Sid Stein Wonders Whether Women Should Come with Warning Labels

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!

Sex and Candy

For a few years, I went to the Bleecker Café on Thursday nights for karaoke. I do love to sing and I do love attention, so karaoke is a natural choice for me. The Bleecker had one of the best late night crowds in Albany, an eclectic (and I do not use the word eclectic lightly) mix of Center Square residents, politicians, lobbyists, karaoke addicts and one author. For those of you unfamiliar with Albany, Center Square in Albany is a mini version of Greenwich Village. What made the Bleecker especially unique in New York’s capital city was that race, gender and age were all optional. In other words, when Sid Stein says eclectic mix, he really means it. (Sorry about going from first person to third, but I couldn’t help it.)

Not everything stays the same. The owner of the Bleecker died. Michael Boxley, former advisor to New York Assembly Speaker Sheldon Silver, was involved in a sexual assault case, making all legislative personnel more cautious about going out and about, and I got divorced. Change isn’t always bad. The Bleecker was sold and is now called Pinto and Hobbs and it’s still a great place to go. Over the years, I became friendly with the karaoke DJ. Greg is a nice guy too. He gives me a lot of leeway when I sing.

The Bleecker isn’t the only place where Greg is a DJ. By now, you have read about my Wednesday night hangout, Bomber’s, on Lark Street, across from Planned Parenthood. The crowd there is much younger on average, mostly 20-somethings who look at me as an old man. And, if truth be told, I am old enough to be the father of many of them. Still, the girls are cute, they are not my daughters, and if you gotta sing, you gotta sing.

When I sing karaoke, I like to adlib during musical breaks in the song. It’s always funny, but sometimes a bit raunchy. That is what I meant when I said that Greg gives me a lot of leeway. Greg, however, is a businessman, and he is more cautious at Bomber’s than he is at the Bleecker. I am not sure why, but maybe he thinks the kids won’t appreciate me as much as the more mature Bleecker crowd. Fortunately for Greg, there is one song that doesn’t leave me any room for adlibbing. That’s "Sex and Candy," a one-hit wonder by a group called Marcy Playground. It’s a song well-suited to my baritone voice and may be my best song. So, if Greg just wants me to sing, he’ll play "Sex and Candy," figuring I will just sing it straight, which sounds a bit funny considering I primarily sing it at a gender-optional place. I know Greg picks the song for this reason, but I don’t mind. I love the song.

http://www.marcyplayground.net/

Here are some of the lyrics:

Hangin' round downtown by myself
And I had so much time to sit and think about myself
And then there she was, like double cherry pie
Yeah, there she was, like disco superfly
I smell sex and candy here
Who's that lounging in my chair?
Who's that casting devious stares in my direction?
Mama, this surely is a dream.

It’s somewhat slow, and very sexy, which is one of the reasons I enjoy it. So there I was, on stage at Bomber’s, singing to the 20-somethings, when a most remarkable thing happened. As I was singing, two lovely, young girls came up on the small stage. One danced seductively in front of me, the other behind. I knew they were making fun of the "old man at the bar," but I didn’t mind at all. I quite enjoyed the attention from these two beauties. They were smiling and giggling. I am sure they had friends at the bar who were also enjoying their escapades. I still didn’t mind. They were both great dancers. At my age, attention from young girls is attention from young girls.

With a big smile on my face, I kept singing "Sex and Candy." It was going well. I was happy. Greg was happy. The two girls seemed happy as well. Then, the one in front of me made a huge mistake. She apparently thought that she could make a complete mockery out of Sid Stein for the benefit of herself, her friends and the rest of her demographic at this very crowded bar. I could see the wheels spinning behind her mischievous grin. Although I am sure she never saw "The Blue Angel," the great German film in which a sultry, sexy Marlene Dietrich playing Lola tempts and ridicules the much older professor portrayed by Emil Jannings, I had. I knew the score. I am Sid Stein, not some stodgy old bachelor in a movie.

