As an adult, or something like it, there are certain truths I hold to be self-evident and completely necessary. Halston, Oscar de la Renta and Chanel are inarguably three of the greatest designers of all time. Period. “Sex And The City” is The girly-girl’s how-to guide on DVD. Doubt means Don’t. And people that have sex on a regular basis are A. Overall happier B. Generally Optimistic and (B.5) Less douchey bitchy Stressed.
Making “sweet love” on a fairly regular basis + caring mate/partner = good times. A well sexed lady is going to have a little extra pep in her stilettos. No “Debbie Downer’s” here. She’s maneuvering with a purpose and virtually oblivious to her surroundings.
Had her parking space snagged by some d-bag guy wearing a “Frankie Says Relax” tee with leather shorts and a gold fanny pack– No worries. They’re out of low sodium soy sauce at Mr. Chen’s– So be it, viva la red … No top shelf vodka – Aristocrats it tis’! She’ll pretend its spring break 98′ – why not? #girlsgonewild.
The flip side of the clutch is when you’re not getting any, the world seems FML absymal. Li Han, your manucurist constantly ask “Why you no have, no boyfriend?” Which you in turn reply with a tepid, yet obligatory “Nooo, not yet — here’s hoping” because you don’t want to end up looking like an extra from Memoirs of a Geisha.
You find yourself existing under the cloak of sexless darkness. Chocolate without the chip. Peanut butter, no jelley. Ketchup – no mustard. Sexless in Seattle – Party of one. “Pretty One, your table is ready.”
Not that I’ve been scoring a ton over the years, it’s actually been the opposite counting “The Great Mancation of 05’.” Rough year. Lonnngg story. There was always the idea of sweet love. It was never, not – not tangible. And that my friends, is what the kids like to refer to as a “double negative.” In other words, I had an in case of emergency break the glass, disease free, non-serial killer, FWB for a couple of years until I didn’t. Which wasn’t
a total cluster f*ck completely unfortunate, until it was. And even in that, there was a level of sanctuary in knowing that four stoli-and-tonics in, you had options.
As I continue navigate my way through pseudo “Spinster Life” in the Lonestar state; I find myself reflecting every now and again. Mostly when I’m in the car. Why you ask? Because it’s the only time I actually listen to the radio – which is ripe with stripper porno sexy time ballads … er go “Girl the way you movin’ got me in a trance – girllll drop it to the floooorrr love the way you turn me onnnn.” Yes, those are actual lyrics. From an actual song. And no he’s not singing about a Vionese waltz. True Story.
And you know what?? … It kind of makes me want to go home and give it the ole’ college try. Maybe not drop it all the way to the floor – but certainly half way – three quarters – a quarter of the way (who am I kidding). I would
drop it to the floor make the effort for the right man. Sure, why not. Another great day for writing under a pseudonym.
Instead, what do I do? I go home – drop it to the floor with a full goblet and/or box of Shiraz (don’t judge me we’re in a recession damn it!) – and I read. That’s right. Glamour… Bristish Vogue… Nylon … And Rumi poems. Which I would suggest to anyone with a romantic notion in their body. An absolute dream. And when I want to kick things up a notch, I do all of the above — in the garden tub, wearing a facial mask. Then once I’ve gotten off the floor, I watch a few episodes of Millionaire Matchmaker. And then I go to sleep, because I’m exhausted at laughing at people who are slightly more pathetic than I in the sweet love department. Cookie Diet Guy and Crazy New York publicist, that would be you.
While the lack of sweet love has left a gaping void in the sexy time department, my creative juices (pun intended) have been on charge. My concepts, have concepts. In this business, always a good thing. Meanwhile, back at the ranch – there is still the hope and the idea of great sexspectations. **Fingers Crossed**