Even more dates

Okay, on Thursday I have another date with my favorite guy. He's a great kisser and he can make me squirmy just by touching me. At the same time, I have my two last dates with the remainder of the candidates. Maybe I should just cancel and tell them there's no hope. But where there's life, there's hope, right? And who knows, these may be more of the no chemistry but great new friends kind of illicit liasons turning into nice normal relationships. That really does seem to happen a lot. I don't know what I'm going to do about my sweetie, but actually I do. I won't talk about that anymore.

Sick kid, anxious dog, clueless husband. Otherwise a lovely weekend. At least I don't have to take Viagra and go blind.

Schadenfreude

I guess I really am a bad person. Not because of the potential for adultery, but because I took so much pleasure in the Viagra/blindness link (see previous post). Hee. I never thought I was someone who took joy in others' misery, but that one was worth it. For every time a woman has said "If men had the babies . . ." or "If men had periods . . ." and then thought that birth control would be reliable and safe or whatever because guys would finally realize (really realize) that sexual actions have consequences and, get this, plan in advance.

But no men are actually going to stop using Viagra because of the potential link, even if it becomes more than potential. No guy ever had to worry about whether his tampax and kotex would be enough to keep from staining his white graduation dress (at my high school, we girls wore virginal white) while listening to a graduation speaker drone on too long on a heavy day flow while he sat there squirming. No guy has ever worried, when the period is more than a week late exactly what "90% effective when properly used" means.

Guys always seem surprised. In high school, they would follow along hopefully, but not have a plan of action. In college, somehow condoms just weren't as prevalent as they should have been. Whenever I was late and told a partner (even if he hadn't brought a damn thing to the table, bed, kitchen counter, whatever), he would be shocked. Why was I using a diaphragm instead of the pill? How inconsiderate of me to make him worry while I'm sitting there, wondering, "I might have the spawn of this moral midget?" Fortunately, 90% effective when properly used, for me, meant that the one failure of contraception occurred within (my then faithful) marriage and resulted in a truly wonderful child (and my husband was delighted). But I saw other college friends to their pregnancy checks and abortion appointments, with Mr.-Previously-Attentive-Boyfriend long gone.

Even now, in my 40s, I really can't use the pill. It's riskier the older you get. Diaphragms are messy and not 100% effective. Condoms are fine, but guys complain about them (my husband doesn't like the "diminished sensation"), although they are also only 90% effective. I say, it only takes you guys 5 minutes (if I'm generous) to come, have a little diminished sensation, last five minutes longer, and we'll both be happier. So I'm back in IUD-land, which has its own special risks and rewards (makes me more susceptible to disease and infection, oh joy).

So, sex might cause blindness for guys who probably should just say, "I'm old, I can't get it up, I'll give it up." Leave sex to us women (who can have fun at any age over the age of consent) and the younger guys. We'll still have a good time for you. You need your vision to wank off to your porn.

Ok, it's a beautiful day. I'm going to do some lovely outdoor stuff and then maybe write something more cheerful later.

There is a God after all

After all the brouhaha about Viagra being covered under health plans immediately while the pill is still begging for coverage (you see if you can come easily when you're worrying about unwanted pregnancy), now this truly hilarious new possible link between Viagra and blindness. Hee.

Sandra really is evil

She tagged me with this, and WTF not answer it? I'm still a teenager, see? I can to these list thingys.

Total number of films I own on DVD/video:
20+

The last film I bought:
Annie Broccoli (a Quebecoise kid's entertainer)

The last film I watched:
Kingdom of Heaven, although we can't really say I watched it (see prior post)

Five films that I watch a lot or that mean a lot to me (in no particular order):
1. Tampopo
2. Woman on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown (Pedro Almodovar, te amo, te quiero, eres el santo de mis devociones)
3. The Battle of Algiers
4. The Night of the Shooting Stars
5. My Brilliant Career or Aliens. Can't decide.

Total volume of music files on my computer:
No idea, but it's all my husband's except one or two songs.

The last CD I bought was:
Not sure. Probably something I had on LP and decided it was time to replace. Peter, Paul & Mary, Moving? Sex Pistols Never Mind the Bollocks? Elvis Costello?

Song playing right now:
Ritmos de mi Cuba, Enrique Chia

Seven songs I listen to a lot or that mean a lot to me:
1. Girl from the North Country (Dylan/Cash)
2. Rock the Casbah - Clash
3. This Shirt - Mary Chapin Carpenter
4. Romeo & Juliet - Dire Straits
5. Green Shirt - Elvis Costello
6. Heaven - Talking Heads (or anything else by them, really)
7. I Wanna Be Sedated - the Ramones


Five albums I can listen to over and over from start to finish - Greatest Hits dont count:
1. Clash Album with Ghetto Defendant, Sean Flynn, Rock the Casbah, etc.
2. Honest Lullaby, Joan Baez
3. Big Brother & the Holding Company (album where Janis Joplin sings Piece of My Heart, among others)
4. Chicken Skin Music, Ry Cooder
5. Fear of Music, Talking Heads or Stop Making Sense, Talking Heads (tie)
Also, pretty much any and all Bonnie Raitt or Leo Kottke album.

Which 5 people are you passing this baton to (post your answers to these questions onto your blog): I don't know that many people online!
Mr. Underhill (but he's way too important for this)
misguidedfool
jami
What the hell, let's be delusional: Wonkette & Margaret Cho.

Date/Orlando Bloom

Okay, Orlando Bloom does nothing for me. I didn't really care for him in any of the Lord of the Rings movies (I normally like Viggo Mortensen, but his Aragorn didn't do it either -- who could want someone who wants Liv Tyler? Spawn of Aerosmith? Dream on.), and Kingdom of Heaven, in all it's anachronistic existence (I loved how groomed Orlando was as a French peasant: the real Balian of Ibelin was a nobleman from day one): no, illegitimate children did not, as a rule, inherit their father's positions, Crusades or no Crusades. And Saladin spared the lives of those in Jerusalem when he conquered it, unlike the Crusaders, who, when conquering Jerusalem, slaughtered every living soul therein and the streets ran with blood. But it wasn't the actions of Balian of Ibelin, but Saladin's apparent intention of showing that Islam was superior to Christianity (and more merciful) that resulted in the survival of Jerusalem's citizenry at the time of the Muslim reconquest.

Aside from that, what happened in Kingdom of Heaven? I have no idea. It's always a good idea to bring a raincoat or shawl with you to a movie theater when using it as a place for illicit nookie. I can't remember a darn thing, I was so busy sighing and stuff. Also, battle scenes can be very erotic. Don't worry, nothing that could remotely be considered actual sex occurred, but I have a smile on my face. And it's one week until my next date. Sometimes life just sucks. But longing has its own eroticism. But Orlando Bloom? Easy to ignore very pretty boy when an actual man with body hair, a mobile tongue, good hands, and an obviously (but not too aggressive) erect penis is keeping one busy. God. I'm a slut.

Guys, there's a reason there are chick flicks (even though Kingdom of Heaven is a medieval war flick with decapitations, etc., and thus also a guy flick, any film with Orlando Bloom as the lead can't be anything but a chick flick). You will at least get kissed back taking the female objet de lust to such a film. We'll just lean right into you and then who knows what happens next? Especially if violence is combined with eroticism. You just cuddle right up then. Go figure.

Inertia

Today I'm useless. I can't get anything done. Well, that's not true, I unloaded the dishwasher. But other than that, it's a big zero. I hate inertia and procrastination, and they plague my existence. I have work to do, songs to practice on the guitar, assignations to make. I don't even feel like writing in this blog, which normally cheers me up a lot. Maybe chocolate . . .

Rational vs. Irrational Fear

People are never afraid of the things that are most dangerous to them. People fear things like lightning, plane crashes, poisonous snake bites, and carjackings. They don't fear car accidents, which are much more likely to maim or kill them or those they love. People fear disfiguring or embarrassing diseases, breast cancer, AIDS, flesh-eating bacteria, west Nile virus, and weird new diseases. They don't react have as much to the flu (killed more people that WWI in 1917, I think, alone), heart attacks, or high blood pressure.

Example: one of my children is afraid of birds. Can't stand them. At the zoo, the Foilkid made googly eyes at the lion and the tiger, one of whom was very definitely licking his chops behind the glass. Did the same with that nice cuddly polar bear, the hyena, the jackals, the wolves. You name it, if it was big, furry, had sharp teeth, and was definitely thinking "Lunch!" when it saw the Foilkid, she liked it. We leave the large vicious predators who won't think a small child big enough for an appetizer area out into the general zoo walking around area, and the deadly-peacock-of-danger approached us (these vicious birds walk around freely, mainly because they have brains the size of a walnut, are harmless, and are useless unless you want a nice display of tail feathers and can't afford to go to Las Vegas) and the Foilkid literally climbed up my body to escape the terrible awful evil peacock of doom. This has never changed. Not a rational reaction really.

I'm the same with spiders. Now, if an animal is ever going to take me down, I don't think it's going to be an arachnid, but they are truly loathsome to me.

What is the mechanism by which people mis-identify true threats? Is there an area of the brain?

Journeys

"When you set out for Ithaca, pray that your journey is long". Maybe that's the modern Greek equivalent of "may you live in interesting times." But it's not a curse; it's a gift.

I'm certainly on a journey and certainly living in interesting (if scary) times for me. I haven't felt this adventurous in years. Maybe some of us just aren't meant to be farmers or bureaucrats, we're supposed to be out there fighting wars or exploring new territory. Unlike Alexander the Great, I don't think I will ever weep because there is no more world to conquer or discover.

If brevity is the soul of wit, I'm not witty

I know blog entries are supposed to be short. But I have ADHD; I have a torrent of consciousness, not a stream. Other people's brains just don't cover enough ground. Why can't people switch from talking about the ecological and economic causes of the Norse failure to survive in Greenland, Norse success in Iceland, Inuit success in Greenland, and societal failures like Easter Island and the Anasazi, and then switch to discussion of recipes for pastres (always use real butter, don't waste your time with the fake stuff), chaos theory, bicycle repair, sex techniques, and then child-rearing? Is everyone else linear? Boring.

I'll try to be more linear, but it really goes against all that I hold dear and true. Just like the le couer avez raison qui raison ne connait pas (sic, trans. and sorry for misquoting and slaughtering that phrase: the heart has reasons that reason knows not), reason itself is suspect. Our minds are very flexible and reality is such a personal thing. One of the nice things about publishing my thoughts, anonymously I hope, in this blog, is to try to express all the things that don't really make sense or that I've never really been able to think through, and think through them, returning to each subject until it makes sense.

