For thirty years the Good Guy has been in love with me. He
vividly recalls the first time we met, in a bar. He came to my table to speak
with a friend that he had gone to Catholic school with. As introductions were
being made, I noticed a hot guy at the bar, and said I was going to “go out
with him”. Said good bye to the table and left the bar with the stranger in a
Ferrari. I have no recollection of the evening, but it sounds like something I
would have done.  I probably got a great dinner out of it. The Good Guy tells me it was like watching something out of a movie, I was so beautiful and so fearless. I wish I had a little more of those two precocious things these days.

The Good Guy comes and goes in my life. Thirty years is a pretty big time span. For several years I would see him a few times a month in a walking group. And then one day he offered to help me run some errands. It was more than help; it was like I had a personal servant. He drove the car, placed all the items in the cart, followed a few steps behind wherever I went (he said he like to watch the men look at me, and felt proud that they thought he was my boyfriend.) When we got home the Good Guy unloaded the car, carried everything up the stairs (and I have a lot of them) and put things away. Ok I was addicted. For the next few years he was my shopping assistant – people often mistook him for my body guard. He was very protective.

He called a few times a day to make sure I was OK. When I was working a lot (which is most of the time) the Good Guy would pick up food for dinner and deliver it to my house. Drive me to the airport for business and vacation (without him). Housesit and take excellent care of all my animals, fix things around the house. He loved to shop for a Christmas tree together, and would spend the day decorating to my specifications. For years he’d buy me fresh flowers every week until I demanded he stop spending the money. I just felt so guilty.

He also made an excellent nurse. When I dropped the fireplace poker nearly through my food he bought everything needed to clean the wound and bandage my mangled toe. When the love of my life, Domino (a Chihuahua) was attacked by a coyote he changed his leg bandage every day so it didn’t get infected. He saved the little guy’s leg.

The Good Guy is big and unbelievable strong. He’d move the furniture to new places in the house when I was bored, and put a three hundred pound Buddha statue in place in the yard. His faith in my business acumen was unwavering.
He supported every business idea. The Good Guy was a cross between a husband, (without intimacy), personal assistant, and a gay best friend.

The Good Guy would fade into the background when I was in a relationship; and bizarrely predict the ending. Usually the how, when and why. I began to think he was using some black magic to influence my relationship demise. It was bad karma.

His Facebook page relationship status said “it’s complicated”. I’m sure it was to him, but not to me. I would ask him to back off and he would for a week or two. But then he’d call and offer to clean the gutters for fall, or to give me a break from work with brunch in Napa;  he was so helpful, and it was so easy to say
yes. And soon he’d be carrying my luggage down the stairs for another ride to the airport.

I thought I could count on him for anything. The Good Guy really loved to help. And not just me, he’d help his family as well. Everything he did was pretty much for someone else.

So when Dad got really sick and I needed help to take him home to
die, the Good Guy seemed to be the perfect person to go with me. I trusted him.
He had a big truck, and was strong to lift Dad. He’d accumulated  many vacation days, and he knew my family and had always wanted to visit the log cabin I grew up in. We planned the date around his schedule, praying that Dad would hold out for a few more days. He would help get Dad to the house, spend a few days and then drive home. I’d fly home after Dad passed away.

All this took lots of energy to arrange between building a ramp, lining up hospice, getting a new caregiver organization, and ensuring long term care would cover the new organization. I was an emotional mess on the verge of a stroke. My right eye would throb, my shoulder had shooting pains, I couldn’t sleep or eat. For really the first time in my life I really, really needed help. Dad has his bags packed ready to go, just waiting for me to come and get him.

The Good Guy and I would have to stay together in a motel room for a few days while things were put into place. I’d never stayed overnight with him before. It seemed right. It actually seemed as if we might be a couple. I was so grateful to have him help me with the most difficult situation of my life. I was afraid.

