Fools Rush In

One of my girl friends and I chatted over the weekend about the latest guy she's "dating". I put dating in quotations because after a month of seeing and sleeping with one another she's still not sure whether they're actually dating. She doesn't want to broach the topic for fear of ruining a good thing, although being in limbo means that she can't even allow herself to be happy about a relationship that might not exist. What's worse, she's 35 and he's almost 40. You'd think that by 40 a man would be willing to commit to at least a relationship status.

The not-knowing is the most frustrating and stressful part. The last time I went through that with the psychiatrist I was "dating" last year I swore that I'd never put myself through that kind of uncertainty ever again. If you're sleeping with someone on a fairly regular basis he should give you give you the courtesy of clarifying your relationship or lack thereof; and you shouldn't have to be afraid to ask. When I finally posed the question almost two months into it he confessed that he'd been seeing another girl at the same. I was crushed but learned my lesson.

I admit that I was similarly evasive with The Boy but I later realized that the only reason I was hesitant about defining his role was because I knew he wasn't quite what I was looking for. I think that more often than not not saying equals not sure. And I don't know about the rest of you but at this stage in my life I personally wouldn't want to be with someone who isn't sure how he feels about me, especially when I know how I feel about him, which I usually do.

I have an all-or-nothing approach to love. When I choose to love - and I don't love indiscriminately - I do so quickly, deeply, intensely, whole-heartedly. It's not always forever but it's always genuine in the moment and it's that kind of passion and abandon that I look for in a partner. I've tried unsuccessfully to adapt and change my ways in order to conform to modern-day norms. We try so hard not to appear too hopeful, too eager, too interested, too emotional, too vulnerable, too HUMAN, all in an effort to protect ourselves from feeling too much for someone who might not feel it back. But "the heart feels what the eyes cannot see and knows what the mind cannot understand."

I can't do it anymore. I'm inept at playing the game, unable to hide my excitement over someone, incapable of waiting whatever requisite number of hours or days the Rules tell me to wait before calling someone back or they call me. Forget 48 or even 24 hours after a date, I want him to call me from the car on his way home. Better yet, I want him to turn the car around and come back to me. Rules be damned! I want someone who'll throw caution to the wind. I want the foolish declarations of love. I want to know that I'm all he needs and to hear him shout it from the rooftops. If that makes me an incurable romantic then let me succumb to my condition.

Triple X

At the video store the other night with my friend Carol, I caught Jenna Jamison staring out at me from the cover of Thinking XXX, an HBO documentary that "looks at the lives of adult film stars through the lens of photographer Timothy Greenfield-Sanders". (Wow, porn AND a documentary! Talk about having your cake and eating it too.) While I've no qualms about renting and watching porn with a boyfriend I'm not the type to pop in a video with a bunch of girlfriends and a bowl of popcorm. So when we decided to rent the "documentary" I wasn't sure what to expect. I thought it'd be low on substance and full of gratuitous sex scenes (which is fine if that's what they're going for) but it was actually an interesting, insightful film. Two (or three) thumbs way up.

I've often wondered what porn stars were like and how they got into the business. The stereotype that they're largely uneducated, from lower-income backgrounds and without a lot of options seemed to be confirmed by the film, although it's clear that some of the better-known actors are business-savvy and have managed to turn themselves into household names. Many of the actresses in the documentary describe themselves as horny exhibitionists, which made me think that there's a fine line between them and the college girls you see in Girls Gone Wild.

Overall it was a good film, worth checking out if only to behold, in one place, some of the hugest schlongs in the biz. Incidentally, the biggest on-screen one is attached to the smarmiest looking, balding, short guy. Proof positive that how a gift is wrapped doesn't necessarily reflect the present inside.

My favorite line from the film comes courtesy of Heather Hunter (a horse-faced gal if I ever saw one) who said, "I'm the Halle Berry of porn." Somehow I don't think Halle would be too flattered by that comparison.

A Private Consultation

It's funny that both my friends named Sandy want to introduce me to their financial advisors. Actually, Toronto Sandy is hoping her guy will be the future Mr. Cat while Montreal Sandy can only go so far as to recommend her guy's professional services, although I've seen his picture and he is indeed a hunk so I can already imagine how professional his services are. He also moonlights as a pro golfer and has a flowing mane of blond hair. Sandy has a huge crush on Golden Boy, who, unfortunately, is recently married.

