the turtleneck

I suppose I was bound to come across it at some point in my life. I knew it existed out there like some mythological creature, but in my 25 years I had yet to actually come eye to eye with an uncircumcised penis, and it was an encounter for which I was severely unprepared. A few months ago I briefly dated a guy whose one major flaw was his foreskin.

My initial reaction was that it reminded me of something that should be attached to a dog. My father used to have an overly playful 80 lbs. French Bouvier, named Ego, who was infamous for his appearances on the leather couch in the living room. My step-mother claimed it was the pliability of the couch or perhaps leather just is one of those things that does it for both canine and man. But without fail, every time Ego would pounce onto that couch, it was in your best interests to flee the area. Within seconds, Ego’s enthusiasm would slowly emerge into a bright red, wet erection reminiscent of a tube of lipstick sliding upwards. And if you weren’t quick enough, it would be headed straight toward you.

I had somehow managed to suppress the memory of Ego’s lipstick - that is until I encountered the Turtleneck for the first time. It would be a disservice to those out there who have yet to encounter firsthand a turtleneck of their own if I skimp out on the details. The best way to describe this creature is as a cascading, flesh waterfall - the skin literally falling and draping a good inch beyond the tip.

The term “turtleneck” resulted from the guy’s over-attempt at humor, when post-relations he proclaimed on multiple occasions, “Welp time to put my turtleneck back on,” as he yanked forward his penis flesh in an almost painful manner.

Needless to say, after a few encounters with the turtleneck, it didn’t matter how many bottles of wine the evening was filled with… the turtleneck was not something worth trying on again.

speed dating

Generally the thought of speed dating brings to mind a scene from some romantic comedy and might potentially sound like a good idea in theory. However, it is not something that actual real people participate in, or at least not anyone that I know.

About a week ago my friend Victoria approached me with the idea of giving speed dating a try. She and I both moved to Chicago about a year ago, and she figured it would be a good way to meet people beyond our cubicle walls at work.

About an hour before go-time, I was dead set on backing out and continuing my weekend love affair with my couch, but since I had already paid the $32 fee, my cheapness kicked in and I figured I would at least go for my free drink. So I crushed a glass of wine for some liquid bravery and made my way over to the bar.

Immediately I scanned the room for any potential hotties, and couldn’t help but feel like a total tool.

The way it works is the women are assigned a table and given a number. Every 5 minutes a whistle is blown and the guys rotate. Fortunately I had the foresight to jot down some notes, mainly because I knew I would get at least one or two good stories from this experience. On your “scorecard” you circle a yes or no next to the guy’s number. If both parties circled yes, the organizers will email the other person’s contact information.

So I got my free drink and made my way over to my table. I was lucky number 9. Bring on the plethora of men to add to my man-harem. That night’s lineup featured:

Vladimir – Vladimir is a part-time dish washer new to the US from Bulgaria. When not washing dishes, Vladimir fosters his entrepreneurship spirit by running his own vending machine business.

[whistle!]

Joe – Joe is a recently retired, former military operative in his mid 50’s. Rather than drinking a beer, Joe preferred his Styrofoam cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee, which only fueled his jarring and abrasive personality. Immediately he sat down, snapped his fingers at me and spewed, “Ok let’s do this. Where ya from? What do ya do? Ya like a guy who can boss you around a little?”

[please God, blow the whistle already!]

Peter – Peter was the quintessential dbag of the group. Offensive behavior included:

• Stating that he’s from “Cali.”
• A beaded necklace that was so tight I wondered if I should wear protective goggles in the event it popped off.
• Excessive muscles that could only be the result of steroids and a steady supply of protein bars.
• Current occupation: male stripper
• Walking away from Victoria’s 5 minute date 3 minutes early

[whistle!]

Jeff – I actually noticed Jeff at the bar before we even started. He was the creepy old man attempting to hide his raging boner as he stared me down. I pretended not to notice and prayed his 5 minutes would be as painless as possible. He’s the type of guy who is a regular to the Viagra Triangle scene in Chicago, looking for that perfect 21-26 year old he can brag to all his old men friends about. He was extremely forward, pulled his chair in close to me and touched my knee. About 75% of the conversation centered on where I went to college (Syracuse University) and it’s inferiority to his alma mater (Georgetown) that he probably graduated from 15 years before I was even born.

