve learned to give this species a wide berth.  I just thought this might be new to other s, as well. 

     It’s not really my idea of fun.

Why You Might Not Want a Cougar

Note:  There are fewer items in this list than in the first list.  (Just in case you didn’t notice on your own.)

1.   We know things.  Lots of things.  Other than all those sexual things.

2.  We have a life.  You may be a big plus, but you’re not the center of it.  So get over yourself.

3.  We’ve seen a lot of penises.  Yours is probably not the biggest, so don’t ask if you don’t want the truth.  There’s a reason for the term ‘average.’

4.  Size does matter.  If it’s too small for the condom, it’s too small, period.   So don’t blame us if your teenie weenie doesn’t make us come every ten seconds.  If it isn’t the right tool for the job, bucko, get creative.  There’s more than one way to stroke a pussy.

5.  We don’t think that thing you want to try sexually is gross.  We’ve already done it at least once.  Maybe twice.  And maybe we’re really, really good at it. (It’s hard for some young guys to be totally down with this.  Reality check: we’ve been doing the nasty a lot longer than you have.)

6.  We’ve had better lovers.  No, really, dude, I’m totally serious.  And that’s lovers with an ‘s.’  Try harder and ask questions if you want the pennant.

7.  If you invite us to your buddy’s house to watch the game, we KNOW why the room gets quiet when the cheerleaders are bouncing up and down, so don’t think you’re being sly casting those sideways glances at us.  We notice, but we don’t care.  Hate to be the one to break it to ya, g, but you haven’t got a prayer as far as nailing one of those babes.  So look all you want, just bring that sexual energy home to mama.  (Oh, and just so you know: we’re probably thinking of someone else, too.  See number 6.)

8.  We buy our own jewelry, clothes, cars and pay our own bills.  So don’t tell us what to do with our money, our bodies, our minds or our vote.  Our concerns are different from yours and probably more immediate.  Deal.

9.  We know a lie when we see it.  You have a tell.  Yep.  Try and deny it, but you’ve got one.  Sometimes, we don’t care if you lie about small stuff, but we’ll know.  Oh, yes, we’ll know.

10.  If you think we should be grateful and put up with your bullshit because you’re young and beautiful, you’ve got another thought coming.  We’re hardly desperate for choices, these days.  That dry spell be over for good, g.  Word.

11.  If we listen endlessly to you going on and on and on about yourself, it’s because we want to fuck you.  That night.  And we know already that we won’t want to see you ever again precisely because you’re such an arrogant ass.  No, really, sweetheart:  you’re just not that fascinating.  So learn to listen or be exploited shamelessly.  Your choice.

12.  We either like to fuck women or don’t like to fuck women, so the threesome thing is either on or off.  We’re not going to share you just because we’re afraid to lose you altogether.  See number 2.  For most of us, sharing a cock is like sharing a toothbrush.  If we DO agree to share, then you’d better be willing to share, as well.  Are you ready to kiss, fuck, be fucked by and suck your homey?  You want to take sloppy seconds after he’s fucked us retarded right in front of you?  He probably has a bigger dick and more style:  are you to watch us to turn into insatiable nymphos and scream his name over and over?  No?  Then don’t ask us to fuck you along with our best friends.  It’s only fair.

Why Cougars ROCK

DISCLAIMER: The following list does not apply in cases of arrested development, which, contrary to popular media, is not an exclusively masculine attribute. You’re on your own with those perpetually-in-high-school types, bucko. Those women should be pretty easy to spot in the crowd: look for the ones who suck in their cheeks, strike a pose, and are not listening while the other person in their party is talking. If you need assistance, ask for some from any quietly hot, older woman and flash a wicked smile as you do so. She’ll be more than happy to help. I guarantee it.

What You REALLY Want is a Cougar

1. We know things. Lots of things. Sexual things. Hell, yeah.

2. We take our clothes off with the lights ON.

3. We’re not afraid of messing up our sheets. We have a washer and dryer. In our house, even.

4. We fuck with the lights on. And in broad daylight. And outdoors. And in parked cars. And in moving cars. And in alleys. And on buses. And in theaters. And on dance floors. And just about any other place we’re fairly sure we won’t get arrested.

5. We won’t insist that you come shopping with us. Frankly, it’s more fun with the girls.

6. We won’t go to your buddy’s house to watch the game and then whine because you’re not paying attention to us. We know damned well that’s not fair.

