Zen and Sex (7 page)

And why aren’t I taking any photos of courting couples? What’s happening to me? Is this what entering a new relationship does to a person, or is it just me? Am I going to let all my interests and my customary routines fall by the wayside and become obsessed instead with what Frances might be thinking and feeling about me? Should I call her? What if she’s seeing other guys? She must get hit on, all the time. Why would she be interested in me? I should call her. If she’s all weird and doesn’t want to go out again, then that will be fine; it will be a relief, actually. I’m kinda hoping that she does blow me off. Who cares about bringing someone to the wedding? So, I look at the ocean to calm myself, take a few deep breaths and call her.

“Hello?” she answers.

“It’s Martin.”

“Hello Martin.” As soon as she says my name and her tone is warm and welcoming, I calm down a lot. She actually sounds quite happy to hear from me. “I’m glad you called,” she says. “I’ve been thinking a lot about you.” Women put themselves out there emotionally way much more than guys. I love it.

“What have you been thinking?” I have to ask.

“Oooooh,” she purrs, “yummy thoughts.” Okay, all is great in my world.

“I’ve been thinking yummy thoughts about you, too,” I say with absolute ease and calm confidence.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m on my way home from a job, just stopped by the park. I looked at the beautiful sunset and thought of you.”

“You are a romantic chappie,” she says, her voice intimate and affectionate. “I like it.”

I smile to myself. This is fun. “What are you doing? As a matter of fact, what is it that you do…professionally?”

“I’m a production designer for stage and TV. I’m working on a stage design right now. It’s driving me mad.”

“How old are you?” I ask quickly.

“Thirty-eight.”

“Really?”

“Is that ancient?”

“No, I’m sorry. I’m surprised because you look much younger. Not that thirty-eight is old, it’s not, it really isn’t…”

“It’s all relative, isn’t it?” Frances says, helping me out. “To you I may be old but I normally date older men and they think I’m young. My ex-husband is ten years older, as a matter of fact.”

“You’re divorced?”

“Yeah. Three years ago. I was married for fourteen.”

“Wow. How come you guys broke up?”

“He left me for a younger model,” she says with a hint of…bitterness? Even as I ask her questions, I realize that I am in over my head. This is an older, mature woman with a past. She has a history of relationship…I mean, god knows how many serious boyfriends she had before she got married. And she was married for how long? FOURTEEN YEARS?

“Are you there?” she asks.

“Yeah, I’m sorry, I…I have an idea. We keep interviewing each other like this and we’ll just freak each other out and never get past a first date. Let’s just spend some time together. Whatever gets revealed, gets revealed. Deal?” I am dead serious.

“Deal. I was freaking you out?”

“Just a little,” I answer, dying to get off the phone.

“Before you go,” she says, perhaps sensing my withdrawal, “want to come to a party Friday night?”

“Yeah, love to,” I answer.

“I’ll call you back with the details,” she says and we hang up. As I put away my cell phone, I realize that I am impressed with how she handles me. I was freaked out by her answers and I would have ended the conversation and hung up without asking her out on a further date. Very smartly, she asked
me
out on a date and did it so casually, it was no effort for me to say yes. This is one smart cookie, I almost laugh out loud.

Friday couldn’t come quick enough and then, when it came, it came too soon. In the apartment I had been keeping to myself, holed up in my room with Pandora streaming indie love songs which I’ll never admit to anyone is my favorite genre station. I had two hours to get ready for the party and I hate to sound like a girl but I fully need two hours to do everything that I need to do to make myself look good.

I had already used up thirty of those precious minutes by staring into my wardrobe and pulling out clothes that I thought would be appropriate until I realized that I hadn’t a clue about what was appropriate to wear. I had never been to a party for grown-ups before where, presumably, everyone was over forty and was going there to chat and meet people rather than get wasted and hook up with the nearest willing nympho. What do you wear to a grown-ups party? A dress shirt, a nice pair of slacks and a corduroy jacket with elbow patches? I don’t have a single article of sensible clothing in my entire wardrobe.

