Vol. 2, Post #89 What a mensch?

Why is there a question mark at the end of that sentence? My weekly 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 was driving home from a date that I enjoyed and was thinking about settling onto the sofa for a little television or maybe going to bed with a book or, hmm, how ‘bout this? Maybe masturbating? I thought briefly about when I had last charged up the Hitachi Magic Wind (the Cadillac of vibrators) and casually flipped through the mental Rolodex of tried-and-true fantasies that always get the job done, to get me in the mood as I whizzed down the highway from Hudson towards Woodstock. And then I went home, took off my clothes, got into bed, rubbed on a ton of hand cream and promptly fell asleep.

Masturbation or moisturizing? It’s come to this?

The date was very, very nice. He’s generous, handsome, enthusiastic, and sweet as pie. He’s most certainly a bit of a “mover and shaker” in his community, and I appreciate and respect that — going out with him in Hudson and hearing about all the people we have in common, with whom we both do business or just see socially, etc., felt nice and natural. I also know A LOT of people in our larger Hudson Valley community and along those lines, know that going on a date with me can be annoying because of it. My ex-wife once flat out LEFT ME at a local restaurant and drove home (in her car) because, as she put it, “You cannot exit a restaurant without stopping by at least five tables and saying hello to people and I hate that!” Nevermind how socially awkward she could be — walking by clients or colleagues (to say nothing of friends!) without a quick and warm chat is just rude and at the same time, like I said, going out with me can require a bit of loving patience. I could see it was the same with this guy. I liked the way he navigated being on a date with me and saying hello to people he knew, all at once.

So what’s the problem, Asshole?

I’m not sure there IS a problem, but I do know that after a “good” date, the kind of date that makes me sigh and think, God I cannot WAIT to see him again!, I would rarely choose hand cream over Hitachi. So I’m not sure that I like this new development.

Do I need to go down the “Compatibility/Connection vs. Chemistry/Desire” discussion for you, my Dear Readers? I don’t THINK so, but let’s just make sure we’re all on the same page, so I’ll give a tiny summary…

Further…as more food for thought about one vs. another, or the combos therein…

Ask any dating coach or therapy-adjacent love/dating expert and you’ll hear the same resounding advice, over and over again: DO NOT think that a lack of butterflies means there’s no point in having another date. DO NOT think that the dopamine rush you get when you are wildly attracted to someone is enough to sustain coupledom. ALWAYS REMEMBER that generally speaking, particularly as we age, compatibility wins out over chemistry again and again and again in any healthy long-term relationship.

Those ^^^ are truths. So why do they kind of suck?

OK, maybe they don’t suck. Maybe they are just a fact of life and more precisely, maybe they are a fact of life and a PRIVILEGE of a life well lived — finding someone with whom you can build on compatibility, deepening the bond, amassing joy in the similarities that you share. And, particularly as a Young Old, making that connection in mid-life or later can be a rarity. So I’m not writing this off and yes, I WILL go on a second date with this guy, if he asks me.

And with that in mind, I called him up this morning, after the date — not a text, a CALL — and told him how much I enjoyed our evening, including his warmth and chivalry. He concurred that we had lots of fun, lots to chat about, lots of crossover, and we penciled in another date for later this week. I felt like a proper Grown Up in that moment, doing something that was good for me. So why am I still underwhelmed?

“You know the way that Meryl Streep looks now, so so happy, dating what’s-his-name, the short guy, at her age?” asked my darling pal Debbie. “She’s in her mid-70s and she has everything she wants, money, fame, comfort and now she seems like she wants someone who can make her laugh and just adores her. That’s what we should want at our age, at any age, right? I mean, do you think you might want to move into the headspace of thinking not so much about how hot a guy gets you, and how much you want to fuck him, but how much you enjoy his company, his availability, his delight in you?”

Of course Debbie is correct. This is what one wants. I want this.

I’d also like it if I was thinking about what my date looked like naked.

And, to be fair, I was doing that at dinner. I was checking out his body, noticing his fingers, his hands, wondering what his hair might feel like as I ran my fingers through it. He has beautiful eyes and a particularly attractive nose, so much so that I told him as much. He laughed, and said he was thinking the same thing about my nose. Is that connection-worthy banter?

I don’t entirely know. I think that, as noted, I’m entering a different period in my dating life right now whereas I’m no longer compelled by anything that resembles “work.” The guy I was recently hot for, my slow burn? On a dime, the MOMENT he indicated to me that he was “scared,” the fire was instantly extinguished and I’ve given him zero thought ever since.

But I am wondering about how I’ve emphasized (overemphasized?) the physical/sexual chemistry that I’ve felt with various partners over the last decade or so, and now, how I’m weighing that with a desire for some other sorts of attraction. Like with last night’s date. I wrote that he’s a “mover and shaker” — I enjoy that. I like someone who takes a lot of pleasure and passion in his career. I like that he shared with me his almost obsessive love of a piece of property that he owns outside of town in a truly rural spot — he proudly showed me photos of it — in the same way that I very much obsessively photograph the sunrise/moonset over the beach in Provincetown, MA where I spend part of August. Speaking of which, I was on the Cape last week at a cottage in Truro and got THIS shot on the morning of the Beaver Full Moon setting, just as the sun was rising.

Back to my social media post about my date above? It started a VERY lively discussion on Facebook on a few different levels. First and foremost, a large number of women wrote in right away, “If you don’t want him, I’ll take him!” and as usual, my dear friend Aaron added some Yiddish to the mix, saying “He sounds like a mensch!” (Aaron would know, as he’s one too!) Overall, my date got big props (I’m surprised no one threw rotten fruit at me for saying it was a little boring, but maybe this is like when your toilet-training toddler makes a nice poop on the potty — you want to reward good behavior by being positive. So, in this instance, maybe no one yelled at me so as to encourage me to be open-minded. If that’s the case, I want a cookie.).

Another thing that came up in the Mensch-y chat? The origin as to why men walk closer to the street when escorting women. Some posited it was to prevent women from being splashed with mud by a horse and carriage trotting by, back in the day; some said it was to protect women from chamber pots or household filth being emptied onto the street from windows above, prior to modern sanitation (both statements are correct, by the way). Another origin? This from Primer Magazine:

“When a man escorts his partner, tradition has it that he offers his left arm. This tradition originates from medieval times when men escorted women around town and through the fields. Should a threat arise or the woman’s honor require defending, the man’s sword hand (his right hand) would be free, giving him quick and easy access to his sword, worn on his left side.”

Ok, THAT is sexy as fuck!

Keep you posted as to if or when a second date happens.

HOUSEKEEPING! Two things, Dear Readers…

I just hate-watched the second season of “No One Wants This” and Jesus Christ Almighty, is that just ANOTHER example of why I shouldn’t be allowed to own a television. I never like what most people enjoy, so here I am again, just pissing on your parade if you liked that crap. However, I LOVED the ridiculous portrayal of the radicalized Rabbi played by Seth Rogen. I’d take this superfreak over Adam Brody’s wimpy Noah any day of the week. Fight me.

Oh, and the hand cream that I am jizzing myself over? It’s this. I swear, it’s making me orgasmic, even without the Hitachi Magic Wand. I like a dollop of this rubbed in, with a layer of this on top of it. Rubbing it in, rubbing one out…sorry, low hanging fruit.