Small Fast Plane Part 16: The Hard Sell

After a few days Tex sent another email:

Oh HPS,

I have this new stealth email to try to bypass my spam status. I forgot to tell you. I am back in the game. I can’t tell you for a week or two but I am going to be taking names and kicking ass again. Ohhhh, how I miss the real world.

Besides that, I may have told you that I have a new patent for the “wheel” of the wireless world and if things go well in the next 2 months I will put a “buggy” on top of the wheel. Now who else do you know who can do that babe?

Tex

Babe? We have sex once and he thinks he can call me “Babe” now? I rolled my eyes and continued to ignore him, apparently to no avail:

HPS,

I know that I am in the dog house and that I most likely will stay in there. But just to clarify the sex thing. You are a reeeeeely sexy girl and I don’t think for a New York minute that I don’t think about that and … I think I have dug myself into a reeely deep hole and I am just trying to dig myself back up to sea level.

Oh, I rented an apartment in Miami Beach. I miss it so much. If you get some spare time and want to get together in a really cool place it is nice down there.

Tex

This man was just not going to shut up, was he? He thought his new pad in Miami would tip the odds in his favor? Little did he know that I didn’t care so much for Miami. I typed out a quick reply:

Tex,

Hi, sorry I have not responded; at first I didn’t know if your first email was part of your “making amends” part of sobriety. I was away when you wrote your other messages. I’m glad to hear that you’ve stopped drinking and have gone back to work. It’s important to have purpose in life. I wish you all the best.

HPS

After I sent the email I started to wonder . . . would he be better company as a sober person? Less arrogant and presumptuous? If he’s been sober for this long maybe I should give him another chance? The sex and the company weren’t bad, after all. I’ve also been a little bit “adventure callenged” lately. Thinkthinkthinkthinkthink.

HPS,

Well, I can’t tell you about my business stuff yet, we will file with the SEC next week. Can you please unspam my regular email address? I just got this one to try to contact you and see how you are doing.

As to sobriety, I am into another approach. I wrote to you about this but it most likely got spammed.

Tex

Another approach, huh? I decided not to stick around to find out what he meant. He was a total jerk when he was drunk, and the sex wasn’t so good that I’d be willing to date his verbally abusive ass. Sure he was being sweet now, but it would only be a matter of time before he started in on the insults. Never mind.

Tex,

I appreciate your efforts to apologize, and for the sake of peace on earth I will forgive you. However, I do believe it is healthiest for me to just cut the cord here and now. Again I do wish you the best.

HPS

I guess I won’t be flying around Texas and Florida in his Learjet any time soon!

Small Fast Plane Part 15: Variation on a Theme

(Remember how I told y’all how much Tex looks like GW Bush?)

I had spammed him, but he established another email address to get through:

Hi HPS,

I hope you are well. I was just thinking about you and decided to write and check on you.

My guess is you are still pissed at me as women seem to have very loooong memories when it comes to things such as the one which caused you to spam at me.

Anyway, I do think about you and I hope you are feeling better and getting better and … well I don’t know, whatever was stressing you out so much has eased.

HPS, I have met a lot of women in my life and I must say that you are in a class of your own.. in a positive way. Now, I really don’t like cats much, and your spiritual side is a bit out of my league, but it’s not really any of that. You are a real jewel of a person and you can hang with me on most any topic and obviously we diverge on others.

I am so sorry that I hurt your feelings last fall. I want to be your friend. You are beautiful just the way you are. Hey, you are HOT !! I am not in need of sex. I am in need of friends who can hang with me as you can. I don’t mind sex. I like sex. But that is not why I am emailing you.

CAN YOU PLEASE GIVE ME ANOTHER CHANCE AND UNSPAM ME?

Tex

Well that’s nice, I thought. Perhaps he’d gone back to AA and sobered up, and his email was one of the ways he was “making amends.” I decided to forgive him, but I couldn’t decide how to respond. Every man I’ve ever dumped for being a complete asshole has eventually humbled himself in an attempt to get back into my pants. In fact, it’s happened so many times I’ve decided it must be a part of the script! Sometimes it takes weeks, while other times it takes years: One year, ten years, fifteen years, it doesn’t matter; if they can find me they do, and confess to some variation of “I didn’t know what I had.” Once the confession even came with a marriage proposal! Usually I was happy with someone else by then and uninterested in a reunion, but this time my dance card was empty. I simply had nothing better to do with my time.

(Check out Exploding Dog!)

Small Fast Plane Part 14: Man Spam

I thought my Small Fast Plane series was over, but alas. As some of you may have noted, I was the subject of an attempted bribe a few nights ago. I might have misled my reading public into believing this bribe was actually successful, so I am scrambling this post together to assure you that it was not.

So here I was: Downloading my new Nortion Antivirus software, updating my blogroll, generally minding my own business. I checked my email to discover Tex had sent me several messages: One stating he no longer had problems with my “religion,” another suggesting we get together as “just friends,” another telling me about how he’d like me to be his date for the Crystal Ball in December, a big holiday party favored by Houston socialites. He’d even buy my luggage, Louis Vuitton of course!

Just Friends? Now Just Friends I could handle and the Crystal Ball sounded like fun. I could blog it, yes!!!! I’d feel just like a secret agent! But to go to the ball as Tex’s date? The man simply could not dance! I decided to probe:

So when is the Crystal Ball? I’m not saying yes, I’m just curious.

