As part of the Alternative Lifestyles blog-posts migration over to the new blog The Professor’s Lifestyles Memoirs, this post has been moved there. To read this post please click the link to the blog.
Your patience is appreciated. Thank you!
Regrettably (or not) this is my second part of my temporary rant and venting from Love Gas – Part One. My apologies again to those readers who prefer funny, informative, or inspiring posts. I prefer them as well.
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In Part One I mentioned two other times when two previous close female friendships had been sacrificed and severed for new exciting, hopeful love with a new partner or fiancé. One of those two was by a former girlfriend and lover when she started dating a serious potential. I will start with her and make it short because the other “sacrifice” deserves much more time.
In the scheme of these two posts, closing down or allowing to fade away the relationship/friendship of former lovers or ex-spouses is commonly understood, accepted, and nothing really out of the ordinary. Mainstream society, or at least mainstream conservative society, seems to believe that once sexual relations have been had between a man and woman, woman and woman, man and man, or that they once passionately loved one another, then if that deep love doesn’t end with married until death, or until divorced, then it cannot be shared continuously and simultaneously with the newest lover.
I do not agree at all with this (American?) societal stigma, but for the sake of time and space I will not argue against it here and now. Prior to my entrance into the open-swinger polyamorous lifestyles many years ago, I have not had contact with any of my pre-open/poly lifestyle partners, except one. And she asks that for the sake of peace and her children, we keep it very discreet; at least until her children are grown and out of the house.
Ugh, yes it is complicated; especially for her. It is also too complicated to get into here. I considered not even mentioning it. Fortunately for the sake of peace and her children, we live over 300-miles a part and nothing at all has happened physically between us since 1989; way before her current marriage. We do have a long great friendship and she completely understands my warnings and the risks she – and to be fair me too – are taking inside traditional frameworks by NOT including him in the friendship! I’ve accepted that we agree to disagree on how divulging she might/should be with her husband. In the end, it is her business…. and it could become mine too somewhere down the road.
But in my honesty I have wandered off track.
Regarding my former open-swinger girlfriend – who I deeply care for and will always, and have loved deeply and still could – since we ended our “official” relationship, we have always maintained a close friendship. However, what has always frustrated and angered me is when a new “vanilla” man enters her life… our close passionate friendship vanishes. Then when it ends with Mr. Newman (probably because he senses there is another former lover he could NEVER surpass… like it’s a fucking competition anyway!) our closeness picks right up where it left off. I have expressed to her several times, ever since our official ending, how much that irritates me! But apparently (and we both laugh at this point) “I just don’t get it!” Well yeah, no shit Sherlock.
I have learned thoroughly now that I cannot be held or kept responsible for everyone’s “feelings”… and that so includes those men (BFH’s) I have never met! No surprise there Sherlock; duh, there’s a reason why I’ve never met them and may not ever! HAH! Hence, there’s the double-amplified curse/repellant I mentioned in Part One. Yes, I have been told that I would make the worst spy or secret agent. I will own that, proudly.
An exact likeness of my dear lesbian “Aphrodite” friend.
Several years ago at my favorite club to dance and to the best dancing music by one of Dallas’ best DJ’s, I boldly introduced myself to one of the most stunning women I had ever seen dancing. She was also there with a guy and noticeably dancing only with him; but he seemed very, very young. Here, I will call her Aphrodite and the image left, though not her… does not do her justice. Simply put she turns everyone’s heads; man and woman alike. She defines a pin-up girl to the max.
A day or two later we met for an afternoon lunch around the corner from her apartment. She had many questions for me. What made the afternoon more enjoyable, was her unabashed lack of timidness in expressing her thoughts and feelings; all carefully thought out. What I appreciated most about Aphrodite was that in less than ten-fifteen minutes, she let me know clearly she was lesbian. And she did it with no pomp or bitterness due to society’s treatment of gays and lesbians. I really liked that. I immediately respected her person and discarded every one of my heterosexual fantasies with her… as much as I hated to hear her proclamation. Imagine a boy with a 10-inch frozen icicle and it quickly melts under the 110 degree heat. Nevertheless, we have been close dear friends for over six years. Yet as is usually the case with gorgeous people, we were not immune to vulnerable moments sneaking into our close friendship.
