My Miami Vice Part 4: The Letdown

Doc and I spent a beautiful day together. We enjoyed a late lunch with his attorney, who apparently wanted to hire me for Doc’s new company. “When can you start?” he asked, grinning. I told him I had parenting responsibilities and couldn’t relocate and he spent more time than was necessary trying to convince me I could bring Bunny if I fought hard enough. Unfortunately (or fortunately), I’d already been down that road and knew better.

Several glasses of wine and a few appetizers later we bid adieu to the attorney and rolled into Doc’s house. We chatted for awhile in his kitchen until darkness fell. “Let’s go to bed,” he said.

I’m glad he suggested it; the last time I’d made love to a man was last year: To Scorpio, of course. Doc and I settled in to his room for what I hoped would be a long night.

“We’ll need condoms,” I advised.

Doc groaned. “God I hate them,” he said.

“I know, but we have to do it,” I said gently. “It’s the only way I’ll have sex.”

“I don’t have anything. I’m clean.”

I shrugged. “Oh well.”

He sighed. “I think I have one or two over there,” he reached into his night stand. “God I can’t wait until I never have to wear one of these again.”

I took over the job of putting it on him and smiled. Finally! I hopped on him greedily. And then . . .

. . . nothing. He went flaccid. Well, this is a new development, I thought; he’d been fine with the condoms the last time I came down to see him. Was it his age?

“I can’t wear these,” he complained, “Get it off me.”

I reached down, slipped off the condom and tossed it on the floor. “I suppose we’ll just have to do other things,” I said sweetly.

“MMMMMM . . . I like those other things you do.”

I enjoyed those “other things.” I know I’ve mentioned this before, but I can lay a man flat in fifteen seconds with those other things I can do. Unfortunately, Doc’s body was having none of them tonight. “Let’s just go to sleep,” he said. “This happens sometimes.”

We slept a lot that weekend. I still have not had sex yet this year.

Miami Vice Part 4: Hawt Showdawg

(Westminster Dog Show award-winning Vivi, reportedly worth between $20,000 and $35,000 bust loose from her cage at JFK airport and disappeared last February. A year later she’s still on the lam. To this day her royal hawt dawginess is still making the news and there are still search teams and prayer vigils dedicated to her safe return. This should be proof to all, just in case there were any question, that whether human or canine so long as you are hawt you matter! If you disappear, you will make the news! You are high-value because you are hawt! So unless you’re very rich, or a very white woman, the rest of y’all are screwed should YOU disappear, cause you’re not hawt. No 24-7 news coverage for y’all cause you’re all just folks. Just sayin.’)

All flights to Florida may be termed the Romper Room Flight, because the hulls are always teeming with screaming children. One of them kicked the back of my seat the whole way to West Palm Beach! I flipped through my issuse of the Economist, figuring all was just par for the course. It was a bumpy flight, also par for the course.

Doc Johnson was waiting for me in the same place he did before. “Look at you!” he exclaimed, as we embraced each other excitedly.

“No, look at you!” I countered. He was a little bit older and heavier, but then again so was I so no matter. He looked well. “You look good!”

“You look great! Look at you!!! Miss D.A.R.!!!!!”

Some little spring went boi-oi-oing in my head. DAR????? Daughters of the American Revolution? “I can’t believe that of all the things about me THAT’s the thing you remember.”

“Are you kidding?” That’s the FIRST thing I remember about you! Miss little ladylike DAR! You’re half southern! I love that about you! Your mother’s side, right? Descended from French royalty and George Washington’s family! So girly and feminine, yes suh, no suh, ooooh sexy!” He started to pinch my fleshy bits. “Look at you!”

I cringed from his tickles. “So what you’re saying is that what you like most about me is that I’m pedigreed, like a dog.”

“Definitely. That and you’re very feminine. I love it. Love it!”

This would probably have been the right time for me to make him carry my fancy Louis Vuitton suitcase, since I was such a Southern Layday. But they gave these things wheels for a reason, non? So I kept walking, wheeling my bag behind me. I let him load it into the Jag. I was hungry.

“Let me take you to Luigi’s to meet my attorney,” he said. “You like the food at Luigi’s right? He’s waiting for us. He’s gonna love you. Look at you!”