Two days before we were to leave I got a sick feeling in my stomach. Something wasn’t right. The Good Guy hadn’t called the day before. He
always called. Actually his constant calling would interrupt my concentration
at work, but I always answered. I asked him to meet me for dinner that night. He
was very stiff. I said “you’re not going to Oregon with me on Thursday are
you?” He said no, that his mother had some things she wanted to clean up. She
needed his help. I said that “Dad was dying and I couldn’t wait. That we had it
planned that he had the time off. “ “What was I to do?”

And then the Good Guy. The man that had professed his love for 30 years. The man that let his family, co-workers, and friends believe I was his girlfriend, who had pictures of me all over his room, said to me that “blood was thicker than water”.  “I would have to do it on my own, or let Dad die where he was.”

I was shocked. His fortune cookie said “Consider friend decisions carefully; results are forever.”

I went with Domino. It took me four days to bring Dad home to die. I followed the Good Guy’s vacation via Facebook as he traveled the Pacific Coast.  Smiling pictures at all the tourist stops. All the while I knelt for hours a day by Dad’s bedside listening to his labored breath, watching his face as he dreamed of better times, talked with old friends, and sought peace.

I don’t miss the Good Guy. He did the ONE thing that would end our friendship, and the end is a relief. It wasn’t healthy for either of us.

I guess my ask was too big. Or the possibility of a real relationship with me was too scary and/or destroyed the fantasy. Or he paid me back for all the years that I wouldn’t commit to him. For all the good deeds he did, he never even got a kiss. I may have deserved it. Or maybe the Good Guy was just an act to get me to marry him.

His Facebook status still says “it’s complicated”.  I see now that it is not so much about me, but about his emotions regarding intimacy.

Thirty years is a very long time to fantasize about someone. To pass up on real relationships with women that would return his love. I hope he moves on quickly. I’d love to see his Facebook page say “In a relationship with…”

We both need to grow up.

I met him through Match, his big smile in the picture was so welcoming. He stressed his strong values and Catholic upbringing. He wanted to spend more time cycling, so we met for the first time before sunrise to do a century ride through Napa.

He was a super nice, accommodating, encouraging, and much more fit than I am.  After the first five miles he zoomed ahead, did 60 miles and called it a day.

He’d been divorced for a few years because of “that infidelity thing” that ultimately didn’t work out. It  brought an end to his marriage and damaged his relationship with his two beautiful children.

He loves to swim and surf, and is long, lean and blond.  Most women would classify him as attractive, but I couldn’t shake the feeling he looked like a snake.  I believe George Orwell was correct when he said “that by 50 people have the faces they deserve”. The sun has been harsh on his skin, requiring several cancer removals and skin grafts. His hair is thinning around hair plugs that must have been put in years ago.  He seems to slither when he moves which I’m not sure is sexy or scary. I occasionally see him around town sliding in or out of restaurants.

Since we met in 2008 we see each other a couple of times a year, as friends because I’m not his type. He has a very specific list of who he wants to “connect with”. Blond, stunning, in the real estate business, thin, athletic, beach lover and some more things that I’ve forgotten. No mention of qualities like honesty, faith, compassion. I appreciated his honesty that I didn’t meet his qualifications, but that didn’t keep him from trying to get me to bed.

One night at dinner, his cell phone kept beeping with text messages, I asked if I could look. He said yes and headed to the bathroom. I’m a very fast reader, and oh what an education I got in the tease of sexting. I don’t do it as I don’t want a record of my sexual conversations, but I may be in the minority on this use of technology.

He kept a running dialogue of sex messages with at least a dozen women who appeared to be looking for a deeper relationship. He was very open with me, sharing their pictures and stories. Most were tiny, busy, lonely single moms. None were the blond model type he was looking for. He must spend several hours a day texting to keep the sparks alive.

And then the snake look thing clicked for me.

His dating behavior was like a water snake that dwells in shallow waters with their mouths open waiting for any prey to come close by – within a few inches – so they can simply close their jaws around their prey.

He is a single guy, free to do what he wants, and certainly has plenty of options.  But I’m glad that I will never be his prey.