Subjects of interest to me right now are: depression, ADHD, successful marriages, child rearing, career goals, job hunting, sex, love, suicide (not mine, that of a friend years ago and that of my sister's best friend last year), the nature of friendship, the nature of loyalty and fidelity, faithlessness, ambition, the absolute unknowability of other people no matter how well you think you know them, guitar playing, opera, food (eating out, cooking, as long as it's good), the nature of attraction, the rules of social engagement, the constraints on women being assertive regarding their needs (sexual and otherwise), gender roles, the trap of masculinity, what is really macho, what is really feminine, music, literature, eroticism, guilt, responsibility, duty, and the meaning of life.

I'm pretty convinced that of all people, Jackson Brown said it correctly when he wrote "between the time you arrive and the time you go, there may be a reason you were alive, but you'll never know". Having kids does give a much more concrete reason, and in that way I'm blessed. But walking the dog as the sun rises is also a concrete reason. Having a really good creme brulee. Playing "Recuerdos del Alhambra" or "Pancho & Lefty" or "Born a Rebel" on the guitar. Swimming in a warm pool on a cool day. Good sex (I think I remember that; or at least the memory seems to be coming back). Good poetry. A cold beer on a hot day.

Okay, I've got to do some work and earn some money.

Gang of Four - Men in Uniform

In discussing the development of my musical esthetic, I left out a key group from my college days, the Gang of Four and their piece de resistance, I Love a Man in a Uniform. I also left out the Bus Boys - Minimum Wage Rock and Roll, a tragic oversight. I think I mentioned Los Lobos, but am too tired to go back and check.

But back to I Love a Man in A Uniform, an ironic and anti-military song (not in the same vein as Oliver's Army, but it's there) and returning to my previous subject of the search for a partner for adulterous liasons on the web (btw, I'm not taking applications here; thank you), I have noticed something interesting now that the applicants (hee) have been winnowed down a bit. Okay, more of them have been dropped than died of the Black Death, at least proportionately. Some (4) have had the intelligence to reject me or cease all contact after meeting me (one of whom I actually liked and felt a real attraction). To them I say: I'm glad there are some evidently sane or at least partially moral men out there who, contrary to all stereotypes to the contrary, will not do anything to get laid. Because, let's be honest, this is like a series of interviews and tests, with me holding most of the cards (and the evil part of me, which isn't that small a part, really, really likes that). With in excess of 250 applications received (no more coming in, I think I succeeded in disconnecting the account), 30 could write well enough and didn't at first blush scream "serial killer", "stalker", "clingy-needy-creepy-guy," "angry-guy-who-the-world-has-wronged", "pathetic whiner", or "complete and utter loon." I'm thinking the APA should replace the DSM-IV diagnostic manual with my categories. They work better.

After deciding on requirements, I have noticed a trend, although it's probably too small to be statistically significant. Of the 30, I met 12 and am going to meet between 2 and 4 more (two of the four probably aren't going to make the cut because they suffer from the common capital ailment of being chronically busy and important, and I am not a woman for whom it is an aphrodisiac to be put on hold or rescheduled, Henry Kissinger's belief that power is an aphrodisiac may be true, but I think it has to be real power, not just "partner-in-a-law-firm-power). The 14 who were deep-sixed prior to any meeting suffered from certain common problems: (1) inability to decide on what to do to meet, even after I told them acceptable methods; (2) trying to avoid my explicitly stated requirements ("what do you mean, I have to provide the place?" or "we don't need to practice safe sex, we can just get tested"); (3) inability to make reservations at a restaurant or give a cell phone number; (4) not understanding that I'm going to use *67; (5) not understanding that they aren't learning my real name right off the bat and aren't going to learn my last name possibly ever; (6) wanting to meet whilst skulking around a bookstore; (7) wanting explicit sexual information prior to meeting (i.e., discuss sex positions, etc. before we've met and I've decided whether he can shake my hand much less touch any other part of my aging anatomy); (8) wanting me to just run over and meet them for sex on first contact; and (9) just generally seeming a bit too smarmy and slick.

Of the eight remaining men I met, I am actually attracted to one who is really making an effort, two others are charming and have not been discounted, although I'm not as enthusiastic (but you never know, these things can change), and the two remaining correspondents (the ones who actually have made definite plans to meet; i.e., they picked up the phone and made reservations someplace I'll feel comfy) seem possible, although who knows. Of the three, so far, mutually successful candidates (don't worry about sluttiness, only one guy, the one I was attracted to who decided he just wasn't cut out for adultery or found me unattractive, even tried to touch below the waist) all have been in the military (Navy or Marines all) and all are super-duper techies. Engineering, physics, chemistry, IP. Now, unlike any military guys out on the town I've ever had the misfortune to run into, these men seem, in their different ways (and each one is an individual of course, we wouldn't want to paint with too broad a brush) sensitive, thoughtful, witty, and very respectful of me, a woman they met through an online swingers site. Now these guys are over 40, they're not stupid (like adolescent boys); they're not going to screw up a good thing by making the woman who might actually fuck them feel bad about it in advance, but this is such an evolution from the fraternity boys of the early 80s, and military men all through my single years (80s and early 90s), that I have to wonder. These guys read poetry and literature, can discuss other things than semiconductors, and generally seem like fully formed human beings.

The creative-artisty guys just didn't seem to be able to make coherent plans, figure out what they wanted (Me? it's a binary question: yes or no, very easy. Make a choice. Move on), or be discreet enough to manage an extra-marital affair. You have to plan in advance. You have to communicate at other than the last minute. This just wasn't something they could do, apparently.

Were these the same sailors and marines who would fondle anything in their path in Georgetown or whereever? Is it just age? Is it the fact that they are ex-marines and ex-sailors that let the sensitive, courteous side out? Have I discovered the secret recipe for finding a better class of military man? And my listing made it pretty clear that I'm a knee-jerk liberal kind of woman. Maybe it's the whole strategy and tactics training. These guys, having decided on an objective, go about doing what is needed (flatter me, feed me, amuse me, act like they want to be around me, gradually increase physical contact, rinse, repeat) to reach that objective. Since that's how I do things, I guess it's not surprising that I find this kind of behavior admirable and attractive. Dithering indecisiveness? Not a turn on for this chick. But then, I'm Foilwoman. Most women seem to want a certain level of diffidence. Not me. I want enthusiasm. As a superheroine, however morally askew I might be, I think enthusiasm is the bare minimum anyone allowed to touch my physical person should be expected to show.

Well, even if I never get around to narrowing the field down and checking into a hotel room with one of these gentlemen (of course, I would never, never, never conduct concommitent affairs; the scheduling problems alone would overwhelm), the experience has been strangely pleasant and definitely flattering. Who knew a middle-aged matron had such drawing power. I wonder how many responses women in their 20s and 30s receive (the women who post on that site)? Also, where were all these good kissers when I was single and dating? I remember some truly slobbery kissers, and everyone has been skilled. I guess practice. Which brings us back to safe sex.

So I am in the morally ambiguous position (okay, that's an oxymoron, the whole situation is a mortal sin, morally wrong, planned cheating on the spouse, so why get my panties in a twist about how I handle multiple suitors for my potentially adulterous hand?) of knowing which of my three current beaus is the favored one, but am sort of keeping the other two in reserve, just for back up. You never know when moral qualms, work, or family commitments might remove my favorite from the arena. And I still have two scheduled new meetings (and the faint possibility of two more, although that seems unlikely at this time). I mean, it's not like any of us can ask for a commitment or exclusivity, can we? We're all supposed to be exclusive with our spouses, and we're not doing that or at least thinking about it with real intent.

So, pragmatic and directed? Or just plain slutty? The most hilarious thing about this whole thing is that I am so non-babe-a-licious . . . I'm a plump, mid-forties, suburban matron. With a good education, a smart mouth, and a sensual nature -- all assets that I'd like to have be more in use and in evidence.

At least I'm enjoying this whole "courtship" phase. The lovely emails. The presents. The discreet lunches and early drinks at elegant places where I get complimented way more than I probably should. The narcissist in me is just having one big happy. But I'm just loving my former men in uniform. Maybe I'll get to see one shoot.

Willie Loman and the American Dream

This weekend I saw "Death of a Salesman" for the first time ever. For something that's supposedly a seminal work in American theatre, I can't believe I didn't see it until my 40s. What a depressing play (but great). The play crystallized all my thoughts about what's been going on for my husband and for me. How do you know what dream is the right dream for you? My husband is Willie Loman-ish -- better looking, smarter, more educated, but still looking to score big with the American Dream. Where does that come from? Obviously, it worked for Bill Gates and Steve Jobs, but a lot of people throw their lives into starting businesses that fail, taking their life savings and hopes along with them.

My husband ran a business with friends back in the early 90s. Except the friends weren't friends, and my husband was too naive or trusting. Needless to say, that didn't end well. Now he's running around setting up a business plan that makes absolutely no sense to me. He says I don't have faith in his ability to succeed. And although I deny it, to be honest, I don't. Last time he went into business, it cost us thousands of dollars to get out of it. I just don't want to deal with that. The idea of working for others just seems abhorrent to him, and I've never figured out why.

So I try not to be discouraging, but in reality hope that he will find a job before he gets too far into this business. One thing I'm sick of is hearing that I'm not supportive: I saw him through one failed business venture, have been the primary breadwinner since 1999, have had two children, numerous miscarriages, and paid (not too cheerfully, but still) all the legal fees associated with the liquidation of the prior business venture. Now I'm working as an independent contractor -- insecure, less money, no benefits -- while job hunting. I just don't want to review his business plans or job application letters. And at the bottom of this, I know he would be better off returning to employment rather than starting up a busines, but he disagrees.

In my next life, I think I'll put in a request for independent wealth. In the meantime, who knows.

Musical Tastes

When I was 12, I got a guitar and discovered Joan Baez, Judy Collins, and Buffy Sainte-Marie. I thought they were the best. I liked Simon & Garfunkel; Peter, Paul & Mary; Burl Ives; the Supremes; and Don McLean (American Pie). I actually still like all those singers. Only singers I liked then who I don't really like now (and I can still enjoy their music, even though it makes me cringe) are Neil Diamond and Cher.

At fourteen or fifteen I started trying to broaden my musical horizons, and, in addition to the previous, I liked Dan Fogelberg (embarrassing now), Joni Mitchell (still do), the Eagles (eh), Jackson Browne (what's with the chinlessness? and why do all his songs sound the same?), Laura Nyro, the Greatful Dead (still do, although that's a bit embarrassing), James Taylor, Carly Simon, Carole King, David Bowie, the Rolling Stones, Linda Rondstadt (still do), and Emmy Lou Harris (still do).

