Vol. 2, Post #68 Nice. Now Go Home.

Maybe mid-life love touches down differently. Is that bad? My sex tips for girls* (*girls who are holding on to mid-life by a thread). A dating odyssey for Young Olds, (people with readers).

I’m planning on fucking Mr. Clean this Thursday (as in tomorrow).

Does that sound positively UNromantic? It’s not. We’ve been out a few times and the kissing is sweet (as mentioned), the curiosity to explore what happens next is building with some decent tension and while I am not experiencing what my pal S. calls “that sex vibe,” meaning, I haven’t wanted to rip off his clothes since Day One, we’ve kind of danced around the topic of sex in a way that is tinged by some longing (I get the impression that he’s a bit of a slow burn, and I’m doing NOTHING to facilitate any forward movement on this for a change), so now we need to actually get in bed and see if we’re a match, physically.

So I invited Mr. Clean to dinner here at my house tomorrow, after which I assume we’re going to fuck. And after that, I hope he goes home.

I can see some of you wrinkling your noses at me.

This is not how most of my love affairs have began and I’m well aware of that. Usually by Date Two, there is some hot making out and a sense of WHOA. And, please, don’t give me any of that bullshit about “Third Date” because it’s the silliest thing ever. For those of you who are scratching your heads and asking, “Third date…whaaaaat?” let me explain: Used to be (it was assumed) that you’d fuck on Date Three and I’m sure there are a bajillion people out there who still follow that “rule” but on our third date, after the champagne and oysters and the holding hands and talking, I found myself just LOOKING at Mr. Clean and thinking, “OK, this is really easy and nice. Stop trying to find issues with any of it.” And that…THAT…is not a prelude to me taking off my clothes. That is a prelude to me thinking and thinking again about if I’m doing this at all.

Because…in the midst of all of the thinking about the connection and the sex, here’s the other thing I’m thinking about. My space.

Back to my aforementioned pal S., who is in the midst of redefining what her current relationship will look like since she’s also realized that the man she’s called partner until recently is more like a good friend. They are living together and now she is sleeping in another room, happy as a clam. They haven’t entirely figured out what they will do next, but “well-matched roommates” seems to be the current state of affairs and I suppose that’s how life will go on until one of them decides they want to date. I saw S. last week and the smile on her face as she described her own bedroom? THE BIGGEST! Like, “Alice In Wonderland” Cheshire Cat big.

Then, there is my pal M., who has been in a committed loving relationship for a few years, and who sees her partner once a week. Sometimes for one night, sometimes for two. But ONCE A WEEK. And then usually texts me a photo of her relaxing on her porch after he’s gone home. Not because she doesn’t love him or because she’s unhappy. She’s VERY happy. And she loves him. But she loves her space. She and her partner have had conversations about “next steps” but currently, there are no next steps, as far as she’s concerned. She’s in the sweet spot and I totally concur.

Actually, I’m in awe.

And then there is this ^^^ People Magazine piece that I screenshot up top, an article that no less than five of my friends reposted last week on social media. The piece showed up in a few of my private women’s groups online too. And the conversations around the piece? A resounding “I SO GET IT!”

To be clear, if this sounds like just another eye-rolling case of men-bashing, Dear Readers, it’s NOT! As I’ve written many, many times before, I am no picnic myself when it comes to how I live. I like it just the way I like it and for some people, I am too attached to order and cleanliness, for example. Piles of laundry or mail? Nope. Dirty shoes tracking mud onto my kitchen floor? Nope. Toothpaste spit lingering in the sink even though you think you rinsed it well? Are you fucking kidding me? And that’s just the tipping point. There are million things that I do in my own house that I’m sure would (and do) drive my Beloveds crazy. But here’s the thing. It’s MY house. And now, even though I’m starting to date someone who has made it VERY VERY CLEAR that he likes cohabitating, that he looks forward to cohabitating, and that he is dating with the intention to have a committed, long-term monogamous relationship that, ostensibly, will feature cohabitation? Well, we’ll have to talk about that. If we get that far. Baby steps now. Like fucking, and then seeing how a sleepover goes, when and if that happens.

So, forgetting what a big pain in the ass I am, let’s go back to the topic at hand.

The women in my life who were posting that People Magazine piece, or discussing it, were mostly focused on what Supermodel Linda said about breathing, but it trickled down into snoring, and even talking. And again, I get it. In my house, I have a pretty hard-and-fast rule that has nothing to do with fucking on the third date, and everything to do with Being Quiet, and it’s this: For the first hour I am awake, I’d prefer not to talk. At all. The first hour awake is for coffee, journaling, meditating if I’m on my game, scrolling (ugh, I know), and birdsong if the season allows for sitting on my porch or back deck. Please don’t talk to me.

