I went on a crappy date. Yes, I call them dates. The 27 year old I “dated” insisted it was the first date of her life. She begged me not to tell anyone we went on a date. We went on the date. I know for a fact she’s not a virgin, since earlier penetration ensued.

I was craving a date. Taking a girl to a movie, while holding hands, a little bite to eat and a good night kiss at the end of the night. It didn’t matter we already had done IT a couple of times. I had an epiphany about being single and divorced and 40 years old. I don’t need to play by the new rules.

What are the new rules?

After roughly 15 years of monogamy I found the new rules are:

A cup of coffee is not a cup of coffee. It’s a human way to smell each others’ asses to see if we’re going to fuck. Most likely right after coffee unless you fart.

When did coffee become so sexual?

One night stands are easy. There are hot ladies who want to get their rocks off every night on the streets and in the bars of San Francisco.

For about 10 days I tested this phenomena. When I was 38 I had only slept with one woman my whole life. A few weeks shy of 40 I had slept with eight women. For some reason my brain clicked onto this theory that I had to be in double digits before I was 40 or I’d be a loser.

Time was running short.

And my mom was staying at my place, so in order to have animal sex with someone I had just met, I would have to get to her apartment.

At the first bar there was a woman who was sexy and smart and we were talking. I gave it a try. She was with a dude. I asked the guy when the woman went to “freshen up” if they were together because I would leave the bar if they were. He assured me they weren’t together, so I went into full pursuit.

And here’s the line I used for the next 10 days:

I’d love to talk to you a little longer, let’s go to your place, but I can only stay for 30 minutes. Should we grab some chips and beer on the way?

It worked EVERY time.

Girls like time limits, I know this. It’s an OUT if things aren’t jiving at their place, though we were usually naked before the 30 minutes were up and some hours later I was searching kitchens for coffee filters.

Another hurdle: I’m agoraphobic and the symptoms manifest themselves at odd times. I have even had panic attacks during sex. So, leaving the next morning, or as “they” call it, the walk of shame, usually included a panic attack or two on the way back to my apartment.

But, I inched to double digits. (Pun intended.)

I asked this tall blond girl on a date. We met while we were drunk a week or so before. I misunderstood that she was a librarian, it turned out she was interested in becoming a librarian. On our date, she was so happy about her temp job and that her boss said she was doing a good job answering phones that they were going to keep her.

“I thought you were a librarian?”

“I’d like to be one, but it’s so much schooling.”

The DATE went horrible and I dropped her off at BART at midnight, horny and alone. Within one hour I was naked with another lady I had just met and we were back at her place.

I used the line, 30 minutes, beer, chips, talking.

30 minutes definition: nudity

beer definition: vaginal penetration

chips definition: it’s hard to cum with whiskey, but I can ride for days

talking definition: do you have a clean towel so I can take a shower?

And it happened and I had sex with 13 women before I turned 40. That’s counting penetration and not evenings that turned into oral or hand play.

It was fun, getting naked with strangers and being physically intimate way too fast. But it also felt empty and I felt a little used. And, I realized that my pathetic line only worked because the girls already knew they wanted to fuck me and had pretty much gone out to get fucked.

So, I turned 40 and stopped one night stands, dates, and women and getting laid. A couple of the one night stands actually turned into repeat visits which turned into, yeah, let’s stop getting naked and be friends…actual friends where we got drinks and hung out. But I was done with the new rules.

Girls would give me their phone numbers without my requesting them. I’d thank them and drop the number in the trash on the way out.

No more random fucks.

I wanted to be single, yet unavailable. And women smelled it on me. They’d ask if I had a girlfriend and my answer was, I’m not available.

It wasn’t to be noble or righteous. I had just been monogamous too long and needed my head cleared, to take a step back as a single dude, to figure out what was good for me, not what everyone around me was doing.

Back to my date gone wrong, or my number 8.

Before the film we went into a deli to get sandwiches to eat during the film. It was an industry screening, so they’re lenient on bringing your own food, beer, etc.

I paid for my sandwich and I didn’t put money in the tip jar.

My date flipped out.

“You would give a bartender a dollar for mixing you a drink, why won’t you give a tip for someone who makes you a sandwich?”

“Because it’s a deli. Bartenders and waiters make their living on tips. It’s a damn hard job, I did room service and waited tables for years. Just because someone puts a tip jar on the counter doesn’t mean I’m supposed to tip.”