7. We can eat a cheeseburger and fries and not go on for hours about how gross and fat we feel afterwards. We’re so over that.

8. We don’t fake-laugh at the end of everything we say. If we laugh, it’s because something’s funny, not because we’re trying to be cute.

9. We don’t use “like” in every sentence. Example: “And she was like, ‘Why don’t you, like, get the Paolos from Macy’s?’ And I was like, ‘The Paolos from Macy’s? Like, you have GOT to be kidding. Those are only a two-inch heel and don’t even, like, GO with the dress.’ I mean, how could she, like, be so STUPID? Can you believe she would, like, even say that? Like, you remember that dress, right, sweetie-ums? The one with, like, the little purple flowers on it? You know, like, the CUTE one? Like, I can’t BELIEVE you don’t know which one I’m talking about! You, like, NEVER pay attention to me. Can you even believe, like, she would tell me that? I mean, like, what kind of friend IS she? Does she, like, want me to look ugly so she looks prettier than me? Is she, like, jealous of me or something?”

10. We won’t go on for two hours like the example in number 9 without pausing to breathe. BONUS: we won’t go on like the example in number 9 AT ALL.

11. We don’t think that new thing you want to try sexually is gross. We’ve already done it at least once. Maybe twice. And maybe we LIKE it.

12. We have a life.

13. We don’t create scenes, indulge in a new drama on an hourly basis, text mere acquaintances 24/7, try to make you jealous, or cheat on you. We’re too damned busy for that sort of nonsense. See number 12.

14. We won’t text you constantly when you’re at work because we’re at work. See number 12.

15. We won’t call you every five minutes for no reason. See number 12.

16. We’ll fuck you in the bathroom and in many other, more exotic places, but rarely within the first five minutes of meeting you. But that also applies to him and him and especially him. In short, we’re cleaner.

17. We don’t primp in the dresser mirror in the midst of fucking. We just DO IT and LOVE IT. That MAKES us fucking beautiful and vice versa. If we do look in the mirror, it’s to see your sweet ass.

18. We can cook and we have food in the fridge. Sometimes, we even have beer.

19. We won’t ask to borrow your money or your credit card. We have our own, thanks. And our credit score is much better and our credit limit is much higher than yours, anyway.

20. We don’t give a shit what kind of car you drive. We have our own car.

21. We don’t care who your friends are. If we don’t like them, we’ll pass on hanging out with them. Simple, huh?

22. We don’t really care what you do for a living as long as you have a job and don’t expect us to pay your bills. It’s only fair: see number 19.

23. We won’t get pregnant to try and trap you into a relationship you don’t want. If you don’t want to be with us, we’d prefer you not waste our time. See number 12.

24. We know our bodies and aren’t shy about telling you how to please us sexually. We know you’re not psychic.

25. We don’t fake orgasms. If it happens, it’s real. And it gets easier as you get older. A LOT easier. 

26. We own sex toys. And we use them on ourselves and with our lovers. It’s FUN to play with toys: that’s why they’re called toys.

27. We won’t come up with excuses for you to spend the whole weekend with us. Frankly, we have a lot to do. See number 12.

28. We’ll make you breakfast sometimes, but we’re much more likely to make you coffee, kiss you, pat your cute little ass and send you on your way. See number 12.

29. We don’t expect you to help us raise our kids. We’re doing just fine, thanks.

30. We know how to have a conversation about things other than hair, clothes, how jealous our friends are of us and how “we” need to work on our relationship. (Femalespeak translation of that last bit for the slower males out there: “how you need to change to suit me.”) Sure, we’ll let you know if we’re unhappy, but we don’t make shit up.

31. We know how to be silent without filling every silence with the question “What are you thinking?” Frankly, we don’t care because you’re probably thinking about sports, video games or pussy, anyway.  Those are three subjects that rarely interest us.

32. We don’t want you to lie to us. Ever.

The Phenomenon

     Young men are now very, very interested in older women.  It’s about fucking time.  They’ve acknowledged we’re hot.  Very hot.  Extremely hot.  Mauna Loa hot.  Surface-of-the-sun hot.   We KNOW things sexual and, finally, they’ve noticed we know.  You bet your sweet, firm, sexy asses, we do.  What the hell took you guys so long? 

     People are always asking me, “Why don’t you stick to guys your own age?”  Well, that’s a fair question and one that has been much on my mind.  In the past, that is, but not at all lately.