Maybe you are wondering what mistake this poor girl made. Well, as I was singing and she was gyrating in front of me, she started to unbutton my shirt. I am sure she didn’t intend on going too far - she just thought she was being funny at my expense. Her mistake was that I had the microphone in my hand, compounded by the fact that I am not Emil Jannings portraying a fictional character. And, she was no Marlene Dietrich. I turned to Greg who was half titillated and half shocked. Maybe he was thinking - lucky Sid. I said to him: Sorry, Greg, I know you want me to just sing, but I can’t let this one go by without saying anything." And so I did. I said, so that all could hear me clearly:

Honey, I don’t want you to unbutton my shirt. I want you to unzip my fly and give me a blow job.

The poor girl was mortified. She shouldn’t have been messing around with Sid. She slunk back to her friends. I just hope that in some small way, I redeemed that professor in "The Blue Angel." More importantly, Greg forgave me. And the beat goes on.

Sid Stein vs. the State Police

Although I am not exactly proud of the circumstances which led to my confrontation with the New York State Police (the actual confrontation was quite exhilarating), and just as I am not proud of what occurred after, neither will I shy away from sharing this incident. Just be prepared. Have some mercy. Even Sid Stein is susceptible to making mistakes. I had just gone through a divorce, don’t forget. The irony of my present journalistic integrity will soon become apparent to you. The truth of the matter is that a lapse of my personal integrity, impaired as it was by personal frustration and alcohol, fueled this melodrama. I was prepared to apologize to the aggrieved party, but she refused to believe that it actually occurred. Oh well. One other thing. If you were hoping for another humorous tale, this is not it.

Even though I have handled many divorce cases, I was not immune to certain behaviors common to men who suddenly find themselves living alone after many years of marriage. As is typical in most scenarios, the mother retains primary physical custody of the children. My case was no different, especially since my ex remained in the marital residence and our only child still at home was our high school daughter, who naturally wanted to stay with her mother most of the time. They have female issues to share, after all.

One such behavior engaged in by men is diving head first into the dating pool. And why shouldn’t we? We suddenly find ourselves living alone. Why not meet some new women?

Soon after I found myself out on my own, I started dating. I like company.

Anyway, I met a nice woman and started seeing her on a regular basis. She was pretty and smart. We got along very well, with a few caveats. One stumbling block was her political orientation. She worked for Republicans. Not just any Republican. She worked for the governor of New York, George Pataki. Ugh! Even though I may be sexually bipartisan, her party affiliation did rankle me at times. Most times, however, her long legs helped me forget that she voted for George Bush.

I mentioned that there were a few caveats. Another was that she was very kind-hearted. Normally, this would not be an impediment in a relationship. This woman, however, was so nice that she always felt compelled to help those less socially fortunate than she was. That included her supervisor, Louise. In other words, if something was going on around town, like an outdoor concert, my friend, Elizabeth, would drag Louise along. Louise made atrocious company. She was socially inept and physically unkempt. She laughed at her own jokes but really did not have a sense of humor. In a word, the woman was bizarre. As far as I knew, she was still a virgin at age 45. Although I fear sounding like a complete snob ( I really am not), Louise once asked a bartender at one of Albany’s most upscale restaurants if he had a chilled cabernet. More likely, she just asked for chilled red wine. As magnanimous as I tried to be, as accommodating to Louise’s plight that I was, there were times I wished I had Elizabeth to myself. Like 99% of the time and especially this particular time. Why did I need to be embarrassed by Louise at my hangout? I didn’t want to feel regret for inviting Elizabeth out. I still remember the look the bartender gave me. He was very gracious and suggested an ice cube, but I could tell what he was really thinking. "What the hell is wrong with this woman? Doesn’t she know how to drink red wine?"

Elizabeth was a busy person. She worked long hours for the Republican governor. As a result, I didn’t see her as often as I would like. Adding Louise into the mix only served to increase my mounting frustration. When I asked her why she always had to drag Louise around, she would explain that even as a child, she always took in strays. Did she have to perform her humanitarian functions on my time?

There was one other minor problem. Even though we generally planned to be together on Thursdays, Elizabeth sometimes canceled because something had come up. And what was that usually? If it had to do with her kids or something like that, it wouldn’t have bothered me. Instead, it involved my other pet peeve with her. No matter what impact it may have had on our relationship, Elizabeth always seemed to have time for the many Republican fundraisers which take place here in the capital of New York. I thought she should be spending time with me instead of raising dollars for corrupt public officials. Call me selfish.

