[apologies]

Hi All,

I'm so sorry for the delayed writing. Work has overloaded me in the past few weeks. But not to worry, while I haven't found enough time for blogging (I actually take a really long time to write each entry), I have made time for Sofia and Chloe. More to follow...

- Laszlo

Hot for Teacher

I got a phone call on Saturday afternoon from a seventeen-year-old girl named Hailey. She informed me that her friend, a now eighteen-year-old girl named Chloe, was receiving a surprise birthday party that night with the "surprise!" scheduled for 8pm and festivities lasting until "the party gets broken up."

The last time I had been to a party that got broken up was high school, and this, indeed, was a high school party. Hailey told me that a week prior, Chloe had written a preemptive list of the people she would want to attend her party (if she were to have one), and my name was in the top five. Hailey reiterated that it would mean a lot to Chloe if I showed up.

Now, before I go any further, I must admit something: during the process of editing Chloe's essay, she and I talked on the phone--not just about her essay. When I was an English teacher I edited a few of my students' college application essays whose themes usually reflected their lives. To improve the expression of such a theme, one must delve into a student's life, and I did so without ever an awkward moment. After all, back in 2004-5, most essays read like Afterschool Specials. Not anymore. With Chloe's essay, I had little room to pussyfoot around sexual misconduct in a foreign land and the perspective one learns from it. I recall one phone conversation regarding her abusive brother that ended in tears. There's a fine line between being an ear to cry into and taking a teacher-student relationship too far.

Still, I was flattered that I was in the top five. I liked the idea that I meant something to Chloe more than a stupid crush, and I was impressed that her friends were throwing her a party--something that shows she is respected and well-liked. Was I going to go to the party? No. Did I consider it for more than a passing second? Yes.

Lucky for me, I had a date with Sofia that night and thought it best to say so to Hailey, as it revealed that I was unavailable both that night, and to high school girls in general.

The date with Sofia was strange. I met her around 9pm at a bar that had bocce ball. I enjoyed teaching her to pronounce "bocce" and "pallino" in her Panamanian accent, but I think my sense of humor got lost in translation. She laughed a lot, but I could tell she found me silly more than anything else.

When I took Sofia home I got snubbed at the door, destroying my first-night streak. She seemed confident in her decision so I didn't press. And, in the back of my head, I was toying with the idea of wishing the 18 year old a "happy birthday" in person.

As I drove home, I called Chloe. Each unanswered ring sped my heart beat, made me question what I was doing, and took me closer to the point of no return.

She didn't pick up. Who knows if the music was too loud or the realistic possibility of seeing me with the law on our side scared her. Either way, her cute outgoing message ended my night, and I am so glad for it.

Panama

It was a woman this time, not a girl, making eyes across the room. They were enormous and brown and easy to spot. She had amazing posture, gliding from the counter to her seat like a salsa dancer, hips caroming from side to side.

Because Van Halen concerts are few and far between these days, coffee shops are the next best place for me to meet interesting girls. This time I was there with my friend playing chess, a sure way to turn off any sexy lady. Well, except for this one.

I had a little extra dough on hand from the bonus essay I edited last weekend and tried to psych out my chess partner with a little uncommon generosity. I went up to buy him another cup of tea and checked to see if the woman noticed my cash tip.

Now, before it seems like this happens all the time, I must qualify: while I do occasionally find a teenage girl ogling me because I have certain qualities that her hairless boyfriend lacks, sustaining eye contact with a full grown woman for longer than a full second is rare.

However, this benevolent creature, this Latina beauty, was giving me a down and dirty, unquestionable eye fuck.

My chess partner was getting annoyed. I was taking forever with my move and wouldn't let him turn around to check her out.

Then, her friend got up to leave. I panicked. Would I have to chase after her? But my salsa queen didn't follow. She hugged her friend from a sitting position and pulled out a book. She glanced at me again before opening it and then settled into her pillow chair. If ever there were an opportunity, this was it. I had always fantasized about how a coffee shop pick up might go down, and I was about to enact the classic "What are you reading?" scenario.