She tried to convince me on the way things were. But I’m 40. Five years ago there wasn’t a tip jar at a deli. These tip jars are appearing everywhere.

She begrudgingly held my hand as we entered the screening room. That’s when I realized it’s easier to fuck a girl than get her to hold my hand in public. I should have put a couple of bucks in my hand.

Here’s how I think of it. Do you tip the popcorn vendor at a movie theatre? They make the same wage and have to deal with douchier people than someone working at a mom and pop deli.

OR, what about those poor people who work fast food joints? The bottom of the bottom of service jobs. Have you ever tipped someone for a Whopper?

OR, what about a divorced 40 year old dude who just wants to hold your hand and watch a film?

 

To bring you up to date on my life with the ladies, I now have a girlfriend. We have lots of “beer” and I don’t buy “chips”. Intimacy is so much more fun in a relationship.

 

My first night at my apartment in the Tenderloin turned into sex with a fan of my novel.

The only furniture in my apartment was a bed and bathroom supplies. I had recently gone through a break up with a girl. We lived together in the Mission District and I had two options, stay in the Mission, a neighborhood I adore, and live with a roommate, or move into a studio in the ‘Loin and live alone.

I wanted some solitude and I like Vietnamese food.

The Tenderloin invited me into her arms by giving me a sexy 20-something girl, someone who was literate. Someone who came from the Sunset District and wanted to meet me at the Hemlock. Someone who didn’t shave her pubes and respected her jungle down there.

The Tenderloin called and gave me a dark haired woman with kissable lips and an infectious, eager smile. After drinking at the Hemlock we ended up back at my place and were naked within 30 seconds, rolling around on my only piece of furniture.

“Do you have a condom?” she asked.

In my 40 years on this planet I haven’t slept with many women. She was my 8th. I was a virgin until I was married at 25 since I grew up a Jehovah’s Witness. I didn’t have a condom, I hadn’t thought far enough ahead to having sex since I was actually too busy doing promotion for my novel.

I ran down the stairs and outside while the wind gusted east down Geary Street. I wore my clothes half on/half off so when I got back to my apartment she wouldn’t have time to change her mind. There was a naked sexy girl waiting in my bed. It was 2:45 a.m. so all of the liquor stores were closed. I asked an Asian dude walking down the street with a tripod who seemed harmless where I could find a condom at that hour.

He said to try Frenchies, an adult video shop up the street. Then he asked why the desperation and I told him there’s a woman in my bed and I want to have sex with her.

“Can I come up and film you guys?” he asked.

Welcome to the Tenderloin.

I ran to Frenchies and put my hand in the condom cookie jar, buying whatever I pulled out. Lubed, ribbed for her pleasure, hooker grade STD double thicks.

Running down Geary back to my apartment I held the handful of condoms in the air like they were an Olympic torch and I was running my way towards victory.

I found condoms. I was going to have sex. She was still naked when I opened my apartment door.

I shed my clothes. She had a wonderful laugh and we giggled and snuggled under my blanket and got things started again.

I fell in love with her that night. I fell in love with the Tenderloin that night.

I fall in love easily. Less than a week later we were talking relationship and it was too soon for me. I needed to heal from my last two long term relationships. I needed to understand myself and trust myself. I knew my judgment was clouded by my own baggage and my lust for her.

The Tenderloin and I are still in a relationship. We’ve had our ups and downs. Sometimes I’ll gaze upon her and just watch and know if there is an Apocalypse, this is how the people would look and act. Many carrying all of their possessions in carts. Some screaming at the sky with mangled faces because they didn’t get their medicine, prescribed or unprescribed.

And then there are tough Brazilian trannie hookers all dolled up, every once in a while slamming a purse on some privileged suburban kid who thought the ‘Loin was Disneyland and you can touch and make fun of the characters.

And then there are us so-called functioning people. We can walk a straight line, hold our mouths quiet until society deems it appropriate and we clean ourselves. We watch the madness, sometimes with sympathy, other times with dread, knowing one little click in our brains can have us wandering down these streets, screaming about how well our novels were received and about that one time we had sex and fell in love with a fan. It would be a little hard to believe while doing a poop in an alley.

As for the girl from the Sunset District who came to welcome me to the Tenderloin with her adoration, well, there are times I can still smell her hair.