He wrote back that I had better make up my mind quick because he needed to buy me a ball gown. I told him I already had a ball gown. OK, so he’d buy me sparklies instead. I told him I could use a pair of white gold diamond drop earrings to go with the dress (why not?). He said deal!

I returned to my Norton Antivirus and started the loading process. Very strange, I thought. Should I do it? I had to think. I really didn’t care that he had decided my so-called religion was “acceptable.” I didn’t care for HIS religion and I really didn’t care that much for HIM. But I didn’t want to be rude, so I didn’t say anything.

Several minutes later I re-checked my email and egad, there were about 10 new messages from Tex! He wanted to pay for surgery to remove the scars from my breast reduction. That’s a very strange thing to offer a “friend,” I thought. I wrote back that my scars really didn’t bother me. He wrote back that I was lying, and that he was a perfectionist. Didn’t I want to know what he wanted from me in exchange?

I sort of figured I already knew.

My cynicism was taking over: Throw in a free boob surgery and we were nearing the $10,000 mark. I never thought I’d actually be faced with the day a man actually offered me ten grand in goods in services just to fuck him again. Just Friends, my ass.

His emails were becoming more and more agitated. Why wasn’t I responding to his email the way he wanted me to? Why was I being so unemotional? Why didn’t I give “us” a chance? Did it bother me that he wanted to buy me all this shit, and did I think he was trying to buy sex? He could get sex anywhere!!!!!!

It finally occurred to me that Tex must be drunk. He did have a drinking problem; he must have fallen off the wagon again. I thought about kissing Tex again and sighed. There was just no way.

Are you drunk?

I have a job, I can buy my own shit. And you can buy sex for much less money than what you’ve offered to spend on me tonight. I think we’re both beyond this.

The reason I’m being unemotional is that, although I’ve agreed we may be friends, I really don’t think we’re well matched.

Tex responded in such a belligerent and nasty way that he left no doubt as to his inebriated state. I won’t even repeat some of the things he said, but they were along the lines of “you’ll never find a man and die alone” along with the suggestion I was a whore.

You are drunk. This conversation is over.

A few days later I received an email from Tex apologizing for his “mean” emails and offering excuses as to when he does, and does not drink. He wouldn’t drink on a date, he promised. The DoD firewall prevents me from responding to him, but you know what? In just about every email service there is a little button that reads something like “Report As Spam.” I’ve reported Tex’s email as spam and from this day forth every email he sends me will go straight into my trash. The “Report as Spam” function works with every email pest imaginable: Internet trolls, Nigerian scammers, even retired telecommunications executives. Simple and easy. Now the Fast Plane Series is REALLY over!

Small Fast Plane Part 13: Dating Advice for the Home Girls

I don’t know who this Cassie singer/rapper is, but apparently she buys her own shit, and she doesn’t take any either! Homegirls, take notes!

At the Lair of the Hedonistic Pleasureseeker there is news that Tex no longer has a problem with my “religion.” As long as his parents don’t find out. He invited me to the Crystal Ball, a big holiday shindig favored by Texas high society. He’s bribing me - or, at least trying to bribe me - with diamonds and Louis Vuitton luggage. And free surgery to remove my boob scars. One hundred bucks says he’s DRUNK!

(I’ve got nothing to add; I was just looking for an excuse to use the photo!)

 

 

 

Cassie Long Way 2 Go Lyrics
[Verse 1:]
I love it when they try to get intimate
Even though they know I really ain’t into it
(You’re not into it?) I’m not into it
I already know the game and I’ve been through it
See I buy my own bags, my boots, my jeans
Wear La Rok with my Rebel Yell underneath
You wanna step to me?
Said you gotta long way 2 go (Rock wit me now)

 

[Pre-Hook:]
You claim that you’re so hot
And you say you got skills in the bedroom
You, try to flirt when you’re so not
Had a chance you still never come through
You, say you wanna come see me
Cuz you know your girlfriend wanna be me (Uh)
I’ma tell you why you can’t
Said you gotta long way 2 go
Say you wanna love me?

 

[Hook:]
Wanna love me? Wanna touch me?
Think twice cuz you gotta long way to go
Don’t know howda act, bettah fall back
It’s like that cuz you gotta long way to go
It’s not that deep, take it easy, you wanna please me?
Got a long way 2 go, I’ma bad girl
You wanna get close? Ease up cuz you gotta a long way to go

 

[Verse 2:]
I love it when they try to get scandalous
Even though they know they really can’t handle it
(They can’t handle it?) They can’t handle it
Try and take me out to dinner, I cancel it
If you really wanna know me first of all
You should never try to get to personal
Cuz I mean it when I say:
That you gotta long way to go

 

[Pre-Hook:]
You claim that you’re so hot
And you say you got skills in the bedroom
You try to flirt when you’re so not
Had a chance you still never come through
You say you wanna come see me
Cuz you know your girlfriend wanna be me (Uh)
I’ma tell you why you can’t
Said you gotta long way to go
Say you wanna love me?

 

[Hook:]
Wanna love me? Wanna touch me?
Think twice cuz you gotta long way to go
Don’t know howda act, bettah fall back
It’s like that cuz you gotta long way to go
It’s not that deep, take it easy, you wanna please me?
Got a long way 2 go, I’ma bad girl
You wanna get close? Ease up cuz you gotta a long way to go

 

[Pre-Hook Breakdown:]
You claim that you’re so hot
And you say you got skills in the bedroom
You try to flirt when you’re so not
Had a chance you still never come through
You say you wanna come see me
Cuz you know your girlfriend wanna be me (Uh, yeah)
Said you gotta long way 2 go
Say you wanna love me?

