Your Naked Body

Memories

By Spector & Cohen
From the album, Death Of A Ladies Man

Frankie Lane, he was singing Jezebel
I pinned an Iron Cross to my lapel
I walked up to the tallest
and the blondest girl
I said, Look, you don’t know me now
but very soon you will
So won’t you let me see
Won’t you let me see
Won’t you let me see
Your naked body?

Listen to Leonard Cohen sing this, with all that boy anguish, desire, impatience pouring from his raspy voice.  I’m sitting on my bedroom floor, eyes closed, listening to the CD and seeing the 16-year-old boy cross the gym floor, struggling to control his body, his throat tight with a thousand inchoate needs and thoughts.  I see the girl, controlling the moment.

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Adventures Happen

“Adventures happen when you’re around, don’t they? Bennett asked.  “Some people, nothing ever happens when you’re with them.  With you, things happen.”

This scene played out over dinner on our second date.  Something amusing did just happen.  Little did either of us know this would be the theme of our relationship.

A beautiful Sunday in early spring.  We headed out in his vintage Jaguar sportster for a drive in the country, ending up at a charming old hotel for dinner.

Jaguar sportster

Great fun driving down country roads in this. Must say, I liked the attention we drew.

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When the Rain Stopped

Time for another male voice in The Diary of the Vixen Divorcee, don’t you think? My divorced friend, Mick, is here to provide it for us, with his tale of online dating. The brave man has gone where I haven’t dared to tread, yet.

After two years I’d moved on. I’d survived a public divorce, in which I had played a costarring role, the person who didn’t want it in the first place. I’d been the cuckolded husband, the last one in town to know, apparently the very last one. But that had been two years ago, and from what I’d eventually learned the extracurricular activities had maybe gone on two or three years before that.

I made a conscious decision not to date within my existing social network. That decision, and the intervening twenty-four months, had taught me bars and clubs weren’t the place to meet women, at least not for me. Maybe it was the sort of bars or clubs I went to, maybe it was the type of woman I was attracted to. I really don’t know, I only knew it wasn’t working.

Enter unsolicited advice from my friend, Wendy. “Give the online dating thingy a shot. You get to see what they look like, they get to check you out. You can explore mutual interests, see if you’d actually enjoy each other’s company beyond a glass of wine. Besides, if she thinks you’re a creep, she can just block your emails and move on. Look on the bright side, you can save whatever money you were spending trying to get women drunk on dollar shots.”

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Kisses in the Kitchen

You’ve read about how I met my husband in Some Enchanted EveningI invite you to share the inevitable next step of our courtship.

How about a little fun?  How about a story about a first kiss, that led to a second kiss, that led to years and years of kisses.

This is where Alan kissed me the first time, in my kitchen, with his body pressing mine into the edge of the counter.

A midsummer’s eve, with us racing up the back stairs to my apartment so I could grab something and we could rush out the front door to his car and the next place we had to be, the next party of friends who were waiting for us.

 

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Express Delivery

My front doorbell rang late in the afternoon.  An uncommon occurrence when unexpected, as this was.  I almost didn’t answer.  No one drops by unannounced these days, especially on Saturday afternoon.  I figured, probably some kid selling candy bars for the school trip or members of the Church of the Latter Day Saints hoping to save my vixen soul.

But I did go to the door, to find  Liz, my dependable representative from the United States Postal Service, package in one hand, pen in the other.

“Hi, Georgia.  Got a package you need to sign for,” she said.

“Wonder what it is,” I said as I signed.

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Ted Turner

My friend, Marlys, sets down her latte, turns her most penetrating gaze on me and asks, “What do you think of Jerome Simmons?”

“Never met the man.  Why do you ask?”  I’ve heard of him, for sure; patron of the arts, successful entrepreneur, etc.  Just never met him.”

“ I sat next to him at a dinner party last weekend.  I gather he’s lonely.  His wife died four years ago.  He implied he’s getting weary of going out on his own.”

“Hum,” I say.  “How old is Mr. Simmons?”

“Oh, he might be around 70.  But a young 70.  Tall, slim and straight, silver hair.  Think Ted Turner.”

“Hum,” I think.  “I could see being the younger girlfriend to a Ted Turner,” I think.

Ted Turner

Are you reading my mind?

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Breaking up Is Hard to Do

Breaking up on the telephoneAnother unexpected first in my mature middle age:  Telling a suitor that I don’t want to see him again.

I’m such a coward.  I told Chet over the phone. (You last read about him in How Not to Impress a Woman.)

I had the best intentions to do it in person.  Truly I did.  I set off to meet him for brunch Sunday morning fully intending to tell him that he was wasting his time with me.

 

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How Not to Impress a Woman

Take lessons from Chet,  my suitor.  (Remember him from Addled by a Drug and The Poetry of Seduction?)  He’s mastered the art of how not to impress me.

His problem?  He allows one  false premise guide him during our courtship; that he needs to impress me. Who wants to be impressed?  Not me.

Why did he tell me that he got a perfect score on his SATs?  At our age, who cares?  Who even remembers their score?  Maybe if mine had been perfect I’d remember.  But still, all these years later that’s hardly something I’d be chatting about.

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