As much as I enjoyed her company, my relationship with Elizabeth began to sour. I don’t mean to say anything bad about her. I attribute our problems more to circumstances than anything else. She needed her job more than she needed me. I understood that. She was estranged from a husband who didn’t pay child support. She lived in fear of being fired if she didn’t tow the party line or attend their functions. Still, I was unhappy with the situation.

It was a Thursday night. Elizabeth called earlier in the day to tell me that she had to go to some mandatory party function. She wouldn’t be able to see me. I wasn’t happy. I started to seriously reevaluate my relationship with her. Maybe the disappointment wasn’t worth it. So I did what I usually do on Thursday nights. I went to Pinto and Hobbs to sing karaoke.

To be perfectly honest, I did more than sing and hang out with my karaoke friends that night. I drank. Ketel One on the rocks with a slice of lemon. I had more than a few. After all, I was feeling a little put out, so to speak. By midnight, I was feeling no pain.

If I was writing a novel, then I would have written that Elizabeth and her large entourage rolled into Pinto and Hobbs right at the stroke of midnight. In reality, it was about five minutes after.

Elizabeth swept in and brushed right by me. She was followed by Louise, two black men and few female co-workers. I felt as if my sanctuary had been violated. Pinto and Hobbs was not a place frequented by Elizabeth. She came there solely because she knew I would be there. I was at a loss to understand Elizabeth’s motivation for bringing her crew to the P & H. Did she want to show off the fact that she was accompanied not just by Louise, but by two tall, good-looking black men? So a couple of black men followed some older white women to a bar after a party. What else is new? I knew it had something to do with the displeasure I expressed about Louise tagging along everywhere and my disappointment over the fact that we didn’t spend much time alone. Thinking back, I may have put my feelings in the form of an ultimatum, as in: "Liz, you have to make a choice. Me or Louise." In other words, I could interpret her decision to descend upon my sweet bar as nothing less than rubbing salt into my perceived wounds. I shot her a dirty look without even saying hello. She just tossed her head back defiantly.

As I assessed the situation, because it was a situation as far as I was concerned, I continued sipping my vodka. I wasn’t sure how to react to this post midnight development. As it turned out, I didn’t have to do much. Elizabeth walked over to say hello. After exchanging uneasy pleasantries, Elizabeth told me that she had been to some party. Governor Pataki had been there as well. She said something about knowing that I would be at Pinto & Hobbs, but I already knew that. I can be predictable. If I am not at home on a Thursday after midnight, chances are I am at the P & H. And the two black men? State Police. They were assigned to the Governor as his body guards. One doubled as a helicopter pilot. I didn’t have much to say because I was somewhat nauseated by this police presence at a place I go to in order to escape from the daily grind. By the way, there is a coffee shop called the Daily Grind on Lark Street. They have a cute bumper sticker: "Friends don’t let friends drink Starbucks." Perceiving that I had nothing to say, Elizabeth went back to her friends.

So far, I have omitted one important detail about Elizabeth’s posse. It included a very pretty, busty blonde named Katie. I would place her in the Marilyn Monroe genre. I am not saying she was that beautiful. She was attractive, but Marilyn Monroe was Marilyn Monroe. Rather, she was a slightly ditzy and very curvy, not quite platinum blonde. She was employed as a secretary in Elizabeth’s office.

Katie is a staunch Republican and was blindly supportive of her boss, the Governor. I found out just how loyal she was to him during the summer of 2006 at an outdoor concert when I made a disparaging remark about how the Governor talks out of the side of this mouth. Although that is usually a metaphor, especially for a politician, Pataki actually talks that way. You should see him. It really looks weird. After the concert, I was admonished by Elizabeth for insulting the Governor. She told me that I had upset Katie. She also volunteered that Katie said I was an asshole. Oh well. She wasn’t really my type anyway.

That almost sounds like sour grapes. "She wasn’t really my type anyway." Well, things were different this particular Thursday night. Maybe there was a full moon. It might explain my subsequent behavior.