Yet, I froze. I couldn't concentrate on two chess games at once. I was actually winning the one I was already playing, and if I tried for the girl, my friend would beat me for the eleventh time in a row.

Priorities.

But as the moments passed, her posture changed. She seemed agitated. She couldn't have read more than three pages when she tossed the book back into her purse and got up to leave.

Just as my friend grumbled "check mate" I knocked my king over and ran after her.

She was already outside and down the block a ways when I stopped her.

"Sorry to chase after you like this, but I noticed you, um...looking at me, and...well, I couldn't let you go without finding out your name..."

She gave me her number in what I found out later was a Panamanian accent. I played a nerdy trick where I didn't write it down, adding a touch of suspense and earning a questioning smile.

As she turned the corner in her car, I grabbed my pen out of my pocket and scribbled the ten digits on my hand before my brain betrayed my penis yet again. Sofia's the oldest woman I've ever wooed. If that whole sexual prime thing is really true, I may be in for a schoolin'.

Neworld

I agreed to edit the girl's essay. I was curious. And the $200 per page Wendy offered was the right rate. At worst, I'd talk to Chloe on the phone. I wouldn't have to see her again and fear the minor temptation.

However, when I received Chloe's email on Sunday, I hadn't noticed a second set of digits below her phone number.

11-21-91.

I'm so used to seeing business extensions and secondary phone numbers that it slipped past me. At first I thought it had something to do with the due date of the essay. Then I spotted the 91. This was Chloe's birthday. And it signified the date that she would turn 18.

How coy.

Although I can't publish Chloe's entire essay for obvious reasons, I must share a tidbit that I liked. This is yet unedited by me:

I asked Christian in broken Filipino, "What will you do if you can't box?" He looked at me like he had never heard such an absurd question. I thought he was mad at me for asking.

He had over ten Manny Pacquiao posters on his bedroom wall. Last time I was in his bedroom, he had kissed me which was daring for someone in his village. Things get around quick in Nueva Ecija, and if I told anyone, he probably would have lost his privileges at the gym in Palayan, which my host father's uncle owns.

I kissed him again before he could get madder. I could tell that asking insulted him, that someone in his position, who has given his life to following the Pacquiao dream, can't think of anything else but boxing and leaving poverty. I hoped that my kiss would quench his anger. He looked out the window to make sure no one saw. Being in a situation like this three days before I went back home would only make it harder for me to leave.

He sneaked me out the back door and we said our goodbyes. He told me that he didn't want me to leave, and that his sister, who I'd become close to, had told him to propose to me so I would stay. He told me that his parents approved, and that his parents said my host parents would say it was okay as well. But he told me that he wouldn't propose. He knew that I'd say no, and that he had no delusions over that I was a western girl with western hopes and dreams, which didn't include marrying a poor boxer in the Philippines.

When I didn't respond, he knew that he was right. But I realized something in that moment. I originally went to Nueva Ecija to gain a different perspective and look into a neworld...but I soon realized that I had become part of it. It wasn't enough to gain an appreciation of the world around me. I had to understand what to do with my role in it.

Poundcake

This Saturday was my mom's annual birthday dinner party during which she bakes and serves her signature pound cake. My mother, being a retired architect, is big on ratios, and pound cake's 1:1:1:1 brings out the egalitarian in her. As per tradition, four families each bring one pound of sugar, butter, egg, or flour and my mother bakes while everyone stands around eating whatever dinner my dad has prepared.

While three of the families are preset, one is always a wild card. This year introduced Wendy, a new friend my mom made at her last miniature convention (that's a convention for collectible miniatures, not a miniature-sized convention) who brought her husband, 17-year-old daughter and 14-year-old son.

The cake wasn't in the oven before I felt the seventeen-year-old's stare. Although my sister was trying to make small talk with her, the young girl's eyes betrayed her intent to participate. She was a beautiful girl with long wavy hair, blue-green eyes, and a thin, loose dress that showed her body nicely. Although she was a visual treat, I avoided eye contact, and turned my attention toward the conversation about the prospect of UCLA beating USC this year based on transitive property (since UCLA beat UW and UW beat USC).

