Thread Bare - Is It Time?

I intended to write about my feelings, yesterday, but was too close to the moment. I had simply watched a relatively sophomoric movie that tried to encapsulate all the misfitting pieces of the sexes. It actually did a pretty decent job and although it became a bit pandering and leaned too far into the realm of “chick flickdom,” nevertheless it held some nuggets to extract.

Mostly, it caused me to let my guard down and fall into that sleep that romantic notions always induce. It made me consider the possibilities if I allowed for a woman to be in my life in any capacity beyond conversation. As a recovering romantic, it was too many swallows when I should have never taken the first sip. The problem with being a man is that women look good, they sound good, they smell good, they taste good and they feel good. Some women (I’ll even allow they number in the majority) even try to be good. That is the problem; humans trying to be good. We put so much hope and anticipation into something that is a magnificent notion but impossible to apprehend. I was once more lulled into the dream and when I awoke from it I felt the loss of the rest and peace it had promised.

I have known nice women. I have known kind women. I have known all sorts of women but I have also known the core creature. I was never ignorant of the tremendous pain their absence could inflict and have often experienced it in their presence. That has never deterred me. I have always approached finding love with not only my eyes wide open but also my heart. As a young man seeking out a match and counterpoint to myself I was unencumbered and willing to contort myself to fit the objects of desire that crossed my path. That may have been an exciting adventure and a stimulating wealth of experiences but I lost myself along the way. When I married, I married very well. I married a woman of character and strength and intellect and beauty and purpose. I also married a very damaged and fragmented person. I have absolutely no regrets. I would marry her again and again and again. But she married a lost soul. She married a mirage. She was the first to see it and I didn’t live in denial but was actually so far removed from my true self that I could not see it. I suppose to a great extent I was a parasite, sucking the life out of her to propagate the illusion I had of a life of my own. Because I had lost myself in the journey to find a mate I lost her, too.

It has been over five years since she left me but I have yet to fully leave her. I have tried to reclaim myself as it is superior in every way to redefining me. I am anxious to relocate myself, as well. Several years ago in the middle of an otherwise frivolous conversation I blurted out that I never wanted to inflict me on another woman. I was startled by my own words and have mostly adhered to their conviction to this day. Some things have become clear. I recognized that no amount of contorting me or remaking me or redefining me would win her back; or produce a positive result for me alone or in tandem with a new love. There are simply parts of my being that are who I am. I am powerless to change them and only moderately successful at restraining them. All assume they can be their own savior, or if not, that a lover will fill that job description. I tried very much to not look to women as my salvation and I did not portend to be theirs. However, I have succumbed in small and even large ways to the allure of letting a woman complete me, revive me or revise me. My past does not haunt me but has placed me where I am this day. My present does not define me but has left me without a step to trace or a sense of direction. I do not dwell on her or all I have felt as lost even though my conversations would contradict that on the surface. I am really involved in my current struggle to establish a stable and prosperous place for me. What I am about is being wholly me in order to have something to contribute in a relationship.

There are many that insist I am hiding and have a fear of intimacy. What I actually fear is that I have no capacity for intimacy. I am aware that my interests in women are not all that deep. I am a far better man as a friend than I have ever been as a significant other. In actuality I have been too successful at being the insignificant other. I have complex passions but simple needs. I do not allow myself great expectations yet set lofty demands on my person. I am aware of a great many things. I am keen to my own contradictory behaviors. I have developed quite a reliable façade that manages to keep most at bay. There are always those persistent creatures, however, that ply into my life and ignore my saber rattling and all of my fortifications. I have a precious cadre of men and women that refuse to allow me to exclude them or push them out of my life. I love them all and am grateful for them.

I am also aware that I need new encounters to replace stale memories. I am not a person that desires to relive or regret the past. I have enjoyed being me through almost all of the stages and changes. Usually I only look back with fondness (while bitching and complaining in the present). I am very much unhappy with the current situation and do a tremendous amount of bellyaching. Still, I am not without anticipation and hope and I always make plans. Sadly, so many recent plans have been still-born. For too long I have been suppressed in addition to being depressed. I have also digressed and failed to impress. Not the foundation for a stellar performance. But there are a few odd sparks in the ashes and embers of my desires. None burn very hot and barely any radiate much light. I am not anywhere near the dynamic and energized force of nature I was as a single man or visionary rebel. I have an image in my mind that I am currently still being delivered deadly blows although I am stooped on one knee trying to shake off the daze. The one thing I do know is that I will only stay down if someone can finish the job and kill me. Otherwise I will get back on my feet and one day unclench these fists and teeth. In preparation for that defiant stance I am trying to make allowance to find a lover. All of this is still very sketchy as the hell fires by which I am being pummeled have produced a fog over my vistas. Finally, I have longings once again. I am very cautious at this juncture because I do not want to turn on the charm but inflict harm. The thing that distinguished my love for my wife from all other encounters was that I had arrived at a place of maturity in one significant region when we met. I saw her for all that she was not just as much as for what she was. In that realization I discovered I was excited about what I could do for her and not what she could offer me. The intent and the nobility of my gesture were sincere. My execution could not have promised more and delivered any less. I do not want to be that ineffectual in my next found love. I would love to boldly state I have learned from my mistakes but I have “living disabilities.”

So from all of this structure and all of this need to explain my ruminations on the idea of loving once again; what can it possibly have to do with the longings induced by a romantic movie? I am not looking for pacification. I am not looking for a topical application of sex or warm fuzzy feelings and walks on the beach. I need to have it all. I cannot have what I crave in bits and pieces. I want it all assembled and not artificially sweetened. I question my ability to be intimate. I question the ability of a woman to be intimate, too. There is a thing inside the feminine soul that measures a lie as a shield against the pain of the truth. That is not good enough for me. There is a switch inside the feminine psyche that can erase all initial intentions and forget she ever claimed fidelity, loyalty, passion and affection. That is entirely unacceptable. That sets off alarm bells that I cannot trust. I can trust. I would not ever be hurt if I could not trust. Betrayal, not trust – is what I cannot do. I cannot be anesthetized by seduction to accept betrayal. I have found that relationships become a list of demands or a wasteland of compromise. Compliance replaces compassion. Passive surrender supplants active submission of both to each other. I have intimacy issues. I feel a liar and a thief because making love means so much to me. This has become such a problem that I have not dated and certainly have not copulated in over six years. Now, I do not even look at women. It started with not being able to look my lover in the eyes for fear of the rejection I would find there. The empty space between us made me hollow. The act of making love made me shallow.

There is a whole lot of ground to be recovered for me to be intimate once more. But all that it would take is the genuine acceptance of one woman. I only want one. I am not greedy but I am selfish. I do not want to be considered tolerable or accommodated conditionally. I will not be good enough until something better comes along. I do not treat others that way and will not excuse it from a woman that professes her love and devotion to me. Co-dependent? You had better believe it. The greatest love is a complete dependence on giving oneself entirely without reservation and it is completely dependent on reciprocal action. I have wants and needs and desires and passions that are requirements – not suggestions. Anything less and I will be less.

I am absurdly romantic in my heart of hearts. I am merely absurd in my day-to-day attempts to be productive and useful. I have always resented any idea that strips a man of the ability to be complete in and of himself. I have actually been angered when the suggestion that a man is only as good as the woman in his life seemed valid. It has always been a slap in my face and an attack on my dignity. It has not escaped me that we often respond with rage when we are defenseless. I have pushed women away from me on nothing more than vulnerability at the slightest hint there is truth in the fact that a man needs a woman. Well. I do. As ashamed as I am to admit that, I need a woman as I am incapable of making it on my own. It crushes me to write the words. I can be strong for others but I am weak and helpless if it is for my own benefit. I despise being used by women. I despise being manipulated. I resent the dismissive idea that a man is a slave to his sex drive or lesser for it. I loathe any look of disdain or disgust a woman casts toward me. But one word or look or touch of reassurance from a woman and I am invincible. I am nearly alright with this. Allow some room for me to retract that last statement and withdraw, though, should any woman approach me with any love in her voice or eyes. Those damn eyes. How I love to look into her soul through them but shudder at the man they reflect back to me. It is far safer for me to create turbulent storms and raging flashes of lightning in a woman’s eyes than to let those tranquil pools drown me in the depths and undercurrents. I have been pierced too many times and the wounds have never sealed.

So where does this leave me? I am too attracted by women to keep a safe distance. Despite the soul-wrenching, twisting and draining aspects of false women there remains the hope of the life sustaining feast of the true woman. Sometimes I am almost persuaded I simply need release and any woman would do. That moment of desperation is so quickly removed by the knowledge that spilling myself into her may leave me more empty than satiated. And, although I will not use a woman for my pleasure I too often use them all for my amusement. Despicable; a detestable thing. It is all about the healthy place I need to achieve to look any woman in the eyes and to let them see me all the way through. Then I want to find myself free to love and to express it better than I ever have before. I want to be so far beyond a staring contest. There is always the need for a man to rescue a damsel in distress. But, I am in distress and in need of a damsel. What I long for is someone that will hold my gaze as I hold her in my arms and always hold me with the same desire between her legs. Then I will be able to let go of my pain and hold on.

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

To Whom It May Concern.

I still suck.

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

Out, Out Damn Spot - Frankenstein's Ball

In the several weeks which have passed between posts I have been pleasantly surprised that concerned lurkers of my blog have written to me to inquire as to my well being. It now occurs to me that perhaps they sense danger or other need for caution which I have not picked up on while completely absorbed in a forum I practically have built my life around.