It was my turn to sing. I chose one of the first songs I had ever sung at karaoke. "Walk on the Wild Side" by Lou Reed. I always introduced the song with a nod to Lou Reed as the coolest Jew on the planet. As you might have guessed, I wanted to sing especially well considering the company at the bar. The song went well, but the attitude was dead on.

As I stepped off the stage enjoying the polite applause of the crowd, Katie was standing directly in front of me. She was smiling. She was drunk. She was flirting. I glanced quickly at Elizabeth and flirted back.

To be honest, while I am being honest here, I was caught off-guard by the level of Katie’s show of affection even though it was obvious she was hammered. After all, she did call me an asshole a few months earlier. Could alcohol change a person’s opinion about someone to such a degree? Whether it was the alcohol or a change of attitude, I didn’t let her flirting go to my head. I figured she was just drunk. By the same token, I had been drinking quite a bit myself. Maybe it went to my head just a little bit.

Anyone who knows me well, knows this about me. I am not one to pick up women at bars. That has never been my style. I was prepared, however, to make an exception in this case because I had been introduced to Katie outside the bar.

You may be thinking, what about Elizabeth? She was watching, of course. Intently. I caught her sneering at me. And to continue this stream of honesty pouring out of me, I admit that my primary motivation for flirting with Katie was not sexual. I just wanted to piss off Elizabeth. Shameful, I know. Taking advantage of a human being for a nefarious purpose. I proposed to Katie that we leave. She agreed. Boy, that was easy. Maybe I should rethink my policy about picking up women at bars.

With Katie in tow, I turned toward the door. I didn’t bother looking back at Elizabeth. We emerged into the cool, dark night. We were followed.

No, it wasn’t Elizabeth coming out to yell at me. In her place, she sent a representative. The Governor’s bodyguard. Oh no, I thought. I’m in trouble.



All kinds of thoughts raced through my mind. I was preparing to cower, but before my face even had time to turn pale, the bodyguard grabbed Katie’s arm and started talking to her, not me. He tried to convince her to go back into the bar. He didn’t want her to leave with me. Suddenly, I became indignant. What was wrong with leaving with Sid Stein? I can barely believe what happened next. I really don’t know what came over me. I walked up and faced the trooper. I stared him right in the eye and said: "Don’t interfere!" I used my best command voice. I immediately noticed something in his eyes and came to a startling realization. He can’t touch me! He works for the Governor. The Governor doesn’t want any bad publicity. How would that look in the paper? "Governor’s bodyguard beats the crap out of local Jewish lawyer." I became emboldened. I repeated my command: "Don’t interfere!" The trooper didn’t know what to say to me. I think he was in as much shock as I was. He continued trying to convince Katie not to leave with me, but I was too determined and she was too drunk. With one more "Don’t interfere," Katie and I were gone.

I don’t see any need to revisit the details of what happened next. I will, however, mention a few things. About three hours after Katie and I left Pinto & Hobbs, her cellphone started ringing. Apparently, someone missed her. Who? No one except her fiance. Well, my dear readers, you will have to believe me that I really didn’t know she was engaged. I can’t say at this moment if it would have mattered to me then, but I really didn’t know at the time. The frequent phone calls were a source of consternation for Katie. I could only shake my head. But wait! As the sun came up, Katie asked me to drive her to her car. One problem though. All she knew was that it was downtown somewhere. It would not be an exaggeration to say that we drove around for almost an hour looking for her car. We eventually found it and so ended my night with Katie.

My phone rang the next day. It was Elizabeth. Katie didn’t show up for work. Everyone was worried. I assured Elizabeth that Katie was fine, but no, I didn’t have any idea why she wasn’t answering her phone. Elizabeth shared something else with me. Katie’s co-workers and fiance weren’t the only ones who were worried about her. Her mother-in-law to be was also concerned. In fact, unbeknownst to me, Katie’s future in-law, the mother of her irate fiance, was at the P & H as a member of Elizabeth’s party. I was stunned. Katie was out with her future mother-in-law and still left with me. That’s incredible. Even for Sid Stein.

