Is she, or isn't she?

At the Gay Pride Celebrations in San Francisco today I saw this beautiful young woman. She had chiseled features, dark hair, olive skin, a smile on her lips, an air of hope and optimism that I found very refreshing. She wore a white blouse with an embroidered neck, shorts and an elegant pair of sandals. The female friend I was with thought she was okay and had a 'wholesome' look. Regardless, I found myself drawn to her even though she danced with another woman and even kissed her passionately. My friend thought she was straight or bisexual, certainly not gay.

The woman and I made eye contact a number of times. I considered talking to her, but my friend stopped me. 'If you do that, the lesbian with her is going to get pretty mad at you,' she said. 'Besides, she's going to turn you down because she's with this lesbian, at least for now.'

I hung around, sighing, hoping that the lesbian she was dancing with would just go away. But that did not happen. In fact, after some time, the two walked away, the lesbian holding on to the woman's butt in a proprietary sort of manner, as if to tell me that she was taken.

Damn that lesbian!

(PS: I took a lot of pictures at the festivities. But the one that mattered turned out lousy. Anyway, here's the pic of this lovely woman dancing with the lesbian that messed things up for me...)

Stinking Rose

So far I've only written about events where I've been rejected or have otherwise made an ass of myself because they are usually the interesting stories. Besides, how do you talk about a woman you've turned down without being disrespectful to her or sounding like a jerk? But the reality is that I have indeed turned down a number of opportunities to have sex for various reasons, some I'm not proud of, some that I am.

One of them was a woman I met online a few years ago. The first time we met at a Starbucks in a mall for about 30 mins to introduce ourselves. She had a nice, round face, with healthy cheeks. She was about 12 years younger and had 2 children.

I didn't think much after the coffee 'date'. We kept in touch online and a few weeks later we decided to meet again. She arrived for our date in a taxi since her car was in the shop. 'You should have told me,' I said. 'I could have picked you up.' But, of course, it was too late to do anything about it.

She was dressed up and I looked like a slob in my jeans. But she didn't seem to mind. We walked around and chatted, and soon we had our arms around each other. Then we kissed on a bench in public. She was oblivious to the people around us and kissed me passionately. I gingerly asked if she'd like to go back with me, and to my delight she agreed.

Back at my place we started fooling around. She was sexy. Soft lips. Large DD breasts, which I soon got to touch. She started unzipping her pants and stopped. I looked at her. 'I want you to take it off,' she said. So I did. She was a little chunky, so some extra flesh popped out as I unzipped her. She wasn't wearing any underwear. And then it hit me. Her nether regions gave off a strong, unpleasant odor. I nearly gagged. I simply couldn't pull down her pants. I pretended to caress her thighs, then her stomach, then her breasts and kissed her to distract her from the fact that I did not fully take off her pants.

'Unfortunately, I don't have any protection,' I said.

'There's a pharmacy around the corner,' she responded enthusiastically.

'Hmmm, I don't feel like getting dressed in this state and going there.' I continued to kiss her, furiously trying to figure out a way to let her down gently. We continued to fondle each other and settled into a comfortable cuddling position. 'Isn't this nice?' I asked.

'Yes,' she said, snuggling.

'Maybe we should leave sex for our next date.' I knew I was lying.

'Sure,' she said.

We lay there for a respectable period of time before I suggested that we go out and get something to eat. I took her to an Italian restaurant. I made sure our conversation was anything but sexual, talking to her mostly about her family, her ex, her dating life, etc. She was a sweet, nice, happy woman. I felt terrible. But I simply couldn't see myself getting physical with her.

After the late dinner I drove her home, about 30 minutes away. As she got off, I gave her an extra-long hug. I then held her hand for a moment and said, 'Take care.'

She kissed me and got out of the car. I drove away and forced myself to not look back.

Hang around for 2 years...

Here's an excerpt from a woman's profile in an online dating site...

"After meeting my Favorite Husband *** here in 2006, I found my Sweet 'n' Hunky boyfriend *** on here in 2010, so even less of my time and attention is available for more. Therefore, I am only available for friendships, at this time and date However, if we "click", more is possible, in two-ish years. I am in the middle of a decades-long project and another roll-out looks likely."

Right. I'd like to know the saps who write to her hoping something might happen in 2 years' time. And how do people even plan these things so far in advance? I don't know what I'm going to be doing in a few hours.

Martha Stewart admitted to having threesomes and sexting. Wow, just that image of her doing naughty things is hot, not because she is, but because the image she projects of a wholesome American woman is so much at odds with this.

And in China, 'Happy Endings' are legal. Woo-hoo! Well, I'm not moving to China any time soon.

Rumbly in the Tumbly

I knew the moment I agreed to eat Mexican that day that I'd made a mistake. But she'd fluttered her eyelashes and had been so excited to eat Mexican that I couldn't say no.

"So do you want to go to Taco Bell?" I asked.

She stared at me. Clearly she had no sense of humor.

So it was beans and cheese and spicy salsa for me at a more upmarket restaurant. Lots of it. I'd already felt bloated that day. I'll spare you the scatological details, but the gist of it was that my daily motions had become stubborn for some reason.