Sometimes ladies, what you see in a man’s face, is exactly what you get.

Realizing he was married took a couple of months. By then he thought I was so in love I’d never leave him. Wrong. I’m an Aquarius. We keep our emotions in check when it come to love.

His story was that his housemate was a hoarder, he was embarrassed to take me to his house. She was in the process of moving out but taking longer than he hoped. Boxes were all over the place. They had been friends for a long time and he had been helping her out with a room. She had a place in the City where she spent most of her time. “Did you sleep with her”? I asked. “Never. Of course not. She’s been a friend of the family for years. Not my type. She has her own bedroom and bathroom.”  “I’ve just been trying to be a good guy — that’s how I roll.”

As the winter holidays approached and we started to talk about where we would spend them together, the housemate turned out to be a wife of 20 years. But, good news, he had started the divorce paperwork. He had been working on it late at night locating all of the assets. It was just hard to serve her over Christmas and New Years, but right after would be good.

And then it was her birthday and he couldn’t do it because she planned and paid for the trip to Europe. And then he did it – and surprise she wanted to go to counseling. She liked the relationship the way it was. This was six years ago. I dumped him right after an expensive dinner on my birthday.

But he continued to hang around, starting with a lunch now and then, and then drinks in the middle of the week. I would only meet with him in a public place. And then he worked his way up to cooking dinner on a perfect spring evening so we could enjoy my new fountain and landscaping — with a bottle of wine he had been saving for a very special occasion. Tasted pretty blah to me.

And then my Dad died and he stepped up the pressure. I was numb. Coming to the rescue to be sure I was OK, cooking a great dinner, getting me really drunk, and then sleeping next to me – naked. I’d taken two sleeping pills and with the wine I guess snored like crazy. You think that would have turned him off forever.

My guard was down, and he wasted no time. Calling every day. Insisting I return the calls or he would come by the house to make sure I was OK. As if I was going to kill myself, or die of grief. Geez I’m online all day long, it’s pretty easy to see if I am alive.

And then last week he pulled out all stops, groping, pushing, hugging, french kissing, putting his face in my lap to try and get to my pussy. I couldn’t drink my wine, I couldn’t eat. I tried to clean up the dishes and he cornered me in the kitchen. I laugh it off. I turned red.

He followed me to bed and got in. I asked him to leave. He stayed, erect and waiting. “I’ve been waiting for years he’s said” “I’ve never forgotten how it was to have sex with you in the morning when I was still sleeping. How you would make me fresh biscuits while I was in the shower.” I did, from scratch, timing them just right to be out of the oven by the time he was done shaving. When I want to, I can be pretty charming. The best biscuits he’s ever had, were for him, a testament to how much I loved him. It’s said the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.

God, how does his wife stand it. No wonder she keeps her own place. May the two of you find love again, and keep me out of it. Honey if you want him, try the biscuit recipe. It went something like this:

Baking Powder Biscuits Recipe

Reverend Ruth is my friend, fellow dog walker, and hospice counselor. She’s been watching people exit this beautiful place for more than 50 years. Ruth says that this year is one of exiting. Hospice is backed up, the obituary section of the paper is thick and every week I’ve attended a funeral or sent a condolences card. I want it to stop. It is all so sad.

Last week it was my best friend’s mother, who I considered my second mom. I wasn’t sad to see her go because she had been in so much pain. She was begging to die. But the family wanted to wait, just in case. I wanted to put a pillow over her head. It broke my heart to sit beside her bed day after day, watching her suffer. And I couldn’t help but notice that she was finally losing weight. A feeding tube will do that to you. As the nurse, said it’s very restrictive. She became so small I wasn’t even sure it was her in the bed. I loved June. She knew me as well as my own mother. I wished I’d had a child so she could have been a grandmother.

My Dad and now June. And with a new name to write under, I feel free to say whatever I want.

