Since my divorce, I have dated a number of women. For the most part, my dates, with few exceptions, have been women who were divorced after being married for a substantial amount of time. Most were married at a fairly young age; right out of college or soon thereafter. In other words, they spent the majority of their sexual lives with one man, with whom their relations had been strained for a number of years. It is logical to assume that their love lives suffered as well. Chances are, then, that they didn’t have much sex toward the end of their marriages.
So, it’s not surprising that once they are back in the dating pool, they are anxious to meet someone who can provide them with the things they were lacking in their marriages, both physically and emotionally. I don’t want to paint an incorrect picture of these women’s priorities. They really do want to find a man who they like and respect, who respects them and makes them laugh, and who could possibly become a long-term love interest. They aren’t kidding when they say they value honesty and integrity. Uniformly, they want someone who will really listen to them. They seek kindness and consideration. Little things actually mean a lot.
As accurate as my recitation of what a woman wants may be, there is another, starker reality. These women are as horny as hell. It’s clear that when they are out on a date, they are really hoping that the man they are with will fit the bill of everything they want. They want to believe that their date is the proverbial knight in shining armor. They want to believe because they really want sex. I’m not saying that they are blinded by their sex drive. They are cautious. Normally, they won’t hop into bed after only one or two dates. They at least want a commitment that the man is willing to give a relationship a try, even if it is ultimately unsuccessful. Yes, of course, there are exceptions. If I am honest with myself, I am not too different from these women. What I want is more a matter of degree than of kind. In other words, perhaps I am more willing to compromise on the woman’s commitment to having a relationship with me in favor of sex. Still, I would like to have a long-term relationship some day. I suppose like everyone else, it will happen when I meet the right person.
Finding the right woman, however, is a challenge. As expected, on a first date, everyone puts their best foot forward and endeavors to make a good impression. When I go out, I try to have a good time and usually do. That often leads to a second date and beyond. If things go very well, we might even wind up in bed.
Don’t get the wrong impression of me. It’s not like I am having sex with dozens of women. Sometimes, having sex at all is a problem. Remember “No Way This Could Be Happening to Sid Stein?” http://sidstein.blogspot.com/2007/07/no-way-this-could-be-happening-to-sid.html Still, there have been occasions. And if you want to learn about them, read on. One more thing before I get started with the history of my reasons for thinking that women should come with warning labels. I want to be fair. I am sure that many women think the same thing about men. I have heard plenty of horror stories from my female friends about their dates and relationships. However, I will leave it to a woman to write the counterpart to this essay. I think that is fair as well.
I am 49 years old at the time I am writing this. That puts me into a certain demographic when it comes to eligible women to date. And despite how many times you have heard that men only like young girls, I am happy in my chosen demographic – 18-24. Just kidding. Since my divorce, I think the youngest woman I have dated was seven years my junior. I would be happy to share the age of the oldest woman I dated, but she refused to tell me. She claimed to be 52. Right!
The “52” year old was a nice woman-smart, fun and playful. She liked good music and enjoyed attending concerts. She even laughed at most of my jokes. She had only one truly annoying habit. She liked to use baby talk. I remember standing in my kitchen fixing drinks one day when I asked her how her weekend was. She claimed to have “planted my planties.” Planties? What the hell are those? As annoying as this was to me, because I thought it was a bit infantile, she didn’t do it so much as to drive me completely nuts. I think I could have lived with it if it wasn’t for the other, more disturbing problem. How do I put this gently? After she orgasmed, she would dry up like a prune. Wet one minute, dry the next. When I say dry, I mean Sahara Desert dry. If that doesn’t bring the image home for you, then let me add Gobi and Mojave to that list. G-d bless her. She was having a wonderful time making love with me. She was all smiles and would even giggle. I asked her about that. Why are you giggling? She answered that she was simply enjoying herself. That’s great, but her “condition” rendered that certain part of the male body sore and red. One session of lovemaking with her put me out of commission for a number of days while I recovered. To be perfectly honest, I had no clue how to broach the subject with her. On the one hand, she was a very nice woman and I enjoyed her company (except for the baby talk). My impression of her was that she was at a sensitive stage in her post-divorce sexual life and would not react well to hearing that she had a sexual problem. How does one tell a woman such a thing without hurting her feelings? I tried fitting some lubricant into our next lovemaking session. K-Y. It only provided momentary relief. If I was going to make this work, I would have had to install a gallon jug of the stuff on my bedroom wall, complete with a tube leading directly to her vagina. I just didn’t know how I would be able to get away with that without letting on that after she orgasmed, she turned into a sponge, drying her out in seconds. I tried to visualize it. “Excuse me, but before we get started, I would like to attach this tube to your vagina.” Nah. Wouldn’t work.