 

[Hook:]
Wanna love me? Wanna touch me? (Touch me)
Think twice cuz you gotta long way to go (Way to go)
Don’t know howda act, bettah fall back (Oh you got a long way)
It’s like that cuz you gotta long way to go
It’s not that deep, take it easy (Take it easy) you wanna please me?
Got a long way 2 go, I’ma bad girl (I’ma bad girl)
You wanna get close? Ease up cuz you gotta a long way to go

 

Wanna love me? Wanna touch me?
Think twice cuz you gotta long way to go
Don’t know howda act, bettah fall back
It’s like that cuz you gotta long way to go
It’s not that deep, take it easy, you wanna please me?
Got a long way 2 go, I said you gotta long way to go
Rock wit me now, you gotta long way to go
Bettah fall back, said you gotta long way to go

Small Fast Plane Part 12: In Which the Hedonistic Pleasureseeker Decides Once and For All Not to Convert

This is a Mormon book about the coming Apocalypse, but to me it’s an indication that the God of the Patriarchy is a premature ejaculator. I dunno, in my realm the satyrs, the woodwose and the dusii can last all night, so I think I’ll stay right here!

Anyhoo. Despite my gentle kiss-off, Tex keeps sending me email:

Do you know that if you flushed all the visible stuff from your
“altar”, you and I are fairly compatible spiritually? I loathe
icons and relics and will always do so.

OK, he’s a computer engineer, English is obviously not his strong suit. But wait, there’s more!

As far as your religion, I just think it will be an obstacle for you with a lot of men. Remember, you said it is a lot about how these things are framed. If you reframed your deep beliefs, as I understand them, it might still work for you and not be an issue for others. Just a thought. You are really an easy going practical person and interesting and I just hate to see you sabotage yourself if there were any way to think out of the box.

You see, things would be so much better if I repackaged myself to be more appealing to narrow-minded, fundamentalist religious people. Because my singlehood is a Bad Thing. Because my lack of appeal to men is obviously a problem. Because I’m the one who needs to “think out of the box.” Sweet Jeebus on a cracker!

However, I feel my mission with you is not finished.

Oh, shit, I was afraid of that.

I know you experienced avery high level of emotional pain over the last few years. I sort of feel a sense of responsibility to be here for you if you need a friend . . . I am going to tell you one thing. I do not think you are going to get your relief from any man. My sense is that you had some sort of trauma . . . that you are trying to get freedom from. Are you trying to do something to rid yourself of or hurt yourself because of memories by doing this thing with blogs about your encounters. Your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit. Maybe you are beating yourself up with Magnums the way I am with booze.

OK help me out here. What’s a Magnum, and how does one beat oneself up with one? Fortunately, today he informed me that he met a nice woman and that she might be “the one.” Thank GOD. I replied:

I didn’t know how to respond to your last email, which seemed to frame my present singlehood as a problem to be solved. Honestly, I’ve never lacked for male attention: I’ve spent most of my adult life in committed relationships with men who were just fine with my spirituality. Changing my “marketing approach” to appeal to men I don’t want anyway strikes me as pretty questionable advice, to be frank.

Please don’t worry about me! I’m satisfied with my singlehood; I don’t consider it a problem at all. When or if the right man appears I’ll be ready, and if it never happens that’s fine too. I wish you all the best.

I believe we may now close the book on the Small Fast Plane series.

THE END??????????

(Hat Tip for the photo above: Dooce! Hat tip for the photo below: Boozhy!)

Small Fast Plane Part 10: Expensive Toys

Shopping. Shopping. Shopping, OK. He wanted to take me shopping but where to go? Oh, there were so many places, as I live in an upscale region in the Northeast. Think. But what did I need? Did I really “need” anything? No, but this was his game, this was his show, and who was I to argue about a gift?

I suppose I’d have to settle for wants. At the moment what I really wanted was chunky heeled brown boots or a chocolate brown Coach bag, not necessarily in that order. We hopped in his rented SUV and I directed him to a mall where most of the upscale fashion in my area is located. We ate a late lunch at the local grill and then walked in and out of many shops, running our hands over the merchandise. Eventually we entered a boutique that carries Chloe, Roberto Cavalli, Dolce & Gabbana, Stella McCartney, Jean Paul Gautier, Versace, and other high-end designers I’ve never been able to afford on my own dime. This was right up his alley! The man truly did love to shop for women’s clothes and he was visibly excited. I tried not to peek at the price tags when he suggested a Versace suit in a dark brown, but we couldn’t find one in my size.

That’s when I saw the kittyprint dress. A Dina Bar-el, and there was only one left, and it was my size. Precious, my precious. I snatched it greedily off the rack and handed it to the sales assistant. Then there were the Chloe boots, my dream boots, the boots “everyone” wanted this season, in a dark chocolate brown. My head was full of guilty rambling. Oh no, they were $800, I was gonna die. At least the dress was on sale. Could I even ask a man to buy me $800 boots? But least they were practical! When would I be able to wear the kittyprint dress anyway, Vegas? But I loved the dress fiercely. It didn’t even need any alterations! And it was on sale! ON SALE I tell you!