After the memorial service; an old flame, hook-up, boyfriend, date, whatever, wanted to share a few drinks. We had to wait an hour for the bar to open. He really wanted a drink.

I hadn’t seen him for seven years, but he was still as charming as ever. With six sisters, this man knows everything about women.

I’d dated him for around seven months, and then his “wife” popped up at a company party. Funny because he’d signed the divorce papers on the golf course, and had his divorce party at the local Mexican restaurant . The kind of place where it’s safer to stick with the drinks than risk food poisoning.

I’d forgotten how hurt I’d been when I learned he was married. And after a few glasses of wine, a steak dinner ( I ate the salad part), lots of laughs, and a teenage thrill ride up the hill to my house, we of course were in bed together. It was comfortable. He wanted to check out my new boobs. I wanted to feel loved, and safe and alive.

Then he told me he had had a small heart attack. Not a big deal he was on the golf course (not sure he ever really worked), and happened to be playing golf with two paramedics. The charmer has lived a charmed life.

As we waited for his dick to get hard, we talked about old times. How after his DUI he would have to blow to start his car. And how coming back from Tahoe he walked five miles in the snow, in tennis shoes, hoping to sober up after running into a snow plow. We laughed about all the fun we had dancing all night, having sex in the hot tub, in the car, on the porch, and on the bar after everyone had gone home. The trip to Las Vegas, the wedding we crashed, the halloween party when he left me alone to go to one that was more fun. As in had more coke.

It was getting late. And his dick was still limp. We talked about how much I loved my dad and how he lost his at 58 from a heart attack. But that would never happen to him; his dad was an alcoholic.

The Charmer had an early tee off time. He sweetly kissed me softly, blew out the candles, took the wine glasses down stairs, and locked the door. He quietly started the car, to carefully drive 20 miles to his own house right down the street from his family.  “You know baby we are separated now. I had the separation party at the Mexican restaurant. Sorry you couldn’t come, it was a blast.”

He’s a charmer and a liar. His wife is a saint. His kids somehow are growing up fine. I’ve learned since that he’s had three heart attacks. I doubt his dick will ever work again. And I don’t think he will make 58.

I’ll learn much more about who the Charmer is at his funeral than I did in all the hours we spent in bed.

It’s a year of exits, please don’t make it yours my sweet Charmer.

He’s a widower. His wife passed away in “one of those accidents” a few years ago. He loves dogs. He loves the fact I love my dog. He had a dog that was a soulmate. His four legged partner passed away 247 days, 13 hours, and 37 seconds ago. His wife’s date of death isn’t mentioned.

Dog Lover wants to bring a nice bottle of wine to my house and drink it on the deck. I say it’s too cold. He says, that’s even better, because we can drink it inside around the fire. I tell him no. I don’t know him. He could stalk me, or harm me. Strangle me, and drag me up into the hills behind the house. He says he would never do that to hurt his reputation at this point in his life. Ummm – what about what about the effect on ME?

After eight text messages we compromise and meet half way between our homes. We compromise on the time too. He wants to meet at 5:00 I prefer 7:30. I tell him how about 6:00 and I will eat dinner before the date so he’s not pressured to buy dinner if he doesn’t like me.

We meet at a steakhouse that I’ve never been too. I stopped eating red meat when I helped to  butcher a cow at 16. He likes the steakhouse because happy hour lasts all night. We each have a $5 glass of wine, and then split a second one. We are the only people in the bar. When he goes to the bathroom the waiter brings the bill. I leave it for Dog Lover to pay.

He asks if I’d like to meet his dog. We walk to his Mercedes, which has an enormous dog bed in the back and a dog the weighs around 70 pounds. I crawl in the seat. The dog is dying. The bedding smells dank. He puts his paw on my arm and looks into my eyes. Weakly lifting his head to cough. I rub his chest, he sighs. I kiss him on the top of his head. I want to stay all night listening to him breath.

Dog Lover stands out in the cold. He walks me to the car I turn my head to avoid his kiss. It lands on my ear. His lips are very dry.