There was another clear sign that this relationship was not going to work. One night, I brought this woman to Pinto and Hobbs, my favorite karaoke bar. I love it there because it has a very mixed and relaxed crowd of people who love to hang out, drink, chat and sing karaoke. My date, on the other hand, who must not get out that much, was horrified by some of the patrons. I guess she wasn't accustomed to seeing tattooed youths, blacks and homosexuals, all in the same room with white people. Apparently, she was not a bar person at all, and felt more comfortable in the dinner/theater world. Sensing her discomfort, I brought her to my house, had sex with her, said goodbye when she left (she had to be home by midnight or so - work the next day) and then tended to my sore dick. During sex, however, and knowing she had to leave, I could think of only one thing - getting back to Pinto and Hobbs to sing another song. And return to karaoke I did. I sang Delilah by Tom Jones, but changed the lyrics a bit. Instead of "why, why, why, Delilah," I sang "dry, dry, dry, vagina.
I don’t know if it was a post-menopausal issue or what, but to be frank, I decided that there was no way was I going to risk having my dick fall off. Call me chicken for not being able to explain the issue to her. I don’t care. My dick comes first. So, I broke off the relationship before my dick broke forever. The “52” year old had a problem, but at least she could orgasm without too much hassle. I dated another woman who actually did come with a warning-her own. Before we had sex, she told me that it took her an inordinate amount of time to achieve orgasm and I shouldn’t worry about it if she didn’t climax. Content with my sexual prowess, I was confident that I could satisfy her. Well, my dear readers, it took her forever, as in “forever and a day.” At some point, as I was still making love to her, she began to masturbate, explaining to me that it was the only way she might be able to climax. Fine, I thought, I’ll just keep doing what I am doing. After what seemed to be about three hours (and I am still going strong, mind you), she finally managed an orgasm. Hallelujah! It did make sex seem a tad strained, to say the least. For that whole time I was inside her, she was working on her orgasm. I kept going, but I felt more like a dildo than a person. Or a dodo, I’m not sure. Apparently, she developed this problem during the sexless years of her marriage. Poor girl. Sexual issues aside, however, she was a very nice woman and I wanted to see her again. And I did. But I came prepared. I brought a copy of Tolstoy’s “War and Peace” to read in bed while we were having sex. I had always wanted to read it, but never found the time. She was a little put off when I first started reading during sex, but a lot of life is about compromise and accommodation. And as long as I was able to keep going, which isn’t always easy while reading a Russian novel, she was happy. Still, it was kind of a pain finding a comfortable position to read and turn pages, so the following time, I popped in a long movie – “Lawrence of Arabia,” one of my favorites. Unfortunately, that made me think about the dry as a desert woman and ruined the sex and the movie for me. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to watch Peter O’Toole again without think about my “tool.”
Some encounters have been quite shocking. One of my early dates came to Albany to see me all the way from Connecticut. We met downtown and I took her to dinner. The cocktails started. I think I was drinking tequila. As the night progressed, we were getting along just fine, drinking and laughing. We went to a club to hear a band that we both enjoyed. She was quite clingy at the bar, which I found a bit strange on a first date, but apparently, she was just having a great time. In any event, I took her clinginess as a positive sign, so I took her home and made my moves. We were still pretty drunk, but I was still able to find her mouth so I could kiss her. Nice kisses too! As we kissed and I began slowly undressing her, the news came. She told me she had a mastectomy but had undergone reconstructive surgery. So, I am thinking she had some scars. No big deal. I once had a college girlfriend who had a long, long scar running along the entire front of her torso. In other words, I was totally accustomed to scars. “The more scars the merrier” was even my motto for a while. “What? No scars? Sorry, can’t date you.” To be honest, I was a bit curious to see why this woman found it necessary to tell me about her surgery. At first glance, after I removed her shirt, she seemed to have ample breasts. Two of them, in fact. She seemed to be anatomically correct. Anyway, the moment of truth was about to arrive. I reached around her and unhooked her bra. It slid off slowly only to reveal something I had never even contemplated before. Actually, it was less something than lack of something. NO NIPPLE ON HER LEFT BREAST! Where her nipple should have been, there was nothing but smooth skin. Where did her nipple go? Why did they remove it? Why didn’t the doctors replace it? Why didn’t she warn me? You think you know everything at a certain point, but you never hear on the news about one-nippled women. Even Oprah doesn’t talk about it. If she did, I must have missed that show. I learned in law school that you have to be prepared for every surprise and it’s crucial to maintain your “game face” at all times. I tried my best to conceal the actual shock I was experiencing. I think I was successful and didn’t detect a reaction on her part. Let me tell you, and I’ll be honest, I was already having some trouble getting aroused because of all the alcohol I consumed. Now I was faced with an additional challenge. If I failed to perform, I was afraid she would think I went limp due to her nippleless condition. It would not be an exaggeration to say that I had to summon all the sexual strength I had to make love to her. Not only that, but I was afraid not to come. I don’t know about you, but it’s damn hard to come when all you can think about is the fact that your date surprised you with a missing nipple. At least I didn’t have to choose which nipple to suck on.
