Dont Mince Words

Since Planned Parenthood funding was in the news first quarter, I decided to do my part to support them and have my gyn exam.  Or, as I like to call it, the annual dusting of the cob webs.

I rode my bike there hoping to look “young” and “in trouble” to the ugly white guy protestors.  Sadly, there were no men there to fight with which made my entrance oddly pleasurable compared to the 1990s.  Yes, I had the oldest lady parts in the waiting room and I smiled at each girl leaving with her brown bag of pills.  I was her once… eager to start the pill in hopes of future sex.

It appears sex has changed in a few decades.  My pre-screen was very different and the questions seemed to center around forced non-protection.  “Have you had a partner hide or sabotage your birth control in order to get you pregnant,” she asked.  She had to ask, but I had to laugh.  “You are implying that I’m getting some and I’m not.  But believe me, I’d never date a douche that would pull that kind of bullshit.”

She asked more questions that didn’t apply because I was so tragically sexually inactive. I then went to the exam room where I encountered my first gyn office gay male aide.  Now I knew I was going to have some fun.  He asked me if I was sexually active.  I asked him if he was straight and single.  He explained what I could expect from the exam and then told me he would administer my HIV test.  Ten minutes later, as I laid on the table waiting for the doctor in my paper robe, he popped his head back in and told me my results were negative.  “Cool, I’m cleared for take off,” I responded as he laughed walking out.

The doctor did her thing then ushered me to the blood letting station to ensure I didn’t have any other STIs.  My gay aide was there.

“Wow, you do it all,” I said.  “Pretty much everything except that,” he said staring at my lower hemisphere.  “Yeah, that takes some special kind of love because I couldn’t look at that all day either,” I said.

He escorted me to the checkout window where my insurance was processed and a brown bag of pills was handed to me.  I rode to work with a smile.  One day I’ll get laid, and when I do, I’ll be more prepared and more informed than a parking lot protestor.

My first 90 days in Santa Barbara are complete and I can say, I’ve survived.  If my blog is going to continue with nonfiction observations and intermittent dating stories, I may not have much material to work with.  Or I need to step up my game.

Like most relationships, I go in with no expectations so I can be pleasantly surprised.  SB Man and I had a nice time getting to know each other after I moved here.  I was probably still detoxing off the LA dating scene and smitten with his communication skills and planning.  Great guy, but not a good match for the long haul.  And that’s what dating is about.

I got to experience my first MeetUp stalker shortly after I arrived in Santa Barbara.  He told me redheads were like unicorns here and then proceeded to tell me he read my whole blog, from 2003 to present, and wanted to meet me about a project.  We had coffee and he pitched partnering on a writing idea.  In the next sentence he admitted he was ADD and couldn’t focus.  At some point after that he told me he was good at oral sex and would like to hang out.  Santa Barbara was starting to feel more like LA again.

In an effort to put myself out there and try to meet new people, I finally attended a MeetUp event.  The organizer took my card and asked me out.  By the next morning, he’d read my blog and he wanted to meet sooner.  Apparently, I’m intelligent and funny. He opened the date with “We have to be friends, is that ok?” and went on to explain that  he realized I hadn’t had a long-term relationship in a long time. (He’s been married twice). He wouldn’t give me a pass based on the fact that I lived in LA for the last seven years.  I told him he was scared of me which is usually the case when they read my blog.  We’ve met a couple times since and he told me he liked me because I have a “nice bladder.”  While I’m not relationship material, my beer drinking skills give me a whole new layer of attractiveness.

And there you have it:  the good, the odd, and the weak.  So far, dating in Santa Barbara is turning out to be on par with LA.  My friends beg me to leave this state, but how can I?  It’s a wealth of material.

Most people’s soundtrack for sex is that porny bern-chica-bern-bern. Not me. When I think of sex, I hear the theme of The Rockford Files.

Television was a big deal for kids growing up in the ‘70s. One of the biggest days in our household was the arrival of a second black and white TV for my parent’s bedroom. This served two purposes (in order of likelihood): (1) Programming conflicts among household members were resolved and/or my parents didn’t have to be in the same room together; and (2) My parents had a way to drown out sex noises from my brother and me.

When you are young, you learn to like what your parents like because you want to be with them. I quickly learned to like The Rockford Files. But seriously, what was not to like? James Garner was good looking and he drove a cool car. So, one day when I heard the theme, I ran to my parent’s bedroom and opened the unlocked door to see them naked and intertwined. I gasped and my mother let out an Amityville Horror “Get Out” command. My happy Rockford theme was permanently tarnished by that vision.

That experience and feedback from my married friends made me vow I’d never be one of those people that schedules sex. In fact, several weeks ago, I told GC to shoot me if I became one of those people. That was until today. I lunged and squatted in boot camp this morning. GC’s trainer kicked his ass too. Ironically, I sent an email to him and told him there was no way I could bend my legs to have sex tonight right as he sent an email saying the same. We conceded mutual physical defeat and agreed to a sexless date tonight.

Even Jim Rockford needs a night off once in a while, right? But I bet he’d lock the door if kids were around.