You see, I've been subjected to this misguided gaze before. Out of college I taught 11th and 12th grade English at a private school for two years, and there were always a couple girls in each class who would concentrate on me more than what I taught. The girls were only four or five years younger than me at the time, so my defense was simply never to make eye contact with the starers, especially the pretty ones. Thus, I kept my job.

While the cake was baking, my mother, the troublemaker that she is, called me over mid-conversation to talk to Wendy's daughter, Chloe. My mother thought this would be an excellent social pairing since I was an English major in college and Chloe needed help with her college application essay. Additionally, it turns out that Chloe's English teacher is the same one I had ten years ago, and had recently read one of my essays aloud to her class. I pocketed that nugget to enjoy at a later time and suggested he edit her essay like he did mine, then attempted my escape.

My mother grabbed onto my arm. She said that Wendy was willing to pay me to edit Chloe's essay, and reminded me that I could use the money. As one would expect from a smart girl practiced at being pretty, Chloe didn't say anything at this point. She just half-grinned and watched me squirm.

Then, the timer went off. My mom was gone, off to the oven, and Chloe and I were left alone. Luckily for me, my threshold for rudeness is exceedingly high, so I literally looked above Chloe's head as I turned toward the other room before making a lame excuse and returning to my cousin, who was telling the story of his recent engagement.

Once the pound cake was out and everyone was eating, Chloe's eyes finally returned to their rightful resting place and I relaxed. Little did I know, my mother had already promised Wendy that I would edit her daughter's essay.

Chloe just emailed it to me. It's called "Two or Three Things I Know About Myself." Time to forge one of those Delivery Status Notification Failure emails and have a disciplinary talk with my mom in the morning.

Why Can't This Be Love

After getting raped/taken advantage of/made awkward love to on Friday night, I decided to go out to the city's Halloween parade on Saturday with a friend to try to forget about it.

I washed my clock t-shirt from the night before and altered my outfit from "Wasted Time" to "Father Time" by throwing on a white beard and keeping alcohol out of my body.

The parade was winding down at around two in the morning, and I had the ratio of drag queens to Max from "Where the Wild Things Are" near 3:2, respectively. Then, plodding solo down the street, arms outstretched with yellow and red dynamite, face painted blue, walked a man with a forlorn look on his face, like he was going to use that dynamite on himself.

Then, it hit me.

"Awesome! Pierrot le Fou!" I shouted.

Jean-Luc Godard's "Pierrot le Fou" was the film that awakened me to the French New Wave and holds a special place in my heart. The film geek in me had a catharsis.

The guy immediately turned around. I couldn't tell for sure, but I thought I saw his eyes swell with tears. He spoke as if a thousand tons had been lifted from his back:

"You're the first person to recognize me all night."

His arms raised from a cry for help up to a cry of victory.

We hugged, and then parted sadly, but proudly.

If this isn't a good use of Craigslist's missed connections section, I don't know what is...

Girl Gone Bad

A friend is a friend until she rapes you. Then it's just awkward.

How does a woman rape a man, and can you even call it rape? I believe the answer is yes, though I also believe that a man getting raped by a woman simply cannot be as traumatic as any variation of a woman getting raped by a man. Then again, I have only this experience to go by.

I went to the CalArts Halloween party on Friday night. My friend Jeff is a grad student there. Full of the weirdest art students in the nation, CalArts is known for their annual Halloween party, full of ornate costumes and dance floors pounding with experimental trance music. Sounds like fun, no?

My friend Sally who just moved into town had heard about these parties and invited herself along. She was a good friend, and offered to drive, so I thought nothing of it. The more the merrier.

I went with the easy, last-minute choice to dress as a pun, and concocted "Wasted Time." All that means is that I would wear a t-shirt with a large clock drawn on it and get wasted.

