They don't make men like this any more

The best part of the evening was meeting Princess Donna in person. She's pretty. She's powerful. She showed N8 and me how to make the girls squirt. She was getting a drink at the bar and N8 went to ask her, and she showed us. I think I now know how.  took a photo with her. In my world, she's as big of a celerity as any Hollywood stars. I saw her recently at another shoot. She's the mistress of Public Disgrace site. I actually find her to be quite pleasant and smart. This is her job. She does it well. Two women, film makers, met up at the club and we hang out for a while and chatted. One woman was a writer and asked a lot of questions about me. I gave her straight answers and she was puzzled. She was 32 and not married. One woman pulled down her shirt and showed one of my guy friends her tits. A very attractive lady sitting on a bar stool. Many men were eying her. One of my guy friends went up and got her number. It pays to be tall, cute, the all American blue blood Clark Kent look alike. Another girl took a liking of another guy friend of mine. But then another guy liked her more. So the digits were exchanged but passed from one guy to another.

I make a good wing-man. Women asked me - "What's your story?" Why is everyone asking me "What's your story" these days? Can't I just maintain a slight air of mystery? Next time when someone asks me, I'd reply - "Which story would you like to hear?" Women continued to ask - "So which one of them is your boyfriend?" "How long have you guys been dating?" I always just answer, "none, not dating and I'm married." Why is it inconceivable for a married woman with children to hang out at a swanky bar on Friday night with single guy friends? Why can't married women be out with men other than her spouse? Why can't I be platonic friends with men? I can and I am. I have more women friends than guy friends. One woman asked, "Did you just summon them?" I did just text them. I texted several of my girlfriends too, but guys like bars, women don't. I didn't force them to be there, men came to bars, especially nice looking ones like the Armory club. Good scenery. So it does not take much for them to show up. Women don't like bars in general. So they don't respond to text.

To make a girl become more interested in one guy, who was actually really more into her than he let on, I walked up to the guy and he pulled me closer. Woman eyed him and then me suspiciously. I looked away and whispered to the guy friend, "Yep, she'll be calling you. You are not just a desperate loser who only was chasing her." Sure enough woman hugged him and asked him to call as she was leaving. Women like competitions. Most of them anyway. I am an exception. I suppose. I don't like men who flirt with other women. I actually don't care for players. I'm old fashioned that way.

Women, please don't hate me, I'm just here helping my friends score. Because, it's really hard to meet people these days. And men need all the help they can get.

Except me. I meet people, seems to be every other day. I meet them everywhere. I meet them each and every turn I take. I have never asked to be met. They just came into my life. They are women, men and they are people. I don't necessarily care one way or another, but when an unlikely friendship sprout it always excites me. I have not been in the business of making friends for over a decade.

I like old friends.

This is not a story about heart matters. This is a story about connecting with people and be open and tolerant and without expectations. This is a story about friendship and not love matters.

Guy friends always tell me about their love stories. I also learn from them. I learned that we all are searching for that someone to love us back, and we all search for that special someone whom we can't live without.

I learned that we truly behave differently with the person we care and love the most.

N8 said that he had a girl who sat at the passenger door and waited for him to get out, and open the door for her. He pushed the door open from inside and said there you go. He said that she's not that worth it. But for the woman he loved the most, he'd open doors, put jacket on her, and do anything and everything for her. I suppose that's love or at least gesture of love. N8 would put women in two categories, the "potential relationship" kind and the other. For the potential relationship kind, he takes it easy and pursues them but knows that he may fall in love with them. They often don't want him as much he wants them. Go figure.  For the other kind, they tend to be easy lays and they are always there, his fuck buddies. He has both. I imagine most single men have both kinds if they are of certain age.  They are always pursuing those who don't want to be caught.  They are always being pursued by the others. Well, isn't that universal truth?

My memory is not great. But in my recollection, there was only one guy who consistently opened the passenger side of door for me, helped me to put on my coat, held his arm out so that I could hold him and walk on uneven pavement, and always, always insisted on paying for every meal. We never talked much. We never discussed anything substantial. I never asked him many questions. Neither had he. I knew I'd do anything and everything for him. I believe he knew that of me. I knew everything I needed to know, and what he didn't tell me, or did tell me, never really mattered. My feelings for him taught me what love was. Love was just that. To do all those things that you'd ordinary never do with and for others.  To believe in the person blindly and love foolishly. I told a girlfriend of mine once that we all need to break away from that one person, whom we have given ultimate control to. We must. But we are idiots and we don't. We can't. We don't want to.