Of course, there have been less dramatic encounters since I started dating. There was the woman who drove in from Massachusetts. Relatively good-looking, nice figure, but absolutely horrible teeth. Dreadful, in fact! Brown and rotting. No wonder she didn’t have a big toothy smile in her picture online. Could this be what the Mona Lisa was hiding? Bad teeth? In all likelihood, yes. The whole time I was wondering why my date never had them fixed. She seemed to make enough money to have done something. I had only one word for her. Veneers!
I am sure many of you recall the story about how Nelson Rockefeller died. Maybe it’s just a legend. According to well-placed sources, he suffered a heart attack while making love to his mistress. A lot of men will tell you that if they have to die some day, that’s the way to go. Before you jump to conclusions, my date didn’t die. While making love, however, she did complain about chest pains. She didn’t seem to have heart attack symptoms so I didn’t think it was anything more than heartburn. As she continued to complain about having difficulty breathing, I thought it best we quit making love. I asked her if she wanted to go to the hospital. She was from downstate, so far from her own doctor. She declined my offer and seemed to recover. Two days later she called to tell me she had sustained a collapsed lung. Holy Cow! I am good! Still, I wish she had “fragile – handle with care” stamped somewhere on her body.
Some dates have taken me by surprise. Last year, I was scheduled to appear on the Coop and Tobin morning show (WPDH in Poughkeepsie) to promote my book and have a general good time, which I do whenever I am on the radio. This woman I had been seeing for a short while lived nearby within the station's coverage area. Of course, I told her I would be on the show so she could listen, and made plans to visit her afterwards. When I am on the radio, I am often confronted by angry callers who think I am despicable for having written a book about how to get away with cheating. To be honest, I think of my book as tongue-in-cheek to a great extent, even though it is based on many true observations about the human condition. Many people, however, take it seriously, and as Sid Stein, I defend my book. In the course of defending my book, things sometimes start to get a little out of hand and over the top. Conversations often devolve into arguments which at least makes for entertaining radio. As things were heating up on WPDH, a woman called in and began arguing with me. We really knocked heads over the airwaves. She was one of those adultery survivors who get holier than holy about fidelity. It was pretty funny until I later discovered that the caller was the woman I was seeing after the show. Despite the fun romp we had at her house, I didn't hear from her after that. I hope it had nothing to do with the handcuffs. If you have been reading my blog, then you know I could easily wax on and on. Some women I have dated who should have come with warning labels I have already written about. There’s the one with the violent ex-husband. There was one who would have six orgasms during the first minute of sex and then fall asleep satisfied. One turned out to be racist. She was from South Carolina. I should have known better. You've already read about the one with the fiancé in "Sid Stein vs. the State Police. There was one who called a condom “your little friend.” Sheesh! There are those with just so much baggage they shouldn’t be dating in the first place. And if you aren’t completely satisfied with this entry, don’t worry, some women warrant their own stories and those are in the pipeline.
As I said before, I am sure there are plenty of men who should come with warning labels as well. Since I only date women, I write about them. Despite all the attendant problems with dating, it’s still fun and I will certainly continue to date. Whatever I might be able to say about women, I still find them fascinating. It’s always an adventure. Nowadays, I maintain there is no such thing as a bad date. The worse it is, the more there is to write about!