I had heard Mike go the bathroom earlier on, so I was surprised to realize that he was still using it twenty minutes later. He had the door open because he wanted to hear if his phone rang. He was shaving when I gave him the nod that I needed to use the bathroom.

“You going out tonight?” he asks me when he sees me carrying my change of clothes, party clothes. “Haven’t seen you around much.”

“I love you, too,” I say, inching my way further in.

“Are you dating someone?”

“Just met someone but I’m not sure yet if we’re dating. Checking each other out, I guess.”

“You haven’t fucked yet, in other words.”

“So nicely put.”

“Do you want to fuck her?”

“I guess,” I say, hoping for maybe some brotherly advice. “I’m kinda scared.”

“First time is scary,” Mike says, sarcastically.

“Fuck you,” I say jokingly but secretly mean it.

“I mean first time with a new chick. Not first time, ever. What are you nervous about?”

“I don’t know. She’s older than me.”

“Older women are trouble. Remember Veronica? Always two steps ahead. Knew what I was going to say before I even thought about it.”

“Veronica wasn’t an older woman, what are you talking about?”

“She was two years ahead of us at college. That’s a fact.”

“Two years, yeah, that’s ancient.”

“You going to bring the new chick around? We can double date.”

“Not tonight. We’re going to a party.”

“Her party or your party?”

“Her party. Why?”

“You know why a chick brings you to her party, right?”

“No, why?”

“To see if her friends will like you. It’s a chick initiation. If her friends like you, you’re in. If they don’t…you’re out. Unlike men, women need the approval of their friends.”

“Great. Just what I need: more pressure. Thanks for the support, bro.”

“You’re welcome. Anytime.”

Mike finishes what he’s doing at the wash basin and leaves but quickly returns and places a condom on the sink. He gives me a thumbs up sign: “They’re going to love ya!”

Frances said that she would come pick me up because the party was on my side of town and it was easier for her to swing by my place than to have me drive over to her, and then all the way back again, which makes perfect sense. Problem is, I’m not used to women I date making perfect sense. Most of them would insist that I pick them up no matter what the driving logistics were. Why is this chick so different? Does she act like a woman but think like a man?

 Or maybe she’s assuming I drive an old, beat up Japanese car (which, in all fairness, I do) and she’d prefer to be seen driving up in her luxury German sedan. Perhaps it’s a control thing; if, for some reason, it doesn’t go so well, she can simply drive herself home and not be dependent on someone else. I know so little about this woman, I should just try and chill and take it every minute at a time. She’s late. What if she doesn’t even show up?

Frances shows up driving a late model BMW and right away I decide that I don’t belong in this relationship, if that’s what it is. She greets me with a kiss and an amazingly warm hug and right away I feel like this is where I belong: in her arms. The rightness of our connection confuses me; why does our togetherness feel so good? I’ve never felt like this with any other woman, Roxanne included. Is Plato right? Is Frances my missing other half who makes me feel whole? It sure feels that way.

Frances looks amazing in a tight-fitting, cute, two-piece dress thing that I don’t know the name for. She even drives like a man, with poise, focus and intent. I don’t mean to sound sexist but all the women I’ve seen driving…well, they tend to be scatty, uncertain and especially terrifying when making a left turn or wanting to pull out into oncoming traffic. That includes my mom, so I know it’s not an age thing.

Even the music she’s playing is cool, young and hip. Most older people I know, well, let’s just say that their musical tastes never made it past the eighties, blah. I made some positive comments about her musical tastes and we talk uncertainly about music that we like and don’t like. I’m not sure if she is feeling it but we’re really awkward with each other, which is a concern.

There’s a few times in my life where I met some chick at a bar with whom I had an amazing time with and we seemed to totally click. We’d go on a date a day or two later and it was like we were strangers from two different alien planets. We’d be so awkward with each other that after a few glaring pregnant pauses in conversation, we’d agree that it must have been the alcohol that tricked us into thinking that we were made for each other. In the cold, hard light of day, it was obvious that we more suited as contestants for the Mr. and Mrs. Mismatch TV game show than legitimate candidates for a lasting, long-term relationship.