I couldn’t decide, and so excused myself to the ladies room to pee and think. When I returned, I saw him with bags in hand: He had bought them both. “They were on sale!” He said with a grin. Then he took me next door and bought me a Coach bag to match my new boots. I thanked him profusely: I was set for the season, because there was simply nothing left on my Wish List to yearn for.

We got back into the car and headed . . . oh dear, I have no idea; I’ve blacked it all out. We were talking about shopping, and the things he bought for himself. He had it all: An 8,000 foot mansion, a Maserati (or was it a Ferrari? sorry I’m lousy with cars), a boat, a motorcycle, a vacation home, a this, a that. Then he said IT.

“You’re an expensive toy.”

I raised an eyebrow and looked at him sideways. “Really.” I peered into his skull: He was dead serious, and thought he had given me a compliment. For real.

How to respond? The man was my out-of-town guest, and he had just dropped two grand on me. He hadn’t meant to be insulting, and I didn’t want to be rude. Consequently I did what any responsible Good Woman would do: I shut the fuck up.

The rest of the weekend involved my quietly counting the hours to his departure. I was sweet and accommodating and pleasant and girly-submissive. I offered no feminist critique of the afternoon’s activities. The man had effectively bought my silence for the rest of his trip.

We went to a nightclub and listened to some music and danced. I’m an ex-professionial bellydancer who can really shake it, so to speak, on the dance floor. Still, I’m generally forgiving about most of the things civilians do in nightclubs: As long as you can keep a beat you don’t need to worry about what I’m thinking about you. Dancing is supposed to be fun, and we all look pretty silly anyway!

Unfortunately, while on the dance floor with Tex I prayed the others would take what he was doing as parody. He was over-the-top bizarre! People were staring at us, and not in a good way, either. He was dancing like a five-year-old on Romper Room! That’s about when he suggested I order an alcoholic beverage for myself. “You need to loosen up,” he said. “I’ll just have a sip of yours.” Since Tex is an admitted alchoholic prone to frequent lapses I firmly declined and asked for another bottle of water. He thanked me for my restraint a few hours later.

We retired to his hotel room at midnight. I took a rain check on the sex and he rolled over, falling asleep immediately. Oddly, he had placed a pillow between us. At least he did not snore! My mind was muddled. I missed my ex and felt very depressed. I realized did not care at all for this man lying in bed next to me and I just wanted to go home. Sleep never came. I lay very still and stared at the ceiling until sunrise.

Small Fast Plane Part 9: The Voodoo that I Doodoo

Tex: So, if you could do without anything in your bedroom, what would you be willing to give up?

Me: (thinking for a moment) I really don’t “need” any of it; I mean, it’s just stuff. None of it is “necessary,” but all of it is very meaningful to me and it’s all out for a specific reason. That’s a very strange question. Why do you ask?

Tex: The voodoo dolls.

Me: (thinking, hoo boy, here we go) They’re prosperity dolls from New Orleans. I bought them when I was on vacation there, and they hold a lot of meaning to me. I kept them in a drawer for a few years, but then when the hurricane Katrina hit I took them out and put them on display.

Tex: Come on. Voodoo dolls? Sticking pins and needles? It’s evil! Creepy.

Me: Listen. Your ideas . . . most people’s ideas . . . about Voodoo come from Hollywood and are completely messed up. Voodoo practitioners don’t stick pins in prosperity dolls!!! I don’t think they use pins much at all! The conjuring side of the practice is called Hoodoo. Voodoo is actually very benign, very spiritual. They spells they cast are for normal human desires: Love, happiness and prosperity, pretty much what everyone in the world wants. Hardly anyone in the world actually wants to do other people harm.

Tex: Hoodoo, voodoo, whatever, it’s all witchcraft, and my religion tells me it’s wrong. You shouldn’t even have them in the house.

Me: (and his point was?) When I was in New Orleans I received a reading from Mambo Miriam at the Voodoo Spiritual Temple. She uses sticks, rocks and bones and is actually very good. The woman doesn’t have a mean bone in her body; she actually has a kind of glow about her. She’s all good. I bought both of those dolls that day. They help remind me to save my money. Do I HAVE to have them out? No, I suppose a little bowl with a few coins in it would do the job. But I like them; it helps me to connect with that space and time.

Tex: So do you really cast spells with them?

Me: No, but I could if I want to. I could even make my own, out of natural items like moss or clay or little bits of cloth. For a love spell I could make a boy doll and a girl doll, and then every day position them a little bit closer to each other. On the day the dolls touch, I could tie them together. But I just don’t do that kind of thing.

Tex: You’ve got to be kidding me, don’t tell me that’s supposed to actually work.

Me: Only if I tell the parties involved. That’s the real part of the spell; the rest is mostly just symbolic and a tool for focusing attention. The involved parties could then choose to appreciate the gesture and just roll with it, or they could run and make their own dolls and counteract the spell, or run to a mambo for assistance. A big part of it is psychological.

Tex: So there really isn’t any magic involved at all.

Me: Yes there is, but psychology and focus are the biggest parts of what make magic work. (why was I even bothering to tell him this?)

Tex: That’s just weird. I just don’t understand why you have them around. Besides, they’re ugly.

Me: Most folk art isn’t what I’d call “pretty.” Voodoo is is really just a combination of African tribal and Catholic traditions. Folk magic and Christianity. It’s basically harmless.