The fascination has been easily attributed to the excitement of some real social interaction despite no face-to-face or even voice-to-voice conversation. That was of little practical concern because the stimulating part has been the real-time give and take of the dialog. And . . . the random number of simultaneous conversations and posts makes for a very engaging atmosphere. Each participant is there to escape. For most the escape is from the monotony or avoidance of work. For others it is to reach out beyond loneliness, frustration, or isolation. Some simply enjoy being entertained. All are fine reasons and it really has become an addictive behavior for so many of the members. Unfortunately for me it has been an escape from reality.

If you are familiar with the concept of finger cuffs you will follow my analogy easily. My life has been continuing to become ever more constricted and the more I struggle and fight to free myself from the restraints the tighter and more desperate I have become. On the few occasions where from exhaustion or simply pausing to reevaluate and assess my lot I have simply yielded or stopped struggling all together the “hold” on my ambitions has relaxed. Likewise, the more I try to distance myself from my constraints the tighter they have become; while, if I face and draw nearer to the center of my entanglements the strictures slacken. I have realized this in every aspect of my life save one. The only area where I am still too wounded or conflicted and just have no resolution for the “what and the why” is the notion of dating, again. That’s where my escape through the forum I’m obsessed with has finally become apparent.

I have made the acquaintance of several women through this blog and an argument over a television show and through participation in the forum to which I will only elude. The first of these women reads my mind through the vaguest of comments, decrypts my veiled and cloaked thoughts, and puts them on display to me in her very next response. I am no longer going to bother “hiding” anything from her as it is simply impossible. She is also very much like me in her values and judgments and gives me no quarter for denial but somehow allows me more freedom than I permit myself. She has been encouraging me to find a real, in the flesh, tangible woman somewhere in close proximity to my own back yard. Another is always wondering why I am so willing to tell her nearly anything which comes into my mind and is always poorly arguing that I have misjudged her and given her more heart and soul than she possesses. She is wrong about this – and probably the only thing that she has ever actually been wrong about. Intellectually, she not only challenges me but would likely crush me. A third reminds me of when I felt alive and her vibrancy is refreshing. She has a host of interests and ventures underway that are the stuff I have always dreamed I would find in a woman to share my days with. I am not one to look for things I have in common and with her I do not have to as it seems to be an endless list already exists. She fills my longing to be with Audrey Hepburn. I’d always imagined sitting across a small breakfast table with a woman just like this for as long as I can remember. Then there are a host of vulnerable and sensitive and innocent ones that worry about my health and happiness and fawn all over me. It has been far too long since I have experienced any of that. And, there is even a contingent that is concerned about my body and more importantly its relation to their own. One, in particular has given her unconditional affirmation, affection and acceptance to me. That it has been in intent and not actually is of no consequence. In point of fact, it has made it all the more wonderful.

So what is the problem and where is the escape? I have reversed the story of Frankenstein and made a bride from the composite elements of about a dozen women. Assembled from the minds, and hearts, and souls, and appearance of all of these women is my collective virtual dream girl. They reach out to me and tease, and flirt, and nurture, and scold, and do all the attention feeding things I am so hungry to experience without any of the pain of day to day conflicts, misunderstandings, or responsibilities, or obligations. They are “on demand.” At the click of a button I have them to cherish and when I shift focus or interest I can click another button and they’re gone. This is not healthy.

Now, I am by no means insincere or disingenuous with any of them. I love these women (platonically) and cherish each and every one of them individually. But, my God I am such an attention whore that I need all of them and more. It is really a tiring addiction.
The things which I speak to them about and the flattery and encouragement I try to give them is without any ulterior motives and I am concerned for and about them all. I really try to give them honest praise and bolster their confidence and self-esteem. We are all involved in a dance of wanting to trust and be appreciated by the opposite sex. The problem for me is I am not prepared for when the music stops. I am not going to make the transition smoothly from virtual to real. So, when the band takes a break or everyone else goes home then you may be sure I will be found here more regularly - and although I would hope to be wrong about this – worse off than I was before.

Am I a misunderstood monster of misfit pieces and better off having been left dead rather than revived? My remains are yet to be seen.

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

Out, Out, Damn Spot - The Unspoken and the Small Things

I live in a large American city. This particular city neither appears nor conducts itself as a large city. I was born and raised in Baltimore, Maryland. That’s a city. It’s loud and it’s dangerous and it’s old and it’s home. I haven’t been in Baltimore in decades. My teens and twenties were spent in suburbia, in little burgs of New Jersey among the privileged corporate executives and their families. So, now I have lived in three very different worlds. Baltimore is an industrial town, a port city, blue collar – nuts and bolts. The artificially maintained and manicured hamlets of New Jersey are the bedrooms of industrial management, closed communities, white collar – stocks and bonds. Now home is not really home but where I lived with my own family, and since their departure, no longer consider that I live; No longer think of anywhere as home. I am in San Antonio, Texas – a market place town. Cattle, memories of oil, ranchers, Spanish flavor, open collar – bucks and boots.

San Antonio, is a warm town. I claim we have nine months of summer, three weeks each of spring and fall and a little winter. But its real warmth comes from its down-home nature and is in no small part due to its survival based on tourism and the military presence. Life is very simple and reasonably direct in these parts. There is a thing called “Texas Friendly.” This is the same attitude that prevails throughout the southern portion of the United States, but as this is Texas – it believes it has something special to contribute. There is something to recommend about southern hospitality – unfortunately, the South relies too heavily on this commodity and has done nothing to bolster the supply in many a year. And it comes in all sorts of distinct flavors and variations depending on which part of the South one happens to visit. There is a sweet spot for this sort of hospitality in states such as Tennessee, Mississippi, and Kentucky. I find it real and genuine, there. But there is a saccharine flavor to the brand that comes from, say, Georgia, as only one example. Unfortunately, no matter where one finds the friendly and polite sparkle of the South they will also find the backstabbing hypocrisy that comes with a lot of those slaps on the back. The Texas Friendly variety has its spicy flare but I don’t believe it is disingenuous, only unaware that it lacks some of the emphasis on the “friend” part. I have a theory as to how this came to be.

The unsettled West was a rugged and unforgiving place. A great portion of it remains the same to this day. The requirements for making one’s way across the hostile and merciless terrain required self-reliance and absolutely no expectation that help or assistance would come from any external source. That attitude never was replaced by anything more communal. So, the most accurate way for me to describe getting by in South Texas is the following analogy. A man and his friend are sitting on their porch looking out across the sprawling scrub desert before them. Among the rising waves of smoldering air shimmers the figure of a man crawling on his belly into the endless basin of sand and rock in search of water. The men on the porch never move, never change their gaze, never so much as shuffle their feet or shift their weight in their chairs. After a while of observing the unfortunate fellow the one friend speaks. “That’s that John Roberts guy that works in plumbing supply or general contracting or something. I’ve met him a couple times.” Meanwhile, our hapless Mister Roberts continues his useless efforts to drag himself to a better place. He’s starting to hear angelic voices and is drawn toward the light . . . “He’s a nice guy. It would be a shame if he doesn’t make it.” The other friend never even nods or speaks, instead the two go on doing nothing and watching John Roberts like a spider on a hot griddle. They’ve done everything they can. They’ve thought nice things, about John, and wished him well.

I don’t know if I can convince anyone reading that I’m not exaggerating.

That’s the world I find myself in today. If your car breaks down, if your roof collapses – you’re on your own. Everyone hopes you’re a nice guy so they can wish you well and hope that you make it. To be fair, there is also the unwritten rule that you only should help a man if he asks. That has weight. I can accept that. But, in those cold-hearted, “evil places” that I lived previously in the God-forsaken Northeast (by any virtuous Southern opinion) complete strangers will run to assist a person in trouble. Friends will cut off their own limbs if necessary. I’m not exaggerating, here, either. The contrast is so stark that I can not get beyond it even though I have accepted each place for what it is and is not. I am far more amused than reading into it anything more dire. That amusement is where I want to take this post.

I’m a people watcher and sometimes I can do that without directly interfering and screwing with people’s heads. Only sometimes.

One of those rare occasions occurred yesterday evening. I was walking home from a fine dining experience at my local fast-food restaurant. I approached the used car lot for a Lexus dealership. The lot is surrounded by a fence constructed of pipe. This fence is only bumper high - tall enough to prevent thieves from driving over it but not so high as to obstruct the view of the shiny chrome goodies. There was still sufficient daylight for a good look around and a determined fellow pulled into the adjacent lot and proceeded to head toward the displayed automobiles despite the dealership being closed. In a much less enthusiastic display of gestures, his lovely female companion also stepped out of their vehicle. “Now,” I thought, “this will be fun to watch . . .”

It may have seemed as though I was complaining about southern attitudes earlier; Not at all. Here is a place where the perspective flips 180 degrees. At least for the time being (and hopefully until time is no more) in the South, traditional roles and values are nurtured and preserved. That makes for some of the most contrasting comparisons between men and women but then also some of the sweetest interactions to be witnessed anywhere. I honestly don’t think that the South struggles with gender and identity as most of the world does. I think they’ve gotten way past that. There are duties and responsibilities as part of the day-to-day that no one but an outsider ascribes any sort of prejudice toward. I’ve never met anyone in the South lacking a clearly defined and strong personality. It always stands far above the roles they take on. Some people hung up on such things would be advised to observe people that aren’t reduced to who cooks and cleans and who splits wood and harvests the field. There is a lot to recommend people who just do the work because it needs to get done. Along with that comes this. Southern women allow their men to be men – with all of the impending disaster that may almost certainly portend.