At 16 or 17, I got into Joan Armatrading (still, mmmmmm), the Cars, Mary McCaslin, Blondie, the GoGos, Lou Reed, the Police (Roxanne . . .). I discovered Elvis Presley, and that was nice. I truly loved (and still do) the Brandenburg Concertos and the Goldberg Variations. I practiced Bach on the piano and guitar. Andres Segovia and Christopher Parkening were truly gods to me.

In college: Elvis Costello (Elvis is king!), the English Beat, the Pretenders, the Clash, Mission of Burma, the Dead Kennedys, the Sex Pistols, the Ramones (and they're mostly all dead now), Aretha (MMMMMMM), Dire Straits, Pat Benatar (ok, that's embarrassing), Patti Smith, Leo Kottke, Ry Cooder, Tom Petty, the Allman Brothers, Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes, Karla Bonoff, Kate & Anna McGarrigle, Heart, Dylan singing (or intoning, really, his own stuff, particularly Nashville Skyline, Desire, & Blood on the Trackes), Joan Jett & the Blackhearts, Taj Mahal, Richie Havens, Waylon Jennings, Loretta Lynn, country music in general (I blame one roommate who had a really bad bleach job, but when you're love-lorn, nothing beats the Country & Western sad song cure: you listen to broken heart/he done me wrong songs until you feel better), Rickie Lee Jones (who I've only grown to love more and more, although she really hasn't produced a lot, probably due to heroin addition), Harold Melvyn & the Bluenotes, Janis Joplin, Janis Ian, Gershwin, and Bruce Springsteen (actually, I'd liked him since high school, but thought I was too sophisticated and he was too blue collar: when I got to college I decided that anybody who could write and sing like he did was cool, even if a lot of guys who drove Trans Ams thought so as well).

Since college (not a short period of time), I have discovered and liked Bonnie Raitt, the Persuasions, Nanci Griffith, Kate Wolfe, U2, UB40, Bob Marley (so I was slow), more Aretha, Billie Holliday, Edith Piaf, Anita Baker, Phyllis Hyman (rest in peace), Laurie Anderson, Phillip Glass, pretty much all opera (Puccini, Rossini, Saint-Saens, Strauss, Wagner, Bizet, Mozart) and newly discovered the joys of Mozart (I finally understood what a roommate, not the C&W bleached blonde babe, meant when she said: "In churches they play Bach, in heaven they play Mozart"), Ravel, Villa Lobos, the Bangles (yup), Baltimora (for the immortal one song "Tarzan Boy"), Creedence Clearwater Revival, the Rascals, Sade, Anita Baker, King Sunny Ade, Youssouf N'Dour, Patsy Cline, Nora Jones, the Travelling Wilburys, the Band, Betty (more of a cabaret act, but Betty Rules!), Sweet Honey in the Rock (mmmmmmmmm), and some others, but this post is getting too long, even for me.

My Dog -- Wuss of the Universe and Psychodrama

We have a dog. Actually, it is my husband's dog. Somehow, walking this dog every damn day (and twice if I have the time) has become my job. This dog is a fairly intimidatingly large sighthound (greyhounds, whippets, Irish wolfhounds, Afghan hounds, Ibizan hounds, basenji, and pharoah hounds are all sighthouds -- they hunt by sight and are runners). Unfortunately, he's a big goof. This is not at all surprising since he is, in dog age, the equivalent of a teenage boy. He is all knees, elbows, and awkwardness. Especially when he's trying to impress the (mostly) slightly younger but much more mature girl dogs on our street (among the many dogs in are neighborhood are a black lab female puppy and a German shepard female puppy a fully grown female chihuahua lives nearby). He's so anxious to impress, and they just look at him. The female chihuahua has him living in fear. Of course, I'm not seeing a whole bunch wrong with this universe if the roles are gender determined.

This dog is such a teenager, I keep expecting to see him break own in zits, wear black, read Catcher in the Rye, practice complicated and totally useless skateboarding maneuvres in the vain hope that these useless skills will gain him the admiration of his peers and favorably impress the girls, listen to unspeakable music, and not let me walk near him when we're out in public. I have teen-aged nieces and nephews, so I know whereof I speak. Fortunately, despite his spasticity, he remains a sweetheart who likes to cuddle and be rubbed behind the ears.

The conundrum for the day is this: this dog would defend me to the death (literally), but sort of like tai chi, he only uses his courage and strength defensively. Although 3+ feet tall at the shoulder and with more muscles that seem caninely possible, he will back down from (1) the chihuahua, (2) the German Shepard puppy, (3) the lab puppy, (4) a beagle, (5) a miniature daschund, (6) a toy poodle, (7) a basset hound (ok, that one I understand, that basset is so heavy set, it could squash my boy), and (8) Fluffy, a Persian cat of truly bellicose disposition. That said, when a very large (and now very dead, alas) neighbor started screaming at me one day as I sat in the yard, puppy placed himself between me and the Evil-Nutso-Neighbor-of-Insanity and made it quite clear that said neighbor would lose body parts before he would be able to discuss anything with me in that (angry) tone of voice. Similarly, puppy will not back down from dogs or people he perceives as potentially threatening to me (not him). One neighbor has a truly well-behaved and good dispositioned pit-bull, but puppy simply won't let that dog pass us on the sidewalk. The owner and I are working on getting the two dogs a bit more familiar. If we bump into dogs that seem hostile to me (rather than just testing rank with puppy), regardless of size, demeanor, and relative strength, these dogs are sent packing.

Am I anthropomorphizing the dog? Is he evaluating threats to his beloved (moi) or is he just weird? He loves our kids too, and is even more protective around them. He never gets between animals (1) through (8) listed above and my kids (and these animals, except the cat, actually like kids), but will chase the pit-bull a good distance (not just across the street) from the kids, and has done the same with a Doberman, a slightly aggressive giant schnauzer, and numerous people who really shouldn't just walk up to strangers' children. Is he picking up some general hostility from me (but I like the pit-bull)? Or is something else at play? Anyway, it seems my dog also has a Walter Mitty-like super-hero alter ego. He's not letting anyone threaten me or the kids. But the chihauhua? He'll let her ego have a boost and act like she outranks him, because isn't that the polite thing to do? He may be a dog, but he's a mensch, if a drooly one.

I love my guitar

I have no real musical talent, but I have been an enthusiastic singer/guitarist for the last 30 years. With children, I've had less and less time to play and practice (except for Puff, the Magic Dragon, which really isn't one of those great rocking tunes). I've started again, and my older child now dances enthusiastically to all songs I play, as long as I play fast and with something resembling a beat. Today we ran through:

La Bamba
End of the Line
Handle with Care
Angel from Montgomery
Romeo & Juliet
Rock the Casbah
Piece of My Heart
I Dreamed I Saw St. Augustine
Mama Tried
Seven Year Ache
Ring of Fire
Watching the Detectives
Oliver's Army
Green Shirt
Big Iron
Hurricane
This Shirt
I Take My Chances
Sultans of Swing
Burnin' Love (she just loves, loves, loves, this one)
Under the Boardwalk
Streets of Baltimore
Drop the Pilot
In God's Country
He Think's He'll Keep Her
and the Sex Pistol's version of God Save the Queen (she REALLY love this one).

This was a good Friday night.

Telling All -- I'm not Doing It

Washingtonienne, the young woman who kept a blog of her numerous (good for her, I say) sexual activities as a lowly hill staffer and got fired as a result has just been sued by one on her former lovers, Robert Steinbuch (who dropped her like a bad habit the day the blog was discovered) for revealing personal information that would "mortify a reasonable person."

Just for the record, as snarky as I get, I never intend to mortify anyone, at least identifiably. To the extent I rag on anyone, particularly Mr. It-Offends-My-Principles-To-Pay-for-the-Location-for-Adulterous-Trysts, I am not in the business of identifying anyone, particularly with regard to extramarital affairs. Now, I can't say that if some family-values-Republican model of propriety approachd me, particularly one of the Clinton impeachment prosecutors, that I wouldn't break or at least bend, this rule. But anyone below Cabinet-level or elected federal or statewide official rank is pretty much safe from me. Those people are anyway; I don't move in those circles, and I can't imagine doing anything that would ever place me in physical proximity with Rumsfeld or his ilk, or, should I actually become acquainted with such a person, ever reacting with enough enthusiasm, feigned or otherwise, to any approach by any such person to get to a position where I might have the ability to mortify him. And no matter what, I would never (as a matter of principle, but also as a matter of basic animal attraction -- I go for warm-blooded mammals of the human variety) be able to get the kind of information Washingtonienne dishes about her guys (who liked anal sex, who liked spanking, who pulled hair, who paid money), because I may have an askew moral compass, I may have some troubles, but nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing could make any of those so-called-men sexually attractive enough to me to make me want to hold hands, much less any of the really good stuff.

I guess it would be against my principles (hee) to identify anybody simply because of his sexual predilections, particularly insofar as those predilections involve me (unless they hurt me, in which case, all bets are off). I hate to disappoint anyone, but I'm probably never going to describe sexual details even when I have them to describe. The most information you might get would be a genteel reference to bliss or something like that. No detailed descriptions of how I attained my JFG (or JKG or whatever). You'd probably be able to tell by a certain giddiness that might be present.

The above doesn't mean I won't besmirch the name of certain incompetent psychotherapists, hairdressers, car repair people, realtors, computer manufacturers, or whoever else in their capacity as a professional, service provider, or vendor. But for everyone out there seeking to supplement, add range to, or add frequency to his sex life, you really are safe from me. Heck, let the sinless one cast the first stone.

Oh, and the Christian sites that have been advertising about how you don't have to go to hell and you can be redeemed on this website? Are you absolutely that stupid? First you reject evolution, now you want to advertise on this adultery and sex promoting web-site? You think people seeking salvation are coming to this site? Not that sort of salvation. Morons.