Miami Vice, Part 3: She’s BAAAAAAAAAAAAACK!!!

 

It’s still a MONTH OF CHOCOLATE!

more to come!

My Miami Vice, Part 2: On Location

(Scene from Miami Vice, the movie)

What started out as a long weekend on a yacht in Key West just turned into a commercial film shoot in Miami. That’s the thing about adventure: You never know where it will take you . . .

Bottom line: Until I fall in love again I’ll give my time to the people who can give me the best stories. Let the games begin! See you next week!

My Miami Vice

I received an email a few weeks ago:

I hope you’re well. There are not too many women on this earth that can ring my bell but you hold a very special place in my heart. If you ever change your mind, I would love to see you again.

Doc

Ah . . . another one. Doc writes to me every few months or so, and usually I just delete his emails. We met on Match.com a few years ago, after the first time I broke up with you-know-who. I had put out a Call to the Universe for another Scorpio who cooked, and within a week I received an email from Doc: A Scorpio in the diamond industry whose life was all about food! He was the spitting image of Don Johnson, the actor who became known for his role in the TV show Miami Vice. He could have been a celebrity impersonator, and all his friends called him John Donson as a kind of joke. I’m calling him Doc because . . . um . . . you’ll see.

Doc sent me a first-class plane ticket to Palm Beach we spent a wine and Viagra-soaked weekend in southern Florida indulging in nearly every hedonistic pleasure known to humankind save for illegal drugs. Consequently, if Doc is holding memories of me anywhere you can be sure as hell they’re noplace near his heart! We had the usual Scorpio-Taurus chemistry, and I’m not exaggerating when I tell you it was some of the best sex in my life (Doc Johnson, get it?). Imagine two people with oral fixations and you’ll get the idea. He was one of two men (two in my life! In 20 years of sexing!) who was able to bring me to climax on the first try (the one was a Spanish gentleman I met on a camping trip when I was a teenager, but that’s a story for another time). Anyway, the man was amazing. In fact, it was ten times better than anything I’d had with you-know-who!

Plus, the man could cook! His specialty was an absolutely insane osso bucco that took all day to make and tasted divine. Plus he knew every great restaurant in Palm Beach/South Beach/Miami and was hell-bent on showing me every one of them before the weekend was up. It was he who dared me to eat the baby eels at a Spanish restaurant in Miami. They were actually very good, fried in a butter and garlic sauce, although I found their little black eyes somewhat unnerving. I gobbled them up greedily anyway. Imagine my shock when he told me the appetizer cost a hundred dollars!

That’s about the time I began to realize that this relationship with Doc couldn’t go anywhere. Sure he was an awesome lover and a great cook, but he was horrible with money. He made a good living but he spent it the minute he made it and had nothing to show for it afterwards. He was in his early fifties had no savings. Worse, his investments were speculative, shaky, and not very well thought out. Here I was, a single parent in my 30’s getting by without a dime of alimony or child support, and my net worth was greater than his! But to him money was like that Doritos commercial: “Don’t worry, we’ll make more.” I knew that if I were to marry him someday I’d probably blow my brains out from frustration with him.

 

I suppose this is where some of you will look for the “I’m not a golddigger but . . . ” speech. Let me cut things short by being very clear when I say that money matters in relationships: How we make it, how we spend it, how we save it. Money is the top thing couples fight about and, next to infidelity and sex, one of the top things couples divorce over. In life there are spenders and savers, people who are good with money and people who are bad with it. I’m only so-so with money so if I’m gonna hook up with a man, it’s gonna be with someone who is better at it than I am!

I broke things off with him shortly afterward. There was no way this relationship was going to go anyplace, so I wrote him off as a lovely fling and moved on with my life. He took it poorly and said some very nasty things, revealing an explosive, mean-spirited temper that I always suspected was there but never saw until that day: The dark side of passion.

Over the past two weeks I’ve deleted Doc’s email, thought about it, and moved it back into my inbox. Several times. Another fling perhaps? Some insanely good sex, a little osso bucco, a little Florida Sunshine? It’s high time the Hedonistic Pleasureseeker took a vacation, after all, since I’m never going anywhere again with you-know-who.

. . . so what’s up, Doc?

I hit the send button.