She wasn't very bright, nor very interesting. But, boy, did she have a body. So my dick took over and commanded my lips to continue making conversation with her. By the time we walked out of the restaurant, the conversation had become insufferably vapid and my arm was around her waist. Yes, I am a pig.

She readily agreed to go home with me. We were on the couch, and under the pretense of watching TV, we starting making out. Passionately. That's when my stomach started rumbling. At first a soft warning, like a person coughing politely. But I didn't pay any attention to it, until I became aware of the mounting pressure in my belly. Midway through the heavy petting session I excused myself and went to the bathroom. The release of air was a relief, but also highly odiferous.

Back on the couch, we continued from where we'd left off. By now her top had come off and her pendulous breasts enticed me. Her hand was inside my pant, she having decided to made acquaintance of its lively resident. And then it happened again. The pressure became unbearable. I excused myself again and rushed to the bathroom to find relief and ended up fogging up the mirrors. But the relief was immense.

When I returned, she had a quizzical look on her face. "I'm fine," I mumbled, and avoided looking at her by taking one of her large nipples in my mouth and sucking it. She was hot. She was passionate. We were both naked very soon, on the couch, on top of each other. As the pressure built up again, I knew that if I excused myself once more, it would kill the moment. So I decided to summon all my inner strength and bully my body into submission. And it seemed to work. We continued to enjoy ourselves. Both of us deriving pleasure from each other.

And then it happened. My inner strength wavered for a split second. That's all the air needed to escape. And it did, with the fanfare of a marching band rendering a Souza number. The odor hit a moment later. It was gagging, suffocate-me-with-a-cloth-soaked-in-chloroform odor.

She went pale. I could see that she had paused mid-breath. The poor thing didn't know whether to breathe in or out. I didn't know if I should ignore it as though nothing had happened or laugh it off or apologize. In the end I did nothing. The lively little man wilted. Her nipples retreated.

A few moments later, catching her breath, she slid from under me. "I just remembered," she said frantically. "I have to feed my cat."

She wore half her clothes in a hurry, carried the other half and ran out so fast that she was a blur.

That night I sent an email apologizing. I never got a response. Not that I expected one. But I also resolved that I would not have any more Mexican food on dates, even if the said dates were in Mexico.

Tall, blonde and thin? Next, please!

There are so many stereotypes about what makes a man or a woman attractive to the opposite sex. Maybe I'm weird, but many don't apply to me when it comes to my taste in women.

1. Thin: I don't find thin women attractive. I need some flesh on my woman. I once stayed in a corporate housing building in Milan for a couple of months. This building apparently also housed a number of aspiring and professional fashion models. My colleagues were all jealous of me. I was utterly unimpressed with those women who strutted by. They looked unhealthy. They looked sallow. They had no boobs. I've only once dated a woman with barely any boobs. And even that was out of curiosity rather than attraction.

2. Blonde: I don't care for blondes. Not that that's a disqualification. But it does nothing for me. I prefer women with brown, red or black hair. Even gray or salt & pepper work for me.

3. Scandinavian types: I don't find Scandinavian women attractive. In fact, many of them are quite unattractive: maybe because they're too pale, their hair too discolored.

4. Dolls: I find heavily made-up & perfumed women unattractive. Many women try too hard to look attractive. It actually detracts from their natural beauty.

5. Dumb: Perhaps not any more, but for long women were expected to be not terribly intelligent, or at least not reveal their capabilities. But, even today, a lot of men don't seem to mind a dumb, unintelligent woman. I run from them. Who wants to be with a Sarah Palin or Paris Hilton? I'd rather have an equal, someone from whom I can learn, someone I can engage with intellectually.

I'm aware of the irony in my compiling such lists. After all, I'm still out there, aren't I? But, still, it's fun to sit on a high horse every now and then. The feeling of towering over others can be exhilarating.

Southern charm

At a bar in New Orleans one muggy evening with a fellow traveler I met at the hotel. He was the silent type, so I suspected this evening would be filled with awkward silences. But soon after we settled down at the bar a group of raucous young men came in, laughing and talking loudly.

The waitresses in short skirts weaved through the crowd and flirted with everyone. The men gathered around the bar and started flirting with a particularly buxom, platinum haired woman. As the evening wore on, the flirting became more and more explicit.

"Honey," the waitress purred at a man, slapping him on his chest gently, "if you tip me any more I'm going to have to go home with you." He promptly took out a $10 bill and stuck it into her breast-pocket to the roar of his friends around him.

She took it, smiled coquettishly and said, "Naughty boy!"

Then she noticed me and came over. "Hello there, sweetheart," she drawled. "You're not from around here."

"No," I acknowledged.

She touched my arm. "I know just what kind of drink you need. A French Screw."

I didn't know what that was, but it sounded bawdy. I nodded, a little embarrassed.

She returned with an orange colored drink, which I later found out contained cognac and orange juice. I took out a $5 bill and was tempted to tuck it into her breast pocket too. But I handed it over to her. "Thank you, honey," she said. "You're a gentleman. And a handsome one."