In the third year of our friendship, and during an emotionally disastrous ending to her then relationship with a pseudo-psychotic girlfriend, Aphrodite made many a wee-hour phone call to me asking me to drive over and be with her. She asked because she wanted support in not calling the ex-girlfriend and trying to quickly fix it all or understand it prematurely. This is not an easy road to tread as anyone can attest. Sometimes it really is best to leave things alone until the hatchets are buried. That was hard for her. Ring-ring, my phone goes off 12-midnight, sometimes 1:30am. Grab my keys, get in the car, drive forty-minutes to her place, talk, hug, hold her until we fell asleep. This continued for some three or four weeks.
Then one night late, while thanking me and kissing my cheek, she puts her hand down my shorts and proceeds to maul me. I cannot move — unlike my manly hetero part down there — DAMN IT! She notices my paralysis. “I don’t want to stop” she whispers, “but I will if you tell me.” Are you fucking kidding me!? I manage barely 3-seconds of brain activity and reply “The last thing I want is something like this to fuck-up our friendship.” That did not stop her. In fact, it probably fueled the moment.
A day or two later we talked about that “moment” and wonderfully made nothing big about it or let it define our friendship or situation. It was what it was. I wasn’t going to study it to death. More pressure was not what she required then. Many of our friends would later ask if we two were dating…an item. We had been seen spending a lot of time together. We’d laugh. I had surmised that she was maybe 90% lesbian, 10% bisexual (with the right guy?), but it was left up to her to determine that not me or the rest of the world.
Then a new “incredible” woman came into the picture three-four weeks later. Aphrodite was obviously very attracted to her and very hopeful and excited about their possibilities. Then the grand piano dropped from the 10th floor: “When you come over to hang out and spend the night, you must sleep in my guest bedroom now.”
The 2011 movie “Your Sister’s Sister” where the lesbian sister sleeps with her sister’s hetero boyfriend.
I understood, but what she said did not sit well with me. She noticed my shocked perplexed expression. She explained to me that in the LGBT community, she would be ostracized for “being with” a heterosexual man. She kept saying “you can’t understand it” as if I were some dumb blood-flows-one-way horny Neanderthal. Granted that is the median in the male high-T world today, I mean there are a shitload of hetero alpha-males who delusionally want to CONVERT hot lesbians, but I am not even consumed by what or where I can stick my dick like the average hetero high-T male! I asked her “have I ever pushed you to be someone you’re not just to satisfy my brain-consuming libido!?” “Never” she answered, “and that is what I have always loved about you!”
But my simplistic logic wasn’t going to change anything. Her own image in the “abnormal” different culture of the LGBT community was more important than our intimate supportive friendship. Now I knew what it felt like to be a nigger in the 1800’s or 1940’s, 50’s, or 60’s – or more accurately all during European and North American slavery. Now I knew what it felt like to be a gay man in a horribly violent binary life-system in the bigot south. Now I knew what it felt like to be considered an inferior human being; pick any historical setting. Take it from me….it really feels like shit.
For 8-10 months Aphrodite and I did not talk. Since then she has been involved in a later new 18-month relationship to a truly wonderful woman. I am proud of Aphrodite for how she’s learned and matured, but to this day she doesn’t really know the depth of platonic hurt she caused. I have moved on from it and we still talk freely and openly as we always have. But she’s asked that I avoid alluding to that evening to her girlfriend or anyone else… and so that damn annoying question rears its ugly head again:
Why can you not openly comfortably talk to your B-GFH the way you talk and act around me!?
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Let me apologize beforehand to my readers who do not favor venting or ranting. But I am a big time communicator of all feelings and thoughts because right or wrong doesn’t matter at that instance! It is the raw honesty that matters and matters critically! No one can or would know how to manage a sensitive situation if they are not working with REAL truths, the bare-naked facts! In a way then, I am not truly apologizing right now; I reserve the right to do it later. But I have to get this off my chest.
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I am not posting this based on any theory. It is not based on any scientific research of which I am presently aware. I’m not even sure if this subject has been written about for ages by thousands. But this post is most definitely from personal experiences and I am getting increasingly fed-up with it!
When I feel my pulse rise like this I try my best to find appropriate ways to vent. One of those successful ways is to go run. Run until I can barely expand my lungs and rib-cage. Another that works for me extremely well is going to a batting-cage and hitting the shit out of baseballs… or softballs if I want to dish out a thoroughly good whacking! True story: once I did bust open the covering on a baseball I swung so hard. I realize the ball was likely old and on its last home run, but still… it felt good!
I am ready to run hard. I am so ready to hit the covers off some baseballs screaming a new expletive with every 1,000 foot homer I hit! Well, I’m not Miguel Cabrera: between 100 – 120 foot homer… some of them frickin’ grounders!