It was apparent that my friends interested in the cars had two entirely different opinions about the choice of time in deciding to look around. In universal, gentlemanly fashion, Bubba, was out of his truck and half way across the parking lot toward the used car lot before he even thought to look back to see if his delicate partner was safely out of the vehicle and would have to sprint to catch up to him. Now, I’m certain we all can imagine what dialog preceded his parking the truck and insisting they go look at the cars. As soon as she had voiced her opinion that she wasn’t sure traipsing around the yard after hours was a good idea that was what clinched the decision for him. Right? This part of the scenario would have been identical to any similar portrayal on the East coast. From that point on is where things would differ. Ms. San Antonio poured herself from the passenger side of the truck as slowly as molasses on a cold morning. Her body language was timid. Her whole body was being pulled in to make her as narrow and invisible as possible. Her elbows were clenched to her sides and she was biting on the thumb nail of a tiny little fist with her eyes fixed on a point no more than a yard in front of her. She really thought this a bad idea but her relationship, to Bubba, compelled her to support him. She was moving toward him but hoping that the slightest gust of wind or a sudden incline in the pavement would prevent her moving forward. I almost laughed out loud as she let her knees knock together almost tripping with every step. By that point it would have been too obvious to have slowed my pace to keep observing that scene. It really wasn’t that big a deal to look around that car lot and I’m sure that once she made that giant leap over the ten inch high “fence” that she probably enjoyed shopping.

But thinking of that scene made me speculate on the same situation presented in the two other cities I had called home. The options for New Jersey would have started with whether we’re talking about a Bon Jovi/Bruce Springsteen guy and his Jersey Girl girlfriend or the other extreme which is actually more representative of New Jersey as I experienced. I’ll save Bon Springsteen and Jersey Girl for their Baltimore counterparts. It’s a shame to leave out the Bondo-bucket Camaro, but, oh well . . . Ms Short Hills and her husband would likely not want to visit after hours as it would make being pretentious and ostentatious before a respectably sized audience too difficult. We’ll imagine they have decided that their sixteen year old son with his learner’s permit isn’t getting the BMW that is automatically purchased in such circumstances. No. They want their son to appreciate such things must be earned so they will provoke his drive to succeed by looking at inferior automobiles. Since New Jersey is more about outward appearances that will surely get a fire set under their son to motivate him properly. After all, as long as the automobile and clothes and exterior of the home meet the profile it hardly matters that there are no furnishings beyond what is visible through the windows. Same goes for personality. Our Jersey couple is slumming it. Mr. Just For Men has left the gray in the temples and the comfort of his Escalade and not even bothered to glance back at his wife as he strolls toward the lot. Ms Short Hills NEVER intends to leave the vehicle. She will observe from her perch and occasionally glance up from a study of her nails, her make-up, her hair, her purse, or the thread count of her Armani jacket to make a round-about glance in the direction she vaguely noted her husband had taken. Mr. Short Hills will look at only the black cars on the lot and mostly at his reflection in the tinted glass to ensure the wind is mildly tussling his hair, his pink Ralph Lauren Polo shirt and lime green slacks are crisp, and that he is satisfied with the look and his inspired efforts as a father. He will call his wife on his cell phone for any last minute instructions and the adventure is recorded as a remarkable success.

And what of Baltimore? When their 1976 Impala careens to a stop over the curb and partially on the driveway apron for the car lot the radio will abruptly stop but the shouting at Mr. Baltimore by Ms Baltimore will get louder. As the windows are down on all four doors (because they can’t be rolled up on at least two) smoke from brake pads and tire rubber will partially fill the empty spaces in the back seat of their car. Mr. Baltimore is thinking he might negotiate a trade-in of his current automobile. He doesn’t trust The Man so he’s on a reconnaissance mission to study his options without anyone looking over his shoulder. The fact that the driveway entrance is blocked by concrete highway dividers and the lot is surrounded by a ten foot high, chain-link fence and crowned with razor wire doesn’t give him a moment’s hesitation. His children’s elementary school, his grocery store, and his church have the same barricades. Sure enough, there is a corner where the pipe has been bent to a sharp kink that makes a passageway into the lot of about a shoulder’s width where he should be able to step through. He kicks the broken glass of some liquor bottles out of the way and returns to Ms Baltimore’s side of the car and opens her door. Ok . . . Two tugs later he opens her door. She has already asked him if he’s crazy so now she merely adds emphasis with her eyes when he invites her to step through the fence. Ms Baltimore’s hips are a little wider than Mr. Baltimore’s shoulders. She is not averse to entering the lot she would simply like to do it with dignity. His suggestion that since she is in jeans that a simple assisted boost with his hand on her buttocks would be sufficient to get her over the fence is not what she had in mind and she begins to explain this to him, with gusto. Having proven that her voice will certainly carry for the sake of intelligibility, Mr. Baltimore slips through the fence and receives a constant stream of instructions from Ms Baltimore. Just when they may actually be narrowing their focus to a vehicle that both could accept, Mr. Baltimore offends the delicate sensibilities of his love and she returns to the car, arms folded across her chest, refusing to acknowledge any further questions or pleas for forgiveness from Mr. Baltimore.

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

You Scratch My Back and I’ll . . . Never Mind.

When I was first starting out in the business world I was a draftsman for a computer company just at the birth of the Personal Computer. That meant that my compatriots were all significantly older – basically the age that I am, now, and perhaps even a decade more. I have nothing but gratitude for each and every one of them as I was the typical brash, cocky, arrogant, life-will-never-hold-me-down punk. I bragged and strutted around and really had no ill experiences to quench my fire. These people embraced and loved me anyway. There are still times I wonder about what happened in the rest of their lives after we no longer worked together. Some of them were of World War II vintage. In fact, Fran, the only draftswoman in the crew, got her chance in engineering because of the war. She had become a drafter because of The Draft of all able-bodied young men to go off to battle. This was way before affirmative action and equality in the work place. There was no glass ceiling when Fran started her career. It was steel and concrete and stenciled with the words “Keep Out” when she decided to take on the system. I winced as she tolerated an endless stream of demeaning and sophomoric sexual innuendos and constant barbs and jabs. But everyone respected her knowledge and skills and there was no man her better. Once in a while I would act my age and get a frown of disapproval or a comment like “grow up” from the pit (typical reference to a pool of designers or draftspersons) only to have one in particular apologize and say, “I’m sorry, I forget that your only 19 because you usually seem so much more mature.” I could live off a comment like that for a week, at least.

But, what I did most of the time while getting the benefit of all of their collective years of knowledge was to study their lives. It was such a cross-section of America represented in that group and every personality and temperament was on display. Each had or was having their own trials and difficulties but the disturbing trend among the men was a general expectation that relationships – both professionally and romantically - were disposable and not expected to work out. There was a classification of contract employee known as “job-shopper,” or, “jobber.” These were temporary assignments and basically free-lance arrangements. One jobber, in particular, stood out because he was an artist that spent most of the year on his small yacht, island hopping in the Caribbean. When money would run low he would take a short-term circuit board design assignment. His art was to paint large canvasses using multiple colored paints and the naked bodies of women as his brush. His work was not slapped together during drunken orgies. It was very well thought out, laid out, and executed. A memorable example was one in which the full length of one woman represented the body of a butterfly and two other women in curled postures formed the wings. He represented the full caricature of the job-shopper mentality. No authority was recognized or given more than obligatory lip service and no responsibility was too important that it could not be abandoned. This was the prevailing attitude of most of the men I worked with in that department. Nearly to the man, all were divorced. Some had been divorced several times. I wrote the whole group off as immature, irresponsible, lazy and quitters. There was, however, one peculiar similarity shared by the very different personalities. I observed that lonely men had back scratchers.

A previous post discussed my attitude to losing. I equate losing with failure. The last place I intended to lose was in love. I had my share of dating women that were totally wrong for me but irresistible nonetheless. I had some very specific ideas and a checklist of requirements for the compatible future mate. I got all of those and more with my wife. Neither of us had come from families with a history of divorce. Both sides of our families had preserved marriage through every obstacle and struggle. I would never divorce and my wife believed that about herself just as strongly. Fifteen years after meeting we were over. She moved 1900 miles away and left me stunned. I had failed in every area most important to me as a man. I had become those losers I had disdained two decades earlier. All of the ensuing stages have followed. There was a very eager participation in the belief I could woo her again, as I had at the start. There was no involvement of third parties to make it messy. Surely I was worth her love? There are no such guarantees. That it has been over five years and she has gotten along seemingly effortlessly without me is its own proof. Even if she has done so stubbornly she has succeeded where I have failed nevertheless.

So although I still don’t have any higher opinion of those men or view them less harshly I must count me among their number. And of all of the myriad things I miss of living and loving with my wife – such as turning around to share an experiential moment with someone no longer in the room . . . I miss her enthusiasm when scratching my back. I even miss those preemptive words, “Pick, pick, pick” used to give me less than fair warning she had found some blemish to dig into. Gross, maybe; but a fond, bitter-sweet, and painful memory. I will always miss the heat of her closeness, the fire in her fingernails, the glow in her voice and the delicate warmth of her touch. And I have invested in a back scratcher. Mine is made of the über grass, bamboo. It adds comfort to a solitary man’s day where the flame has nearly gone out.