Sex tips for gals (not to plagiarize from Cynthia Heimel or anything)

I can't claim to have the writing chops or the insights that Cythia brings to all this in her immortal work Sex Tips for Girls (and I believe she has even written an update Advanced Sex Tips for Girls: This Time It's Personal and at least one other book, delightfully entitled Get Your Tongue Out of My Mouth, I'm Kissing You Goodbye, but I can't speak for either of those books, as I have not read them), my sex tips for girls are a bit different from my sex tips for guys. And here they are:
(1) Know what you want. This is hard. It can take a while. You may change your mind. Keep trying.
(2) Don't confuse romantic love and sexual desire.
(3) Admit when you feel sexual desire. You don't have to act on it, but know when it's acting on you.
(4) If it isn't gooey and messy, and it's supposedly sex, you're not doing it right.
(5) Anyone who isn't a good kisser or hand-holder isn't going to be good at the other stuff either.
(6) If anyone tells you that you need to be blonder, thinner, more buxom, more depiliated, more toned, etc. to be attractive to him or her, you don't need to be more attractive to him or her. There are a lot of fish in the sea; he or she and you can go find another one.
(7) If someone doesn't want you, don't try to win them over. A really effective screening device is to first make sure someone wants and likes you. Then decide if this is a nice person. Then decide if this is someone you could desire. Then move forward. Obviously, there is that first awkward circling around period, where you might have to make the first move (and if that's not ok, then you don't really want that person -- you want to spend the rest of your life stifling your expressions of your own needs?), but if he or she can't decide if you are someone to kiss or fuck or whatever, you don't need that.
(8) Just because other people find a person desirable doesn't mean that you must.
(9) It's okay to try things out, but you don't have to do so.
(10) If your partner starts doing things you really don't want, it's time for him or her to go. Right then. If you say stop ("I've decided I don't want to try [bondage/anal sex/a threesome/spanking/biting/kissing with tongue (okay, is there anyone really who would reject the last choice? Find a shrink, now, please)/whatever]" and your partner does not appropriately respond by immediately stopping, you've just received your first and only warning. Flee.
(11) If your partner won't ever try anything you want to try (oral sex is too "dirty", why would a nice girl want to try [fill in your own blank here], you're the mother of my kids so we can't do [whatever fun and disgusting thing it is]), well, if it's at the start of the relationship, dump in, later on, well, I'll let you know when I figure that out.
(12) There is nothing, nothing, nothing wrong with wanting more, wanting something else, wanting, wanting, wanting. Desire in and of itself is such a wonderful thing. Even if some desires remain unfulfilled, it's still good to have them.
(13) If you're having sex with a guy and he rejects safe sex practices (I've said this before, but it bears repeating), kick him out of bed/the elevator/the display living room at Bloomingdales/the dressing room where you're getting it on/the bathroom at your boss's dinner party right there and then. This is a basic lack of respect for your physical safety that it can only be a harbinger of worse things to come.
(14) Some people, sadly, can be great sexual partners and horrible human beings, which brings us back to tip #2. Sociopaths can rely on our willingness to want to believe in a human connection. If there isn't really a respectful connection (and no matter how raunchy you get, your partner should respect you and probably should respect you more the raunchier you get), your better on left alone to your own literary, manual, and electronic devices.
(15) Don't overplan. Just know what you're doing. I.e., there is no perfect first date, seduction scene, etc. Nonetheless, if your excited enough about meeting someone that you but on the pretty and matching purple lace underwear, admit to yourself, "Gosh, I think I'm hoping to have sex with ____" and plan accordingly. I.e., bring your diaphragm, cab fare home, whatever. Don't afterwards say, "Oh, I just was swept away" as you realize he hasn't returned your calls since you told him your period was late. Don't do that to yourself or him. It's actually unfairer and meaner to you, so stop it.
(16) Back to tip #1: experiement and figure out what you want, and don't be ashamed. Once you do know what you want, figure out which things are deal-breakers, and act accordingly.
(17) Know that once you have children with a man, your ability to leave diminishes. Yes, contrary to what everyone says, children do tie a couple closer together (if both are decent people), but only because neither of you wants to abandon them.
(18) It's supposed to be dirty. It's supposed to be fun. Your supposed to desire your partner. Your partner is supposed to desire you.

Adrenaline Rush and Desire

Skydiving is not better than good sex. A friend I used to skydive with said "Skydiving is better than sex." I would turn to whoever he was speaking to and state for the record "[Dorcus Americus] and I are platonic friends."

But there is something about near death experiences, brushes with danger or mortality, and just things that cause gut-twisting fear to get all the juices flowing. Maybe we're just trying to prove to the universe, "Hey, I'm still alive! I might even be making a baby right now!" This would somewhat explain why complacency and comfort are death to married sex. That's why Aliens is such a good date movie. All those ooey gooey mucous dripping monsters that will crawl inside you, explode out of your tummy, and then devour your friends. Yup. She's holding your hand now.

Pleasure in life and depression

All my life, or at least since early adolescence, I have had depression and ADHD. Now that I know this, it's pretty simply to manage: I take whatever medicine works at the moment, right now fluoxetine (generic Prozac) and Adderal (straight amphetemines), try to exercise a lot, eat lots of protein, don't eat too much start, and live for caffeine and chocolate. I can't always tell if my depression is increasing and I need to change medicines if my diet veers heavily toward peanut butter & chocolate. As a meal. Recipe for meal: pour a good amount of chocolate chips (high quality, and NOT Nestles) into a cup. Get a nice big generous spoonful of creamy peanut butter. Get a bigger glass of milk. Sit with good book and devour. Reject all other foods.

I have happily moved from the constant chocolate chip/peanut butter diet (on which one actually loses weigh, believe it or not), except for occasional meals out with prospective adulterers, so now I know the corner has been turned. Part of it is all the really interesting people I've met. I never knew there were so many patent attorneys who weren't getting laid. Or maybe I did, but I never realized how many of them would be able to discuss Neruda, Stalingrad, or Thucydides. So I have several new friends (two of whom have reinitiated sex lives with their wives after some frank discussions with moi, Foilwoman, again, performing a public service), and several other people who I will not know personally hereafter but I am not sad to know exist (including someone who I am still hoping might help me take an attractive (this will require a professional), anonymous picture of your superheroine to illustrate this blog. But even more cheering than that has been writing this blog and starting to play the guitar again. I've been rehearsing some Dire Straits and Clash music. I'm no rocker, so it doesn't sound like I'm a tribute singer or anything, but I don't do this publicly anyway. But to be able to play Rock the Casbah, Romeo & Juliet, or London Calling certainly is enough to get anyone out of a funk. My birthday has come and gone, I'm officially, without any doubt middle-aged, and life is pretty damn good.

Spring is my favorite time of year. So I've been having my mid-life crisis, doing my spring cleaning (of my life, not my house, the magic househusband cleans the house), and trying to see my way on the path ("Midway this way of life we're bound upon, I woke to find myself in a dark wood, Where the right road was wholly lost . . ." (Dorothy Sayers trans.) or "Midway through the journey of our life, I found myself in a dark wood, for I had strayed from the straight pathway to this tangled ground . . ." (Michael Palma trans.). Of course, nothing beats the original: "Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita mi ritrovai per una selva oscura, che la diritta via era smarrita."

So where from here? I've walked the dog this morning. I'm working, then meeting a good friend (met her in 1985) for lunch, working some more and then looking forward to a weekend of skating and swimming lessons and theater with MVBFITWWW. And if there's an assignation or two in there as well . . . maybe I'll have some more fun.

She who must be obeyed and worshipped

MVBFITWWW and I get to do another ladies' night! A friend of hers is acting in a show near my home (MVBFITWWW is lots more cultured than I am) and MVBFITWWW got comp tickets. So I'll get to try out some other single malts on Saturday, in adult company. I hate to say it, because I don't want the boys to feel bad, but I dress up a lot prettier to go out with MVBFITWWW than with any of my possible co-conspirators in the adultery realm. And I know she'll still think I'm cute as a button even though (1) I tower over her, (2) I'll never look as put together as she does, and (3) I eat food off her plate. I really don't know what is wrong with the guys in this metropolitan area. I always was able to get a date, and she always had trouble. Any man with any gonads (balls/ovaries/whatever) should be able to tell that MVBFITWWW is worth about 30 million of your typical chiquita running around the Capital trying to look important. Yet somehow they don't see her. Or she tries very hard not to be seen (a more likely explanation, because while a lot of guys are truly clueless, most will notice an attractive woman in their vicinity unless she's really camoflaging with care).

Here I am, drowning in offers to commit mortal sins (except only one or two really hold any attraction whatsoever) with random abandom, and a much nicer, prettier, educated, and cultured woman is ignored. What is wrong with this picture? Is it just because I am obviously slutty? But I do know that I am going to wine and dine her (inexpensively, but nicely) before our evening at the theater. I know I'm lucky to have her in her life. If everyone else is a moron then that just leaves more of her for me and my kids (who worship the ground she walks on, as they should).

I know: I'll do the lipstick lesbian thing and dress sexy on Saturday and put on a show. She'll let me, because it amuses her to let me act out. Then some stupid dufus will come along and make a pass at me and not her . . . kind of missing the point. The last time before our opera date that she and I were out together in a bar, some guy started hitting on both of us, before focusing primarily on me (mainly because I actually replied to a few of his questions, whereas MVBFITWWW had already decided that he did not have a working cerebral cortex and, therefore, despite being mammalian and probably human, did not meet her standards for social interaction must less actual flrtation which could possible lead to some fun sex) and would have jumped on her with the least encouragement. Then he started complaining to me about how women always rejected him, and asked me out. I suggested that he not ask out married women, since single women, as a rule, are generally more interested in dating than married ones (hey, I'm the exception that proves the rule). My poor VBFITWWW spewed a wine spritzer all over the guy at that point (which is no loss, never add soda to a good wine), making the evening wonderful and complete. To prove MVBFITWWW's superiority to me in every way, let me just let you know (1) she has never told a man (or adolescent boy) that he repulses her, (2) she has never made fun of someone's assignation approach on the internet, (3) she has never literally kicked someone out of bed (but giggled when I told her about it), and (4) never told a much younger guy hitting on her that if she wanted a puppy she'd go to the pound (yes, Mr. Underhill, that was a recycled line -- I don't think them up that often, so I recycle. I'm a literary environmentalist, you see). She has, just like Foilwoman, rejected a man for not being able to get along with her cat, saying "Guys come and go, but these are [kittycat's name]'s golden years."

And how many people can you discuss Buddhism, Jacobean theater and opera, Victorian literature, Civil War reenactments, opera, chaos theory, sex, kids, knitting, skydiving, and tai kwon doe with? Not too many. I'm lucky. One such person is MVBFITWWW and I'm pretty much on the top of her list two. Now if one of us could just agree to be the guy, we'd live happily ever after.

What circle of the Inferno do I belong in?

With the apocalypse nigh (see previous posts) and the visit of the lovely saved souls trying to save me, it's time to figure out where in Hell I am going to reside and for what cause.