Here is what has happened….. again.
The other day I posted a polite encouraging compliment on a dear friend’s profile in response to her photo and comments of how happy she is newly married. I quote: “Isn’t it great to be a great parent [her name]!? And also a phenomenal wife!”
The critical context…
From the 2010 movie “Last Night”. Husband & wife married under wrenching fear, silence & half-truths.
My dear female friend and I have a long close friendship that goes back 30-years to college. We have always been close platonic friends that entire time. This is her second marriage to apparently, according to her, the best man in the world she could’ve ever dreamt for. I am extremely happy for them both! She and I had hundreds of long-distance phone calls running hours long about her first slow dying marriage then exploding divorce which involved her four children. It was nasty and the ex-husband put her through hell and back using the kids, financially putting her through the ringers, and shaming her publicly (via their church) for her extra-marital affair. You’d had thought a public stoning was next.
Over this past Mother’s Day weekend she texted me three long messages overly thanking me for always making her feel she was not the slum-of-the-Earth for cheating on her ex-husband and always fighting his brutal shaming of her and him never taking ownership for his part of a rotting marriage he was clearly a half-part of. The death of a marriage is never ever one-sided; I learned that the hard way twice despite being cheated on both times.
From 400-miles away during her nasty divorce, I had always gladly been available for her. We always had no-holes-barred conversations about anything under the Sun or Moon; I mean ANYTHING! Naturally, this comfort level included much verbal flirting. At the time it helped her self-esteem enormously. Disclaimer: To put any of my reader’s suspicions to bed (seriously no pun intended there!), in our 30-year friendship we had never done anything the least bit sexual; only the verbal flirts over the phone, always 400-miles away.
When it comes to “unavailable” women, I’ve learned too many times the painful way, my exceptional communication skills, levels of rawness, and articulation are my glory/attraction and my curse/repellant. The doubling of the curse/repellant is also amplified by the seemingly insecure BFH (boyfriend, fiancé, or husband). Here is the kicker: for whatever reasons, the BFH does not know me, or maybe anything about me. He damn sure doesn’t know me like a best friend over five, ten, twenty years or anything about my integrity like she does.
I’ve asked so many times, how/why is this so frequently the case?
Or replace “opinions” with “feelings”.
Yesterday, I received three long text messages from my dear happily married friend. She preempted her message “I know you’re going to hate what I’m about to say and ask you…” She is probably spot-on because we do indeed know each other (platonically) very well. That is simply the way the Universe has put us in each other’s life. She goes on with “…like you and your ex-wives, I am remarried to a very jealous husband who also was hurt deeply and cheated on. I do not want to and cannot mess this one up!” Finally my semi-orders: “Please rein back your [public] comments and their frequency; he is going to get too suspicious!”
After I took about 45-minutes to an hour to simmer down, I responded, “Helen of Troy [the name I’m giving her here], I am 400-miles away and now we hardly ever talk. Seriously?” We no longer talk for hours or as many times because when they began dating it was too risky and she still had some guilt over her previous infidelity. She wanted to prove to him beyond a shadow of doubt that she was no longer a….let’s use a different term than her ex-husband and church used: expressive courtesan. I completely abided to her fears and request then. Reluctantly I will again, and angry again. I want to scream.
Here is my screaming question which annoyingly arises too often with female friends…
Why can you not openly comfortably talk to your BFH the way you have talked for 30-years to me!?
And this question leads to perhaps too many other revealing questions doesn’t it?
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Part Two will be over two previous situations with good close female friends; one of them I promise will be unexpected and even more revealing! You’ll want to stay-tuned. Trust me.
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I had retired from my semi-pro and professional soccer career and was in a transition trying to decide what I wanted to do next. It was 1996 and for the time being I was helping a friend manage one of north Dallas’ well-known nothing-but-soccer retail stores. Many times coaches, team captains, and booster-clubs would come in for assistance in ordering team uniforms for the upcoming school or amateur league seasons. This time of year also included the local women’s teams and co-ed teams. But before I go any further, let me explain the well-known fact risk a “retired” male professional (and lifetime single-gender) soccer player takes when joining an amateur co-ed team and league.
The Play-At-Your-Own-Peril Rule
I began playing soccer at the age of ten. By middle school I was playing competitive soccer – what today is called select soccer – and wanted not only to play professionally, but try to at least make the U.S. Men’s National Team roster. What was often whispered among such serious players with such lofty dreams was try your best not to play with or against the clueless recreational teams and players, but more critically never play with or against girls. Now ladies, before you go into your rant, please bear with me and let me explain what it’s about and why it was a whispered rule.