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

I Love You , Dad

Today is my father's birthday. Fathers often get taken for granted. Well, I don't know so much if that is what it amounts to or expressing to a father how you feel is not usually as easy and comfortable as the same conversation and admissions with a mother. There are all sorts of built-in barriers to a lot of that sort of emoting to Dear Old Dad. My father spent his entire career with the telephone company (when there was only one, in the United States) and told me with a smirk on his face that Christmas Day and Mother's Day vied for the highest single day of telephone call volume each year. Then he let the other shoe fall and told me that Father's Day held the record each year for highest number of collect calls in a single day. "Hi Dad, Happy Father's Day and thanks for picking up the tab!"

I've never done that but my father has certainly had to pay for being my father in many costly and painful ways over the years. He has never held that against me. I have probably dangled my own feet over the fire much more than he. I am so proud of my father. He's by no means perfect but I wouldn't change anything about him. Warts and all - I love to point out to people that, "That's MY Dad." As I shared in my post on my Mom's birthday, I have parents whom I am proud to share and lend out to my friends. Not everyone (and it seems way too few people have) has as healthy a relationship with their parents as I have with mine. There's plenty of room in my parent's hearts and home for anyone that needs them.

I learned at a very young age that my parents and particularly my father garnered respect that was never sought or demanded. I even had to contend with some of the kids I knew that wanted to nudge me out of the way and be my Dad's "favorite." That is really and truly funny because my dad is a man of few words, even less tolerance for nonsense, and does not like social gatherings. He basically lives in the downstairs family room of his home and I don't think he'd come out unless a fire flushed him from his "Man Cave," as my mother refers to it. The sounds of flipping television channels and the rustling of snack wrappers are the only audible signs of life. There is nothing more comical than when my mother invades his sanctuary to snag chips or soft drinks and bring them upstairs to give to members of the family or guests. She is a towering figure of 5'-2" tall and about 112 pounds. My father is 6'-4" and in the 200's. It's like watching a Chihuahua yap at a Great Dane - hands on her hips in defiance and neck bent all the way back on her shoulders to make eye contact with him. She, like all of my friends, think nothing of invading his personal space or gravitating toward him wherever he is. He just attracts people. They want to be with him. They want to impress him, and, they want his approval. That's just not something he has ever been comfortable doing. But, he does it anyway. My Dad may be uncomfortable in social settings but he fears only two things: God (as in reverence and respect) and failing to act responsibly. In other words, my father has nothing to fear. He is the most honor-bound, duty-bound, responsible person I have ever known.

My mother sometimes feels slighted that he can not express his love and devotion but I remind her that he demonstrates those, without fail, every moment of their lives. He never experienced that in his own family. He is the equivalent of emotionally color blind. He just doesn't get the nuances and subtle variations of emotional interaction. I remind my mother, as well, "That's what he's got you for." His own upbringing never made any space for expressions of love and caring. I experienced it as a grandchild and can only imagine how much colder it was as a son. But, he knows how to show love by his actions not by his words. He may lean too heavily toward practical gifts like washing machines and vacuum cleaners but my mother has never had to fuel her own car, deal with any maintenance, ask for a dollar, doubt his fidelity, or worry when or if he were coming home. Just the other day I told her that his calling her every day at lunch, from his office, made me want to do the same thing when I grew up and had a wife. "That showed how much he loved you and was really important to me, as a boy," I told her. Her response caught me totally off guard. "Yeah, I used to think that, too, when he first began calling - then I realized he was only making small talk until I told him what had come in the mail that day!" I am still laughing uncontrollably because *THAT* makes sense! My sister is three years younger than I and has that gift all daughters possess in relation to their fathers - they can melt a man to a sappy puddle of goo. He had a little more trouble being the strict disciplinarian with her. He had no such reservations with me - and no recourse, to be honest. But one evening while getting ready for bed my sister started crying that "Daddy doesn't love us . . . He never tells us . . . He never hugs us . . ." and my Mom, interrupted with the most important words that I, as his son, needed to hear. "Your father never does anything for himself. He only thinks of us, first. When we have a meal, your father waits until we have all taken everything we want and have had our pick and then he takes what is left. Your father won't even go buy himself underwear if he isn't sure you and your brother and I have need of anything, first. Other fathers go to bars and drink their paychecks and don't care about their families. Your father loves you and he might not say it out loud all of the time but we are his whole life. Take a good look at your father and see what a man looks like." Preach it, Mom!

My Dad had been a Marine and missed being selected Honor Guard at the White House because he was 1/2 " too short. He was an expert marksman and possessed all of the necessary skills and attitude to dispatch any deserving target. The alterations to his psyche by the Corp were so ingrained that when I was in my late teens and came home very late from a night out he had stayed up to meet me. He looked very uncomfortable which was not normal. It seems that he had watched a movie called, "The Great Santini," which is the relationship between a Marine sergeant and his son. My father apologized to me. He said he saw things in that movie that were too close to home and that he was afraid he had harmed me. I am the one that needs to apologize to him. I have never become as much a man as my father. He never pressured me to make me think that way. I just so want to not be a disappointment and a worry to that man. My father has a brilliant and reasonable mind. He is gifted artistically and mathematically. He was a successful engineer. My father was actually offered a full scholarship to the U.S. Naval Academy but my unexpected conception sort of spoiled that. Neither of my parents ever blamed me and my father claims that I saved his life because the graduating class he would have been in all died in Vietnam. So, as a child when I was trying to learn to write, my father sat down with me and I watched him teach himself to write with his left hand (because I am left-handed) so that he could instruct me. At that early age that told me everything I needed to know about my father. He never tried to change me only make every opportunity for me to be the best me that I could be.

So let me tell you the other things you need to know about my Dad. My mother's brother was a Green Beret and is about eight years younger than my father. They have been buddies forever. My uncle would come home from a training mission and my civilian father and he would test each other. My uncle would come in and say, "Hey old man let me show you what I learned." And my father would say, "Bring it on, Junior." The next thing would be a bunch of out of breath laughter and my father would have my uncle pinned to the ceiling. They were like kids. Then leap forward about a dozen years to a near fatal accident for that same uncle. My father could not deal with that at all and hates hospitals as I came to discover. Only because it was my uncle could he muster the resolve to go to that hospital room. I have never seen my father so shaken but at the birth of all of his grandchildren he was just as much a mess. He has nine. None of them is fooled by the big, pretending to be fierce, man. They've got his number and he's everybody's giant teddy bear.

He doesn't speak much and he tries to stay sequestered in his "Man Cave" but he's always listening and ready to spring into action. I learned that the hard way at about 14 years old. My mother was telling me to do something and I mouthed off. Before the words were out of my mouth, he was up those stairs and I was having a lesson on respect and the proper attitude toward authority and women "administered" by the big guy. That same man also took me aside when I was an awkward adolescent and a distant female relative had just spent ten minutes going on and on about how my curly hair and eyelashes would make me such a pretty girl. He punctuated that conversation with the word, "Son." That was the first and only time in my memory that he ever called me that directly. As I mentioned, earlier, he had no personal experience from his upbringing to know of love being expressed or many of the other things that he taught and willed himself to do and be for his own family. Just as an indication of his side of the family we only referred to his parents formally as "Grandmother and Grandfather;" no pet names like my mom's family. By pure accident I picked up another phone while he was speaking to his parents after we had moved to another state. My father was 35 years old at that time. In wrapping up the conversation with his parents I heard him struggle and finally blurt out the words, "I Love You." There was silence on the other end of the line! Never did I ever hear his parents tell them they loved him.

Well I Love You, Dad. I want everyone to hear it.

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

A New Wrinkle - Keeping the Flicker Alive

Belly up to the bar

In my wanderings, today, I had the great fortune to come across the blog of a still hopeful, younger version of myself. I expect to be inspired by his youthful exuberance and heartfelt account of his plunge into the abyss known as the quest for love. Love is not so much elusive as entrusted to the fickle care of women. It doesn't really stand a chance but that's the adventure.
His name is, Duncan Warner, and you may visit his blog here. Man Hints has a refreshing mix of self-awareness, optimism, and futility. What's not intriguing about that? Or, how can you not root for a guy whose About Me description in his profile simply states, "I am fantastic." He has a real gift for self-destruction. It is reassuring to know that I may pass the torch to another generation without fear of anything getting better.

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

Give My Creation Life

I have never been one to shy away from pain nor have I ever been a masochist. Physical pain is easiest to handle in my purview. Bodily threats and risk of injury are taken in stride. There’s a certain acceptable risk factor and beyond that it comes down to whether one has demonstrated through skill and sometimes blind luck the management of the threat and avoided serious consequences; or, through inept and foolish effort, endures wounds or trauma as a consequence to their folly.

Emotional pain lingers far longer and can not have any real remedy directly applied. This causes most to avoid matters of the heart over what matters to the head. Emotional issues are more like a toxin spread throughout the organs of the body. The smallest prick of the soul and the complications can become unmanageable in a moment of time. The symptoms mimic so many possible causes and obfuscate any honest diagnosis. A physical scar is often able to be accepted or forgotten but the emotional scar may never actually heal. One forgets the intensity of physical pain and reflexively avoids experiencing any unnecessarily but emotional pain can be remembered in full and actually hobbles the sufferer ever after. The rational mind wants to find patterns, hazards, and dangerous behaviors to identify and avoid in order not to make the same mistake, twice. Unfortunately, the heart tries to provide the mind with the same sort of list of the intangible issues of living and the results are the avoidance of a singular event as if it were indicative of a predictable cause and effect. Subsequently, the desire to avoid hurt generates a list of occurrences that overwhelm the ever shrinking expectation of desirable experiences. People shrink back and become afraid to touch or be touched. Memory no longer serves but enslaves.