And wasted I got. So wasted, in fact, that I experienced my first black out and ended up in a pool of my own vomit on my friend Jeff's bed. "That can be dangerous," my sister said today when I recounted the story. Yes, yes it was, but not for reasons of asphyxiation or alcohol poisoning or any of the normal threats.

I awoke at three in the morning to my friend Jeff's new lover punching me in the chest. Maybe she was punishing me for puking on where she thought she would be sleeping, or maybe she just wanted to take advantage of a helpless, passed out dude. Either way, it wasn't fun. I groggily asked her to stop and she got one last sock in before retiring to the floor with Jeff who was himself too drunk to worry about his sullied bed.

My friend Sally had to drop her sleeping bag on the floor next to Jeff and his horrible sex buddy. Before long, through my dazed state, I heard sex sounds coming from Jeff's area. I tried to fall back asleep, turning toward the less vomitous region of the bed.

If waking up, incapacitated from my drunken, blacked out state to a girl I'd never seen before punching me wasn't enough, what happened next really stamped the night as the biggest mistake with alcohol I've ever made.

My friend Sally, who, admittedly, had been the number three in a threesome I had with one of my girlfriends in college, decided that this was an apt moment to get laid by me. Whether she was inspired by Jeff and company, or just thought it was okay since we had done it before, I don't know, but I never wanted to have sex with Sally that night, especially not in a half-conscious state.

I remember her crawling up into the bed, directly into the vomit. I remember wondering what the hell she was doing. I remember waking up again to her hand fondling my penis, making it hard. Then she started moving her leg across my body to mount me.

I was awake enough by this point to know what she was doing. I had to make a quick decision. I had two choices. Either I would say "stop," risking her embarrassment and rejection and possibly the end of our friendship, or say "put on a condom," letting her do it and hope it gets slotted under the category of silly moments in our sexual history.

I quickly told her to put on a condom just before she slipped me naked inside of her. I had one in my backpack. She complied, thankfully.

After two minutes I got soft. She stopped, crawled back onto the floor. It was weird.

The next morning, Jeff assisted me in tossing his sheets and duvet into a plastic bag for me to take to an unlucky dry cleaning service. The ride home from CalArts in Sally's car was torturous: silence sprinkled with forced chatter about the radio and the automatic windows.

I haven't spoken to Sally since Saturday morning. I don't know when I will. Knowing her, she probably won't confront me about it, so eventually it's going to be me calling her and preemptively forgiving her, without saying those words exactly. Any semblance of normalcy in our friendship will be difficult to achieve in the near future.

Should the word "rape" be reserved for something other than what happened Friday night? I don't know. But I do know that I was violated, and that what happened was not my choice.

Big Bad Bill

Bill, Samantha's father, has an interesting sense of humor.

I was feeling domestic after having dinner with my pregnant, married friend, and decided to catch up with my ex-girlfriend, Sam. We ended up spending the evening together: she cut my hair, we recounted stories of recent lovers - hers involving none but big-dicked Rick, and told notable stories. Here's my favorite of hers:

Sam and her father were standing in line, buying groceries for Sam's sick mother. Her father, the plump, jovial, childlike fellow that he is, spotted the condoms by the register and thought it an apt time for a father/daughter practical joke. He giggled and proposed his idea.

"Sammy, wouldn't it be funny if you took one of those condom boxes and said, 'Daddy, are these the same condoms we used last night?'"

I feel for the guy who wakes up to Sam dreaming about that.

Mean Street

Morgan didn't go home with me the night of the bar, but a simple concert date later and a drink back at my new apartment (see paragraph 3 of blog entry "Right Now") led to sex. We both knew it felt a little forced, but neither of us cared. We were playing the same game and had the same intentions.

Morgan had given herself tattoos, which we discussed for twenty minutes before undressing. She was very easy with her skirt, with lying down, with spreading her legs. A little practiced. While most girls enable penetration in their own, uniquely coy way, Morgan let the routine run its course without the slightest signature or stamp on it.

Drowning in the ebb and flow of routine, I asked if she was okay, or if there was anything I could do differently. She grunted to keep going, annoyed at the question, as if it only stalled the inevitable finish.