See what I mean?

Also, I know most of you have seen this, but just in case…he’s spot on.

Btw, let’s all enjoy Linda and the girls in their glory days with George Michael, I mean, it IS June and it IS Pride, so..

Are any of you watching or hate-watching And Just Like That… I am not, but this SATC reboot has just rounded Season Three and apparently Carrie (SJP) has finally (or not?) realized that her relationship with Big was generally a mistake and that Aiden is the love of her life…only now, solidly middle-aged Aiden can’t entirely commit to Carrie since one of his kids is royally fucked up (I’m summarizing here and may have some of the deets wrong — maybe it’s more than one kid who is fucked up. Not important to the point I’m making). This forces Aiden and Carrie to endure a long-distance relationship while Aiden moves closer to Said Child and helps get him back on track. So naturally, “the gang” is up in arms about the distance and what this must mean for Carrie.

All of which makes me want to say, “Long distance? Sounds like a dream to me. Keeps things fresh and juicy.”

Barring the natural “suspended belief” factor of television, does any Young Old think that an hour or three of distance between lovers make for the stuff of tears and tantrums?

I mean, I’m not a complete idiot. I understand that as we age from Young Olds to Just Olds, there are plenty of reasons to live together, ranging from a division of chores and labor to a built-in security system that insures if one of us falls down the basement steps, there is someone to dial 911 (Frankie The Dog, while being a perfect man in many ways, is lacking in this capacity).

And then there is this: Many of you have happily lived with your Beloveds for decades and can’t imagine a life wherein you call all the shots. The idea of dining alone in a restaurant or making travel plans for one are frankly a bit daunting for some and can fill a long-term partnered person with sadness.

I get it. The confusion, amid the pain and despair, that one can feel after a lasting relationship or marriage dissolves is very very very real. After my 16- and 10-year marriages/partnership ended, I felt a sense of free-falling that was unlike anything else. What to do? WHO AM I?

It’s either been the timeframe since that last decade-long partnership ended, or this last decade in which I’ve grown older, where I’ve seen a very different side of My Space and quite frankly, I’m not sure I’m going to cross back over to Shacked Up. Ever.

OK. Go ahead and say it. I can hear some of you thinking it.

There is also the fact that that Mr. Clean (we’re back to him) is still not necessarily a keeper and that if he was, I’d allow a U-Haul to park out front faster than you could say “Ha! Once a big lesbian, always a big lesbian!” BW told me on our second “real” date that we were probably going to get married, and he was correct. H. and I moved in together rather quickly after we both ended our prior relationships, even though we thought we had been prudent in terms of timing (we weren’t). S. and I moved in together in less than a year. B. and I moved in together after five months. I would’ve moved in with F. on a dozen different occasions, and for that matter, we played House pretty beautifully for those lost weekends when we could shut out the world and just stay in bed.

The other relationships that I’ve had over these last ten years? I wasn’t sure I wanted to spend a ton of time together and I knew this from the get-go. The “clingy” factor felt innately too strong, too fast. I don’t get that vibe from Mr. Clean, mostly because I told him very clearly that I was just starting to date and did not want to get serious with anyone, anytime soon. I THINK he heard me. And I have to give him this: Since I told him that I was going to be dating other people for the immediate future, Mr. Clean did dial back the “what did you have for dinner?” chat that I abhor and when he calls me or texts me, for the most part, I am excited to hear from him, and very engaged.

That still doesn’t mean I am relishing the idea of him spending night after night in my bed.

Again, we’ll have to revisit this after Thursday because if the sex is hot, I am fairly certain that I will change my tune on this. But there is Fucking and then there is Sleeping Together, and the latter is a finely nuanced dance. I know a few of my crew remember the man that I’ll call V., a WASP if ever there was one, who could literally MUMMIFY me as we slept; who once walked down the street with me with his arm around my shoulders and his other hand reaching around in front of me to stroke my hand. No matter how many times I’d tell him that this made me insane, he’d insist on it. I couldn’t breathe. To wit…

Similarly, a brief fling with a super funny Brit included this exchange, as we settled down in bed for our first sleepover:

Him: “Are you someone who likes to cuddle or are you off on your side of the bed?”

Me: “Cuddle after sex and then See Ya.”

Him: “Righto. Sort of like ‘Love you. Now fuck off.’"

PRECISELY!

So let’s see what happens after Thursday. Is this going to be like the conclave when they name a new Pope? Am I supposed to send up smoke signals if it’s good? If it’s AWFUL!?!? Stay tuned.