I'm unbaptized, so could end up in the First Circle, Limbo, eternally exiled from the bliss of God's presence. I don't know that I want to meet the God responsible for the 20th Century, and so far in the 21st, Rwanda, Darfur, etc. So this doesn't seem like a big deal. But hasn't Limbo been done away with (except for the dance)? What Pope would try to overturn Dante? I can understand Galileo (although after 500 years, the Church finally got big enough to say it had been wrong for charging Galileo with heresy for saying that the Earth is not the center of the universe), but Dante? Give it up, your holiness.

I haven't yet committed adultery, so I won't end up like Paolo and Francesca. But the thought is as good as the deed, so I might as well have done so. Shoot. So I'm lustful and damned. Now, by medieval Catholic theology, I am destined for the Second Circle of Hell. Because even if I never do anything, when I see one of those bike messengers with all the nice leg muscles and lean body, I think, mmmmm, and when I see one of the Marines that works with MVBFITWWW help her lift boxes or whatever, particularly if he's wearing a t-shirt, I think mMMMM. So, damned to be tossed forever in a howling wind.

I've certainly committed gluttony in my time, so the Third Circle could also welcome me. Whether it's just polishing off a batch of brownies after a bit too much pot in college (years ago, the statute of limitations has long run, cyber police), or actually sneaking an extra serving of shrimp when waiters at a wedding are bringing around the plates, I've done it. So, also damned to be wallowing in the mire being mauled by Cerberus. But dogs always like me. And mud can be fun. So I'm not too concerned.

I'm neither a hoarder nor a spendthrift, so I don't have to worry about the Fourth Circle. No rolling huge rocks against another for eternity. So actually, Hell might be a bit of a relief compared to the Sisyphean task of rolling rocks uphill every day only to have them roll back down that is life.

I've certainly been wrathful, so I could be in the Fifth Circle, where the damned tear each other to pieces with hands and teeth. Okay, that doesn't sound like fun. I hereby resolve to be calm, cool, collected, and most of all, non-wrathful, and repent all prior wrathfulness. Except for those who really, really deserve my wrath.

I think by any religion known to humanity, I'll qualify as a heretic (and I'm proud of that). Whatever the dogma is, I'm not going to believe it, and I will reject it. It's just a crutch anyway. So the Sixth Circle is definitely a place I could take up long-term residency, being burnt eternally in a tomb. Not so much fun, put at least, according to Dante, I'll be able to hang with Medusa and the Furies. And if I look at Medusa and get turned to stone, I don't expect the burning would hurt that much either.

The Seventh Circle is for violence, suicides, murderers, etc. I'm not there. But violence against God, blasphemy, also counts, so I guess I'll get to be there anyway with the burning sand and rain. I'm not gay, so the "violence against nature" group won't take me. I bet they have a lot of fun.

No sins of fraud or usury. I love it that panderers, seducers, flatterers, hypocrites, sorcerers, thieves, sowers of discord, and falsifiers (as well as a few others) are rated worse than murderers! If I've done these things (well, I've lied on occasion, and I have told women who are already at a party that their dresses look great on them even if the resemble a beached whale), then I guess I'll get to spent time with Ari Fleischer, Donald Rumsfeld, Paul Wolfowitz, Paul Bremer (and his useless offspring), Dubya, Lee Atwater, Tom Delay, Bill Frist, Newt Gingrich, Rick Santorum, Phyllis Schlafly, Anita Bryant, Spiro Agnew, Richard Nixon, and too many others to mention in the Eighth Circle. Okay, that's enough. I don't care about the eternal running (shin splits! side cramps) being scourged by demons or having one's feet burnt. I repent any and all pandering, flattery, etc. just so I don't have to be anywhere near these people. That's really scary. I'm going to repent and find religion.

I'll stop there. I scared myself. We'll take up the Ninth and Tenth Circles at some other time.

What bugs me about this is that there isn't a circle of hell for being mean. The thing I should most be punished for is something I did as a sixteen year old and have never really understood why I did it and I just hope I didn't leave any scars, but if someone had done something like this to me, I would be scarred. A schoolmate who was richer and cooler than I (but considerably shorter) took a fancy to me, and flirted a lot. He talked alot about wanting to become a doctor so that he could make money, which I found reprehensible (if I had only known HMOs were coming to make his life miserable, I could have ceased being so judgmental). He wasn't unattractive, but was vaguely porcine. He was trying to impress me a lot, but I was clueless. One day, he was with some other kids, and I walked up to them carrying my guitar, and he said,in what I then perceived to be a condescending and supercilious way but was probably just him being a teenaged boy, "Oh, it's the beautiful and magnificent [Foilwoman's real name]. Where are you playing tonight, and can I take you out to dinner afterwards." Now that takes actual courage, even if he was a bit of an asshole. So how did I treat this adolescent boy who had done me know harm other than annoy me by seeming a little too materialistic for my naive and idealistic tastes? I lifted the hand he had reached out to touch me from my shoulder, looked at it, dropped it, and said: "[His name], you repulse me."

Maybe this made no impression on him. But I've never done anything crueler, and I'm still trying to figure out why. Back to the infidelity and sex thing: all the people I've met from the "swingers" website may be moral cyphers (or not, some actually seem decent, but horny, a state I can empathize with), but everyone has been polite and kind. I haven't used any mean rejection lines. Sure, I made fun of Mr. Ethics of Splitting the Bill for Renting a Hotel Room, but I could have identified him and didn't, and only intended to irritate. I don't remember intending to hurt that teenaged boy, and I believe I really did. And that was when I was idealistic and believe that people should be intrinsically good. What circle of hell does that get me?

What is love? And what does it have to do with anything?

Nothing teaches you about love like being a parent, which is its own weird way is the kind of profound, earth-shattering love you (at least me) fantasized about as a teenager. It completely transforms and expands your heart (as well as your waistline) and you never worry for a second whether the love is returned. Modern American culture in movies, books, records, etc. focusses almost entirely on infatuation-type love. Love where an attraction builds into or immediately becomes a life-changing force, normally with a member of the opposite sex, but occasionally (in Indie films and books sold at Lamda Rising) with members of the same sex.

I've decided this is all a bunch of hooey. I don't mean that romantic love and infatuation don't exist; they do, and boy are they a bunch of fun. I just mean, those aren't things to base one's life around because they are ephemeral.

Other cultures emphasized other kinds of love, for instance, the search not for one's romantic soul-make, but the search for a true friend. Roland and Oliver, Damien and Pythias. That sort of thing. It's not as emphasized for women, although Xena, Warrior Princess did sort of lean that way for Xena and Gabrielle (if one ignores the lesbian subtext). For women, at least as girls, it's the one day my prince will come world still.

As I come to grips with the fact that my life's mate (husband) and I have moved to very different pages physically and are a bit estranged emotionally, I have to say, no, I do not romantically love the guy. Even though he, in his late 40s is still gorgeous and fit (really); even though he still desires me; even though he is a good man, a great father, and has a truly kind heart. But I do still love him. Even when I'm bored to death in bed (yup, it's three minutes into it, we've moved from the breasts, to the clitoris, soon entry will occur), I can get a great deal of pleasure from knowing that he wants me, that he will have a few minutes of bliss while I hold him in my arms, and that we'll both feel closer, even if I feel frustrated. Lots of cultures don't even consider romantic love a factor in marriage, and view it as a distraction from life's duties and obligations. So, I love my husband, but in no way is he my soul mate even if he is my life's mate.

But I have a soul mate. I'm even lucky enough to have two. MVBFITWWW and I are as lover like as it is possible to be without feeling desire. We feel comfortable hugging and touching one another. We can tell each other everything (she hasn't read this blog, but she would still love me if she did), she loves my kids, she loves my husband, I love her mother, I get mad at her sister when her sister craps on MVBFITWWW, and I feel perfectly comfortable interfering in her life to get her what she needs. Once when she was depressed and mentioned that she had been thinking about suicide, I talked with her, got her to promise that she would do nothing, then used my extra-special Foilwoman research skills and called her psychiatrist, first at the office, leaving a message saying it was urgent, and then, after getting no response in one hour (at 8 pm on a Tuesday evening) tracked down the man's home phone number and had a frank chat with him.

It went something like this (not verbatim), spoken very rapidly: "Hi, Doctor _____. I'm MVBFITWWW's friend, Foilwoman. Today she and I were talking, and she mentioned that she had been contemplating suicide. I understand you are her psychiatrist. If she hasn't talked to you about this, consider this a heads up. If you are one of those 'sit back, let the person talk for three years, and then maybe the person will figure things out' kind of psychiatrists, consider this notice that that approach is not appropriate here. You're her doctor. While I am her friend and will do everything I can to get her through this patch, you are the trained professional. I want some assurances that you are actually going to help my friend and do in effectively and expeditiously." I then went on to explain to him that I had previously had a friend call me (as the last person, oh why am I so blessed??????) before killing herself and that I took these responsibilities and warnings seriously and expected him to do the same.

Of course, Dr. _____ had to tell MVBFITWWW that I had called. She was pissed. But then she realized that I really do love her. And I do. We can talk about any book, any play, any opera, anything and go on for days. When I'm blue, she'll brush my hair. She's the only person who gives me good parenting advice (aside from my Mom, who gave the the trouble invaluable advice as follows: Schedule and routine are your friends). I've loaned her money and had it paid back. I've loaned her money and not had it paid back. I've given her money. She's helped me rehearse break-up speeches. She's helped me when some poor deluded fool didn't want me and I was so rejected and I couldn't figure out what was wrong with me that he didn't want me (this was a LONG time ago). She got me into opera (along with MVBFSHS). She made it so that I could read Victorian literature with interest. I'll even go to a flea market with her, although I loathe that sort of thing with a fiery passion. I've knit her a sweater. I've knit her Mom a sweater. Even though MVBFITWWW is new-agey and Buddhist, I trust her judgment on anything but money.

MVBFSHS lives abroad, but I also have a soulmate in her. She's more spiritual, but in a buttoned down, Church of England kind of way. I've travelled thousands of miles to see her (Vienna, Austria can't be considered a hardship vacation, however, think of the pastries alone) as she has to see me. My eldest daughter is named for her and beloved by her. I once burst into tears in a swank London restaurant with her when she asked "how are you doing" and she handed me a tissue, waved down the waiter, and said: "We'll have another glass of wine, and that booth in the corner over there, right now. Tell the people in it they can have this table by the window." The waiter (and the people at the other table) did as they were told.