First of all, not playing against recreational teams is a policy most major sports franchises enforce and hence protect their high-valued stars. Second of all, and a lesson I learned several times in my career, from a tactical and confidence standpoint the stronger professional players gain very little or nothing at all by playing the weaker/amateur team other than a practice, or an opportunity to let 2nd and 3rd stringers get playing time. In those rare cases the pro team takes a slim chance in damaging their status or image if they play poorly or worse, lose.
The reason male pro players almost never play competitively against women – and I am genuinely not trying to insult female athletes – is for the simple reason that both teams and genders risk unnecessary injury. In sports, on the whole, women’s bodies move differently than men’s. Momentum, for whatever reason, is initiated and managed differently between the genders. If you don’t believe me, simply watch the two sexes in slow-motion action and how they ‘collide’.
It is a well-established unspoken rule that in competitive contact sports a man plays at his own risk against women. I had known this law for eighteen years.
The Never-ending Beer and Female Introductions Carrot
Returning now to 1996, three attractive female soccer players have been visiting our soccer store often in preparation for the upcoming co-ed season opener. Their player roster is also not complete; they desperately need a goalkeeper! For reasons unknown to me, no one presently on the team wanted to play goalkeeper. And before these very charming women asked, I knew exactly what was about to come out of their seductive mouths…. “We have heard about how good a goalkeeper you are and that you’ve even played professionally!” Huh!? I wasn’t expecting that approach! Hmm, I’ll give ‘em that…. stroking my ego is a good tactical move. But you ladies, I was thinking, are going to have to come up with a lot more before I even entertain the remote possibility of risking my safety! I shook my head two or three times, No, sorry ladies.
And then came the coup d’état.
“We will buy” they countered with smirks “all of your beer after every game and promise to introduce you to a minimum of three HOT women players each weekend!” To say I was aroused would be gross understatement. “When does the season start?” I replied.
In my hyper-excited mind, I imagined consecutive weekends of hot dates galore and massive amounts of sleep-overs. The score line of our games or whether we had a winning season or not was of absolutely no concern for me. I happily signed my lop-sided contract!
Game 1 of 12
The referee’s opening whistle blew. The comical usual cheering and smack-talk began from both teams and their fans/family members on the sidelines. It truly made me laugh; I had already heard the most abusive and slandering and loudest rhetoric in my career having played around the world. I was more entertained by my thoughts of the post-game festivities. Damn, we were only about ten minutes into our game. Ah, here comes a cross into my penalty box from my left, between the penalty spot and the eighteen-yard line….easy, easy pickings. I quickly come out to snatch it.
I scream the usual scream to my defense “Keeper’s!” I launch into my usual very high-vertical leap, snag the ball with extended arms ABOVE my head, and as per my umpteen years of training and experience proceed to pull the ball down into my chest….. but then SLAM and everything goes black and silent.
The next moment I remember are the EMT’s putting the smelling sauce under my nose. HOLY SHIT my entire jaw and face are in excruciating pain! The EMT’s keep asking me several questions, load me onto their gurney, and I am transported to the nearest ER. There the attending physician informs me that I need 10 stitches on my right under side edge of my chin, and my jaw is broken in two places on the left side near the front of my ear. I will also have to have my jaw and mouth wired shut for six to eight weeks. Two of those three women who talked me in to playing are there consoling me “…they didn’t score.” With my best scolding look I murmured what I hoped sounded like “This is NOT how I wanted to frickin meet women!” I mean shit, I never even saw her! How many beers could have been bought with the upcoming ambulance, emergency room, and doctors bill!?
My co-ed season was over before it began.
Image courtesy of rakball.net
Further details of the collision shared by them made my predicament even more depressing – and over time, made theirs a favorite pub story. A long story short, the girl THOUGHT by unimaginable lotto odds, she’d have a chance to head that ball…. with her eyes closed for God’s sake! The top of her head hit my chin if that gives you ANY idea of how wrong she was! And by the way, that ball she thought she could head was firmly in my hands three-feet above my chin! In my profession, on my futebol pitch, with other professional male athletes, it was a NO BRAINER that no one could have had any chance of getting their head on that ball. They would not have even jumped! I hope as you are reading you are picking up on my enraged astonishment.
May 2013
I am fortunate to have great dental genetics from both parents. As I was taught by my parents, I take above average care of those teeth. As a result, I have learned that my mouth is fine with irregular orthodontic checkups; like on the every 3 to 5 year frequency or more. In fact, I did not get my first cavity until I was 24-years old and it was barely a cavity. Often orthodontists would admire my teeth, entire mouth and all my wisdom teeth.