If she wasn't going to communicate, I would have to move on without her. Just when she felt me releasing, her chipmunk cheeks rose to form a smile. Her eyes opened and peered at me, anticipating. What was it about my coming that woke this girl up? Encouraged, I let it go, and she grinned bigger than I had ever seen her, far bigger than she had from my bad rum joke at the bar on Friday.

After a quiet tea in the kitchen, I asked her if she wanted to spend the night or if she wanted me to take her home. I thought I'd give her the option, as a beautiful body is always welcome in my bed, but I didn't want her to feel trapped without her car here.

This is where the night got weirder.

She said she'd go, but I didn't need to give her a ride home, citing the distance. I assured her that it wasn't too far, and that I'd be happy to. Nevertheless, she began dialing her friend's number. I took her empty tea cup to the sink, allowing her privacy.

When I returned, she grabbed her purse and started for the front door.

"Oh, is your friend coming already?" I asked.

"I couldn't get in touch with her," she admitted.

I didn't understand why she was leaving. I reiterated that she could stay the night, or that I'd be happy to take her home myself. She wanted neither and said that she'd take a cab.

"Okay..." I thought. She told me I didn't have to wait with her, but I followed her out anyway. My apartment isn't in the safest neighborhood and, besides, I'm the type of guy to watch my date walk all the way into her house and lock the door behind her before driving away.

She stayed silent as I stood there.

"Did you give the cab my address?"

"No."

"Where'd you tell it to meet you?"

"I actually couldn't find the number for the cab. Do you think I can catch one down there?"

She started toward the six-lane drag near my house. I told her the chance of catching a cab at this hour was slim, but the desperation and determination in her eyes made me feel sorry to question her.

I started toward my car, keys out. "Look, my car's right here. I'll take you home." I was getting short. Her lack of logic was getting the best of my grace.

She kept walking. I jumped in my car. Followed her in first gear. "Well, I'm going in that direction, so if you want to hop in, I'll even put the fancy sunroof down." (It was an '87 Volvo - nothing fancy about it.)

She stood at the corner, watching the traffic lights turn with no cabs in sight. "Come on, please get in," I asked firmly.

"Please think of the sleep you're missing worrying about me."

I couldn't detect any sarcasm. Was her sense of self-worth really that low to value my sleep more than her safety? Couldn't be.

"All right, I'm heading to your place right now, and you can come with me if you want. But I'm going all the way to your place, regardless."

She just watched me drive away. I headed toward the freeway and pulled over once I was out of sight. She really made me take it that far. I had no idea what my next move was. Then I got a text message:

"Sorry about the drama, I really would have preferred to spend the night w you, but I am insanely stubborn."

Really? That was it? She assumed that my offer to drive her home meant that I wanted her to leave. My feminist attempt to give her choice and freedom had backfired.

I pulled up beside her. "Will you please sleep with me tonight?"

She smiled and got in. I didn't sleep very well next to her last night, though she snoozed like a baby. I couldn't reconcile her severe reaction when her manner had been so tempered all evening.

I drove Morgan home early this morning with the sunroof down all the way. She asked to be dropped off a few blocks from her house (at 24, she lives with her dad), and I figured that she would be safe at ten in the morning. It was a pedestrian neighborhood, and I knew her house was around the corner.

As I started pulling away, I looked through my rear view mirror and watched her walk into a bar.

Everybody Wants Some!!

Picking up a girl in a bar is no simple task for men like me. There is no easy "in": no mutual friend, school, nor organization. One is left with the bar itself as the only common ground.

Well, that's when it dawned on me: The bar. Use the bar.

What is there to discuss in a bar? The bartender. The clientele. The music. The decor. It might sound silly, but that's exactly why it works. No girl wants me to attempt depth at first contact. The bar is fun, immediate, and neutral. The only challenge is making it interesting.

I saw the girl I wanted. She had puckered lips and chipmunk cheekbones. Her long legs and short waist seemed perfect for bell bottoms, but she wore short shorts. No guys around her; better without competition.