The next day he sends an email – Do you want to go out this weekend? Do you think we have chemistry? No and no. Good luck on your search, and please take your dog to the vet.

Dog Lover emails me a week later for some help with AdWorks. He’s used it before, but just needs to calculate traffic and costs, and what key words to use, and how to manage the account. Ummm, the name of the product is AdWords not AdWorks, they have an excellent online tutorial, and I charge $100/hr for SEO advice.

I can’t remember at all what he looks like, I still pray for his dog.

Almost a year ago I tested the dating waters without any success. And then Dad got sicker and I had no time, or desire to think of any other man. Perhaps I’ll start again. The grief is a bit less, and I’m not worried constantly. I didn’t want to miss any time with him. Looking through my notes, I found this story that I thought was too pathetic to share, but now see it as pretty funny.

Match.com says we are a match. He loves my smile and is very attracted to successful women. He’s been a writer for the NY Times, and a few television shows. An old school marketing whiz, without a website. Date1 has branded himself as a sophisticated city bachelor. He wears a suit everyday, has a driver so he never interacts with the dirty streets, and travels to Europe on vacation. We’re to meet in North Beach in San Francisco. He asks me to wear a sexy dress with high heels. My instructions are to take BART to the Embarcadero and catch a cab to the bar. I bring my flip flops and walk.

The night is beautiful.

I meet him at his favorite neighborhood bar where he’s perched on a bar stool watching a movie on his iPhone. He pops up and is short, really short. And old. Shorter and older than his profile.  I tower over him in my heels. And indeed, he is wearing a beautiful thousand dollar suit, polished shoes, and the perfect tie.

The bartender asks what I’d like. His tight pants, and hip haircut make my date look even older. Sophisticated City Bachelor tells him a glass of the house red. I jokingly ask the bartended “ “so Sophisticated City Bachelor is a friend of yours” expecting to hear a story of how he’s the greatest guy ever, how nice it is to see him with a beautiful woman.  Detective work on my part. Instead he responds “he’s a client” and walks to the other end of the bar.

Sophisticated City Bachelor asks how the cab ride was, I tell him I walked. He scows at me, and said that was crazy to do. The hills, the tourists, the wind. I tell him I like to absorb life. I know the date is over.

I feel guilty and think about leaving before he pays for dinner. But he’s bounced up to tell me all about the revival of North Beach, how he knows the chef at the up and coming restaurant we will be dinning at. It’s a retelling of an article from this week’s Sunday Chronicle. That’s the problem with smart dates, they read too. But for once, I stay quiet.

On the corner is a homeless man exchanging compliments for donations “Wow, he says. It’s nice to see such a beautiful couple on a beautiful night. I smile, I look deep into his eyes, and I tell him “thank you”, “that was really kind of you to say. It is our first date”. Enjoy the evening”.

Sophisticated City Bachelor grabs my arm. Firmly. I stumble to catch-up. He negotiates for a good table, because last time his table was terrible, and he knows the chef and comes here often, so make sure it is good. It is. We watch the tourists read menus, haul luggage, and dream of love.

I get a lecture for speaking with the man on the corner. “Why? I ask”. “Because they are assholes”. “But I didn’t give thim money.” “It doesn’t matter, say Sophisticated City Bachelor”, if you acknowledge them they think it’s OK to do what they are doing.” “But they are human beings and he was kind.” “They are assholes he says.”

I choke down my dinner. During the 10 minute cab ride back to the Embarcadero station, we don’t talk, He’s busy giving the driver turn by turn directions. I prepare for the end of the date. BART card in hand, I stuff handfuls of bills at him in an attempt to blot out the evening, and advert any type of kiss. He’s aggressive. Grabbing my boob, and licking my neck. I shove him away. On BART I text a thank you and that I’m safely on my way to the East Bay. He doesn’t respond.

The eyes of the homeless man were a faded sea blue. I never looked into my date’s eyes, but I bet they were an angry black.