"Wait till you see my butt," I laughed. "I'm told it's my best feature."

She leaned over to see my seated butt. "Mmmm, that sure does look juicy." She licked her lips and moved on to another customer.

The guy who had shoved the money down her breast-pocket waded through the crowd with a huge grin on his face. "So how about we get to know each other better after you're done for the night?"

"Honey," she said. "You can get to know me better right here." She jutted her ample chest out. His eyes fell on them.

"They real?"

"As real as the hair on your head." I wasn't sure if she was calling his hair into question.

"They don't look real to me," he said and chortled. He was clearly a bit tipsy.

"You can see for yourself." She took his hand and placed it on her breasts. The crowd roared. The man's eyes lit up, like he'd won the jackpot.

"They sure are real,"  he proclaimed to the entire bar triumphantly, squeezing her breasts. He leaned forward, attempting to kiss her. But she evaded his lips deftly.

"Honey, if I let you kiss me, I'd have to let all of them kiss me."

"Let him kiss you," yelled someone.

"And you can kiss my you know what." She smiled charmingly.

One by one she chatted up all the men and teased them. They were all flattered. They loved it. And by the time I decided I'd had enough entertainment for the evening, her pockets were bulging with tips.

Who makes these rules?

If you've dated for any reasonable amount of time, you've probably come across a number of dating rules that people subscribe to. Here's a video that debunks 5 of them, and I happen to disagree with every one of the myths, and hence agree with the guests.

Myth #1: Don't sleep with a man on the first date. Like all rules, this is nonsense. When you sleep with someone depends on the circumstances of your meeting, the chemistry, the trust, etc. I don't think less of women who willingly sleep on the first date. But I do think less of women who are willing to do so when there's clearly no chemistry, or on the contrary follow some sort of imaginary time-table.

Myth #2: Don't pursue him. Why the hell not? Women want to be treated equally, right? Then take at least some responsibility to initiate a relationship. I think women who initiate a conversation exhibit a level of grounding and self-confidence that I find attractive.

Myth #3: Online dating is for losers. Well, I've run into a number of women online who are accomplished, successful, well-adjusted people.

Myth #4: Men love bitches and nice guys don't win. I don't know about the latter, but I run away from bitches.

Myth #5: He's just not that into you. Yes, women do over-interpret changes in plans and periods of silence. Chill. Some of us are busy. Some of us do have a lot going on in life. You can't be the center of my attention all the time, just as I don't expect to be the center of your attention all the time.

This is the way we write our profiles

I've been on several dating sites: badoo, OKCupid and POF. I've read hundreds of profiles over the years. What people are looking for is as diverse as the world we live in. But there are a few things I find interesting and ironic:

1. Many women explicitly disparage men who post selfies. Now, I don't use one myself, but I don't find them offensive. I agree you may not want to look at the picture of a goat of man, showing off his chest with a silly grin on his face taking a photo of himself with his mobile phone. But a lot of selfies are just fine. The truth is that a lot of women post them as well on their profiles. Why, even the Clinton ladies posted one recently. So, ladies, before you look down on men with selfies, look around you.

2. I can't tell you how many women I've met who admit having FWBs but will only talk to you if you're looking for a long term or serious relationship. Frankly, I find that hypocritical.

3. Many women want men to read their profile in detail before contacting them with more than just a "Hi" or a "Hey cutie". But consider this for a moment. No matter how carefully you've read a woman's profile, no matter how thoughtful your message to her is, the fact is very, very few women write back. And of them some politely write back to say they're not interested, some conversations peter out after 1-2 exchanges, and very few proceed to a coffee date. It appears that women simply have too many choices. With such low response rates, can you blame men for not wanting to invest a lot of time and energy on any given profile until the woman actually shows even a smidgen of interest?

4. So far only a handful of women have initiated contact with me. Guess what all of them wrote? "Hi :)" or a minor variant of that.

5. Oh, and many women have written novels in their profiles: not slim page turners, but excessively wordy historical sagas filled with utterly uninteresting details. Guess what? Even a conscientious profile-reader like me skips them. And I'm often tempted to write to them with a terse: "Hire an editor."

6. Women are just as shallow as men. I've conducted a few experiments so far. I once created a nearly identical duplicate profile on a site, but used photos of a more good-looking man. As you might have guessed, that profile not only got a lot more responses, but the responses were also a lot more flirtatious, and these women were more willing to engage in salacious conversations. Then on craigslist, I posted an ad pretending to be an Italian hunk with a charming accent. It was full of cliches about romantic dinners and walks on beaches. Moments later I posted a much more accurate ad, a more thoughtful description of myself. As you might expect, the Italian got a lot of responses. The real one received only spam. Just imagine how many responses I'd have got had I pretended to be a French expat. I know these experiments are cruel, but they're also immensely edifying.

7. I didn't know there were so many princesses in the world. Clearly there have been some extremely promiscuous kings.

8. Men are pigs, I know. I am one myself, at least sometimes. But do you think requesting men who're looking for a booty call to not contact you is going to stop them from doing so? Especially if it's buried in the saga you've written about yourself?