There was a time when I was undaunted by challenge or threat. The possible risks held no sway over the urgency of my passions to obtain whatever I purposed. Any opposition was faced down with defiance and blood in my eye. I took what I wanted, who I wanted, when I wanted. A shift of perspective corrected some of that inordinate self focus and I was not afraid to explore feelings or experience the rough handling that exposing them would guarantee. It was deemed an acceptable level of risk. Those experiences did not adversely affect me because I had put myself in the line of fire deliberately and anticipated the consequences with a fair approximation of the causality and cumulative disruption to my comfort.

I was smug and I was arrogant and I was defining the rules of the game so there was really little chance of me suffering all that greatly. I put that entirely aside and left myself completely open and vulnerable . . . and I was torn to pieces. I wasn’t betrayed by an enemy. I wasn’t deceived by a friend. I wasn’t left to rot by a stranger. I was wounded to the same extent that I had wounded her. For neither was it out of conscious effort or vengeance or self- protection but out of simply living and getting burned by singular events that had nothing to associate them but that they were grouped together because the pain was the same. That pain overwhelmed our senses and left us numb and shattered. Rational escape from the wounds was warped by the struggle to get free of the pain. Once pulled apart there were no remaining threads left whole to affect a proper mend but the pain remained intact.

She moved out and moved on. I dug in and went under. I have spent too much time sifting through the dirt for traces and shards of the life we had together. The pieces I discover are ugly and mangled. The slivers pierce and cut me but no matter how many I gather the restoration is incomplete. Too much of us and too much time has been lost. It doesn’t matter that I continue to bravely face the pain; there is no substance behind it. I am not afraid of a broken heart. I am afraid of our broken promises. She may have been the one to leave but that does not mean that I was wholly there before her decision. Promises were broken; I failed and she failed and we failed. I am not afraid of failure. I am afraid of our surrender. Where was my defiance against our common enemy? Why did I shrink back from the challenge? Why did we believe the journey to be so daunting? I am not afraid of the journey. I am afraid of stopping to rest and never starting up, again. I mustn’t be afraid of the pain. I mustn’t rest to try and escape it. I can not allow what I mustn’t to prevent me from doing what I should.

I am starting with something that is emptier than starting with nothing. I keep insisting upon reviving that which is dead. How do I put aside the emptiness and the hollow echoes of that which once fulfilled me? Let go. Get up. There’s nothing left alive there anymore. I have sewn together a figure of straw and stuffed it with my memories. My tears won’t give it eyes or my cries a voice. My wasted breath won’t give it life or my blood a beating heart. I stand in this place, alone.

The journey is not over. I’ve rested long enough.

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

Fits Me to a "T"

Here I was going along all righteously indignant and mad at the world and one of those curvy critters with the squishy bits got in here while I wasn’t looking. Now the whole plan to hold a grudge and incite riot with my inflammatory posts is in serious jeopardy.

She was here for one afternoon and now all of my stuff is being boxed up and tossed out in the garage. All of my sulphur and brimstone has been reupholstered in pastels and frills. (Is that Fabreze in her hand . . .?)

See what happens when you listen to women? As the bumper sticker so aptly remarked - “God, made Man, and rested. Then, He made Woman and no one has rested since.”

Man, she blind-sided me! She caught me off guard with her feminine wiles by flattering me with a comment on one of my posts. Next thing I know she’s making helpful suggestions about improving my site and I end up spending the next day and a half totally overhauling and renovating the joint. Even put a room addition on, the left margin column with the greeting and labels and stuff to “Let a little light in this place so someone might visit.” She thinks this blog ought to be warm and inviting. The Nerve!!!

You know what I say? IT’S ABOUT TIME!!!

Surely, anyone reading my blog knows it’s a pitiful attempt to get attention. My one friend has assured me my blog will either bring in women to try and fix me or women that really want to kill me. He is very smug in predicting that either result is exactly what I’m after. Of course, he’s right but what’s that got to do with anything? Now, this still doesn’t make the world a perfect place. I am grateful for a friendly feminine touch in my life but my overall lot in life remains the same. The woman in question is going to prove to be a wonderful sounding board for some creative projects and I hope to be the same. But, I’ve still got the “single for life” syndrome to contend with as I try to establish relationships that don’t cross any boundaries or send false signals. Right - Lots of luck.

The problem with the squishy bit critters is they’re so darn hard to ignore. Thank God this is a medium without face-to-face interaction. A smile or tear from one of those double X chromosome things and I’d be lost. If they continue to actually participate in my posts with comments I’m liable to forget myself and write a lengthy entry on how wonderful a woman can be. The thought sets my teeth on edge and makes my spine cringe.

I must remember my mantra: “Women are evil, Women are bad . . .”

. . . Where . . . did this ring in my nose come from?!?! What the . . .?

I’m really losing the battle, now. I don’t know if my heart is in the fight to stay away from them anymore. My friend is getting re-married in two days and I’m more excited than he is. (OK, maybe that’s an exaggeration.) The woman he is marrying is wonderful and I’m equally pleased for both of them. In some ways this will alter our friendship and I will have to suffer the loss of monopolizing his time. You know what? It’s so worth it to see what a difference having her share his life is making. I love that guy and to see him happy, again, doesn’t make me jealous or envious it just makes me glad that the right thing can still happen in this world. I just don’t have a map for the world I find myself in at this time.

So, I keep looking at that pink silhouette on the above T-shirt. Am I not supposed to desire someone standing there with me like that? Is there a reason for me to remain alone, but somehow not lonely? Is there a fit for me with a new love and a woman whose form is only a shadow to me now? I have no answers. I know how I feel. I know what my longings are. I know I could easily chase after the first woman willing to stop and talk to me. That’s so pitiful. I also know that I won’t indulge myself and that I will spend a good deal longer hemming and hawing and watching time run away from me because I’m too unsure where to place my next step. Even getting lost is so much better with someone by your side.

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

I'm NOT paranoid. Why does EVERYONE think that?!?

Too much of anything is really never a good thing. We all know this from experience. The “thing” in question determines what quantity isn’t enough and what is too much but you know when you’re hungry and you know when you’re full.

For me there are a lot of things where I’ve wrung out the last drop and there is a hollow, empty, echoing void. In direct proportion to this I have had more than my fill of several negative consequences. There are certain corollaries in this life. There are inverse relationships. I really can’t quantify their measure but I can qualify their significance. I am beginning to feel as if my life is playing out like a lost episode of The Twilight Zone. Somewhere, Rod Serling, is directing the daily monotony of my life.

Mr. Serling loved to explore what the consequences would be for people if they were to get their greatest yearnings and wishes. These secret longings usually involved being left undisturbed or to be able to replace a weakness in their character with a perceived strength and so on. His work employed a lot of reflection on the realization that people generally were better off where they were. The irony, in my case, is that I was already extremely content with where I was. I was aware that I had fundamental work to do on some areas that adversely affected my family and I don’t believe I was blind to my faults. Just, generally, life was really good. So, because of that safe life and content existence I never had the compulsion to change direction or reinvent myself. I liked me – which, based on my tenaciously clinging to a now very distant past, tells me I still like me; that me that was in cruise control in the family mini-van.

Unfortunately, that min-van ran out of gas a long time ago. The wife and kids thumbed a ride out of my life, the bank repossessed the mini-van, and that highway was diverted and all traffic rerouted far, far away from me.

Now, I’m that creepy hitchhiker guy that everyone is uncomfortable around. According to surveys I actually represent the majority of people in my economic circle and age group. There are a whole lot of people single or single by divorce, starting new careers, starting over in their forties. We must all be behaving the same as well, for the most part, as I do not come into contact with such folks. I do have myself in a hermit-like lifestyle. Admittedly, that isn’t conducive to a thriving social life. But it goes back to that satisfied feeling with which I used to be so familiar. I’m not at all interested in a diet of fast food relationships and junk food get-togethers. I want to be able to sit around a table and drink in the company and the atmosphere. I want to be able to slow down and enjoy the experience. No one has time for that. I require too much attention. I’ve got too much to get out of my system and to work through for most people’s palates. When you have time – lots of time, but not much else – you get your fill of hearing your own thoughts in a hurry. I may be more lucid than at any other time in my life. So what? No one cares. Now, to recognize and accept that no one cares would cripple anyone. When all you have is time to review that rejection over and over again it’s torturous. And the excuses that those who make time to care for you have are all legitimate. They are actively participating in living. Those excuses and pre-occupations are also their protection against contemplating the pain someone such as me is experiencing. No one likes to hear cries of pain. But, when you are the one in pain you are going to cry out involuntarily regardless of how unpleasant that may be to others. So rather than tell me to shut up, people don’t tell me anything at all. In fact, they just stop visiting, stop calling, stop answering my emails – just . . . STOP . . . being a part of my life.

So, what is the opposite of paranoia? Because no matter how much some wish to shrug off my observations or down-play the severity of some action’s affect on my well-being, I am not imagining. Right now, I am the biggest buzz kill on the planet. I enter a conversation and people stop talking. I go to dinner or a movie, alone, and people rootch around uncomfortably in their seats. I tell someone what I am really thinking or feeling or experiencing and they stop contacting me. I write a blog and no one acknowledges it. I join a discussion in someone else’s blog and I kill the participation like water on a lit match. I am endeavoring to reach out and beyond myself and circumstances to reconnect with a larger representation of humanity. If my methods are awkward or offensive one might expect even that would be addressed by someone. What I do not want to declare, despite the evidence, is that I’m seeking humanity and no one has any. There is no other conclusion. A beggar will find more than one person to extend themselves and contribute. A prisoner can find amnesty. The convicted may still hope for mercy. I am not afforded any of these things. Go ahead – look ME in the eyes: Selfish bastards . . . Liars . . . Cowards, all.

