Edgy Mama

(This is an entry for this month’s Blogging 4 Books).

So, here’s your story. You meet a gorgeous guy (GG, for short). Oh my god,is he incredible or what? He has perfect hair, great skin, and is built–not more than an ounce of pinchable body fat. He’s attentive, smart, and a great listener. He likes to talk about CLOTHES! And shopping! And movies! He is 2 good 2 be true.

Which you find out when, after weeks of an-tiss-i-pay-shun, you coax him into your boudoir. There you learn that he’s more passionate about your vintage velvet jacket than about your cute nekkid bod. You’re disappointed, but since he’s soooooo amazing, you chalk it up to performance anxiety. You decide to set the scene for the next rendezvous with scented candles, soothing massage oils, and a bottle of fruity red wine.

Uh-oh, you think, when the word “fruity” repeats itself in your mind. Quickly you banish the offending word. But you do call your best friend. She sighs when you mention that your sexual encounter with GG was not all you hoped for. She sighs again. Your heart pounds. Your palms start to sweat.

“But he’s perfect in every other way,” you whine. “Of course he is, dear,” replies your soon-not-to-be best friend.

Despite your concerns, you decide to try again for some happening bedroom boogie, employing the mantra that you can never have too many accessories. The wine is drunk, the candles lit, the massage oils applied, the sexy lingerie employed, but…

Tearfully, you confront GG. He acts offended, hurt, surprised. He talks about how he’s always wanted to wait until marriage to have sex. He’s old-fashioned. He wants commitment. Casual sex doesn’t work for him.

“But we’ve been dating for weeks,” you sputter. “I love you. You love me.”

“You don’t understand,” replies GG, flouncing out of your apartment. The flounce does it. You stare at the ceiling and weep.

Then you call your ex-boyfriend–the one with the beer belly who loves fart jokes. The one who has more sex appeal in his axel-grease-covered little finger than a host of GGs. You resign yourself to dirty clothes, masculine sweat, and subjective hearing loss. You have fabulous, mind-blowing, albeit smelly, sex. Ahhhhhhh….

As beer belly staggers back to his apartment, you call GG. You apologize. He apologizes. You agree to meet at the Mall for skim lattes. You buy beautiful clothes together. You gossip about celebrities. You have a fabulous time. GG is the Jimmy Carter of ex-boyfriends: the guy who is a better ex than a partner; a better friend than lover.

Occasionally, you pine for GG’s manicured nails, washboard abs, and minty-clean scent. But then you glance over at beer belly, which he takes as a “come hither.” He swigs his beer, turns down the sound on the football game, and gives you what you need. Then you send him away and call GG. He comes to your rescue with red wine, good chocolate, and fashion advice. Isn’t life great?

(This isn’t actually my story; it’s quilted together from the experiences of several girlfriends. See, James Frey, it’s okay to embellish your memoirs, as long as you admit to embellishment. As far as I know, I haven’t dated anyone who was all-the-way gay, although upon Googling a former lover recently, I discovered an interview that he did for TransAmerica Radio. He talked about how he isn’t really transexual but has some features of a tranny. I suppose we can place him in the bisexual camp. But that’s another story, for another day).