By Patrick Alcatraz
NEW YORK - I don't know, and I can say that as often as I have to. There are times when I just don't know what I'm doing and not doing. My stock answer for whatever criticism has come my way has been this: So what? Read that and add an exclamation. So what! It is my feeling that one moves across the planet in a singular manner. Noise from the curb doesn't bother me. The yelling is less and less as I roll across this great land, perhaps because people find other things to do, other people to annoy. In the case of woman and her moment with me, I like to quote from a Bee Gees song: "My eyes can only look at you..."
It seems to work. Women are too forgiving, is my feeling. And I say that knowing it is a damn good thing that they are, for to live in a world where women would be quick to club would be, well, painful - to the flesh and to the soul. Man, however, was built for rock 'n' roll, not for the waltz. A waltzing man represents too much of a give-up, an upright concession, a woman's idea of the malleable male.
There have been young women in my life, even recently. But it is the middle-aged model I cannot explain. When one writes about young women, it is writing fraught with promise and adventure. When one writes about older women, a certain pity pops in. I used to run from older women and tell friends I chose to do it for one main reason: They are always sick. A guy can understand a thing or two about why a chick might cancel a date, but tell him you don't feel well and, well, there is no bigger aggravation. Not that I haven't cancelled on a woman.
Dates are easy to make. In the case of a former lover, the reaction made me laugh. This one had gone out and shopped for a dress for our weekend date. When I called to cancel, I said something about a flat tire, only it wasn't about that as much as it was about some other chick coming forward and telling me she was available. My lover didn't tell me, but she called a good friend of mine and took her new dress over to his place, drank a bellyful of wine, and ended up in his bed. He told me. She denied it, but later fessed-up, as they say in westerns.
In the end, it was all about value. A guy assigns value as automatically as breathing. That one didn't mean all that much to me, although I'm sure I'd have gone out with her had this other broad not called. The maker/breaker: I thought this other one would be a better piece of ass. Simple as that, absolutely. It's true that one feels as good as another, but, for me, it's all about the view from behind. My decision was as silly and superficial as could be: the second chick had a rounder ass. And, yes, it is that roundness on the move that fuels my lust. Ridiculous? Sure. Odd? No, most guys would agree that it could be as little as an inch of better roundness that would tip the scales toward one or the other. I don't think it's just me, no. Life is a choice.
When I again saw my friend, after my friend had told her I'd cancelled to be with another chick, she asked the seemingly crucial question of the moment: "Was she worth it?"
"I don't know," I said in reply, which was true.
Guilt ambled in and was quickly dispatched. I don't have the "caring" gene.
But I was bowled-over when she came over on my birthday carrying five gifts, including a bag of golf range balls and an expensive watch I still have and enjoy having. I wish I knew more about the female brain, although my friends say I have it wrong, that it is about the heart, and that I just don't get it. Romance for me is a stage, not as in a step along a process, but as in a place to go act, up there under the lights, in the theater or in the woods. That's been the drug for me in this movie.
About everything else, well, I just don't know anything...I don't, and I'm okay with that...
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