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

There's Something In My Ire

I am going to barely contain the swearing that wants to surge from my rage from my reaction to an article I read only moments ago. This will be my first instance of a post that deliberately piggybacks an earlier entry. Excuse me; I am pausing until I come back to a simmer from a rolling boil.

In my posting, “Women SUCK – You’d think THAT would be a GOOD thing,” I highlighted instances of the feminine compulsion to control and manipulate men. A friend of mine found no fault with my thesis but argued that my tone softened as the narrative unfolded. He also rightly observed that this is the natural flow for men – we express what really offends us but try to reign in the emotion and consign our outrage to the constraints of reason. It is necessary for the preservation of the species. To not allow for the infuriating and contrary nature of women would ensure violence or extinction. Some men opt to forego the strictures of polite society and actually do physically express their inner turmoil in grappling with the necessity of allowing women to be what women choose to be. A great many men compartmentalize their feelings (and consequently women) to effect an approximation of tolerance while other men take the least tumultuous course of action and withdraw as far from the pain as practicable and avoid interaction whenever possible.

Since violence towards women is still distasteful to me (on the majority of occasions) and trying to understand and cooperatively interact with women is still a beautiful, although recognizably unobtainable dream, I am faced with defining my navigation in these turbulent waters at an agonizingly slow pace. While on my quest for the perfect gender- balanced land of Atlantis I drift back and forth between two shores – between the craggy, compartmentalized, utilitarian coastline and the barren desert island that would result from avoiding women altogether. But every now and again I encounter the eddy currents of a woman with no fear of recrimination for dashing men on the hostile juts of her cold, stone heart. So today I bring you the soul-less musings of a practiced control freak, Elise Nersesian. Ms. Neresian submitted this particular article to Happen magazine (www.happenmag.com) which then ascribed to it the misnomer of a “courtesy” passed on to me as I was assaulted by it upon reading my email. She has also written for Redbook, Stuff and other publications according to the byline. I will quote to you the entire piece as I do not wish to be accused of taking any of it out of context. I will highlight particularly galling excerpts, however.

“Your Man’s Mood Swings - By Elise Nersesian

Trying to figure out the best time to broach a touchy topic, ask your guy a favor or convince him to do something you know he’ll dread? Well, it’s easier than you think if you learn how to tune in to his body clock, says Gabrielle Lichterman, founder of Hormonology.info and co-author of 28 Days: What Your Cycle Reveals About Your Love Life, Moods, and Potential. While women, we all know, experience hormone-induced mood swings on a monthly basis, Lichterman attests that men, too, are affected by hormonal highs and lows—only their levels fluctuate daily. Want to get his hormones working for you? Read on.

If you need his help moving, fighting, or fixing something…
Ask: from 9-12 a.m.
It should come as no surprise that guys wake up bursting with testosterone. And aside from the obvious frisky factor, this surge in hormones makes him ambitious and determined, says Lichterman. This is the perfect time to ask him for a favor, particularly one that makes him feel like Mr. Fix-It. Buying a car? Indulge his competitive streak, and drag him along to help you haggle with the salesman and score a great deal. Or, cash in on his peak in spatial thinking and ask him to move your couch, or measure your closet space. He’ll feel heroic, and you’ll reap the benefits.

If you want to get him to agree to your plans…
Ask: from 3-4 p.m.
Trying to convince him to sign up for ballroom dancing lessons, commit to your new book club or otherwise agree to do something that would normally send men screaming in the opposite direction? Then this late-afternoon window is the perfect opportunity, says Lichterman, since his super-low testosterone levels will make him mellow and amenable to pretty much anything you throw on the table.

If you want to broach a touchy topic…
Ask: from 8-10 p.m.
At this hour, another hormone called oxytocin — a.k.a. the “cuddle hormone” due to its intimacy-inducing effects — is on the rise in his bloodstream, says Lichterman. That means this is a prime time to resolve a lingering spat (“It hurt my feelings when you didn’t call today”) or get a grievance off your chest (“Will you please shave your goatee?”). You’ll probably get met with nothing but a sincere apology and the promise to change his ways. Sure, his sweetness may be as much due to timing as a true desire to please, but hey, who cares as long as your wish is his command?”

Wow . . .

This article really should have been titled, “Empowering Your Inner Sociopath - Learning to Control His Psychopathic Tendencies.” It may surprise you that I actually agree with her fundamental argument. However, she left out one important time segment.

Don’t Ask: from 5-7 a.m.
This is the period of heightened sensitivity of senses and reasoning ability – which is when I read this provocative article. My olfactory system was acutely sensitized to this offensive cowshit and my mind reeled with the blatant assertions that a man’s biology explains all of his behavior and should be used against him. In yet another hypocritical act, a woman is advising others of her gender to pull an option right out of the “Insensitive, Dumb-ass, Man’s” playbook. If a man even suggests that a woman’s hormones have anything to do with her behavior or decision making processes he had better run for his life as he will find no amnesty.

The mention of hormone cycles was also evaluated under a very soft light. Ms. Nersesian’s claims are a reiteration of another woman’s theory that a woman is predictably stable over a sweeping phase that requires 28 days but a man is a highly volatile and unpredictable creature changing by the hour. This is the equivalent of claiming that the sky is green and the grass is blue. She has inverted reality with a reference to Gabrielle Lichterman’s non-doctoral thesis in a single sentence. That means I have license to counter just as succinctly.

Not only are women identified by their constant state of variableness but it is the very fact their behavior is so unpredictable that women may rightly argue that where they are in their cycle has no bearing on their current deportment. Meanwhile, it is in fact the very constancy of a man’s behavior that makes the need for an article such as this one attempting to manipulate him and change his behavior seem significant. It is because men are predictable that women complain about us being “set in our ways,” or as being inflexible and unyielding. Women want to have variety and not be “stuck in a rut” and then they look at their guy and he’s “a stick in the mud,” right?

So what this article is really trying to achieve is to find some new spin on the old problem of a woman getting what she wants. If someone dangles the carrot that men are actually flexible – it’s just a matter of timing – then there’s renewed hope of manipulating a man and bending him to your will even if it’s only temporarily. Am I making this up? Go back and read the first paragraph of her article, again. A woman’s hormone cycle needs to be viewed as a tool for empowerment while a man’s cycle should be used to plan your calendar so he will work for you to get what you want. Manipulative, and completely dismissive of a man’s opinion or whether his negative position toward your ambitions may have sound judgment to support his reluctance; But, what the hell? According to the article, “Sure, his sweetness may be as much due to timing as a true desire to please, but hey, who cares as long as your wish is his command?”

Why This Bothers Me So Much
Her attitude of getting what she wants no matter what is what burned my biscuit to a cinder. You certainly know not to allow children such leeway because they are not able to make reasonable choices. What makes us believe an adult is anything more than a child with more means to get their way? This kind of thing never used to bother me until it cost me nearly everything by subscribing to being compliant. I bought into the notion that being the guy that stood on principle and dug in my heels was some form of cruelty to the woman in my life. What being true to my convictions actually would have done is demonstrated my love and active participation by cherishing and protecting with words like, “No.” When I became complacent about choices that were being made I failed in my responsibility to keep record of the cumulative impact of every seemingly insignificant decision. When it seemed to be “no skin off my nose” whether we did or did not pursue a course of action I was surrendering my duty to guard the life we were building together – and it tore us apart. I had the moral obligation to be set in my ways and to resist change for the sake of change only. I had the power to direct our lives toward permanence but weakened my resolve for what seemed convenient and less strenuous efforts to realize our mutual goals. Because I didn’t want to be the one hurting her feelings by not trying to give her everything she wanted I lost her, instead, to failing to meet her expectations. I traded the reality of pain and effort and struggle for the easy compromise of “going with the flow”. I now have more pain than I can bear. Because she was and still is everything I ever wanted; because she already was enough for me I tried in vain to be everything I couldn’t be and became nothing that she wanted.

I know that because I did not say “No” on every occasion when that was the appropriate answer that I doomed my marriage. I had the right and obligation to be unyielding without automatically becoming unreasonable or being accused of being insensitive. She had every right to challenge my decisions as much as she had the obligation to make sure I was aware of the things of which she was innately sensitive but without resorting to manipulation and coercion.

It is a man’s role and I don’t give a damn if that offends you – to make decisions and lead a family. All of the “traditional” elements of male and female that have been defined as “roles” in a marriage are more real than hormone cycles. Men are very influenced by the heroic. Women are very influenced by being nurturing. We have a lot more to apologize for in our lives than those labels for our natural bents. Why would either gender apologize for being associated with those two things, anyway? They are good and powerful measures of virtues we wish we possessed all of the time so we should celebrate that we exercise them at all. The problem always occurs in establishing the means to exchange the value of men and women in trade. Most people would rather steal than deal.

Relationships should be based on improving our ability to interact. Each type of relationship, from parent-child or between siblings or classmates or work associates on up to political parties and national interaction, function only as far as the others involved may be trusted not to lie, cheat, steal, manipulate or otherwise bully to force their will to dominate. Dating and ultimately marriage require the greatest demonstration of trust and self-denial of all relationship types. It is no wonder that people rebel and take drastic measures to avoid playing by the rules when one allows for the priority of self. Afterall, "all is fair in love and war" has proven a sad commentary on the human race. If you miss the irony of that quote . . . the impact of love should be the opposite of war, yet, somehow we accept each as being capable of limitless destruction, pain and suffering.