I don't mean to sound like a cynic because I'm not. I just find the vocabulary of online profiles very amusing. I'm sure there are lots more traits in men's profile worth pointing out, and please do. That is, if anybody is reading this...

Background check

She wanted my full name, my date of birth, my address, the name of the company I worked for, my facebook & linkedin profiles and any other online group associations. All this before she'd even consider meeting me.

"Do you want my social security number as well?" I asked her.

"No, that can wait," she replied, perhaps just as sarcastically.

Needless it is to say, we never went on a date. Sometimes it's just too much work.

She only wanted a meal

We chatted a couple of times on OKCupid. She was in her early 30s, worked for a strategic consulting company in Manhattan. She readily agreed to meet me and suggested a Zagat rated bistro in Chelsea. I was uncomfortable with the thought of going on a date with someone I barely knew to a restaurant that would not be cheap. Now, don't mistake me. I don't mind spending money on someone I liked. But I usually prefer to have an exploratory meeting at a cafe. Not only does it give both of us the option to quickly get out of that place if there was no connection, it also means I don't throw money away on dates that have no chance in hell. And many dates don't go beyond the first meeting.

I tried to suggest we meet elsewhere, but she seemed adamant. So, despite my misgivings, I agreed to meet her there for lunch one weekend. That morning was a mess due to a number of unforeseen errands that I had to run. To make it to my appointment with her, I put a number of things on hold, drop off an injured nephew back with his parents and rush to the restaurant. Walking to the restaurant, I had a premonition that this was going to be a bust. But hope springs eternal.

When I arrived at the restaurant, it was full and many people were waiting for a table on the sidewalk. Clearly this was a happening place. The wait time was about 25 minutes. My date arrived a few minutes later. She was young and attractive. She wore a simple dress with a low neck, revealing her cleavage with no bra underneath.

Our greeting was awkward. She did not even extend her hand to shake mine. She didn't seem particularly enthusiastic to meet me. We tried to make small-talk, but it was slow going. Our conversation over lunch was similarly insipid. We spent most of the time talking about her work. She clearly made good money doing strategic consulting for healthcare companies. She loved the excitement of being in Manhattan. "I'd heard about this place from friends, but have never been here before," she said as she ate her meal. "This was on my list of places to eat at. And I eat out a lot since I don't cook at all." Ah, so that's why she had insisted on meeting me at this place. She was clearly more interested in the restaurant than me. She revealed very little about herself and asked me almost nothing about myself. And, still, I plodded on, hoping to break through the reserve and getting to know her better.

She ate very little and admitted that each restaurant meal ended up feeding her for a couple of days. So she left with an ample doggie bag that would see her through the next day. As we walked out of the restaurant, to truly assess her level of interest in me, I asked, "Do you want to walk around a little?"

"I have to go home to do some things, but you're welcome to walk in that direction for a bit if you'd like." Her tone was polite but did not mask her utter lack of interest in me. But I don't give up easily. So I walked with her along the Highline Park, continuing valiantly to find topics to talk to her about. Finally, I gave up, and at the end of Highline Park, I told her I'd walk back the way we came to catch my train to Brooklyn.

I gave her a polite hug and swiftly left the place, relieved that it was over, and annoyed at myself for having agreed to meeting her at a time that turned out to be inconvenient to me and at a restaurant that I would never have chosen for an initial meeting. I admit I felt a little used. But I also admit I've done things in the past that my dates would have interpreted as my having used them. So I guess it all evens out, and I shouldn't complain.

A couple of days later I noticed that she had visited my profile on OKCupid once after our meeting. Did that mean she did have some interest in me? Not to shut the door on the possibility, I sent her a candid message telling her that I thought she wasn't interested, but if for whatever reason I'd misinterpreted her body language, I'd be interested in meeting her again.

She never bothered to respond. A fitting response to my foolish persistence.

The Mormon

She was a Mormon, who'd grown up in a strict, religious family in rural Utah. Her father was a bishop. Her older brother went to Chicago on a mission as a 19-year old and came back a couple of years later an even more fervent believer. He too later became a bishop.

Most of her extended family lived in the same town; aunts, uncles, cousins, nephews, nieces. Their family gatherings involved nearly half the town.

She was 40 when I met her. And disliked everything Mormon. She considered Mormons to be hypocrites. She worked as an office manager for a medical services company owned by an old couple in Orem. I asked her if she ever considered moving out of Utah.

"All the time," she replied.

"So why haven't you?"

"I know no other place."

She was a small town woman. Her world was small. But she knew there was a larger, more interesting world out there. But she was afraid of leaving the cocoon of safety, of the familiar, even though she hated it. That she had agreed to meet me was a surprise. Perhaps I represented the other, and not just any other, but someone as far away from rural Utah as possible.

