Month: April 2006

If I may take a moment of your time to complain about a serious problem that this newly liberated bachelor is encountering: muff trimming. When did everyone start doing this horrid thing to their pubic shrubery? I don’t care if you’ve got a little one, let ME find it. The Muff Trimers tell me that the hair gets in the way, that it gets rolled into condoms… ?? Really, I don’t buy it. Aside from the unnatural look–and it completely doesn’t make the member any bigger, it makes it look like the Muff Trimmer is trying to make it look bigger–it’s sensually problematic. I consider myself a master of all activities related to the use of the tongue and lips, the main tools of my pleasure giving, and it’s a bit jarring to encounter stubble 3 feet below the clip and shave zone, like finding a patch of sandpaper on an ice cream cone. And there’s always some kind of interesting bare skin to be found somewhere to be stimulated, so keep those razors and clippers away from your testicles, gentlemen. Oh, the horror, the horror.

I had dinner last night with Bachelor #6 at the new mediterranean place down the street, where La Mooné used to be. He’s 27, soft-spoken, a project manager with a local bank, who likes to “hang with friends, watch movies, and travel.” Since his house is a half block away from mine, I walked him home after dinner and sort of lingered for the half second that it took him to ask me in. We sat on the couch and I chatted in that way that I do when I’m not particularly listening or caring about what’s being said, but wondering through the babble if as the guest Miss Manners would approve of me making the first move. I decided to jump off the diving board and into his grand expanse, letting myself be completely surrounded by his warmth and affectionate heavy petting. If I may fast forward a bit, let me tell you about his butt: it was the butt to end all butts, like an animé butt. From down there, all is blotted from view, except a brilliant dark fuzzy corona through which to catch brief glimpses of the back of his head lolling this way and that. Having explored so many hairy bodies intimately with my camera, my eyes are trained to relate in a certain way to my subject, and with the addition of hands and mouths arms and legs and whatnot, the experience becomes an aesthetic encounter in which all senses are activated. I had a hard time not constructing art pieces in my head–or just clapping.

Bachelor #2 came over for brunch this morning. I made a French bistro classic–frisee lettuce with bacon and poached eggs, and some homemade bicuits and plum jam for local Coco flavor. He put the jam in his tea. Perhaps it’s a Belgian thing? He then asked to see my studio, and purchased one of my quadrants. Just like that. Are you sure? Yes, get it framed. These are the kinds of bachelors that I like. Actually, we had a great time at brunch, and my shell of impenetrability may be cracking under the strain of his charm, intelligence and cuteness. I can’t imagine meeting his mom and dad, though. My palms start sweating thinking about it.

And then the phone rang. Bachelor #5 was waiting for me at the coffee house. Kiss kiss, bye bye Bachelor #2, it’s been great and I’ll call you after I get the piece framed. Bachelor #5 is cuteness and likeability in a compact 5’7″ frame. We chatted and chatted and chatted and chatted and licked each other up and down with our eyes. There’s chemistry there, cats and kittens, chemistry and eletricity, and a real ease of communication, and a warm tingly feeling. Kissing him goodbye was all about not sucking him down in one gulp, like fighting the tractor beam on 1/4 impulse power.

After watching The Sopranos with BC and Pyro-ness, I made my way back home for a chat with Bachelor #4. He’s brilliant. Really, an original and articulate thinker, sensitive, with a keen sense of observation. I am in total awe of him and how he organizes experience in verbal elegance, with no pretension or bite. I can’t seem to pronounce his name, though, and stumbled over it like a bumpkin, even though I practiced all day. I hope this doesn’t mean more than a lack of cultural sensitivity and a subconscious manifestation of my insecurity around his brilliance.

Tomorrow evening it’s dinner with Bachelor #6, a daring appointment in that we haven’t met in person yet, and I prefer to slowly ease my way into activities that I can’t easily escape from. But even if he’s no more than a pretty face, he’s got a pretty pretty face. And he’s in his 20’s. I’ve never dated a 20-something. Even in my 20’s. Not that I’m going to date him, mind you, but still–20’s. Did your spine just tingle like mine did?

Bachelor #2 was allowed to make his pitch this afternoon. His dad is a diamond merchant, his mom a former curator at the Met, he has a PhD, and is cute as a button. Alas, no fireworks. I finally meet someone with a diamond mine and I can’t drum up a little enthusiasm. He arrived at the appointed time with his Ferragamo bag and very handsome euro-cool outfit and perfect two-day shadow. I wore a black shirt that was way too warm and my nose started sweating. When my shirt buttons started popping off I mentioned Tender Buttons on NY’s Upper East side, which prompted an articulate soliloquy about the difference between the upper east and west sides. I’m not very comfortable around money, or around the talk about and around it. And “old” and “new” money talk gives me the heeby jeebies. He wants to buy a piece of mine, though. I told him, “You know, they’re kind of expensive,” like I would say to one of my impoverished friends before offering to trade for a foot massage. He countered that his family has a fund to buy art. Remember, this is the family of diamond merchants. Now, you just don’t say things like that to an artist who tries to make a living selling his art. I’ve already spent it in my head. You say, “I’d love to visit your studio, and see what you’re up to.” And then, at the studio, you pull out your checkbook and make my day. I always say a kiss on the hand might feel very good, but a diamond tiara lasts forever.

I’ve placed personal ads on several websites. I’ve been pleasantly surprised to find many fine interesting men to chat with online, and maybe it’s because I’m the new kid on the block, but quite a few. Yesterday evening I had tea with Bachelor #1, a pudgy and sincere former Anchorman with a gypsy soul and a heart (as well as a ring with his initials) of gold. The Anchorman is a true romantic, with stubby fingers, thick wavy hair, hairy forearms, a mustache that fills the vast rectangle between his lip and nose and cheeks, a round belly, and a love of life and living. He’d be the chatty cab driver in a Quinn Martin production, the one who always seems to be there when needed. The only other people in the cafe were two girls with laptops who sat right behind us, mostly silent except for the clicking of their keyboards, and I’m sure focused on every word of our exchange. One of the girls had the highest-pitched voice that I’ve ever heard, like in a cartoon. I asked the Anchorman if he’d like to grab a bite, as we were having such a nice time chatting, and at the restaurant on the other end of town, there was the girl with the high pitched voice, sitting at the table right next to us. I asked her where she was going after dinner, to foresee where we’d be later on. Despite her prediction, the date ended with me being dropped off, a hug, a peck on the lips, and a “Sleepum tightums,” my honor still intact. Bachelor #1, the Anchorman, is easy, uncomplicated, sure of himself and a delight to be around–a nice Jewish boy from Jersey. No sparks flying, but it’d be nice to hang with him again.