People have a great deal of trouble with marriage. Actually what they have is a great deal of trouble accepting the effort and conditions of marriage. It should not be confused with the requirements of any other relationship. Recent cultural anarchy has removed the obvious value for having an institution called “marriage”: to distinguish it from lesser levels of intercourse. My choice of words was intended to really focus on what currency is being traded and at what rate of exchange. In the hierarchy of relationships, marriage, is defined as the supreme exchange and it is intended to cost both genders everything. The trade is made worthwhile by the exchange of one soul for another and the mutual sharing of all assets each brings. With the wealth of treasures that is unique to each gender it is sad that we so quickly forget the euphoria of first discovering the bargain giving ourselves to get the other truly is. We further devaluate the wealth of the experience by coveting what others appear to have or by trying to steal the benefits without the contractual obligations outside of marriage. Marriage should be viewed as a bank vault and not as a prison cell. It should be perceived as an investment and not a possession. Marriage needs to be recognized as something not obtained but always just beyond our present grasp. We need to be mutually growing, stretching, yearning and reaching to obtain.

As a man, among my assets include the provisions of a husband. Did you know that the definition of “husband” is “gardener?” When is a gardener’s work ever complete? If he is a good gardener, he is always planning and preparing for tomorrow while he’s getting his hands dirty and sometimes bloody, today. What is my objective as a gardener? My job is to prepare a fertile and safe environment to allow for the healthy and abundant, fruitful growth of my seed. To do that, I must attend to and nourish the soil that will sustain my sowing of myself into her. I will be rewarded for my efforts by beauty that is only limited to the amount of attention I have paid to her. I must be vigilant to see to her having the things necessary to bloom – light and warmth and space and protection from destructive influences. I must break up fallow ground and weed out anything that would interfere with the well-being of the garden. Some of the methods are harsh and blunt. Others require precise, sharp cuts to accomplish the best results. If I am not methodical and constantly practicing my skills the garden suffers from inconsistent care. If I neglect my responsibilities or abandon the garden entirely the consequences are the same – the garden withers and dies. I also may not allow the variance of the weather and seasons to distract me from my achieving and completing harvest. No matter the effort or how willing or resistant the garden is to fulfilling its purpose, the gardener must lovingly persist. The effort is exhausting but the rewards are fragrant and sweet and the promise of another generation of good seed is worth the labor.

That description of marriage is more than poetic it is appropriate to the real purpose for which marriage was established. My garden has run wild and I am in a world of hurt to try and restore it and nurture such a desolate landscape back to health. I don’t care. It’s worth the personal sacrifice and I willingly face the pain that such a struggle will require. So when I survey the surrounding fields and assess the negative influences that want to poison the soil and deprive me of the unspoiled beauty I once held in my hands I get angry and I actively root out any destructive element no matter how seemingly trite and harmless it may appear on the surface.

Articles about manipulating men are weeds and thorns that I can not allow. The same goes for any of my own thoughts that cloud my judgment and erode the straight furrows I am struggling to replant after the storms of divorce.

Women should try having the courage and strength to demonstrate their resilience in the face of their man’s objections with something called "trust" – not merely dismiss him as an obstacle and bulldoze over him if he fails to be persuaded by your need to have your way.

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

I Want A Do Over

There are several congenital defects in the human heart. Their effect is immediately recognizable but their cause is undetectable. If you ask, women can swear with certainty that it is exclusively the fault of the Y-chromosome. If you ask, men will avow that there is a universal rash of behavior attributable to but denied by women. Unfortunately, one of the global symptoms shared by all of these defects is the need to find fault in others.

The impact is so pandemic while the cure so elusive that there is a general acceptance and surrender that belays discussion unless it is in private conversations or hidden in vague language. The philosopher seeks out its pathways; the artist explores it in verse, in lyric and in portraits. The great and the small struggle but find no solution. Those in pain find comfort in blaming everyone with whom they have come in contact. Those crippled or weakened may fight to regain function or find the struggle too great and succumb. Some observe the devastation which others have endured and steel themselves in an effort to prevent circumstances the opportunity to incite the condition.

But when and how and where the defects will present are beyond our control. It doesn’t matter whether one lives in solitude or indiscriminately socializes because, despite the observation that these are communicable, everyone is already a carrier. The same urges, instincts and longings drive us all with the only subtle difference being how far we are driven crazy.

This seldom stops us from asking, “Why?” I am asking quite a lot at this time in my life. The defects of which I am most curious are all about the stupefying insistence of human beings to deliberately dismiss one another. I have no real questions to the causes. I have no unsolved enigmas in the ways we conduct our malice. Where I have a lot of time invested is in why we won’t examine our resentments and bitterness to resolve them but will enthusiastically do so to reinforce them. The human race is determined to wile away its existence in futile passions.

[Insert record scratch, here]

I want a do over. I want a do over in nearly everything. That’s what made me drill down into the things that screw up relationships. I can’t get a do over unless another person gives it to me. That is the underlying problem in all human interaction. Nearly every conflict comes down to one person being willing to try again and the other person being dead set against it. This happens between nations and right on down to family members and is always foundational to a man and woman in conflict.

Historically in the majority of cases involving men and women it is men seeking the do over. This is not because men are solely at fault or necessarily the guilty party – except it seems that it is necessary as far as women are concerned. So it’s men making the pleadings for a re-trial in all of the “love” songs, romance novels, and movies. Seriously think about that. And, then also seriously evaluate that “love” appears to be something men want and women leave men wanting.

Yeah, yeah – Boo Hoo, I know. For all of the claims of women pining for that special someone no one is ever special enough. I am still going to contend that men are willing to work with a woman’s faults but women can not reciprocate. Women suffer a man’s faults. That is in no way the same thing.

The entire system is set up for a “woman’s prerogative to change her mind.” In other words, a woman will not be held to her choices, decisions, or indiscretions or be made to be accountable for her contradictory nature. Instead she is rewarded for being contrary by every aspect of the dating, courting, marriage and mating rituals. Be honest – there is a whole lot of expected ass kissing for women. Men are expected to be consistent, trustworthy, reliable, diligent, devoted – predictable. That is why a woman lashing out at a man for unsatisfactory (in her biased estimation) behavior receives what a woman believes to be her most scathing indictment, “I don’t even know who you are anymore.” If a man were to say this to a woman he would hear derisive laughter. A woman isn’t the same person within the same breath much more any extended period of time.

What this equates to is a performance-based system for relationships between the genders. It is a meritocracy whereby the man is a pawn. Love is purely conditional as far as the affections of the woman toward the man. He must make all of the proper moves in the correct sequence and even then never expect he passes muster. He will be doubted, questioned, taunted, mocked and deceived as ever the woman sees fit. The game is rigged. A man can do no better than finish and had better be damned happy and content with that. While she’s keeping the mystery she’s also keeping score.

By definition the rules guarantee that the man is constantly guilty until proven innocent. This becomes protracted to associate the onus of fault to be exclusively the man’s while the woman holds court as jury, judge and executioner. The extended consequence is that one party believes herself blameless and a victim due to her association with the man. When she tires of the game he is dismissed with a summary sentence of either, “I’ve outgrown you;” or, a personal favorite, “I don’t love you and I never loved you.” In fairness, the latter might actually be the closest to a pronouncement of truth to ever pass her lips.

So, knowing this is the game I still want a do over. I still seek reconciliation and whatever love she has to offer no matter how imperfect . What I want is the same acceptance that I offer her.

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

Yes. It's big of me, too

There are some things about men and the things enjoyed by men that most women just don’t get.

As just a for-instance, the male predisposition to their fanatical devotion to a sports team immediately comes to mind as well as most references to the Three Stooges or the Marx Brothers.

Here’s a classic example with Groucho Marx, as Captain Spaulding:

Captain Spaulding: “Well whadaya say girls? Are we all gonna get married?”

Mrs. Whitehead: “All of us?”

Captain Spaulding: “All of us!”

Mrs. Whitehead: “But that’s bigamy!”

Captain Spaulding: “Yes, and it’s big-a-me too.”
- From “Animal Crackers” (1930)

Margaret Dumont, was in seven Marx Brothers movies and publicly confessed to having never understood their humor on or off the set. I find myself in a similar baffled condition with the current exploration of polygamy. I’m curious to know how women feel about the attraction such an arrangement might or might not hold because I’m scratching my head about this as a man. I don’t know if I am more disturbed or intrigued.

The cult under investigation, in Texas, is not the first time the media has taken more of an amused than sober look into this issue. Several years ago there was a gentleman that took advantage of a parcel of land at the intersection of four western states. None of the surrounding states had ever staked a claim to the territory and this enterprising individual built a homestead to accommodate his fifteen wives. Seeing as no state owned the land then no state regulations forbidding polygamy applied. He also took the presumptuous position that since he was not in a state, per se, he was not bound by federal laws, either. That’s an amazing pair of huevos on an hombre happy to take on fifteen women and the United States at the same time. These fifteen women were very similar to women interviewed on a recent Oprah exposé of a Utah community of polygamists. The dozen and a quarter wives all seemed quite sane and quite satisfied with their arrangements. In the case of Huevos Grande, all of the women were well-to-do professional businesswomen – the majority being doctors and attorneys. This completely flies in the face of public expectation. I, for one, imagined most women in such a relationship were “married” at nine years of age and then never allowed to be exposed to the public.

Boy, do I have egg on my face.

But there’s more. Mrs and Mrs and Mrs and . . . Mrs and Mrs Huevos slept in dormitory-like arrangements. I’m not kidding. They slept in bunk beds, four women to a cabin.