We'd met online, and after a couple of weeks of chatting we decided to meet in Salt Lake City. She was big built like a lot of Utahans. Utah had perhaps the largest percentage of obese people I've seen. But she wasn't obese, just plump. She was a pleasant person; she had a nice smile. And was white. We had dinner at an Italian restaurant and had a pleasant conversation. We connected easily, effortlessly.

"Why do you dislike Mormons so much?" I asked, hoping she wouldn't be offended by my question.

"Because it's a suffocating society. Because they weren't there for me when I needed them. Because they believe in controlling their women."

"What did you need from them?"

She gulped. She looked stricken for a moment. I was about to apologize when she said, "I was sexually abused by my cousins for many years as a girl."

I was stunned. And she told me the whole story. Of how for the first time as an 8-year old an older cousin had taken her behind the house one Sunday after service and had forced his penis into her mouth. How another cousin started doing the same thing a few months later. And this continued until she was 18, when she finally summoned enough courage to run away from home. She was terrified and did not tell anyone. Nobody would have believed her anyway. They were pious cousins, destined for respect and status in their community. And she regretted that ever since she found out that later her younger sister had also fallen victim to these cousins, which she did not know. "Had I spoken up then, I might have saved my sister," she said as she furiously tried to fight back her tears.

I had no words for her. I simply held her hand and listened, trying to imagine her life, marveling at the fact that she look like such a normal, well-adjusted person now.

"Years of therapy," she later explained. "I still have a lot of scars."

But talking to me seemed to make her feel better. She wiped her tears and brightened. "Thank you for listening. I don't talk about this with anyone, but I just felt very comfortable telling you."

As we left the restaurant, I had my hand around her shoulder. She gave me a hug and smiled. I wanted to kiss her, but I didn't want to take advantage of her at a moment when she was vulnerable. So I just embraced her and walked her to my car. For a few moments we sat there. I feared that the date had come to an end. "Would you like to stay a little longer?" I asked.

"Sure," she said brightly.

So we drove around. It was dark, cold and there was nothing to see. So we went back to the parking lot, which was nearly empty by now. "Can I kiss you?" I asked her.

"Of course."

I was surprised by the passion with which she kissed. I looked around nervously. "Oh, if there are people, let them see," she said playfully. So we continued to make out. I put my hand over her ample breasts. She did not push me away. So, bolder, I slipped my hand inside her coat and under her blouse. Her breasts were buttery soft. Her nipples were barely there. I unbuttoned her and took her breasts out. They flopped over her bra. I buried my face in them and sucked them. She moaned softly. I unzipped my pants and took my hard penis out. She hesitated for a moment and I gently took her hand and placed it on my penis. She stroked it gingerly. I was very aroused by then, and not thinking clearly.

"Do you want to suck it?"

"No," she said apologetically. "I have issues with doing that. I don't do that any more."

Of course. How insensitive of me! She took my hand and rubbed it against her crotch as she kissed me. Then she unzipped her pants and pulled down her panties a little. She wanted me to finger her. I hesitated. But seeing that she was so happy, I obliged. As I explored her wet vagina, she shuddered and shivered. I stroked her harder until she moaned and buried her face in my shoulder, staying still.

We sat in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the pleasure that we both felt.

"You have nice eyes," she said, touching my cheek. I'd never heard anyone say that. It felt good. "When will you be back next?" she asked.

"In a couple of months. Maybe next time you can come and spend the night with me?"

"Yes, that would be nice."

It was getting late, and she had a long drive back to Orem. So we kissed and I saw her to her car.

I liked her and wanted to see her again. I started to make plans to visit sooner, perhaps soon after Christmas, or early in January. We kept in touch by email and chat. I got busy and so did she since her bosses were trying to sell the business and retire. Our conversations became sporadic, but still very personal. Then around Christmas she disappeared for 10 days. I presumed she had gone to visit her family for the holidays. When she resurfaced in early January she dropped a bombshell. She got married over the holidays. To a man she'd met 3 weeks ago. I was aghast.

"I hope you did the right thing," I said to her.

"I know I did. I feel good about him. In fact he's here with me. Say hi to him."

We made awkward small talk. When he left, I asked her again, "Are you happy?"

"Very happy. I know you think I'm crazy. But I don't meet good men like you and him often. And I've learned that I should not let go of such opportunities." Sensing that I was disappointed, she continued, "I really like you. But you're not here. He lives in Orem too."

After all she'd chosen the familiar over the foreign. She's chosen comfort over adventure, reality over fantasy. "I understand," I said. "I wish both of you a very happy marriage and a wonderful life."

"Thanks," she said and blew me a kiss.

We never contacted each other after that.

Going Slow in Oslo

In Oslo, lonely and horny. I screwed up enough courage to go down to the lobby looking for women to talk to. Everyone was busy talking to someone else. I wandered into one of the shops in the lobby. It turned out to be a car-rental company. Two women worked there: one attractive, and the other plain. I hesitated. I wanted to talk to the attractive woman, but she was on the phone. The other woman asked if she could help me. She was slim and tall and blonde. Yes, the type a lot of men would salivate over. But she wasn't for me. So I held back, not responding, looking at her dumbly.

"May I help you," she repeated in English.