I don’t know if Katie ever got married. For her sake, I hope not. I don’t think she was ready. As for Elizabeth, our relationship tailed off. She never believed that I had sex that night. She thought it would be impossible for Katie to ever sleep with me. Katie hated me too much. After all, I am the guy who wrote the book about cheating. And I mocked the Governor. And who knows? Maybe I didn’t.

A Sid Stein Flashback - Ave Maria

Although I generally want to blog events in the post-divorce life of Sid Stein, I thought it might be interesting for my readers to hear some anecdotal tales from my past which helped shape the mind of Sid Stein. I will present them on occasion as Sid Stein Flashbacks. Here’s one from the early days.

I was all of 19 at the time, so we are talking about the summer of 1977. Summers are a lot of fun in Albany. There is always plenty to do. Concerts, clubs, swimming, partying. And since the drinking age was still 18, there was never a problem getting into a bar. I was legal! This story starts in a neighborhood bar which, although it has changed hands and names many times over the years, still exists and still does a robust business. That said, it’ll never relive its late 1970’s halcyon days when I was a young force with which to be reckoned.

I had returned from Tel Aviv University mid-semester. Wait until you read those stories! It was April. Apparently, the administration there expected their students to attend class if they were to stay in the dormitories. Since my normal bedtime was sunrise, I didn’t make it to many classes that first semester. Most of the courses offered for the overseas students were "Intro to This" and Intro to That," so they didn’t hold much interest for me. I do remember I always tried to make it to my "Romantic Poetry" class, which was part of the regular university. Anyway, at the end of the first semester, I was asked to leave to make way for "serious" students. At least I learned the language. I hung on for another two months in Israel living a gypsy lifestyle, before I finally returned home to the good ol’ U.S. of A. where I planned to return to school in the fall.

I remember it was a nice summer evening. My friend Jeff and I decided to go to the Little Horn, that neighborhood bar I mentioned. The Little Horn did a great business back then. Flattened brass instruments adorned the walls. If memory serves, they had an Asteroids machine. I used to love that game. As we walked in, we noticed an old acquaintance from Hebrew School, Ivy, sitting at a booth. Although we didn’t like Ivy that much, she was sitting with a very pretty girl neither of us had seen before. So, as any red-blooded Americans would do, we overcame our distaste for Ivy and asked to join them. They consented.

Ivy’s friend was named Marie. She was a lovely girl with raven hair, blue eyes and a very nice figure. Her looks certainly made up for the fact that she wasn’t that bright and not very Jewish. She was Catholic of Italian and Polish ancestry. Although my parents always stressed their wish that I date only Jewish girls, hot is hot. I didn’t have to marry her.

As the conversation progressed, Marie started to play footsies with me. I took that as a positive sign. I enjoyed the fact that Marie was secretly flirting with me. I was also happy that I knew Ivy from Hebrew School. You never know when girls you never liked can help you out. I am sure there is a lesson in there somewhere, but that’s not what this story is about. When it was time to go, I offered to walk Marie home. It wasn’t that I was concerned about drinking and driving. It was a neighborhood bar, remember? She agreed and off we went.

I can’t recollect what Marie and I talked about on the way to her house. I was too busy checking her out. Most likely, I did most of the talking. I usually do. I have a deep, well modulated, resonant tone. I like to hear the sound of my own voice.

I would not be surprised if I kissed Marie goodnight. I think I probably did. After all, I do remember asking her out on a date. I might not have without some positive sexual feedback.

I took Marie out and discovered, to my dismay, that she was still a virgin. Even though I was still 19, I had a policy against sleeping with virgins. I realize that is pretty bold for a 19 year old, but I was cute and did not doubt my ability to get laid. Why the policy? Well, who needs the headache of some girl falling in love with you? I realize it might sound harsh, but by the same token, it wouldn’t be fair to the girl if I slept with her. Virgins almost always fall in love with the guy who deflowers them. I am sure you will agree that the first time should be special, and, if you can’t or are unwilling to deliver what you know the girl needs, you shouldn’t sleep with her. Marie had other ideas. She wanted me to be her first. It was quite a battle between my brain and my hormones. On the one hand, she was quite adorable, even sexy. On the other hand, I knew it wouldn’t be fair to her. We went out a few times as I wrestled with this problem. Finally, and in the gentlest terms possible, I explained my policy to her. To her credit, Marie took the news well. She was disappointed, of course, but so was I.