So I'm lucky. I have a husband I love, MVBFITWWW, to whom I feel impossibly close, and MVBFSHS, who is a touchstone. How many people have that?

Now, I think I have phileo and agape in my life, just need a little more eros. But I think I have more than most people, and the people I love are truly worthy of it. Now if I could just get MVBFITWWW to dress up in the harem girl outfit that she wore to the Halloween party where I was Tigergrrrl, she and could both be getting some good action.

Signs of the Apocalypse

I had some religious evangelists stop by today. Normally, I do mean things to religious zealots, but these were nice women. I invited them in, gave them orange juice, and after their spiel, I explained the there is no God but God and Mohammed is his prophet. I'm not Muslim, but they were nice enough that it felt good to compliment them by giving them the out that I had a firm belief system in place, and thus that was why I was nice to them and could not be swayed. If I simply confessed to them that my experiences of humanity and my understanding of human history leave me deeply fearful that if there is a divinity, it is one with more in common with Jeffrey Dahmer and John Wayne Gacy than with any values I hold dear. I mean, how to ask: should Abraham have been rewarded for being willing to sacrifice Isaac? Is that really what God wanted? And how exactly did God (if one believes in Christianity) show love for humanity by having his child tortured and killed for us. Exactly how did that cleanse my sins? Also, all that smiting going on. Not for me. But I'm being nice to the equivalent of Jehovah's Witnesses. Clearly, the end is nigh.

Another indicator of the end of times is the increasing reliance on the Myers Briggs personality test. Depending when I take it, I am either an ENFP or an INTP. An undisclosed acquaintance who works for a government contractor (where they actually do Pentagon work, but are not on the government payroll, thus "shrinking" government, while still doing it) was requested and then ordered to take an online Myers Briggs personality test. This acquaintance felt that since the employer didn't have the right to ask about marital status, sexual preferences, religion, and other personal things, answering questions of such a personal nature should also be off limits. The test isn't even that scientific. It's simply a compilation of questions that one can answer differently at different times of the day, the week, the month. I'm an ENFP when sober, an INTP after a glass of scotch. That makes a lot of sense.

Why don't they just give out work assignments under an astrological or numerological system (and base promotions on astrological signs). But then who would ever hire Cancer? No one wants a crab running around. Being a Taurus, I've always been a bit sensitive about that. I mean, who wants to be a Bull, a Ram, a Scorpion, or a Fish? Better than being born in the year of the rat under the Chinese system. I wonder if people who are Tauruses who are born in the year of the bull are somehow extra bovine?

Back to Myers Briggs: its a self assessment. Do people even know themselves well enough to be accurate? Everyone thinks he is fair and even tempered. No-one thinks, ooh, I bear grudges. Everyone thinks he is a decent guy and answers the questions accordingly. So what use are these self-evaluative tools? Most people can't tell you truthfully whether they are intelligent, honest, pragmatic, kind, or fair. They normally think they are, but they aren't the ones who really know in the end, are they?

Well, this is a new ethical dilemma (except it's not)

Even though I turned off my profile on the "adult" dating service, I'm still getting emails from members asking me to go out with them (i.e., meet them for sex). I've met a number of very pleasant men through the website, but nothing clicked except for two individuals who really aren't available, through distance, guilt, whatever. I am still corresponding and arranging meetings with a number of other guys, but within the next two weeks it will all be over. However, some issues that have come up make me wonder if there isn't some etiquette for this sort of thing that I don't know about. If so, somebody, please clue me in. My morals may be AWOL right now, but I don't want to have bad manners.

In my listing on the website, I indicated that any potential partner would be responsible for logistics and, after a safety and compatibility meet and greet, for a private place for any and all encounters. Pretty clear, no? Is this wrong? Earth to guys seeking an affair: the whole damn thing is wrong, don't get bent out of shape that I'm not bringing home receipts. Your wife is much more likely to forgive you a transgression than my husband is me. So I'm going to be careful. As careful as one can be while writing about this stuff on the Internet.

Up until this latest event, this was not an issue. Every guy I met treated me to drinks or lunch, and didn't bat an eye at the thought that he would be doing that for hotels, whatever, should we hook up (nice vague euphemism there: hook up, meaning meet and fuck). Well, one guy said, "You mean a hotel?" and I replied, "Well, private and comfortable. That's not a parking garage, it's not your car, and it's not your house where your wife would find us." But he was just trying to clarify in his own mind what my terms were, so that didn't seem strange. Also, it became clear that he wanted to hook up in more or less public places for the thrill of it. So he got scratched off the list, because I just don't need to get arrested for indecent exposure, and besides, every time I've ever had sex in a less than completely private setting, the fear and discomfort eliminated any pleasure. You try having sex in a canoe on a river. Not only are you afraid someone will come along, the darn thing keeps threatening to tip over, and really, a canoe bottom is just not that comfortable.

But my latest prince arranged to meet me at a nice location and then emailed me saying we needed to discuss a few things before we met. We couldn't IM, so he emailed me his question which was:

"In your profile, you said that I must always provide the place to meet? Don't you think that this will be a mutually enjoyable experience? I've always split the
cost(or alternated paying)..."

Now, I haven't even met this man yet, and he's trying to renegotiate on of my required conditions when I haven't even decided if I like him. I replied, as follows:

"My husband pays the bills and monitors the checkbook, credit cards, and budget carefully. This is one way I would get caught more easily than any other, and I'm not going to try to hide the dollars spent. Sorry if that's a problem, but the only way I could think to get around it was as I described, and that's why I put it in the profile."

His response:

"Not sure what to say....certainly understand where you are coming from,but I'm not sure I would be comfortable always paying...." (his dashes, not mine, nothing omitted)

To which I replied:

"Well, you have to decide what works for you. There is no way I can manage the logistics (timing, schedules, etc.) as well as fudge finances. My approach here is to tell the truth where possible so as not to get caught in a lie. A surefire recipe for disaster, lying about finances to [the person who monitors the finances]. I've always been a pay my share person, but this time I have to take the more traditional female role financially due to how I perceive the risks and rewards. I understand if that's a dealbreaker, but that's my situation. Let me know."

At this point, I had already decided that this was a no go. My terms were non-negotiable (next he'll be saying he's clean, so we don't need to practice safe sex. Right). However, since he never actually said what he meant, I decided to fuck with him a bit. And there is nothing like good manners when you're trying to screw with someone's psyche. So I sent a little to let him know that without further information, I wouldn't be showing up:

"I assume that your lack of response means we're no longer planning on meeting. If I'm wrong, let me know."

See, I'm not showing up, I'm just being polite, not standing up the guy with whom I'd planned an assignation. Then, get this reply from Romeo:

"your assumption,though,is correct.Even though I could certainly afford it,I find
it very difficult to do out of principle.Good luck finding what you need.You would have been pleasantly surprised,however...." (emphasis added)

Well, I laughed so loud, I scared the dog. I couldn't help myself, and replied:

"Well, I've just got to ask. We're both on a website planning to cheat on our spouses. What's the principle at issue? Principles wouldn't seem to have a whole heck of a lot to do with the whole process. Maybe I would have been pleasantly surprised, but if to have such a surprise I have to risk a whole series of rather likely and unpleasant surprises to other people to whom I have responsibilities (despite my actions here), then that's a risk I can't take. Good luck finding what you want on your terms."

I don't think he's going to reply. Loser. So I'm saved from infidelity again (not that I'd met this man, so there might have been no risk anyway, and this final correspondence convinces me that the possibility of chemistry was exceedingly unlikely). I don't think he has the whole supply/demand thing worked out. I can sit here, plump, middle-aged, but female, and say what my safety and privacy conditions are. Without paying for a membership (where they promote you a bit more, etc.), I've had over 100 responses and am still getting them even though my profile has been off for a few days now. The guys I've met have all told me, it's almost impossible to meet a real live woman from this website who isn't just interested in cyber-romance/sex or who isn't a front for a porn site or a professional. Men outnumber the women by more than 10 to 1. Sure, I have to eliminate 90% of the men simply based on stupidity (and did you notice how Romeo's diction and punctuation deteriorated? When we first emailed to arrange to meet, he wrote halfway decently) but I've met more than 10 men in less than a month, and more are sending in their applications every day. Now, maybe I'm just unattractive and hard to get along with (always a possibility), but I think requiring physical safety, minimizing risk of discovery (by not having unexplainable bills and meeting in a private place after initial meet), and leaving responsibility for arranging logistics up to the guy are not unreasonable requirements on my part. Particularly, since as a woman my health, reputation, and safety are more at risk. Women do get STDs more easily (never had one, never hope to, but that's because I've always been careful. I've kicked a guy out of bed before having sex without precautions), we are physically more vulnerable (not me, really, but hey), and we are punished more for infidelity (stoning, anyone).

Am I missing some kind of feminist point here? Maybe, but I'm living in the real world where having kids damaged my earning power, where having too much sex too openly or obviously is "bad" in some weird way, and where actually pursuing something I desire is vaguely suspect. So, to my remaining suitors: I handle all the logistics for my family (aside from the checkbook, which my husband handles). You are not my husband or my child. So, you take care of the reservations, the planning, etc. I'll show up, and if we hit it off and feel comfortable, we'll have fun.

You'd think someone who was actually paying a website money to find him a woman to have sex with would then quibble at having to take care of providing the place to have the sex. Especially when that is one of the specified conditions.

So please explain to me, aside from morals, what am I missing here?

Opera and Samson et Dalila

Crap. I just lost my whole post.

Last night MVBFITWWW took me to Samson et Dalila, my second opera this season. The first was Democracy. MVBFITWWW and I got hooked on opera (addictive, like a drug)in the 1980s when MVBFSHS moved to Austria to study opera, planning on becoming Cecilia Bartoli or the like. MVBFSHS has not become an opera star, although not for lack of talent. She has a crystalline soprano voice, clear as a bell, but is no self-promoter. If she were a tenor, she's be awash in work. MVBFITWWW and I decided we had to understand the passion consuming MVBFSHS's life, and started subscribing to the opera season. A great, if expensive and all consuming idea. Before that, I had only seen bits and pieces of operas at recitals or in movies (such as the aria from La Wally in the movie Diva, yum).