I had no choice but to approach her, furiously trying to figure out a reason to be there. "I'm looking to rent a car," I finally said. "Do you have any available?"

"Yes, we do. What size would you like?"

"Small would do." I glanced at the other women, but she was still on the phone and unaware of my presence.

In the meantime, the plain looking one pulled out a brochure and handed it over to me. It contained a list of models and prices. I pretended to study it for a few moments. "I'll think about this and get back to you."

I got up to leave. Then I paused. I turned to her and said, "Would you be interested in having coffee after work?"

She did not hesitate. "Sorry," she replied in a blunt tone, unsmiling. "I'm not available."

Embarrassed, I fled the room with as much dignity as I could muster. I did not look at any other women and headed straight for my room, where I spent the rest of the evening trying to read a book.

Maria of Santa Rosa

The title sounds like the name of a saint. But she was no saint. I met her through badoo. I don't know how I stumbled upon this site, but I signed up for it more out of curiosity than expectations and started looking for local women to chat with. 

Very few women deigned to respond to my initial cheery hello. So when a woman does respond, you don't spend time dilly dallying, lest she lose interest in you and move on to the dozens of other suitors she no doubt receives messages from. So when Maria responded, we got chatting. The conversation was easy. It flowed. She was second or third generation Hispanic. She did not work. But she owned a home. Her son, his girlfriend and their child stayed with her. I have no idea how she made any money, but I suspected that she was on welfare or disability.

In real life I would never have spent time talking to someone like her. But online we all assume different personalities. We metamorphose into somebody we're not. We reinvent ourselves. I was drawn to this woman out of curiosity. Curious about how someone with whom I had nothing in common lived.

We chatted over several days. We even skyped a few times. She wasn't pretty, but I wasn't looking for a princess. I wasn't even looking to her as a potential date. So, with no pressure, we kept chatting. And she told me more about herself. 

She'd been married a couple of times, been in relationships a few more times. She had children young, at around 17. She ended up marrying the first guy she dated, and dropped out of school when she became pregnant. She had 3 children, the oldest of whom lived with her. He'd run into trouble with the law. He'd been in jail. But his girlfriend waited patiently for him to get out. While he was in jail, Maria and her son's girlfriend bonded and grew close. She hoped the two would get married.

"But I have to tell you that I have a clean record," she said, as though that were a sterling achievement. "The worst I've done is get caught driving drunk. My license was suspended for a year. That was the hardest year in my life. And if you knew my life you'd know what I mean."

"What do you mean?"

"My second husband was abusive. He drank a lot. He beat me up. He threatened to kill me. I was afraid to leave him, and suffered for many years. Then finally, I could not take it any more. I ran away one night and never returned."

I was taken aback. I'd never met anyone like her. Everyone I knew lived sanitized, comfortable lives. So I didn't know how to react. I didn't want to sound patronizing, and yet, if I didn't sympathize I might have appeared callous. So I cautiously expressed words of sympathy, but was unable to offer any real solace. Besides, many years had passed since she'd run away from her husband, so she was probably not looking for any solace. 

One evening, as we chatted, on an impulse I asked her if she'd like to meet. She said she would like to, but she was nervous. 

"Why would you be nervous? It's not like you haven't dated."

She'd told me that she'd dated a few men. She went dancing on weekends with her girlfriends, and sometimes met men there, danced with them, and even ended the evening kissing a few. So she was not a shy person. But she'd only dated Hispanic men. 

Despite her misgivings, we agreed on a day to meet. She actually lived in Windsor, which is 10 miles further north of Santa Rosa, 50 miles from where I live. I wasn't expecting this meeting to result in anything. Perhaps I was just bored. So I drove all the way there. She lived in a community that looked like a trailer park. She asked me to call her from the road, which I did. She came out a few minutes later and sat down next to me. She looked older than her 46 years and curvy. She looked Caucasian.

Our initial conversation was tentative. We drove around the little town and through farmland. Soon we were on the northern edges of Santa Rosa. Our conversation didn't go as smoothly as it did when we chatted online. And it was unremarkable, for I can't remember a single detail about it now. She took me to the Santa Rosa Memorial Park and showed me the grave of one of her brothers who died in one of the wars. I was touched by the fact that she shared this with me. And, yet, there was a certain aloofness in the way she talked to me. A lack of enthusiasm. I couldn't tell if it was because of lack of interest in me or this is how she was with everyone.

I persisted, nevertheless. We ended up at a mall and went to an Italian restaurant for lunch. Midway through her lunch she excused herself to go to the restroom. When she came back she informed me that a close friend of hers, who drove buses for the city called her up and wanted to meet her. The friend wanted her to ride the bus with her. 

That was interesting. At the beginning of our meeting Maria had mentioned that she had to meet her friend only later in the afternoon. So I didn't understand the change of plans. Regardless, I dropped her off not far from the mall. As she got ready to leave, I asked if it would be okay to kiss. She said yet. I leaned forward, put my arms around her and kissed her. She did not reciprocate. It was as though she was merely tolerating me. 