Life went on. The summer passed and I started school again in the Fall. I was commuting from my parents’ home as I didn’t want to stay in the dorms. Either that or my parents were so disgusted with the fact that I didn’t attend classes at Tel Aviv University, that they refused to take another chance on me until I straightened out. Either way, I had a great setup in the basement of the house, complete with a separate entrance and full bath. And a waterbed! Oh yeah, privacy and freedom to do what I wanted.

About six months passed from the time I last saw Marie when the phone rang. She had some news. She was no longer a virgin and wanted to see me. I was delighted and invited her over.

I wish I could tell you that we just had a couple of beers and great sex, but no. The story is almost too bizarre to believe.

Although no longer a virgin, Marie was still virginal. Based on the way she responded to my kisses and caresses, I could tell that she was not very experienced. She was, however, willing.

Things were getting hot and heavy. We were closing in on the moment of truth. Marie then said the strangest thing I had heard in the two and a half years since I had been having sex. She gave me a choice. She said I could take her shirt off or her pants off, but not both. Huh? It sounded a little like a trick question, but Marie wasn’t that quick-witted, and as for me, it was an easy choice. As much as I felt like laughing, I didn’t want to embarrass her. I wanted to get laid! Seriously, though, it was an easy choice for me.

To be honest, I wasn’t sure how to approach this "dilemma" without Marie thinking I was not being thoughtful. I wanted her to think that I actually gave her offer some due consideration. I just didn’t know how. Suddenly, it hit me. I reached into my pocket and took out a quarter. I told her I would flip the coin in the air. Heads, off came her shirt. Tails, her pants. I deftly flicked the quarter high into the air as both our sets of eyes anxiously followed its trajectory. It landed square in my right palm. With a resounding smack, I flipped it over onto the back side of my other hand. I hesitated momentarily before revealing the outcome. I held my breath. Gee, I enjoy creating suspense! I kid you not, dear readers. I uncovered the coin! TAILS! I tried to appear somewhat disappointed as if I really wanted a different result. "Oh well," I remarked. "I guess I’ll have to take your pants off." And off they came.

Before long, I coaxed off the rest of Marie’s clothes and we were both naked. I won’t go into the actual details of our lovemaking - it’s not that kind of blog. I will tell you this, however. In the middle of sex, as I energetically pumped away, Marie started to cry. Tears were streaming down her face. And then, while I was still reeling from this lachrymose display, Marie stunned me like I had never been stunned before. She cried out to the Pope, "Please forgive me!"

The Pope? My mind was racing as I continued inside her. Hey, I was still just 19. Was she upset because she was having sex with a Jew? Was she still a virgin? I hadn’t noticed any blood. Do they always bleed the first time? What the hell did I know? More importantly, what the hell was I going to do? I couldn’t just pretend like nothing was happening. I had to do something. I had to finish, at least!

If I said a bright light and voices of angels filled my bedroom, I would be lying. Nevertheless, I felt the same kind of wonderment and awe when I suddenly knew what to do. Summoning up the most primal forces from deep inside my soul, I gave Marie four final thrusts as I called out in time with each one - "IN NOMINI PATRI, ET FILII, ET SPIRITUS SANCTI - AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMEN! And with that extended climax, I collapsed upon my gentle and sweet, sobbing Marie.

(For those of you unfamiliar with Latin, the translation is thus: In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. I trust you know what Amen is.)

You may be wondering how a nice Jewish boy knew Latin at all. Hey, I live in a very Catholic town. What can I say?

Marie never explained to me why she started to cry. And, if truth be told, I didn’t really want an explanation. It was freaky enough without one. I saw her only once after that. By chance. She was out for a walk and happened by my house while I was standing in the driveway. We spoke for a few minutes, inquired about each other and off she went. Oh Marie, Marie! Ave Maria!