Dorks in the Road

There is nothing quite like a trip down memory lane. Especially when the memories are kind of icky. It reminds you to take stock, revel in how far you've come.

There was no mistaking the deep baritone, a voice I hadn't heard in about two years. I had been riding my bike, and was stopping into Starbucks for s little caffeine boost before heading home. Those who have been with me since the bitter beginning of this blogging journey might remember him -- Pete the dermatologist (not his real name, not his real specialty, naturally). I like to think of Pete as Phase Two of my cyber dating escapades. Like Phase One, Pete was a valuable learning experience. If anything, I learned that dating a nice Jewish doctor is not all my mother had cracked it up to be.

Since I hate to travel alone, let's take a little trip down memory lane together, to the days before I moved "up" to the likes of Pete. Phase One of my cyber dating experience -- let's just call it the Neanderthal period -- as many of you might recall, was, to say the least, a rude awakening. When you get married in your twenties to basically the first guy who made it past the third date, you have no idea what's out there. And so it was, with a mix of amusement and disgust, that I discovered life's underbelly. Twenty- and thirty-somethings obsessed with screwing older women, forty-somethings who fancied themselves "younger men" but were really old farts to the core, old coots who trolled the dating sites looking for the newest meat. And, always, men who looked nothing like their pictures.

The one that sticks (pardon the pun) in my mind is the original phone sex guy. The one who inspired the seminal (again, pardon the pun) post in the embryonic phase of my blogging. Late thirties, cute, and, in his profile picture, he was wearing the sexiest little beret -- how could I possibly resist?  So we embarked upon a deep and meaningful relationship, i.e. a solid five minutes of IM'ing, and he was clearly ready to take it to the next level. Yes, phone sex. For those of you who don't know the story, here's how it went:

I gave him my disposable cell number (I'm not a complete idiot) and settled in under my covers with my still unfinished New York Times crossword puzzle and waited. And he called. Well, if I had been excited -- and thank goodness I wasn't -- this would have been a buzz kill to end all. The guy in the beret, with the erudite interests and cool location -- the hip part of Brooklyn, not where I grew up -- had a Brooklyn accent!!!! Full blown, with not even a hint of assimilation. But I'm no quitter, so I stayed with it. 

He asked me what I was wearing. Mustering up my sexiest cougar voice, I told him I was wearing a little white t-shirt and a thong. I hate to lie, and I fidgeted nervously with the cracked button on my flannel pj's. He told me to take it off ("it" being the thong and t-shirt, I assume). I told him to hold on. I had to reposition myself anyway so I could find a pen that worked. He waited until I assured him everything was off. Lying was beginning to be a habit. Well, it wasn't a complete lie; I was not, at that moment, wearing a thong or t-shirt. And then, well, without getting graphic, all I will tell you is he started telling me where to touch myself (I couldn't have even if I wanted to since my obese puggle was sprawled across my pelvis) and he kept asking me if it felt good and I assured him it did (mostly because I was excited that I had finally just figured out twenty-nine across). And it went on for a short while and his panting got louder and I thought it would be rude to ask him if he knew a five letter word for a South American river town so I just kept one ear on him in case he required any additional participation from me and managed to finish most of my puzzle. At least he was a screamer so I knew when I could hang up. (From "A Narcissist's Tale," July 2010)

Enter Pete. With the deep baritone that sounded like it echoed from deep within the bowels of, well, something. Maybe he should have been a proctologist. Anyway, as far as I could tell, Pete had just about every personality disorder listed in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual for Mental Disorders, and I may have mentioned this to him on a regular basis. Struggling with a few mental disorders of my own, I was seeing a therapist at the time. She kept asking me why I continued to see this guy. Dunno, I'd say, articulate as ever. I did know. Jewish doctor, steady Saturday night date, and, occasionally, he had some skills. Anyway, Pete dumped me, which really pissed me off.

I am cleaning my closets this week. Unfortunately, no matter how much old shit I manage to dispose of,     my clothing expands like gas molecules into whatever space becomes available so it can often seem as if I haven't unloaded a thing. But closet cleaning and unloading all sorts of crap is a slow process, and sooner or later the molecules are spread so thin they burst and you realize you've made some progress.

Yay for me. I did not go up to Pete and tell him what an asshole he is. I enjoyed the brief trip down memory lane, got back on my bike, and just kept moving forward.