Her saliva tasted horrible. It was the worst I'd ever tasted until then and since. There was an after-taste that remained in my mouth for most of my hour-long drive back home. After she got out of my car, I was overcome by a sense of revulsion when the after-taste hit me. I turned off the car and sat still. What did I know about her? How many men had kissed her? Why had I kissed her? I had nothing in common with her. There was no chemistry between us. I'd simply been curious. Curious to meet her, to know her, to kiss her. If she'd given me even the slightest encouragement, I might have even felt her ample breasts. And there I was, sitting in my car, watching her walk towards the bus-stop, feeling revolted. There was also a part of my ego that felt hurt. That she -- a woman who wasn't particularly attractive or smart -- had not found me attractive. I wasn't even sure if there really was a friend she had to meet. 

As she turned the corner, I started my car and drove off, praying that I hadn't gotten any unmentionable diseases from her saliva. I felt cheated. Of what, I could not tell. It was irrational. I shook myself up, steeled my senses and drove on, tasting the bilious, fermented taste of her saliva in my mouth.

Tica

I was in Jaco, a surfer town on the Pacific Coast in Costa Rica. I don't know why I chose to go there. I don't surf, and I'm not a beach bum. It's a somewhat picturesque little town, black sands, a few palm trees, diftwood on the beach. It was only mildly interesting. It's main street is lined with surf shops. There weren't a lot of people, there wasn't a lot happening. After an hour or two of walking around, I'd exhausted all activities of interest. But I was stuck. The shuttle that was to take me to my next destination wouldn't arrive for another couple of days. I'd made a mistake in coming to this town.

My hotel was off the main street, down an unpaved road with deep ruts filled with pools of reddish brown muddy waters. It was owned by a Jewish family, built on a small plot of land, next to an empty lot. There was a pool in the back of the building.

That evening it rained. Bored, I went to the small front office and sat in a chair uninvited and stared at the pouring rain. The woman managing the front desk was petite. She wasn't particularly attractive. We started chatting about America and Costa Rica and Jaco and the rain. She was, not surprisingly, a surfer. And a biker. And knew how to fix cars. She lived with her father and her young daughter. She needed to go to dental school one more year to graduate, but had had to put her education on hold to earn money for the family.

We went to the porch and stood watching the rain in silence. I asked her what does one do around here. "Go out to a night club," she suggested.

"I don't want to go alone. I wish I had a date." This was idle talk, and I expected this conversation to end quickly.

But to my surprise, she said, "Maybe I can arrange a date for you."

I looked at her. "You know a single friend who might be interested?" She smiled mysteriously. "Who is this person?" I wasn't sure I was really ready to meet someone. But I was intrigued.

"Maybe it's me," she replied coyly.

"Really?" I looked at her again. Standing next to me, she barely came up to my shoulder. She had curly hair. Her skin had a brown tone that I'd never seen before. "What would you like to do?" I asked, my enthusiasm rising.

"Maybe dinner after my shift, and then we can go to a night club."

She gave me her number and her name: Arelyn.

Later that evening, after she'd gone home, I hesitated for a few minutes before calling her. I wondered why she'd so readily suggested that we go out. Was this one of those shady hotels you read about? Did she make some money on the side as an escort?

But I dismissed those thoughts and gave her a call. She answered and said she would be delayed, and the earliest she could make it was 9pm. It was a couple of hours away. But there was nothing else to do. So I waited. 9pm came and went, and there was no sign of her. I paced the corridor, wondering if she'd changed her mind. At 9.30pm I was about to give up and go to the little eatery at the street corner when she showed up. Overjoyed that she hadn't stood me up, I hugged her.

We went to the restaurant and ate. When it came time to pay the bill, she fished out a couple of coupons the restaurant had left at the hotel. That was very thoughtful of her.

It was still raining and I didn't feel like going to the night club. So I suggested that we go back to the hotel and continue talking. She hesitated, but agreed. I thought we would sit in the office and talk, but she didn't want the night-watchman seeing her. So we went to my room and sat on the bed facing each other. I hadn't been with a woman in a long time. In fact this was the first time I found myself in the company of a woman after my marriage. I leaned forward and asked if I could kiss her.

"On my cheek," she said coyly.

"Well, then forget it," I replied. "I want your lips."

She didn't refuse. So I took that as a passive acceptance. Our lips touched. And it felt like I was a teenager all over again, kissing a girl for the first time. Her lips tasted faintly of nicotine and something else.

"Do you smoke?" I asked in surprise.

"Yes, sometimes."

"But what's that other smell?"

She hesitated. "I smoked some weed before coming here." I guess she'd be nervous about going on a date with me.

The smell bothered me, but only a little. I kissed her again, nibbling her soft lips, lapping her tongue with mine. I held her in a tight embrace, her breasts pressing against my chest. I was aroused. I put my hand on one of her breasts. She withdrew a little. Perhaps I'd gone too far. "Sorry," I said.