Tex: Well, it’s all idol worship. That’s what’s wrong with the Catholics too; they worship idols. It’s all wrong.

I sighed and shook my head. Next thing he’d be freaking out about my tarot cards. I took special pains to change the subject, keeping in mind that he’d be leaving the next day.

***************************
Postscript: Those open-minded folk out there who want to know what voodoo is really all about, please visit The Voodoo Spiritual Temple or the Historical Voodoo Museum in New Orleans. Bloody Mary’s tours are also great!

Small Fast Plane Part 8: Negotiations

Two minutes after his orgasm he was negotiating terms.

Tex: So, where do we go from here?

Me: (raises eyebrows, shakes head) What do you mean?

Tex: I’m going to take down my dating profile.

Me: Why don’t we give it six months and see how things go?

Tex: SIX MONTHS?!?!? Anything could happen in six months!

Me: That’s rather my point.

Tex: I mean, when you get to our age we know what we like.

Me: You’re the third guy I’ve been with in the last year or so who has wanted exclusivity right away. What’s up with that?

Tex: Well, you know how us guys are.

Me: What, like the Man Law commercial? “You poke it you own it?”

He had walked into the bathroom and probably didn’t hear me. I pulled my clothes back on. It was late afternoon, too late to spend the day in Atlantic City, and my brain was so fried from the early morning’s events that I didn’t feel up to a road trip in any case. The local clubs wouldn’t get interesting until at least 10pm, and it wasn’t even dinner time yet. What was I going to do with this man for the rest of the afternoon?

He walked out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist. “I want to take you shopping and buy you something!” he explained, almost proudly.

Fair enough.

Small Fast Plane Part 7: Conversations Over Espresso

Tex: I have to ask you something.

Me: Mmm?

Tex: You doing cocaine?

Me: Are you kidding?

Tex: Well, you keep going to the bathroom every twenty minutes, and you’re really thin and pale, so I thought . . .

Me: Do I really look as though I can afford a cocaine habit?

Small Fast Plane Part 6: Getting Back on the Horse

I opened my eyes. I was in bed, holding a cell phone. My cell phone? My daughter must have brought it up while I was out cold. I dialed the house and she picked up. “Honey, could you bring me a little bit of something to eat? It might make me feel better.”

“OK.”

The visions were finally fading. It was broad daylight, probably past lunchtime, and I needed to pull myself together. I rolled over in bed. I was clammy and my black satin sheets felt cold and slippery. I saw the digital thermometer next to my pillow (she probably brought that too) and I popped it in my mouth. 94 degrees? I must have been in some kind of shock to have a body temperature that low, because the thermometer on my clock radio had my room in the mid-80’s. I sighed.

I dialed Tex and apologized for my late call, but that I had food poisoning and was moving slowly. I gave him directions to the house and suggested we take it easy for the day. He voiced concern and readily agreed. Sophia entered the room with some soy yogurt and some spirulina juice from the health food store and I did my best to eat at least half of it. One way to stop a psychic episode in its tracks is to eat something, especially protein.

The dizziness finally began to fade and I bathed quickly, put on some makeup, and rummaged for something to wear. I chose a new Elle McPhereson bra and panty set in black and cream. Very nice! He would be pleased!

Yes, it was high time I had sex again. I had been celibate since early summer, and of course my last time was with my ex. I hadn’t done more than kiss a man since then. I hadn’t wanted to, because every time I went on a date I’d come home feeling like I wanted to cry. Sometimes I’d even cry for real: Once I didn’t even make it home and had to pull my car to the side of the road. When I kissed my Scorpio ex-lover (or even thought about kissing him) I swooned like a drunk girl, but when I kissed those other men I felt nothing. What was wrong with me? It had been over two months, and it was over for good, so enough already. I needed to have sex with someone who was not him. I needed to get back on this horse, and this perfectly nice man from Texas would have to do.

I pulled on my skinny jeans and my high heeled boots, and chose a longish black tunic with bell sleeves. Omigod I was channeling Stevie Nicks, but the 80’s were in again so everything was cool. I smiled at my reflection, fluffed my hair and headed downstairs. He would be here any minute, and I had a demon to exorcise.

Small, Fast Plane, Part 5: Visions

(Fuseli The Nightmare)

It was 10:00 am on Saturday and I was hallucinating.

This was no LSD-inspired cartoon picture show. I was living lives, multiple lives, with many people I seemed to know, just not in this life. I was bilocating. Trilocating. Multilocating? Bilocation is the phenomenon or experience of being in two locations at one time. It’s shit-your-pants-scary if you’ve never experienced it before.

I felt this vague recollection that I needed to be somewhere . . . Tex, he was awaiting my call, but I couldn’t call because I wasn’t really there. Oh, fuck, this was a problem. I needed to pull myself together.

For some reason I was upset by the realization that this felt so familiar. Why had I blacked out this knowledge? Who were these people? Why did I want to throw up, and why couldn’t I stand?

“Mommy?”

I looked up to see my daughter standing over me. I was on my bedroom floor by the door, curled up in a little ball, naked. I didn’t remember how I ended up there. “Mommy’s sick, honey, could you bring me some water?”

“OK.”