I thought I would find opera overly pretentious, too stylized, etc. but even though some productions are exactly that (although nothing as stylized or pretentious as the Count of Monte Cristo as staged by Peter Sellers, ex-wunderkind from Harvard, who staged one scene of a 4-hour play in slow motion and another in the dark because, as he idiotically put it "There was so much going on, I just had to make the audience step back. Richard Thomas was playing the Count and when the show simply wouldn't end, someone in my party attending the show said "Good night, John-Boy" loudly, and our whole section of the theater burst out laughing. Sorry Mr. Thomas. That was mean of me.) the real experience is one of overwhelming sensation. If the sets are done well, if the orchestra is playing well, if the singers are in form, and if the tenor can act and move (more about that later), the experience of attending a live opera is one of total sensual overload. Yeah, there's suspension of disbelief. You're rational mind just takes a hike.

So we started seeing some of the classics (all the opera companies keep Tosca, Carmen, La Boheme, etc. in pretty heavy rotation) and some other stuff as well. I can't remember all the operas I've seen, but they include Cosi fan Tutti, the Marriage of Figaro, the Magic Flute, Don Giovanni, Tosca (with Placido Domingo), La Boheme, Aida (with Aprile Milo), La Traviata, Lucia di Lammermoor (with Ruth Ann Swenson), Manon Lescaut, Rigoletto (with Denyce Graves, a woman I would go gay for for sure in her debut DC performance), Tales of Hoffman, The Barber of Seville, Il Viaggio a Rheims, Eine Nacht in Venedig, Der Rosenkavalier, The Ballad of Baby Doe, Vanessa, Carmen (several times), La Boheme, Il Trovatore, La Forza del Destino, Pique Dame (a good opera, but eschew Vladmimir Popov), 100 Airplanes on the Roof (by Philip Glass, not really an opera, but what else do you call it), and Salome (with Maria Ewing, yum). I've left out some important ones. I really want to see Lakme, La Wally, The Ring Series (I know, it's Wagner, but I think I must) and too many others to list.

The best, by far, was Salome. Everything just clicked. Maria Ewing was hypnotic, the staging was great, the set was great, the music was great (and it's not even a composer whose musical style I like much, Richard Strauss) and well played, the singing was great, and the singers moved and acted well. I completely lost all sense of time and place and was simply carried away. This also happened with Lucia di Lammermoor during the mad scene. Sometimes it doesn't click, and then you just enjoy the individual things, the set, a particular singer, whatever.

Sadly, Samson et Dalila was good, but not great. We never felt completely drawn in. This was in large part due to the tenor playing Samson. Because of the shortage of tenors, tenors seem to focus almost entirely on their voices and never polish up the acting skills, their stage movements, or anything else that really is necessary unless they plan on singing oratorio or in concert venues forever. This was the problem with Pique Dame and Vladimir Popov. Vladimir had (or has, I certainly haven't followed his career) a good voice, but that man has no physical grace, no stage presence, and a total of three stage positions. This was exacerbated by the opera's staging (or maybe they had to do it that way to suit him). In Pique Dame (The Queen of Spades) the story is about gambling and luck (and of course, bad luck) and the hero at several points in the story repeats the phrase "Three cards" three times ("Tri carti, tri carti, tri carti"). MVBFITWWW and I noticed that everytime he sang that phrase, his motions were automaton-like; first he would stand with his arms in front of him facing stage right, then center, then left. It never varied. His expression never varied (whether he thought he was winning or losing, had good luck or bad). MVBFITWWW and I started mimicking the gestures whenever the phrase came up.

Carl Tanner was not as bad a mover as Vladimir Popov, but particularly in the first two acts, where he had to demonstrate himself to be torn between desire and duty and drawn to Dalila, he just couldn't do it. At one point, he picked up her hand and it was like he was picking up a loaf of bread at the supermarket. Physically, his presence was more convincing once he was no longer acting the lover but the shorn and tortured victim (but maybe that says more about me and MVBFITWWW and that we took a little too much pleasure in that . . .). There was nothing one could point to, like Vladimir Popov's repetitive gestures, to make fun of. The performance wasn't bad. But it didn't draw you in. Aprile Milo as Aida draws you in. Maria Ewing as Salome simply rips your heart and guts out. Denyce Graves inhabits whatever role she's in with ferocity and seductiveness (I've only seen her in siren-like roles). So many times, a tenor sings well, but can't act or move. The sopranos, baritones, basses, and contraltos are all much better on stage, probably because there is more of an oversupply of those singers, so the competition isn't as fierce. There's a reason Jose Carreras and Placido Domingo were so noted. They could not only sing, they could convincingly play a romantic hero (i.e., you didn't think, "Nope, nice voice, but he's not touching me."). I never saw Pavarotti sing, but I don't think he had the same moves, just a truly lovely voice.

Despite my "complaints", it was a thrill to be at opening night at the opera again with MVBFITWWW. Since it was opening night for Samson et Dalila, a lot of the patrons, get this, actually dressed up for a night at the opera. Imagine that. MVBFITWWW and I rated outfits. There were some truly lovely fashions on display, a rarity in this company town. Of course, there were a few fashion disasters that made us wonder. One woman had on silk black pants (lovely) with a regular pullover sweater, which in and of itself wasn't so bad, but she was having a bra disaster. We tried to figure out what happened, but not only could you see her brastaps through the material of the sweater, in the back, the bra had some awkward dimples or folds that made it look like she had erect nipples on her back. We're still trying to figure that one out. Afterwords, we went up to the rooftop bar, and I filled her in on the blog, my evil plans, and tried out a few new single malt scotches (MVBFITWWW was the designated driver) served by a very handsome and flirtatious (if gay) bartender. I had Dalwhinnie, the Langavulin (sp?), on ice, which is the only way that one is drinkable, and then Talisker. Talisker is just lovely, so I think I know what my replacement bottle will be.

By telling MVBFITWWW about my activities, I broke one of the rules in yesterday's post about not getting caught. But MVBFITWWW and I are a special case. We're kind of like Sherman and Grant, both of whom were utter failures when the Civil War started. Afterwards, when they were both reknowned heroes, during one of the Grant administration scandals, Sherman stood by Grant. When asked why, Sherman said "I was his friend when he was drunk, and he was my friend when I was crazy. I think we're friends forever now." MVBFITWWW and I discussed the rules: I won't ask her to lie for me, I won't tell her anything that would make certain responses be lies, and I won't use her as a cover for any clandestine activity. She in return agreed that while she likes my husband, I'm her VBFITWWW, have been so for more than twenty years (I became Foilwoman for her), and she knows where her loyalties lie.

I've got to get up to the Met in New York to see some opera. Also the Paris Opera, La Scala, and any other opera house I can find. I just need a couple hundred dollars to attend each performance. Oops, I guess I need to work more.

Faithless, True, or Bystander at Your Own Life?

As a follow-up to the earlier post (sex tips for guys), here are three additional thoughts. The first is on the nature of fidelity. The second is on the typical aspects of infidelity. The last is on how to get away with cheating.

On the Nature of Fidelity:

Throughout this whole searching for a lover process, my actions that feel most unfaithful have not been posting a listing on an Internet swingers site, meeting with men with the possible intent to act in a sexual manner (which beyond kissing and one guy who touched below the waist, hasn't happened), or, although it has not and may not happen, actually having sex with another man or contemplating such activity (that happens plenty, believe me, the thinking about it part). The thing that I feel guiltiest about is when the other guy asks about my husband. If I say anything, it feels wrong. Whatever my husband's faults (he doesn't have many, but he's not perfect, even out of bed), he really doesn't deserve to have any other man hear anything about what goes on inside our marriage. Now, I know, most people think having sex with someone else is the biggest possible betrayal of your marriage vows, but I have to disagree. Letting someone into the feelings that are inside the marriage is the bigger betrayal.

"Lay your sleeping head, my love, human on my faithless arm", the first lines of Lullaby, by Auden, seem to sum it up for me. Every human relationship brings with it the seeds of its own destruction. Every relationship also, like the snake in the garden, offers the potential and probable inevitability of its own betrayal. Like the son who marries, but keeps Mom at the top of the list, like the mother who ignores her children for the new and not so nice step-dad, like the husband who says he works so hard to provide for his family, but doesn't really know them because he is away so much.

How do we love without hurting those we love? And how do we love without betrayal. I don't think we can. As a mother, it's clear to me that at times you simply cannot meet all of one's child's needs or demands. The same with spouses. There is no unconditional love -- everything depends. Fortunately, it depends on an awful lot.

Typical Infidelity:

Enough of the deep mopey stuff, on to the fun reading. The typical aspects of infidelity, that I have observed from watching (1) numerous divorces, including my parents' and all their neighbors who I babysat for, (2) every married man in the greater metropolitan area, as far as I can tell, (3) the friends of mine who have had affairs and talked about it (not a large sampling, but an educated and well-spoken bunch, if that counts for anything), and (4) the literature and popular culture descriptions of infidelity (from Madame Bovary and Anna Karenina to Rabbit Run by Updike, to Faithless (the awful Richard Gere/Diane Lane movie), there are a few common threads that seem to underline the narrative of infidelity.

First of all, somehow, this just happens to most people. This always floors me. Are they bystanders at their own life? Can they not tell when they feel desire? I know. Sometimes I wish I didn't, but I sure as shit know when I see something I like walk by me. Or sit down next to me. Or touch me. But our culture of romantic love seems to require that both the man and the woman be overwhelmed by desire, not actually think it through, not plan things carefully, and thus make a train wreck of their own lives. As a result, spouses find out and are hurt, children's faith is destroyed, divorces occur, and finances are ruined (really, get divorced, see what I mean). All because no-one wants to say about themselves: "I plan on being physically unfaithful to my spouse. I am going to take steps to make that happen. I am going to select the best partner I can for my purposes. I'm going to be very careful." Why won't they admit that? It seems cold-blooded, doesn't it? We're supposed to be swept away by emotion. But we control our emotions. We can decide to but a lid on desire or let it run free. We've all had crushes on people where it would be impolitic to act on the crush (like, losing a job or a life, if you life in Saudi Arabia or Afghanistan) and have thus suppressed our feelings, which we otherwise treat as so damn holy.

If (cliche coming, steel yourselves) I had $5 for everytime some woman who has been unfaithful said to me "I was just swept away. . . ." or some variant like that and the male equivalent being "it had been so long, she was just so hot . . .", I would be able to retire with two homes (one on the coast of Maine) and plenty of spending money for the next 50 years. This is always said after the husband finds the letter tucked inside the book, the mysterious phone number showing up on late night calling records, the business trips for which no expense vouchers are ever filed. Or after the wife sees the lipstick, smells the perfume (or worse), or says "I just don't think Don (your boss) should be asking for so much weekend work" and then makes a beeline for the guy at the company party. Of course, that scenario is made much worse if it's Don's wife you've been fooling around with: you are so going to be jobless, homeless, hated by your kids, and probably dumped by Don's wife as well.