I could talk about her: her clothes, her hair, her figure, her face. Every girl likes to talk about herself, but do I know how to talk about her? Probably not. The chance of me talking about her in a way she likes is slim. And besides, every other guy's plan is to talk about her to her. Better I not.

She was near enough to me and in a conversational lull.

There was nothing funny or noteworthy about the bartender. A remark regarding the clientele might come off as judgmental. For me, talking about music is risky, as most hip girls tend to know more about it than I do. I chose the decor.

"Do you think the designer of this bar was trying to make us feel like we were in the belly of a pirate ship?"

Yeah, I went out on a limb with that one. But the wooden panels on the walls really did speak to 16th century sea voyages.

She didn't laugh, but she did reply with a studied glance at the walls and a few words in the affirmative. It wasn't a dismissal.

Now that we were on a pirate ship together, I succumbed to the corny joke and told her it was ironic that they didn't serve rum at the bar. An idiotic thing to say, but she smiled anyway, in spite of herself. She probably had a good relationship with her dad.

The music was loud. I had to keep moving toward her face when I talked, and made an effort to breathe ever so slightly into her ear while speaking. I always liked when girls did that to me. It was a good sign that she didn't back away.

Too lazy to get up on her tippy toes, she pulled my earlobe gently down to her mouth. The touch was nice. She told me her name: Morgan.

Stupidly, shamelessly, it was on.

Jamie's Cryin'

I got a call from Jamie Ryan yesterday. Although Jamie and I both admitted to falling in love with each other five years ago, I have proved to be the more sentimental one since, and have usually been the one dialing her number. So when I saw her name pop up on my cell phone, I controlled my excitement before answering so as not to make Sam, sitting at her desk, inquisitive. I knew it wouldn't work.

For some reason, I wasn't surprised to hear tears through the phone. Jamie's not the type to call simply to catch up, as her solipsistic worldview combined with a fear of the mundane precludes her from seeking chit chat.

"I have cervical cancer."

When I answered the phone, I had presumed wishfully that the crying related to seeing me with Sam recently, and that Jamie had had an epiphany regarding love. This was not that. This was horrible.

"My pap smear was irregular for the second time, and they're pretty sure it's cancer."

My stomach contracted. The part of me that was holding onto Jamie Ryan as my future wife felt like dying. However, another part felt proud that Jamie had called me to tell me this mortal news. In her dying days, she had realized who the most important people in her life were: I made the cut.

"I think you gave me HPV."

Wait a second, I made that cut? We hadn't had sex in five years. Surely she would have known earlier, or had unprotected sex with another candidate. To my knowledge, and as far as any tests could tell, I never had any disease starting with an H.

"And Jessica has it too. Not cervical cancer; just HPV."

I had slept with Jessica in college before Jamie. As is bound to happen, Jessica and Jamie, acquaintances in college, became best friends after graduate school and were now rooming together. The evidence was stacking against me.

Jenga blocks. Upon further questioning, yes, Jamie and Jessica had had sex with multiple partners since me, several unprotected (stomach contracting further), and no, they hadn't been diagnosed with HPV until less than a year ago.

So, why the accusations? Well, that wasn't important at the moment. There was no way to prove it either way, anyway.

Jamie had a cryosurgery appointment for Tuesday to remove the cancerous tumor on her cervix, which was benign. I was relieved. It was a relatively simple procedure. When Jamie calmed down, and we talked further, she admitted to feeling weird pangs of jealousy upon meeting Samantha, who had been so cool with my favorite ex-girlfriend at the party. Jamie had assumed, because of her ease, that Sam and I were well advanced into our relationship, guessing several years rather than several months.

I knew, despite her admitted jealousy, that Jamie wasn't really reaching out, and that she felt spite more than longing. Jamie wanted my attention more than she wanted me, and I was willing to give it to her. I didn't care. I had already cheated on Sam during that conversation. My excitement, sorrow, and longing were feelings I could not generate for Samantha in the same way, and when Sam walked into the hallway to ask me what was going on, the air turned sour.