"No, it's okay." She leaned forward and kissed me. We kissed passionately, pressing against each other. I kissed her neck and she shivered. I moved down slowly, till I was on her breast. I could feel her hard nipple through her blouse. I nibbled at it. She didn't push me away. I unbuttoned her blouse and traced the outline of her lacy mauve bra. I cupped one of her breasts in my hand, and then slowly peeled back her bra to reveal her lightly pinkish brown nipple. It was thick and erect. I pinched it softly. She liked it. I bent down and sucked on it, softly at first and then harder. I bit her. She pulled back. I paused and looked at her. She was the product of at least three races: her hair African, her skin tone a mix of African and Caucasian blood, and her nipple, I couldn't place it. I'd never even seen photos of a woman's nipple that color. I decided it must be the contribution of the native peoples of Central America.

I took her top and her bra off. She looked lovely there in the dim light of the room, her breasts bare, looking vulnerable, and even beautiful. I gently pushed her onto the bed and lay on top of her, pressing my pelvis against hers. She slowly unbuttoned my jeans and felt my penis cautiously.

"Do you want to suck it?" I asked.

"No," she said emphatically.

"Do you want to make love?"

"No," she said again. "I don't know you all that well."

I was a little relieved. Any lingering doubts that I might have had that she had a dual life vanished then. I sucked her breasts with renewed passion. Her back arched and then she pushed me away lightly.

"We're going too far," she said.

On the one hand I respected what she said and agreed with her. On the other, it was frustrating. There we were, fully aroused, wanting to have sex. After struggling with the dilemma for a few moments, I sighed and pulled up my pants. She wore her bra and her blouse. "I should go now," she said. I nodded.

That night, I slept soundly, not hearing the racket the rain was making outside.


The next morning when I went to the office to see her she greeted me as if nothing had happened between us the previous night. I leaned forward to kiss, but she pulled away. "Later," she said, keeping my hopes alive.

It had stopped raining, but I didn't go out. I told her I'd wait for her in my room. At lunch time she knocked on the door, entered my room quickly and shut the door behind her. We threw ourselves at each other.

"I have to go," she kept whispering. "If the old man--" the owner's father, a bronzed, sturdy man, who swam in the pool every day -- "came looking for me he'd get upset."

But I wasn't listening. I undressed her and then myself. We lay in bed, she on top of me, riding me, while I squeezed her breasts.

"I have to go," she repeated, every time we heard a noise outside. And she kept riding me, picking up pace, her body taut. And then I came, years of pent up sexual tension released in a few seconds of bliss.

I laid her gently on the bed and stared at her. I brushed the hair from her forehead. I looked at her breasts, but they did not arouse me. I kissed her, but almost chastely. I was filled with dread. What had I done? Why had I made love to someone I might never see again? What if she thought of this as the beginning of a relationship?

I went to the bathroom, confused, and cleaned myself quickly. I was hoping she would get dressed and leave, and every second that she didn't move, I grew more and more anxious. When she finally stirred, I was relieved.

She dressed and kissed me as she left.

"Do you want to have dinner with me?" I asked, unsure what to do.

"No," she replied. "I have things to do."

I was relieved, but also disappointed. I mean wouldn't she want to make an effort to maximize her time with me before I left the next day? Who knew when we'd meet again.

I spent the day wandering around Jaco, trying to find things to do. There just wasn't anything there. I've rarely visited a place and not found anything interesting to do. Jaco is that kind of place, unfortunately. Hot, sticky, sweating, I returned to the hotel late the afternoon. She smiled at me, not a conspiratorial smile as I'd hoped, but one that she gave every guest. She was getting ready to go home as soon as her replacement showed up. We talked, but about her daughter, and her ex, a man she never married, but had a child with. He was of Jamaican descent from the east coast, and spoke only English. She'd thrown him out of her life after catching him in bed with another woman. She was distracted, perhaps thinking about her daughter, her broken relationship.

As soon as her replacement came, she ran out, hopped on her motorbike and rode away as I watched on a little despondently.


The next day I coaxed her into the ante-room of the office, filled with towels and shampoo bottle and soap. There was no CCTV cameras here. I lunged at her breasts. She giggled. "I've never met someone who likes to touch so much," she said.

"What do you mean? The men you've been with don't touch you? They just take their thing out and shove it in?"

"Yes," she said. I wasn't sure if I should feel sorry for her or wonder if I was the one who was abnormal.

As I fondled her she kept pushing me away. "I'm working," she said.

"You were working yesterday too."

"Yes, but you're leaving today."

I stopped. She looked a little forlorn. It hit me again. She was right. What was I doing? That was her gentle way of pulling away, of protecting herself. I gave her a hug, kissed her on her forehead and led her back to the office where we sat on opposite sides of her desk and talked as I waited for my shuttle to arrive.

And when it did, she came out, smiling brightly. "Let's be in touch by email," I said. "We'll meet soon." I scarcely believed myself. She smiled and waved at me as the van pulled away, bumping along the street. I didn't linger to look back at her. What purpose would that mawkish gesture serve? I had a journey to complete.

This is my second youth. Some people have 3 or 4 youths, but I'm having a hell of a time with just my second. And I hope it's my last.