This time I was returning to the dentist after twelve years. However, this visit I knew I was well past the “praise” of the hygienist and her doctor: I had what was likely a developing abscess. I was expecting the dreaded line “Yes, it will have to come out.” But then my new orthodontist asked a question that was totally from left field.
“Have you ever had a traumatic facial injury?”
The Good News, the Bad News, and the Recurring News
My orthodontist confessed that he really didn’t have to ask that question; he knew I had had a traumatic facial injury. He was viewing all the evidence on the x-rays up in the light. In his many years of practice he had seen it a thousand times. And once again, I had to retell the above story to him. As I was about to begin, I thought to myself, that damn invisible woman is STILL haunting me! And that proverbial line: I didn’t even get her name. The dentist begins his verdict…
The good news is that for not being in for a checkup and cleaning for ages, your condition is good and normal. The bad news is that not only does that abscessed tooth need to come out, but you have two more that need extraction, probably a fourth, and maybe a fifth. “And you know what’s strange about your condition,” he asked, “you don’t have cavities in any of those 3-5 teeth!” The erupting roots in all those teeth are a result of that facial injury.
Now over the next 3-weeks, I will be getting surgical extractions, fitted for a 3 or 5 toothed denture, and paying $2,500 – $5,000 to stop any further problems; from a problem that began with: When does the season start?
The 1970’s Carpenters song Close to You goes on and on in my head:
That is why all the girls in town
(Girls in town)
Follow you
(Follow you)
All around
[But I saw nothing!]…
Just like me, they long to be
Close to you
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An All-Points-Bulletin for athletic men who have weakened will-power around all things seductively female:
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Live Well — Love Much — Laugh Often — Learn Always
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In a university laboratory a scientist is collecting data and reactions of a student wearing high-tech goggles showing him what seems to be his own blue-jeans from the waist to his white-socked feet. Right next to the student is a manikin with the same jeans and socks wired with a real-time video feed into his goggles. As the scientist uses a soft brush to rub the manikin’s left-leg the student’s left-leg is also physically rubbed with an exact same brush, the student sees through his goggles and so feels the sensation on his left-leg. All neurological connections for the test student are accurate.
The scientist then puts a large kitchen knife in front of the manikin’s camera near the manikin’s zipper. Seeing this real-time knife in his goggles, the test student’s pulse heightens and begins to race. The scientist turns the knife downward, raises it, and suddenly stabs the test student in the crotch. The test student jumps, in fact, jumps violently. What has just happened?
The power of optical illusion is far more reaching and subtle than we sometimes know; so much so that the illusions can make us react in completely unverified ways.
Bars and clubs — there are likely no better examples of optical illusions than in places that welcome or promote “attraction” between the sexes or same-sexes; gender identity or orientation is irrelevant when it comes to The Game and profits. And the online dating websites are no exception either. Does this mean “avoid at all costs?” Certainly not! What it does mean is go in with active brain-cells and no illusions. The adage “You get what you put in” is the bottom-line and that adage is so damn true in almost ANY place and circumstance, not just the bars, clubs, and dating websites.
I have come up with one of my best approach-lines ever in my 30+ years of ‘exploration’ and fun: “Do you believe in the power of optical illusions?” Nine times out of ten the answer gives me the desired result. Sometimes I’d get the answer “What, objects in your mirror appear larger than they are?” But even better, the benefit is ultimately two-way: is my first-impression a high ROI (Return on Investment), or a flop? And based on that answer the same question is extracted from the recipient: what are they there for? What kind of ROI are they seeking? Next step. The same process works just as well online too.
The next step after the approach-question is just as revealing: “Do you believe in the power of verbal illusions?” Same concept, varied results. And with those varied results comes a clearer picture of the subject – which in all honesty reflects you as well. Your inquiries reflect what you are after. And none of it is inherently wrong or bad as long as the two (or group) understand what is being expressed. How often do you think that happens?
In the end I think it all comes down to this: Say what you mean and do what you say. If either of these are out of sync, then you have only yourself to turn to and re-examine.
Garbage in…garbage out. Garbage outward…garbage inward. Exquisite out…exquisite in. Beauty outward… beauty inward. Get the picture? Don’t be fooled by all the optical and verbal illusions. Question everything! More precisely, question everything you put outward and you’ll understand what you are attracting. I believe they call that The Laws of Attraction?
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