I may be older, but I knew what we'd do for those we adore. So next time when someone opens the passenger side of door for you, willingly, someone insists on paying for the meal, someone holds your jacket out as you put your arms through them, even though you don't need him to do any of it, know that it does not happen often, and perhaps you are the one who is worth his effort. Be thankful.

They don't make men like that any more.

Multiple Personalities

Most of the time, I stand on the side line, looking in and I feel that I’m watching four strangers all going about their businesses, heading into four different directions in life, each a different person, each holding a different future. Once my therapist said that I don’t have split personality, I have multiple personalities, I thought everyone is the same as I. Because this is the only person I know, I have always been this way from the very beginning. I have simply, returned to my roots.

Being your call girl

Sometimes I fantasize being (and think that I am) your call girl. A wind up doll. The less you communicate with me the more I feel like an appointment in your diary. With no name just last name initial E. Every 4 to 6 weeks, a booking, an entry. 2-8 hours. Like your client meeting or sales proposal presentation. Except you are the client, my client, my only client.

Before you see me I ask if you have special demand:

What kind of clothes you want me to wear...
what kind of look I should sport...
Are you in a talkative mood or are you simply looking for some peace and quiet?
If it's former, Is there a particular subject you'd be interested in discussing?
If it's the later, should I be as usual, be quiet until you give me the permission to speak? I will be you body pillow, soft, sensual but a pillow nonetheless.

You usually tell me if you have special requirements. How to dress and whether I should wear underwear. But lately you have not requested anything and I'm a little puzzled. I prefer lunch appointments. In and out, quick but satisfying. But lately you've taken me out to dinner, to feed me. We have proper dates. I also sensed that you have developed feelings for me. Feelings clients should not develop for their call girls. I feel too and that scares me. Thankfully, I see you less now. intensity wears off in a couple of weeks. I learned. 

I suspect that you may have another call girl that you see now, someone to provide a different type of needs, or you may be too busy, or maybe I have become stale - it's time for an image overhaul I think. I don't care about your other hobbies. I am not jealous - I wish that I could but that requires real emotions and I prefer to think that I have none. I am never possessive, I never had a grown up relationship you see. Our relationship is the closest one I have ever shared with anyone. I want to ask you about rules. I have sensed that there are some, but I want to know that all so that I could obey. I know that I can't call outside of the day when we are meeting. Everything must be prearranged. I want to keep you as my client. Like you, I have a diary and I mark you simply as B.  You are my semi-regular.

When I see you I become whatever and whomever you want me to be, and I please you the way you want to be pleased. I aim to serve and satisfy you. It's my job. But lately I begin to enjoy more than I should.

When you leave me I go into dormant stage - even though I think about you lots. I move onto other things that do not involve you. I imagine one day we'd cross path outside of our arrangement. I wonder if you'd recognize me. I wonder if I should walk up to say hi. I wonder if you’d call me by my real name.

Sometimes I think being your call girl is not bad. I need to add a quality control process. I want to get an evaluation from you. I want to have an improvement plan in place. Because I take my job seriously and this is a job I enjoy.

I think it’ll be grand if I could be on my knees, for 1 to 2 hours, naked, serving you. That’s what I like to do, because I’m a masochist. I like being submissive, I like serving man, I like being fed of your cock, I like swallowing. That’s the reason I exist, in this world of a call girl, I put emotions away, tucked all the way in the back shelf, and I do my job. And that’s all there is. I can’t deal with emotions. It hurts like hell. It does not belong to someone like me.