It wasn't her fault, but this morning I ended things with Samantha. Jamie revealed that she was moving back home to Brooklyn after six months on the west coast, and we planned to have coffee to say goodbye. Feeling more comfortable having surgery with her mom's OB/GYN, she rescheduled the appointment in Carroll Gardens.

As for Samantha, she cried and then I cried, always happy when I do to show that I really did care and will miss her. I suspect that Samantha will return to her amniotic fluid-covered genital-less ex-boyfriend Rick before the summer's out. Sam disclosed weeks before we parted that, yes, Rick did have a bigger penis than me even though I made her come more. Go figure.

I never thought that knowing something like that, despite it being a backhanded compliment, would give me my first bout of erectile dysfunction. It better not carry over to my next relationship. Fuck that. Now to go get tested again.

Dreams

Two mornings ago, around 5:40 am, I woke up to Samantha, my girlfriend, stroking my arm, looking at me. "Give her your arm, Daddy." I looked at her with my eyes half-open. She has a tendency to mumble in her sleep, waking me up every other night with some nonsense whose gist I can barely recount for her over breakfast. Sam's one of the lucky 4% of adults whose parasomniatic condition has transgressed the bounds of puberty.

"What?" My first instinct was that this was another, albeit more pronounced episode; however, this time I could not reconcile my girlfriend's wide-open eyes, which had looked at me with such tender knowingness each of the three times she had orgasmed the night before, now staring at me in the twilight, thinking I was someone else. Yes, I was relieved she did not call me by her ex-boyfriend's name, although Sam did recall Rick nightmarishly chasing her that same night, his genital-less crotch covered in embryonic fluid like newborn Neo in The Matrix.

I sat up slightly to make sure her eyes were indeed open. She looked straight at me. "It's okay, Daddy. Give her your red arm." Sam looked into my gaze, stroked my arm gently one last time, and then lied back down. Within ten seconds she was silently sleeping again, this time her eyelids shut tight.

It's hard to explain what it's like for your girlfriend to look you square in the face and not just imagine for fun, nor simply mistake in the shadows of a hallway, but know with certainty that you are her daddy. I speculated that Samantha, a pre-med graduate student, had manifested a scenario in which her overweight, diabetic father needed her help, but Sam, never overreaching, knew her limitations and was simply assisting the nurse with the insulin injection.

As silly as it might sound, I couldn't look at Sam the same way in the morning. Her stranger's eyes penetrated me during that episode, and I was having trouble believing that she recognized me in her waking life. I asked her to say my name when we woke up. She said "Laci," (pronounced "Lutzi") the name I go by. I told her what had happened and she could summon the dream, but had no memory of the details or context. I tried kissing her, but morning kisses are always hesitant for fear of bad breath, and so I gave up indentifying the familiar curvature of her wet, puckered lips that she would never press to her father's.

I knew that it was in my head, and that it was unfair to blame Samantha for her somniloquy. But I also knew that it was something else. Her eyes open, piercing mine without recognition reminded me of childhood dreams I had of my father before my parents' temporary separation. Those dreams led me to distance myself from him for fear he would leave. My doubt about Samantha now comes from the feeling that we have grown close too fast, and that my hesitation to say "I love you" is not fear nor an unwillingness to open up. It is my better judgment protecting her and me from inertia and complacency, and from the dreams I know I have of others.

Right Now

I don't always want to sleep with a girl on the first date, although I'm not really one to say "no" to the option. There have been times when I won't even ask a girl back to my place, and there are situations in which I'm thoroughly happy with a kiss or handholding. However, if I want to sleep with a girl on the first date, I usually can, and here's how...

The first and most logical reason is that if I want to, it usually means that there is some sort of chemistry between the girl and me, usually beyond physical attraction. Either we had a great time (Ethiopian food, bluegrass concert, what-have-you) and we're bonding over that shared experience or we just sense that we like each other and chit chat has risen to our relationships with our parents, that childhood trauma that shaped us, or Van Halen's best DLR album. Only one of these things needs to happen, usually, for me to want to take it to the next step.