Who's the lucky lady who gets to call herself Mrs. Golden Boy? Mutual friends have described her as a pill-popping shopaholic who was drowning in debt but he asked her to marry him anyway only a year after they met. Some girls have all the luck.

Sandy has recommended that I call him for a consultation. I honestly could use some guidance with my finances but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't the least bit excited about seeing Golden Boy in person. And letting him handle my...portfolio.

Hassling The Hoff

I happened to catch an episode of America's Got Talent last week on NBC. There are some genuinely entertaining performers like clog-dancing quintet All That and hula hooper Hoopalicious but the show is way too long and host Regis Philbin deserves a clog in the head.

Even more ridiculous though are the talent-starved washouts serving as judges: some british nobody who's undoubtedly buddies with exec producer Simon Cowell, fish-faced Brandy and her fake boobs, and the Grand-dad of Baywatch - the Knight-Rider himself - David Hasselhoff. Why, America, why?

Choices Choices

Kay's about a week late for her period this month. We all want to believe it's because she's under an usual amount of stress having just bought and moved into her new house and not that she might actually be pregnant by her on-again-off-again-barely-divorced boyfriend.

She wondered aloud what she would do if she were pregnant; what he might ask her to do. Would she, could she get an abortion? She and I are pro-choice but what might've been a choice when we were 18 isn't so easily an option at 28. If we're old enough to own property, clearly we're old enough to take responsibility for our actions.

I accept and even look forward to Motherhood as an upcoming stage of life but I can't say I feel the pangs quite yet. It's hard to want the child when you don't even know the man with whom that child will be created. Being a single mom of two dogs I'm painfully aware of how much more difficult it would be to raise children alone, so for now, at the still-relatively-young age of almost-28, my desire to have a baby is still dependent upon my first finding the One.

If I were to get pregnant right now I'm not sure what I would do. There's always that chance every woman takes when she decides to terminate a pregnancy that she might never be able to conceive again. She might one day pray for something that she asked to have torn from herself today.

Sometimes I think about what it'll be like when "he" and I will be waiting and wishing for the test to be positive. How odd yet exciting to think that that day will eventually be here, and then every choice going forward becomes a joyous one: pink or blue, Aidan or Olivia. Many decisions lie ahead. I just hope neither Kay (nor I) need to make the most pivotal of all choices any time soon.

The Spice Of Life

I thought it was funny that the same day fellow blogger Yellow Gal sat in her doctor's office I was sitting in mine, pondering my actions over the last year and a half. I'm happy to say that save for one person I have no regrets over the people I've let into my life and/or my...arms.

Even before I set out on this journey of being single I never equated a person's number of partners with sexual experience, and prowess even less so. I agree with Yellow Gal that, depending on how open-minded and adventurous you are of course, you can experience far greater things in a long term relationship than you would in a series of one night stands. I'll admit though that I used to use the word 'slut' a lot more liberally and less discriminatingly than I do now, not because I think I am one but because I came to understand that it's more about your motivations when entering into a situation than the situation itself.

I was very conscious, coming out of my long term relationship, that I wanted to stay single and play the field a little or a lot as the case may be. Variety for variety's sake. Now, 17 months later I can certainly say that I achieved what I set out to achieve and that it's time to change gears once again. Sex with different people under different circumstances may be fun and novel but indeed nothing beats sex with someone you really care about and/or within the context of a relationship. Lots of sex without any intimacy loses its charm real quick. This is not to say that I'm taking a vow of celibacy but I think I've enough experiences under my belt (no pun intended) at this point and am not just looking for a good time anymore. Ironically, a "good time" is never all that good when I just don't care.

Solidarity

My gay friend, Mark-Anthony, went on what he thought was a great date last week. The Guy suggested they go out again. They planned to call one another at around 5PM on Sunday ("you call me or I'll call you") to do something later that evening. M.A. gave himself until 5:45 Sunday afternoon, then caved and called the Guy. Voicemail. M.A. left a message. The Guy didn't call back. MA was crushed and drank himself into a stupor by himself on what should've been Hot Date Night. (Incidentally my plans had also fallen through so I felt his pain.)

Gay or straight, guys suck...and not in a good way.