Rockridge, Revisited

Last minute decision, rode the BART to meet up with a friend at A Cote, a French restaurant in Rockridge. I had not been back since last August. BART dropped me off at the station, and it was the first time since that evening over a year ago. Feeling disoriented, I had a sudden panic for no apparent reason. The autumn was upon us and the night had fallen - I was once again, running 30 minutes behind schedule. My companion was already at the restaurant, waiting, with his back towards the door, but I recognized his gray hair and his glasses. He was tall, had a white sweater vest on and a polo shirt underneath. He had piercing blue eyes and looked distinguished. He was an old school Republican from the east coast, dressed very Brooks Brothers today, and he very rarely smiled. So I went up to him and scooped up my chair to sit next to him. He chose to sit by the counter. He did not want to get a table because he did not like sitting across from me and preferred to sit next to me so that we could talk. But I was talked out from work today, and I just want to grab a drink and have a few pieces of dried fruit and nuts.

"Have you been here before?" He asked.

"Yes, once, very long time ago." I answered. Define Very long. From last August to now it sure felt like a very different life all together. I remembered exactly what I was wearing the last time I was here. But that’s because I had been trying to remember everything in my life, actively recalling history so that I won’t lose my memories again.

"They have small plates. What do you want to drink?" Friend handed me wine list.  I ordered glass of Gamay 2011, which I liked from the Armory Club. Friend was having a glass of California Pinot Noir, I told him that I didn’t like California red. But he's from Boston like many of my friends were, moved to SF because of the weather, I’m sure. So he liked California red. But I think he only liked expensive red wine. Whatever. I had decided that I would not be intimidated by him, I would not feel inadequate because he was blue blood and exuded authority and confidence. I should be whoever I was, even if that meant that I liked vintage clothing and hanging out in the Mission eating dollar lengua tacos at midnight, which I suspected that he hated. I had once asked if he liked NPR, and he looked at me as if I was a eight legged monster. He had never tuned into NPR. I would ordinarily be considered sophisticated with fine taste in life, but next to him I just felt utterly bohemian. To justify, I said, “I like my yellow vintage dress. Just so you know.” He said, “Yes, I liked it too.” I had no idea he paid attention. I looked surprised. He gave me a crooked smile.

I always knew that there was a Carrie Bradshaw in every woman; confidence was used to mask awkwardness. Every person she grew fond of, they each, eventually, betray her.

I didn’t put stock in much of anything these days. Friendship had its up and downs, and I very rarely made plans beyond a day unless it's something that I wanted to do. I responded to last minute requests the best, on texts, often, and I chose to either show up or not, depending on what I got going on that evening.

Friend had gotten bored and started to check football score. Tomorrow he would leave town.

I needed to go home to see my family. So we began to say goodbye to each other.

"You should smile more. It makes you less Republican." I told him.

I once hated gray-hair white male Republicans.

He grabbed my hair and pulled it up, examining my face as if he was about to give me a makeover.

 "You have a nice smile, kiddo."

I jerked my hair away from his hand. Pulling a little too hard soI went like “ouch”. He acted a little too presumptuous, a little too familiar. But I suspected very few people ever told him no. I had not listened to what he had to say once. I was spacing out as I often did. So he pulled my head towards him, with his hand on my chin, he commended, “Look at me. Are you listening?” I tried to escape from his hold but he wouldn’t budge. I finally gave up my struggle and sat on the chair and listened to what he had to say. It was a simple question, but he made sure that I was paying full attention before the question was asked.

This friend of mine was a classic control freak. But I always remembered the good parts of the people. He was also the person who told me to hold him when I was crying, years and years ago. Before he was Mr. Big and before I stopped feeling.

We began to part our ways.

"Safe travels." I hugged him to say goodbye, as I was heading to the BART. But then I stopped to ask, "When will you be back?" He gave me a list of cities he'd be visiting, and his travel schedule. He said that he had to check up on the work his people had been doing.  He had people to do work for him. He just needed to show up on occasion in his Neiman Marcus suit and fancy bespoke shirt with nice stitching, presumably to catch up with the clients, talk to his senior staff, play a round of golf, and then take off.  He made work sound so easy.

He did not know I already nicknamed him Mr. Big behind his back. That was what I had told my girlfriends. I poked fun at his uptight dress code, his monotone, and his overall lack of appreciation for anything artsy. He wouldn’t go to museums, he wouldn’t go to indie music venues, and he wouldn’t listen to anything on NPR. He gave money to Republican candidates. He liked Red Sox and San Francisco Giants, Raiders and New York Giants. He worked a lot and apparently, never used to people saying no.   