At this point, neither of us wants the date to end with dinner. Having drinks, whether that be tea or whiskey, back at my place is a good date extender, and it always works best in combination with wanting to show the girl something - my sister's rock song, my new kitchen table, a Youtube clip. However, by the time I put the kettle on the stove or get the ice out of the freezer, we usually forget about the show. The show, including various highlights of my interior decorating that I've mentioned over dinner, allows the girl to excuse herself for breaking the rule she set in her head an hour before I picked her up. On the surface, she's coming back to my place for a reason other than sleeping with me.

This is where the important part comes, and where Samantha became the fifth of the last six girls I dated to give it up on the first night. The thing is, each of those girls really wanted to bone, and "convincing" them is really just allowing them to do what they really wanted to do already. The key is figuring out why they set the rule for themselves, and convincing them that I'm on the same page, without ever lying.

The reason for Sam's rule was that she was worried I would lose respect for her if she slept with me that night. I learned this because she told me so; we were practicing honesty from the get-go. Sam has two older sisters, half-sisters, both closer to my age, who warn Sam to learn by what they say, and not by what they do, and their collective experience dictated that guys lost respect for girls who give it up on the first night.

Upon realizing that it wasn't her sisters' chastisement that was the acting chastity belt, I relaxed. It would be much harder to sever her from her sisters' judging glares. Her qualm was an easy one to dispell because it simply wasn't true. There would be no way that I would lose respect for her for such a decision. I know this from experience, as relationships that continue when sex has become a question get strained under the weight of anticipation. I respect a girl who takes what she wants, as it pulls at the feminist cartilage strung within me. Despite what this blog might suggest, I am a feminist at heart, and my respect for women is often what allows me to connect with them in sexual ways.

Sam understood this. After explaning in detail my manifesto on female empowerment and the way in which society has shaped what is "right" and "wrong" for women versus men, Sam seemed to feel empowered herself. I knew she had made her decision, just as other girls do, by the switch - a deep exhalation, followed by a kiss and the mount. With this particular mount, the girl's pelvis will begin to thrust with a different rhythm of movement, one that is leading to something, rather than being the something. She switches on with a release, because she is doing what she wants, because it has become her choice. And we are both happy for it.

Beautiful Girls

When I told my girlfriend I was starting a blog, she immediately wanted to read it. Bless her heart; she doesn't know when something's going to hurt her. Samantha's 22, and seems to be experimenting with pain. She's only been having sex for two years (yesterday was her two-year anniversary!) and this is her first "emotional" relationship. She's a curious, adventurous young grad student in global medicine, and loves to play the game where she asks me what I'm thinking. I always tell her. She's slowly being desensitized.

Sam recently met Jamie at my college roommate's inauguration party. This is Jamie #2, Jamie Ryan, the only girl with whom I ever fell in love. Jamie the first (dubbed only for chronology's sake), Boring Jamie, I will save for another blog entry. Jamie Ryan and I have remained in touch, vaguely, since our messy break-up three years ago, and my stomach still drops when her name is mentioned. Sam liked meeting her. She likes meeting, discussing, and seeing naked pictures of girls from my past. Where most girls balk at asking my "number" for fear it will be larger than the number of strains of HPV, Sam greedily pumps me dry, as if doing so tests her threshold for tolerance and love.

What Sam and I have going for us is that I would consider showing her this blog. The more I am honest with her, the more I watch her eyes accept my mental trespasses and my history, the more I feel her beauty. The generosity she showed Jamie Ryan this past Tuesday night, her genuineness, took Jamie by surprise. It was the first time Jamie saw me with another girl and I'm glad it was Samantha. For Sam's part, I try to be the same way with her, help her parse her past two years, and give her the one thing she asked me for when I met her six weeks ago: honesty.

When Sam and I got back to my place Tuesday night after the party, she made me stay up and tell her how I got Jamie to sleep with me on our first date. Next entry, I'll explain how I convinced Sam.