     After hanging out in the wilds of Denver, I’ve tested out various hypotheses and come to the conclusion that men about 40 are simply not interested in women over 23.  I inhabit that particular Boolean ellipse.  Ergo, they are not interested in me. 

     If these men come down from on high to approach me, they either: 1) don’t have a job, 2) have a raging alcohol or drug addiction, 3) have serious psychological problems, 4) have live-at-home kids with serious psychological problems, 5) are selling a ponzi scheme, 6) just got out of prison, 7) want to convert me to their particular brand of religion, or 8) ALL of the above.  In short, they are looking for someone with the money to bail them out and take care of them.  Fuck that.  I didn’t earn that post-doctorate degree by being an easily-exploited bimbo.  (Scene: a thin, caramel-colored bleach-blonde in four-inch heels and a leopard-print mini skirt talks to her emaciated friend in the ladies’ room. “I know, he’s got problems.  But everyone does, right?” She smacks her gum and tosses her hair.  “Besides, they’re not his fault.  Everything just sort of happened to him.  All that matters is that I love him.  He’ll change.”  What was I saying before?  Oh, yeah:  fuck that.)

     Even worse are the 40-somethings who hand me their business cards and say, with a wink and a leer at my chest, “Call me sometime, sweetheart.”  Arrogant bastards.  As if I’m supposed to be impressed, desperate, and just aching to have them paw at my breasts.  After all, I AM over 23, right?  Therefore, I must be desperate.  News flash:  I have a whole BOWL of business cards at home, dudes.  I use them for kindling.

     My women friends of a certain age are very uncomfortable with my choices.  “But what about a man who is older than you are?  Wouldn’t that be better than dating much younger men?”  

     This question always makes me want to scream, “Are you fucking kidding me?!  Are you totally and irredeemably insane?!  Get your head out of your ass!“  

     But my polite answer is that most men who are older than I am, like their somewhat younger counterparts, just aren’t interested in women over 29.  Again with the Boolean ellipse.  My theory – and I admit it’s just a theory—is that not one of these geezers owns a mirror and has absolutely no idea how young women see them. (“Like I would ever touch that!  I just threw up a little in my mouth! Oh, shut up!”) 

     Besides the disinterest of older men, well, how should I say this.  .  . I’m just not into little blue pills.  I like sex.  Let me rephrase that:  I LOVE sex.  Lots and lots and lots of sex.  I prefer it more than twice a session and for hours at a time.  I’m talking I’ll-have-to-scrub-up-for-45-minutes-in-a-hot-shower-to-not-smell-like-sexytime sex.  And then there’s the opportunity for sex in the shower while I’m scrubbing, as well.   (I make no apologies, older guys, because you’re not the least bit sorry about fondling the poor young waitress who’s just trying to work her way through the master’s program at the local alma mater.   Turnabout is fair play.  Get used to it.)

     Finally, young men love me.  I believe two of the reasons young men are attracted to me are:  1) I’m easy on the eyes and 2) I have breasts. 

     Don’t laugh. 

     I really do have breasts and the kind of sensual, soft curves that just invite a young man’s hand to slide all over them.  (And “curves” is NOT a euphemism because I’m in excellent shape.)   The Girls are big, beautiful and my wardrobe shows them off stunningly.  Young men can’t get enough of them.  (They sometimes blush a lot when talking to me.  It’s cute as hell.) Young women just don’t have these assets: I suppose they’re too busy starving themselves into a skeletal state until they can’t think or speak with a modicum of intelligence.  (This explains the inane and incredibly annoying conversations I’ve overheard in the women’s bathroom.)  Nor do they have my other stellar qualities:  wisdom, the brutal honesty that springs from self confidence, a large salary, knowing when to keep my brutal honesty to myself, knowing exactly I want, and a sexual repertoire that grows daily.  (Did I say I love sex?  I did?  Well, it’s absolutely true.)

     I think the most important difference between me and most young women is this:  men are a want for me, not a need.  I need a car.  I need a place to live.  I need a job.  I don’t NEED a man.  I want a man, but I can live without one.  I can solve my own problems, pay my own bills, and I have the poise and self esteem of a woman who can do all of these things without male assistance, thank you very much. 

     And I don’t base my own self worth on whether I happen to have a boyfriend at the moment.

     Not needing a man is exactly what terrifies the guys my own age.  They want a woman who is willing to put up with almost anything to keep them.  (Did I say fuck that?  I did? Well, fuck that AGAIN.) 

     My not needing a man is exactly what attracts the younger men.

     And I am NOT complaining. . .