"Text or call, anytime. I mean it." He said, I could tell that he was trying to make an effort to stay in touch. But I knew myself, I wouldn’t be doing that. Unlike Carrie Bradshaw, I had grown cynical, trained by experience and disappointments in life; I didn’t like to raise any hopes of a friendship beyond the occasional dinners. I was not, and never would be, emotionally evolved.

We were supposed to see a City Arts and Lectures show when he's back.

I somehow doubt that he'd make it to the event.

But you never knew, even Mr. Big managed to surprise Carrie Bradshaw.

Is for the second time in my life, positively, completely, undoubtedly, out of my depth here. Therefore, I’m frightened and in need to find center quickly before I fall not off a cliff or into abyss but am swallowed whole by the black hole and then spitted out of the other end of the universe like a rag doll. I must, hold on, and ground myself before my world collapse in front of my eyes. This is not a child’s play. This is real. And I am, indeed, not in Kansas anymore.

 

Do I have to watch sports, support local sports teams and play golf? Can I just be the hipster me, wear vintage dresses, eat weird food, listen to indie band, go to poetry reading, and hang out in the Mission until wee hours?

When I was twenty, every single weekend it was baseball, basketball, football games, and then golf outing, always golf, never anything else. I voted Republican and spoke only when spoken to. Got dressed up in the evenings, and looked the part. I was the submissive young thing. Therapy is good as it takes us back to the memory lane, and I’m told that we always go back to our roots.  But if we all go back to our roots, where is the progress? And if I have transformed myself over the last many years, why do I, sometimes crave going back to the beginning?

Could we all in fact be two people? The person we try to leave behind is never too far behind, it’s in the shadows, lurking, ready for its return. All it takes is pushing that escape button, then Pandora box opens, the old self gets released, and I was transported back to the beginning. A different type of role awaits  along with the shoes, old attire, old attitude, even the eerily familiar sports lingos being uttered without much thought.

Just like that, readily, comfortably, I was that person again, as if never a day had passed.

Diary of a Lost Soul

Every five months you go into a deep valley. Early December, Early May and Early October. For December, you were in the valley for 1 month, For May, you were in the valley for two weeks. For October, you were in the valley for exactly 1 week. What is the secret to speedy recovery? Very simple. Through psychoanalysis, you begin to recognize patterns, you reverse your steering wheel, you head into a new direction. When you see a vacant spot in your heart, a dark hole that bleeds, a heart screams for help, a void that you cannot fulfill, sadness engulfs your spirit, you need to tough it out, you just have to hang tight, and when you drop to the bottom of the cliff, you know you will come back, you know that you are the phoenix born into the fire and you will resurface with iron wings charging into the sky.

You know that your mood is affected by the other, rationality does not apply, logic does not work, only you can amend your own wound, the other cannot help you, the other cannot hear your scream, you are soundless, helpless, oblivious of the world passing you by, you may be bipolar, you may be manic depressive, you may be simply lost, you may be depending on the other to save you, but the other won’t come, the other has disappeared into thin air, the other has no concerns over your malnutrition, the other comes and goes as he pleases, the other does not exist but in your head.

All you can do is to watch yourself drop to the bottom of the cliff, waiting for your life to die and the other life to be reborn. You cry to sleep, you cry to wake, you cry as you write to the other who will not reply, the other who has never seen this side of you, , the other who has never seen these letters, the other who does not exist but in your head. You declare love. Love for the other that will never die. Except that you are dead. How could you hold love for the other when you no longer exist?

The crackling bones, the lovely cracking shining white bones at the bottom of the cliff are the only remains of you. The new you stare at these bones, stunned, confused and definitively outraged. You want to scream to the other - why? Why? But the other won’t reply, the other has left you, soundlessly, exit left stage, and obliviously how broken you were once.

But even if he does come back, you know you won’t recognize him. All its left are those crackling bones, pearl white, laying at the sandy beach, bleached and dried, soon it just looked like driftwoods, blending into the nature, as if the old you never existed. You know the universe hears you, it sends what you needs.  You ascend and you no longer feels the pain.

Just like that, the vacancies have been filled. You are made whole again. Today is a new beginning. Tomorrow the sun shines brighter. Welcome back, you lost soul!