I dragged myself to the bathroom and curled up on the floor next to the toilet. The tile felt nice and cool. I must have some kind of stomach bug or food poisoning. No, wait. I didn’t have any diarrhea or vomiting, and all I had the night before was a salad. I didn’t have any alcohol, so alcohol poisoning was out of the question. Did someone slip a funny mushroom into my salad? No, I would have tasted it and the effects would have worn off in a matter of hours.

No, this was just your run-of-the-mill psychic crisis. Welcome to my world. I phased out of consciousness and resumed my multiple, mystery lives, knowing that somewhere in space and time, some man from Texas was wandering alone around town, wondering where I was.

(to be continued . . .)

Small Fast Plane, Part 4: Gone Courtin’

I met him in the lobby of the hotel where he was staying: Blonde, shorter than average, medium build, and generally handsome. He’d worn a blazer as I’d instructed, as we were going straight to an upscale restaurant in New Jersey for our First Date.

I drove. The night before he’d called me and nervously explained that he was struggling with his sobriety, and that he would cancel his flight up if I asked him to. I thought about it for about five seconds and told him that it was okay with me, but that I would drive, he wouldn’t drink while we were together, and we would talk about it. I’m no stranger to the ups and downs of sobriety, as I have sober friends and family members. I even went through “Family Week” at St. Mary’s Hospital in the Twin Cities, and attended Alanon meetings as a teenager.

I’ve also been depressed and miserable for the last few months, drinking way too much alcohol. Worse, I’ve been drinking alone. I’ve been doing it partly to keep my weight up, since I stop eating when I’m depressed. You see, there are no mistakes in the Universe, so it was no surprise to me that an alcoholic would appear out of the blue to say hi, or in his case “howdy.” I decided to keep the faith and just roll with it, because one way or another this would be a learning experience.

Thus began two days of my trying to figure out if I’d ever be attracted enough to this man to get naked with him.

Day One: He was perfectly kind, polite and generous. He was in his late 50’s, the retired CEO of a large telecommunications company, trying to make sense of life after work. Dinner went smoothly: He ordered fish and I had the sirloin (Pittsburgh rare). We both drank a lot of bottled water, and I kept running back and forth from the bathroom because of it. At about 10:30 I dropped him back at his hotel and kissed him good night. Unfortunately I felt nothing. He was an attractive man, but something was not quite right, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on why.

Day Two: It was Friday and I had taken the day off from work. I was on Mom Duty in the afternoon and late evening and had a daytime doctor’s appointment, but Tex and I were able to spend several hours of quality time together inbetween my commitments. The weather was iffy so we stayed close to home: We had brunch at the local diner and then went window shopping in an exclusive area of town. He offered to buy me something but I declined, telling him I already had everything I needed. We enjoyed dinner at the local sports bar (I had the chicken salad) and finally started talking about sexy things.

That’s when it hit me. OH MY FUCKING GOD. We were doomed. How was I going to get through the remainder of the weekend without bringing it up?

Me: I have to ask you something, and I don’t mean for you to take offense.

Tex: (raised eyebrows) Yeah?

Me: Has anyone ever told you that you look like . . . George Bush?

Tex: (laughing) All the time, especially know that I’m older and have gone gray. I’ve heard it about twelve times this year.

Me: It doesn’t have to be an insult; I mean, he’s not an unattractive man or anything. Except for the chimp thing.

Tex: Just don’t start talking politics with me; I hate politics.

(Thanks to Cheryl at Claiming My Inner Bitch for finding Mr. Penishead!)

Thank god we didn’t talk about politics, or he would have gotten an earful. Since this is a blog devoted to hedonistic pleasure seeking, I don’t spend much time discussing politics with the exception of sexual politics or the latest juicy scandal. However, if pressed, I would find no shame in telling all of you exactly what I would like to do to G.W. Bush if only I had the guts. Probably the same thing as Ben Metcalf would do. If only talking about it weren’t illegal.

I went home asking myself, could I ever get past this? Could I ever seriously kiss or make love to a man who could play celebrity impersonator for the one man who represents, to me at least, everything that has gone wrong in America over the past eight years?

(to be continued . . .)

Small Fast Plane, Part 3: Getting Ready

We’d been pen pals for a few months. I had refused to fly out to meet him because I’m bored with the whole long-distance upscale dating scene. I felt it time for something a little more real, something a little more close to home. Adventure is great, sure, but once it becomes repetitive it no longer counts as adventure. Rather, it becomes a chore and I become tempted to charge by the hour for my precious time. And we’re just not gonna go there, are we?

But the man was persistent. Since he was now going to extraordinary lengths to finally meet me, I thought it only fair that I take special pains to look my best on our First Date. Believe me, spending my hard-earned cash, including using my vacation time to turn myself into eye candy for a man is turning into a special pain indeed, and I’m getting to the point where I refuse to do it anymore. However, I do have some advice for the aspiring upscale dater who doesn’t mind playing the sexbot-commodity role for fun, love and/or profit. This one is for the sexay lay-days!

Face Potions: With the exception of Retin-A which may only be obtained with a prescription, wrinkle products don’t work, so don’t waste your money. Sunscreen (I use Neutrogena Ultra Sheer with Helioplex) and Retin-A are the only topicals you need if you care about facial aging. I’ll leave the laser, Botox and Restylane decisions up to you, as they are the ONLY ways to get rid of the wrinkles you may already have. Up until recently I’ve been doing all three.