How to Get Away with Infidelity:

I haven't been unfaithful, and it looks like, at least right now, I'm not going to be. But if I do have an affair, I've thought it through (this is first degree adultury, adultery with forethought). So here are the rules:

(1) Technology is not your friend. Caller id, internet histories, unclosed email accounts, shared email accounts, cell phone overages, heck, the low-jack on your car, if you've got it (or if the spouse is a spook).
In more detail
(a) Your phone bill will show any long distance calls. So if your lover is long distance, don't call from home.
(b) Depending on your caller id system, your phone may keep a record of every incoming call, how long it lasts, missed calls, outgoing calls, etc. Don't be stupid. Your spouse can read these things. So don't call from home.
(c) Your cell phone will show calls over your monthly limit, or depending on your phone, all calls. Think about that.
(d) Your computer keeps a record of websites you've visited, including porn sites, anonymous email sites, etc. Erase your computer history every time you log off. Do set up a separate hotmail or gmail account, and ONLY use that account. If your spouse is a techie, by your own cheap laptop that spouse doesn't access. There are programs that spouses can install that monitor every keystroke. So know that, and unless you know your spouse is computer clueless, assume that program is installed.
(e) Your employer most likely monitors your computer activity at the office. So don't do the assignation emails there (unless joblessness appeals). Go to your local library or your local cybercafe to check your emails. Use your pay per minute phone to check voicemail etc.

(2) Don't have an affair with a neighbor, in-law, co-worker, spouse's tennis partner, kid's teacher, etc. Can you say Mutual Assured Destruction? Those of you who don't remember the Cold War won't know what I'm talking about, but fuck it, don't shit where you eat or everything gets blown to bits.

(3) Don't have an affair with someone who has less to lose than you do. By that, I mean don't get involved with the single, foxacious or studly single gal or guy at the gym. Maybe they really will stay uncommitted. But if they don't, don't blame me if there is a boiling bunny on your stove.

(4) Do go outside your normal networks. I.e., outside your neighborhood, outside your workplace, go away, away, away. It's not a guarantee, but anything too close to home is like a bad poker hand or bad stocks: fold it or sell it before the stakes get too high.

(5) If you advertise or use a website, see my comments about Internet history above in (1)(d). Take appropriate precautions.

(6) If you advertise, I don't care what they say about getting more hits with a photo. Don't. Unless it really is unidentifiable (I'm trying to get an unidentifiable photo for this website, but my prospective source for this photo is probably overseas or dead or something), your kids could find your ad. Think about that one. It's bad enough if its your spouse, but how are you going to explain it to your 13-year old? Especially when you just grounded her for kissing the 16 year old neighbor.

(7) Receipts will kill you. Don't try to turn your meals out with lover to be into a tax deduction and don't use a credit card if your spouse pays the bills. Sooner or later your spouse is going to ask you why you've been spending nights when she though you were in New York at the Sleep Well Motel in Lorton.

(8) Don't lie more than you have to. I.e., don't come up with complicated stories. "I had to go to the office" is a good line if you are going to the office and then going elsewhere. Don't try to pass off three hour donut runs as legitimate.

(9) Accept that you are being deceitful, and prepare to do what you need to do to protect your spouse and family, with the caveat set forth in (8), above. If you're not willing to cover when you need to (but only when absolutely necessary), you're not tough enough for this, you'll feel excessively guilty, you'll ruin your lover's good time, and you'll end up confessing to your spouse and end up divorced, hated by your kids, poorer, etc.

(10) Under no circumstances confess to make yourself feel better. It might feel better that minute. But it won't in the long run. The spouse or partner who receives the confession normally feels rage while you feel relief. And it's all focussed on you.

I could come up with lots of other tips, but that's it for now. But the gist is: (1) know what you are doing (planning to have an affair and then having and affair); (2) keep it away from home (no neighbors, colleagues, spouse's tennis partners, etc.); (3) no what the evidence is and to the extent possible don't make too much evidence (make sure you pay any bills that come in with incriminating stuff, have as little incriminating stuff as possible, shower before you come home -- and if I have to tell you that, you are really too stupid to breed, much less have an affair, use anonymous phone and email sources that your spouse can't tap into and don't leave an electronic or paper trail); (4) if your objet d'amour (the person with whom you want to hump like a bunny) can't be discreet or seems likely to be needy or chatty about this, well, he or she is not the right lust object for you; (5) keep your big mouth shut; and (6) lie when, and only when, necessary.

Last, and I should not have to tell you this, practice safe sex. Yeah, it's really going to go over well if you give your spouse herpes, genital warts, syphilis, gonorrhea, or chlamydia. And no, you cannot trust your partner. There are some people (bless them) who will tell you. They, like everyone else, can wear a rubber (or you can). Try the infinite variety. You'll find something you like. But no matter how bad you imagine feeling when your wife or husband picks up antibiotic prescription to treat the gonorrhea you gave her or him, think how much worse you're going to feel when you discover you've got AIDS and your spouse has it too. Maybe all the new wonder drugs will work. So bet your kids happiness and future (kids with longer lived parents do better in life, d'oh) on the good health of your lover and his or her past lovers or use a goddamn rubber. Thank you. Be careful out there. And have safe and good sex. It's nice to imagine that someone is doing so.

Sex tips for guys

Men seem very afraid of the female capacity to fake orgasms. But a lot of women don't fake orgasms when they don't have them, and sometimes the men involved don't notice. I've never faked an orgasm. I have reacted to pleasure that was non-orgasmic in bed, but that's not the same thing. So, for the guys out there who are clueless (that's most of you), here is a helpful list of suggestions regarding (1) when she's really not getting that much out of it, (2) when she's faking it, and (3) how to give her more pleasure.

When she's really not getting that much out of it:
(1) Your first big hint is that she stops initiating sex or touching. If she never initiates, well, you picked a gal with a low sex drive, so you got what you wanted. So actually, point number one is, when selecting a mate, select someone who likes to mate.
(2) She starts leaving helpful reading material around, like "She Comes First" or (fictitious title here) "The Dummy's Guide to the Clitoris and G-Spot".
(3) She doesn't complain when you leave the TV on when you have sex.
(4) You don't undress her and she doesn't undress you.
(5) She suggests you experiment (with something, anything) and you don't jump on the opportunity.
(6) Sometimes she gets irritable when you touch her.
(7) Everything stops once you come.
(8) You're not quite sure exactly where you are sticking the darn thing. If you're that uncomfortable and unfamiliar with her body, believe me, she knows, and it bugs her.

When she's faking it:
Oh, I really have no help for you on this one. If you have gotten together with a woman who won't communicate directly sexually or who you have trained to shut up about her sexual desires, it's beyond repair. Being able to talk about one's desires is something so basic, we can't even go there. Maybe if you stop beating her, bullying her, criticizing her, belittling her, or trying to control her, she might feel a bit more freedom to respond with her real feelings, not pretend feelings to make you feel all manly. Basically, people have got to stop criticizing women and labelling women for expressing and acting on desire. Because once you've suppressed enough, how are you ever going to know what turns you on. I blame Republicans, the Christian Right, Radical Islam, Orthodox Judaism, and any other religion that has taboos about female sexuality.

How to give her more pleasure:
(1) Ask. "Honey, what would you like?"
(2) Go down. With enthusiasm. Think of it like caviar or single malt scotch. This is taste anyone with any sense should want to enjoy (and I think, hormonally, you are designed to enjoy it). Let her know you're enjoying yourself. Yup, that's the ticket. While you're doing that, ask her what she likes and learn to take directions.
(3) Get some manual dexterity. There's a reason musicians get laid a lot.
(4) Work on your oral skillz. I think the oboe, the trumpet, and the harmonica should all be required for adolescent males. Also helps with the manual dexterity (see 3, above).
(5) Observe her response. If you caress her hair, does she moan? That's a very good sign.
(6) Know that different women will like different things: one of us might like featherlight touches in certain places, another might like a firmer smoother caress, another might find scratching with the fingernails the cats meow.
(7) Don't always do the same thing every time. If she can set her watch by the time between your first touch, your kiss, touching her breast, reaching for her crotch, and entering, you're painting by numbers. Think jazz, or abstract art, not needlepoint.
(8) Don't only turn to her in bed. Get her going long before you get anywhere near the bed.
(9) Even if you have kids, don't just turn to her with your morning erection. Gosh, that's so not flattering. It's hard because it's there, not because she's there.
(10) Compliment her (and not just in bed). If you can't say anything nice to this woman, what are you doing with her? Compliments can be sexual, or just generic. But cough it up as often as possible. People (in all situations) respond to praise.
(11) Don't criticize: While people respond to praise, criticism shuts them down. If you don't like how she's holding your penis (a problem that you all face, I'm sure), show her what you do like. Incorporate the word "please" into your vocabulary.
(12) Talk. In bed and out of it. There's nothing that gets you gooey faster than hearing what your partner wants to do with you. Explicit or vague, depending on the gal. Encourage her to talk. Of course, there are some people, women and men, who don't like talking. Find each other and stay away from the rest of us.
(13) Don't compare. Unless you're a virgin (good luck with that, btw), we've all had other experiences. Deal with it. Some women have big breasts, some small. Some have long legs, some short. Some are skinny, some are just right, some are plump, and some are fat. You can tell by looking at them. If her body doesn't do anything for you, then you have the information you need, don't you?
(14) If you're in a long-term relationship and she has plumped up or sagged due to age and say, bearing your children, that's a tougher one. She knows she's gained weight and that her waistline isn't what it used to be. Try not to make it an issue, and try to find things you still like and enjoy. Try to do more things together involving physical activity (sex, hiking, biking, going to the gym together, whatever). Become a gourmet cook (specializing in healthful food). Pack her lunch with yummy but healthful treats. But don't say: "You're too fat" unless you want to live in a world of pain. If she asks if she looks fat, she knows she does. She's looking for reassurance. One technique that works is to say, while squeezing her, "That's the woman I married." followed by a nice kiss with tongue.
(15) Remember, it takes you 5 minutes, it takes her 45 or more. Plan on her schedule.
(16) Show her that you desire her and be enthusiastic. There may be some women who really are turned on my men who don't want them. We call them crazy. You want someone who will want you to want her. Communicate that any way you can. Be especially enthusiastic about oral sex, because she might feel self-consious. Make sure she knows that it is fun for you (and if it isn't, figure out why, spank your inner Peter Pan, and get over it).

Good luck.