[whistle… Jeff was actually asked to leave and move onto the next person. Apparently he just couldn’t pull himself or his erection away from me.]

Danny – Danny is a petite and reserved gentleman who works as a nurse in a nearby hospital. He complained that although he works with a lot of women, they’re all in their 60’s and not dating material. The interaction with Danny was extremely awkward, most likely due to the fact that neither one of us could avoid thinking about the obvious… Danny’s vagina.

[if I had a whistle on me I would have blown it myself]

Lesson learned: if you’re going to participate in speed dating only do it with the intention of creating socially awkward comments for pure amusement purposes only.

the difference between alone and lonely

This is the point in my life where for the first time in several years I am truly alone. I no longer have a longterm live-in boyfriend, I have no roommates, and I'm in a city where I have no safety net friends. While I have made the occasional bar-hopping friends from work that I might know me on a superficial level as the sassy, quick-witted New Yorker, what I truly long for are my Buffalonians. These are the people I've known since high school. The people who I don't feel the need to entertain. But most importantly these are the people that I know I could call at 3am just after the scene of some vicious crime and with no questions asked help me drag the body across the floor. I have yet to find anything close to that in Chicago and I suppose it does take time, but my heart hurts just thinking that it might never come.

What this time has shown me is the huge difference between simply being alone and what it feels like to be truly lonely. There are times when I do savor being alone, like after a particularly hectic day at work or when I want to dance around my living room with my music as loud as possible. But most of the time I'm reminded that there will be no standard phone calls at 7pm on a Friday night from the people that you know you have plans with regardless of ever actually having made them. I'm no longer a member of a standard group and with that I've somehow lost who I am as an individual. Although that sounds almost contradictory, it's the people we associate ourselves with that genuinely makes us who we are. It is through these relationships that we emerge as the listener, the comedian, the romantic...

So when will I be able to move from being lonely to content in just being alone?

the bar

For almost as long as I can remember a central presence in my life has been housed in one bar or another. I’ve been a regular bar frequenter since I was eight years old. I can still remember getting off the school bus in my catholic school girls’ uniform and rather than playing with friends outside or watching TV, I would clutch the almost too heavy door and slip into my step-father’s dark and smoke-filled bar in South Buffalo. Immediately, I would be transported from the mid-afternoon’s sunlight and sucked into near darkness and coolness that’s only really comparable to that of a cave. As my eyes adjusted to the change in light I would begin to make out the shadowy figures slumped over the bar.

At this point in the day there would only be a handful. They each had varying stories… one was a textbook alcoholic, one was hiding out from his family after his recent job loss, one was living in a nearby halfway house spending what little money he had on the cheapest draft beer, one was my step-father’s old high school buddy dried up from his excessive drug use during the 70’s, and then there was me.

My older sister didn’t share in the adventure and secret world that the bar held for me. She somehow knew it was inappropriate for an eight and ten year old to be there. But for me, I couldn’t have been more thrilled to spend the afternoon at the bar. The fact that there was the faint scent of urine, the occasional passed out drunk, and ash trays over flowing with cigarette butts made it all that more appealing to me. No one paid me much notice and that’s the way I liked it. I wanted to pretend as if I too were a regular… as if I belonged to a private club of social outcasts with tragic life stories that the best American novels are based on.

As I sipped my Cokes at the bar, dangling my feet above the floor, I would mimic their slumped posture and reflect on my own life tragedies thus far… the way the kids in my class would remind me everyday that my name rhymes with “Barfa,” the embarrassment of being held back a year in kindergarten when I moved from Texas to NY, and having an older sister far more beautiful than I would ever be. With these social outcasts, I was at home.

Eventually my step-father was busted for selling cocaine out the basement of the bar and not even his brother, a city Sheriff, could save him. He lost the bar and it was replaced with new ownership that stole from it everything I loved. My fellow pariahs were replaced with happy hour specials and girls in tight clothes. There was now a dance floor and neon lights where the jukebox once stood.

And worst of all, Houlihan’s was now known as Finn McCool’s.