Makeup: A man, even a very rich one, cannot tell if your makeup is expensive. With the exception of your foundation, which needs to match your skin tone exactly, you can afford to buy all your makeup at the local drugstore. I use Physicians Formula (found in drugstores) and Bare Minerals foundations for everyday, but will splurge on Chanel foundation for special nights. The look to aim for is the one he won’t notice; i.e., the carefully studied fake-natural look. Stick with neutral colors.

Hands: Unless he’s an odd sort who fetishizes fake nails, a man cannot tell whether or not you had your nails done at the salon or by a friend, or by yourself using supplies you bought at the local drugstore. I do my own nails and prefer Opi, Revlon Colorstay, and Sally Hansen products in neutral and light colors. Save the bronze and coral for summer! He will notice if you chew your nails or if your polish is chipped, so use clear polish if you are in a hurry. Besides, if you’re dating “old money” (money that’s been in the family for at least three generations), he thinks brightly-colored nailpolish and overly-long nails look tarty anyway.

Feet: He will notice if your feet are nasty, so if there is even half a chance he’ll be seeing them, for gods sake get a pedicure! I swear by Sally Hansen Smoothing Foot Scrub. You need to be perfectly groomed from head-to-toe.

Hair: He cannot tell whether your haircut cost $30 or $300. He doesn’t care, either. He only wants your hair to be touchable and elegant.The more gel and spray you use, the less he will like your hair (and if you start dating him seriously, you will annoy the shit out of him if you spend hours in front of the mirror fussing with it). I do my own hair and use a minimal amount of styling products. I’m especially parial to the Garnier Fructis line (you can find it at your local grocery store), but splurge on Bumble and Bumble Creme de Coco shampoo and conditioner when I’m feeling rich. I haven’t felt rich enough yet to splurge on the Oscar Blandi Jasmine Hair Oil but it smells heavenly!

Clothes: Dresses are so underrated in this modern age that many women have no clue as to their seductive effect. Use this little bit of wisdom to your advantage and wear them often! They need not be expensive, but they need to fit perfectly, so find a good tailor. Unless a man is seriously into fashion, and by that I mean in the fashion business or flaming gay, he will be unable to tell the difference between a well-fitting cheap dress and an expensive one. A few times I’ve even gotten away with little cocktail numbers costing me about $20 apiece, found on the back clearance rack at some off-price store. They were basic black, classic, and able to pass as expensive. Wear them over and over because he’ll never remember what you wore before anyway.

Lingerie: Just go for the no VPL (no visible pantilines). The fancy panties and high-end hose you see above are a personal indulgence, nothing more! The man never saw them in any case. First date, remember? Later, if he expects to find LaPerla under your dress, let him finance it!

(Dress from the Victoria’s Secret catalogue, shoes by Nine West)

The bottom line is that your upscale dating getup need not be expensive to be effective, and by effective I mean you’ll make his jaw drop but he’ll still be proud to introduce you to his friends and family. He wants you look super-hot, but it needs to be the right kind of hot, and it is absolutely necessary to maintain that perfect balance between sexy and elegant.

SEXY: A look that will allow him to imagine what you’ll look like naked without trying too hard. Since men think about sex a gazillion times a day, this won’t take much effort at all so long as you’re projecting the appearance of a pretty woman in her childbearing years. Something soft that follows the outline of your body will do the trick. You do not need to expose a lot of flesh unless you’re in the tropics.

Showcase only one major body part at a time: A heaving bosom, a muscular back, a creamy thigh, and keep everything else covered up. If you expose too much, you’ll no longer look . . .

ELEGANT: Elegance is the look that will raise his social status in the group he aspires to be a part of. I’m talking about his world, not yours, and it can vary from state to state, and from one subculture to another. Do your research! Bright colors are very popular in the deep south, while dark neutrals still rule the day in the northeast. If you’re ever at a loss, take your cues from the outdoor landscape (a truism on so many levels, but let’s stay on topic).

I am sorry to report that in the early stages of dating, falling in love is probably the very last thing on a man’s mind. Your date cares more about what his peers think of him than about you, or what you think of him. For a man, dating is about more than just finding a reliable place to park his penis. A beautiful woman is a status symbol, just like a Rolex watch or a Mercedes convertible. Later, if he encounters your humanity and - gasp! - OMG! - falls in love! - it will probably be by accident.

Your choice of dress, hair and makeup must be appropriate to your climate, your surrounding landscape, the social class you are associating with, and the occasion. You must never, ever, ever look as though you are trying too hard. If you are ever at a loss for what this means for you, always, always ask someone in the know. Ask another woman attending the same function, call the concierge, visit the restaurant beforehand, Google the place or event, do anything, just ask. This scene from Bridget Jones’ Diary drives my point home better than I ever could: Don’t let this happen to you! There will always be unpleasant surprises and rude awakenings while dating, especially when the stakes are very high. However, no matter what happens, follow my advice and at least you’ll look smashing when it happens . . .

(to be continued . . .)

PS: Happy HNT, everyone!!!!!

Small Fast Plane, Part 2: In Which the Hedonistic Pleasureseeker Muses on the Biggest Pecker Contest in the World

Before I start this story, I need to put things into some perspective, because in most normal circles to even mention the word “private jet” raises eyebrows. Granted, business jets are horrifically expensive to operate and are only available to the richest of the rich. However, the state of business travel is so bad these days, what with terrorism, the threat of deadly viruses, not to mention the tedium and time-sucking waste of the crowds and delays, that for some highly paid executives the use of private jets makes good business sense. Time is money to them, and a quick cost-benefit analysis is all it takes for them to decide that private jets are worth the expense.