I’m not saying that that’s how I’m feeling towards Frances but there is a definite whiff of awkwardness among us. Maybe it’s nothing a glass or two of wine won’t fix. I’m pretty much assuming that this is not the kind of party that forces everybody to knock back half a dozen jello shots before the serious drinking begins but they’ve got to have some wine, right? I have no idea what to expect and I’m really thinking that going to a party on our second date is not a good idea. We should have gone the traditional route with dinner and a movie instead, which is much less pressure and it would give us a chance to first explore and then cement our togetherness.

Apart from the fact that the party attendees are going to be all her friends, going to a party with your date is a very risky proposition. Every party that I’ve ever gone to with a date has had one main hazardous drawback: there are far too many single men on the prowl.

Let’s face it, hosting a party is really agreeing to turn your pad into a meat market for the evening. Some may argue that no two parties are the same but as far as my limited experience goes, as far as I can tell, all parties are exactly the same: a party is a formalized mating ritual which facilitates the hooking up of single people in a socially acceptable way.

Picture the scene… people begin arriving and quickly decide to form themselves into various, individual groups: coupled people, single guys and single gals. The coupled people only group with other couples that they know and pretty much exclude themselves from the real meaning of the party.

Single guys will form their group, not in the kitchen or any other secluded part of the house, no, they will gather wherever the single women are. Pretending to be interested in each other, what they really are doing is checking out every woman in attendance, single or accompanied. Single women form their own group and do exactly the same.

As every man knows, unaccompanied, single women at parties are usually not very pretty. If they are, then, generally, there’s something wrong with them, maybe some emotional damage you’d rather not involve yourself in.

Attractive women always come with a guy. It doesn’t matter whether she’s into the guy or not, cute chicks will always be accompanied. It’s the accompanied women that men most like to hunt at parties.

A single guy will already have pinpointed one or more women worth hunting. He will tell jokes and goof around with the single guys, all the while keeping his eye on the attractive women. What he’s waiting for is that cute, accompanied woman to leave her group or date. When she does, she becomes immediately vulnerable and subject to approach.

Meeting her at the drinks table, casually, as if by accident, he musters up all the charm he can with the express purpose of making her laugh. As every guy knows, if you can make the cute chick laugh, she is entirely stealable. If her date doesn’t see the danger signs and catch on pretty quickly, then he’s going home alone or maybe with that other boring couple he’s being so chatty with.

As I think about this, a horror scenario erupts in my head. I’m at this party with Frances and I know by looking at the guys that already she has made at least three single guy’s hit list. We’re sitting/standing at an armchair talking to a couple that she knows and I’m drinking too much but managing to be polite in conversation and successfully giving the impression that I’m a perfect match for Frances. Meanwhile, out of the corner of my eye, I’m keeping watch on the guys that I know have Frances locked into their sights.

Aside from perfect vigilance, taking a woman to a party requires excellent bladder control. Unfortunately, in the scenario in my mind, I have drunk too much and finally I can no longer hold it in. I must find somewhere to pee. I excuse myself, find out where the bathroom is and hurry upstairs through a pokey hallway where the newly acquainted single people can flirt and get to know each better away from the maelstrom of the other hunter-gatherers downstairs.

There’s a line for the bathroom and every woman that goes in takes an age to come back out again. My heart starts beating faster with every minute spent away from Frances. I can imagine every single guy in the place, positioning themselves closer to her group: people they would never normally be interested in, even if they were the last people on earth.

When I finally get my chance to relieve myself, I rush downstairs and instantly check out the armchair where I just left her: it’s empty. My heartbeat increases as I rapidly scan the room, seeking her presence. She is nowhere to be seen. I try not to panic as I come up with possible places where she might be. She could have found that secret bathroom that every party seems to have, the hidden downstairs half-bathroom, the one only the females seem to know about.