Wow.

They also had a calendar of chores with each woman taking turns in a sort of Sweet Sixteen rotation. I don’t know if they wore nametags or had a number branded on their persons to keep things organized but the share and share alike carried right on up to whose turn it was to sleep in the “big bed.”

You see, apparently, polygamists insist their intimate times are wholly monogamous. These men are just your average one-woman-at-a-time kind of guys.

How Do I Phrase This?
The Chinese are a very ancient and wise culture. Their written language is very informative because they use simple symbols combined in unique ways to express complex dynamics of their speech as well as human thought. They are very direct and blunt, as a result. Their expressions have been honed and refined over thousands of years. Do not question the wisdom of the Chinese. An example is in order:

This is the character for a tree:

木

Combine two or three trees and, logically, you have a forest:


The Chinese are very smart.

This is a woman:




Combine two women under one roof and you have Trouble:


The Chinese are brilliant.

Oh, Yeah. The observant among you may have taken note that the character for “woman” used in the word “trouble” looks just like the representation of “forest.” The character for “tree” has the general inference of “wood” and so is related to the qualities of something made of wood – among those: “rigid” and “numb.” The Chinese are insightful.

It would appear that the majority of polygamists innately understand the inherent dangers of only two wives. In the recent interviews that I have encountered the magic number of wives is three. So, officially they are trigamists. It makes monogramming the linens more difficult but seems to make everything else run smooth as silk. The pattern that I seem to be picking up from the few candid couples . . . No, quadruples (?) openly discussing how their relationships work is that there is the traditional monogamous marriage, first. Some time after the marriage is consummated and progressing along the normal lines there becomes a mutual desire of both the man and the woman for another woman. How does this meeting of the mons, er, minds occur??? I can not even begin to imagine initiating such a proposal without anticipating loss of function in several parts of my body thus making the whole proposal moot anyway.

It gets worse. It seems that the most likely candidate to interview for the position is the wife’s sister! This is mind blowing. Sisters are generally known to be close, but not all of the time and not about sharing the same guy. Let’s face it, sisters are usually quite competitive and there is always some psychological cruelty being exhibited from one to the other. No woman wants to follow the pack unless it’s to go to the bathroom. Women hunt alone. Women want to be an exclusive. What is going on here? Curiosity or proving you’re the “better” woman just doesn’t offer enough incentive. And for a guy to risk having more than one pissed-off woman to contend with defies rational explanation no matter how promising the sex. These guys must have evolved through the mutant DNA of the praying mantis and simply expect their heads to be chewed off after mating. Or . . . they have the instincts of a fox and have taken alpha dog to a whole new level.

The Buddy System?
Women are, typically, extremely territorial. So much so that I am surprised that most do not pee on everything they claim as a way to mark ownership. (Perhaps they do?) This awareness on my part has resulted in a few sadistic little things I enjoy in the developing stages of a budding romance. This occurs during that time where I am not supposed to be aware that all of the seemingly harmless and innocuous little out-of-the-blue questions she tosses my way are actually a calculated catalogue. But, I do know what she’s up to so I exact a small toll for such trolling under the bridge being spanned between us. During any quiet moment when she is snuggled up next to me and has taken fascination with my watch I will innocently “confess” that it was a gift from an ex-lover. If my wallet is a little tired or worn? Sure; why not? That was also a gift (even if it wasn’t). This guarantees me a delicious moment of spiteful pleasure and, within twenty-four hours, a few small gift boxes with new watches, wallets and other trinkets to replace my “old ones.” I have no say in this. No sooner has the new watch been unboxed but the “old one” is torn from my wrist, never to be seen, again. Although I have never tested this for any big ticket items like a big screen TV or a car I am nevertheless curious as to whether she would clean out my garage if I could persuade her all that stuff had sentimental attachments . . .

Knowing this about the nature of the creature I think I might pay a hefty sum of money to a polygamist to learn the ways of the master. After the introductory lessons on “What is the sound of one hand slapping” perhaps I would receive enlightenment. Deadly sushi as a steady diet is still too advanced for me. But what is beyond comprehension for me is this: The third woman to join the happy trio seems to be the guy’s office crush. I don’t know how this happens, either. These seem to be guys that routinely say “Yes’ to the fleeting thoughts that go through men’s minds to which one would normally opt for “No.” Where does, “Hey, I love you but you’re sister’s interesting, too,” and, “Oh, there’s real chemistry with a co-worker . . .” ever come into the conversation of a married couple?

Wait! I think the explanation is starting to gel for me. I want to say this slowly so that I don’t lose the concept while articulating it.

These men have brought home playmates for their woman’s multiple personalities.

Rather than turn and vent on the husband the wives can either commiserate or brow beat each other into compliance. The beauty of this revelation is so eloquent. This is an epiphany! I am beginning to be illuminated by the profound nature of this discovery. It’s so elemental; so perfect. It is the Art of War applied to marriage. This is astounding! The enemy of my enemy is my friend becomes the husband of my sister is my friend’s husband is my husband. I am in the presence of genius. I need a moment . . .

It explains everything. In the interviews the men and their wives all assured the audience that these multiple partnerships were not about the sex. The women were so peaceful. They seemed content, at ease, fulfilled. They had their children and their daily routines and their husband and each other. They also seemed fairly affluent and lacking in none of the suburban niceties Americans use to define normalcy. I tended to believe them. It’s a tag team. The wives don’t have the normal domestic frustrations because they essentially have wives, too. Many hands make light the work, don’t you know. And they can definitely relate to each other. When they’re complaining about their husband they don’t have to wonder if they’re being understood. And talk about peer pressure! Who wants to be the wife that can’t hack it and threatens to leave? She’d be torn between letting down her friends and losing position among the wives. Wow; a psychological choker chain.

Hmmm. But, it’s not about the sex? I can see this, too. One wife either draws the short straw or actually happens to be in the mood. Either way, the husband is pacified and the wives return to their business with as little disturbance as possible and no hard feelings. The other thing that was fascinating with these families was the number of children. It is not an exaggeration to say each wife had at least seven children. This is where they looked like Stepford Wives because all of them had their wits and figures about them despite the constant baby production. Yet, that answers another aspect I suppose. These women like being pregnant. These are households full of uterus (uteruses, uteri?) with an itch wanting to be scratched. Many men are adamant that they want families but not too many want large families, I suppose. I guess finding a willing guy with the “minor trade-off’ of a few other breasts to feed isn’t so bad. There are a few logistical issues here, too. Women in groups tend to get on the same cycle. You want to avoid this. So, I guess strategic impregnation keeps the clocks set to different times. And pregnant women are horny women. You polygamists are sneaky devils!

Still, this leaves questions about how children raised in this environment sort it all out. Do the moms as well as the kids have secret suspicions that dad has favorites? With so many step-siblings there have to be some brother/sister crushes and other weirdness. And the chain of authority is hard to follow. Does each mom receive the same respect and obedience? Do the wives wear uniforms with stripes denoting rank? There have to be situations where a mother does not appreciate another mother disciplining her child. When a child calls for mom how many answer?

This calls to remembrance a discussion my ex-wife and I had concerning a friend. He had lost his wife to cancer and had two young daughters. This man was a fantastic father and raised his daughters, alone, for several years but he was a virile dude and wanted a lover and a mother for his kids. For a short period of time the sister of his deceased wife came to visit. My wife and I immediately noticed that there was attraction between the two of them. Such a complicated situation really had the two of them at odds as to what to do. You could visibly see them struggle to not allow their feelings to be expressed. It was agony. My wife nearly broke my ribs to get me to shut-up when I suggested that the girls might have to start referring to her as “Aunt Mommy.’ It was funny but captured the irony inherent in the situation. How bad is the Aunt Mommy problem in a polygamist home?

This post could go on and on so I’m going to wrap it up. I had tried to research to whom to credit the quote, “Once a king always a king but once a knight’s enough . . .” because it seemed anecdotal to this discussion. Unfortunately I was unable to certify the author.

However, I did come across some great quotes that could be dovetailed into my thoughts at several junctures. It would appear that, Woody Allen, has been quite prolific in the quote department on the intricacies of sexual relations. After his marriage to the adopted daughter of his lover I thought surely I would also find ‘Whose Your Daddy?” attributed to him, but alas, my search was inconclusive. So, I will conclude this entry with a series of memorable quotes.

"Love is the answer, but while you are waiting for the answer sex raises some pretty good questions." - Woody Allen

"Sex between two people is a beautiful thing. Between five, it’s fantastic." - Woody Allen

"Sex alleviates tension. Love causes it." - Woody Allen

"Sex without love is an empty experience, but as empty experiences go, it’s one of the best." - Woody Allen

"Sex between a man and a woman can be absolutely wonderful - provided you get between the right man and the right woman." - Woody Allen

"I believe that sex is one of the most beautiful, natural, wholesome things that money can buy.” - Tom Clancy

“You know 'that look' women get when they want sex? Me neither.” - Steve Martin

“I believe in putting women on pedestals . . . high enough to look up their dresses.” - Steve Martin

“There are a number of mechanical devices which increase sexual arousal, particularly in women. Chief among these is the Mercedes-Benz 380SL.” - Lynn Lavner

“Women might be able to fake orgasms. But men can fake whole relationships.” - Sharon Stone

“Women need a reason to have sex. Men just need a place.” - Billy Crystal

"According to a new survey, women say they feel more comfortable undressing in front of men than they do undressing in front of other women. They say that women are too judgmental, where, of course, men are just grateful." - Robert De Niro

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!