For awhile last year I even dated the man who, for awhile at least, had the biggest private jet in the world: A militarized Dessault 900EX Falcon with an extra (third) gas tank. I think I’ll call this gentleman The Duke from this day forward. The Duke owned his plane jointly with his investment partners at the United Bank of Switzerland (UBS) and used it mainly for his frequent flights between Geneva and Johannessburg. He didn’t want to have to land in the middle of the Congo to refuel because until recently there was a war going on in central Africa. Also, Africa is a notoriously dangerous place to do business, and the less time spent on the ground there the better. Otherwise, the plane was so huge that it couldn’t land anywhere except the most major of airports, and the landing fees were prohibitive. To offset the cost of operation The Duke kept the plane chartered out to touring rock bands (Tina Turner used it for her farewell tour). Since his plane was in the air most of the time making money for him, while doing business in the states he either flew commercial (coach!) or hopped into the Dodge van he used to haul his son’s band equipment around Canada. He was a practical man, not pretentious at all. I rather miss him and am sorry we’ve lost contact.

The last few men I dated would use private jets to conduct business only when they needed to be somewhere on short notice and/or they were not sure as to the date or time of their return. They saved a fortune by avoiding the crowds and the hassle of constantly changing flight plans. They’d drive their cars up to their assigned planes, hand their overnight bags to the pilots, and were good to go. Put in a dating context then, I suppose it is clear why my date chose to fly private: He didn’t know how long it would take to get the job done, so to speak. He delayed his flight home two nights in a row, and I’ll let you draw your own conclusions as to what that meant!

So, given my dating history, you might wonder: When my blind date arrived last Thursday in North Philadelphia in a Learjet 35, was I impressed? Only because he was doing it for no other reason than to meet me, and then only just a little. The day I actually get to ride in one of these puppies is the day that I’ll be truly impressed.

It occurred to me that that the Learjet probably made me the most expensive date in my small town this weekend. Then I figured that since I wasn’t seeing the money, probably not! The pilot hanging out for three nights in a Philadelphia hotel waiting for his client to get lucky? He was the most expensive date in town!

Small Fast Plane Part 1: Dating Recap

I had dinner with friends tonight at PF Chang’s so TADA! I have a life! For the first time in weeks I didn’t spend Saturday at home blogging! Yayy!!!!! Both the dinner and the company were excellent. This qualifies as a “drunk blog” because even though I had only one drink I’m a total lightweight and I am completely, utterly blotto right now.

Lest my readers think my life is totally pathetic . . . well, OK, my life is totally pathetic but hey my house is clean, yes? No, really. It’s really, really clean; I spend a lot of time here. Anyhoo, I did have a date the other week, with a radio announcer on contract with a major sports franchise. I’m not into sports at all, and although the man was nice there was no spark so . . . whatever. It was pretty much the same with the ex-quarterback I dated awhile ago: Nevermind the guy was lousy in bed; I just don’t fit into the professional sports scene. I might as well dump sports figures out of my personal dating pool because I can’t relate to the mentality. Sports are not important to me. Sorry if you think that’s blasphemy, guys, but I think sports nuts are boring.

Today I took the initiative and made my profile viewable on a few dating websites. I might as well get busy with meeting new people, yes? Besides, y’all love to read about the dating hijinks, even if they are awful. Especially if they are awful. Of course, Match.com is one of these sites. The thing I HATE about Match.com is that most of the mail I get is winks from men young enough for me to have spawned myself. Don’t these guys know how to read? Can’t they see I’m 40 years old or if they do, don’t they care? I guess not, but I do care, so I delete them all. Perhaps it’s worth it to weed through all this drek, because I met my ex on match.com and dated him for two years.

At least on Match.com most of the mail I get is from locals. I have another profile active on a site geared toward more upscale professionals, but most of the mail from that site I get is from hundreds of miles away, from men who want to fly me out or who might be “in town” if I’m available sometime. I suppose I can’t complain; the site has brought me plenty of adventure over the last year or so. I met Andrew on this site plus a few others, including one billionaire I haven’t blogged about yet (why? I have no idea.)

Anyway, most of the mail from the upscale site begins sort of like this one (behold the Readers Digest Condensed Version):

Him: Hi, I’m here, I’m there. Wanna join me?

Me: (bored with the whole scene) Hey look me up next time you’re in town. Not a fan of long distance relationships, but, whatever. You wanna meet me, you do the work.

Him: Stop it. I can be there tomorrow. Do you want to meet me or not. I have a small fast plane.

(me thinking . . . Hey, can I blog this? He’s from Texas, so I could have some fun with it. No matter what happens, I can mock this man. In my personal experience, Texas men are ripe for mocking.)

Me: Okay.

For the most part I have eliminated the entire state of Texas from my dating pool because I generally think Texas men are assholes. I also have ZERO interest in long distance relationships right now. I’m making an exception this week because a) he’s willing to do all the work and apparently has the resources to make it happen; b) I have nothing better to do this week; and c) this one actually seems nice. He has a sense of humor and a heart. He is divorced and retired, and still grieving the loss of his 5-year old son to a freak accident a few years ago, so I feel a certain depth emanating from him.

By Thursday this week, we shall see what this man is really all about. At the very least I will have a story. Stay tuned . . .