Birds on a Wire

The other day I have an unexpected conversation with my friend, Gail. You know, the one who’s (still) married but obsessed with my Internet dating career.

She calls for a chat and then asks me in a rather roundabout way if I have a vibrator and if one can buy one on the Internet (considering one can probably buy a kosher pig liver on the Internet, I don't know why Gail can't figure out that one can also find about 1,000 vibrators).

Then she asks if I know where to get the best deal on batteries as she has a lot of time to make up for.

Ignoring the TMI (too much information) quotient of her question, I tell her that I no longer use a vibrator with batteries.

(And anyone who knows how frustrating it is to be on the verge of an orgasm and run out of batteries will understand why.)

I confess to Gail that after my ex-husband decided he no longer wanted to be married to me, I put everything he owned in garbage bags and lugged them out to the back shed, during which I may have accidentally broken some of his precious African art.

But that’s another story.

Anyways, after I finished with the disposing of the garbage bags, I marched back into the house and straight to my computer where I proceeded to order the most expensive electrical vibrator I could find on the Internet.

Which I then charged to his credit card.

I should have known something was up when the box could not be delivered by regular mail and instead had to be picked up at the local post office.

I discovered that a lot of (someone else's) money buys you a lot of vibrator.

It is enormous.

In fact, Crazy Clark used to refer to it as The Canada Arm.

When I told my gay friend Jack, what Crazy Clark had said, Jack said he wasn’t surprised as he always assumed I was hooked up directly to the grid.

That could be because when we went to university together about 20 years ago, Jack would call me and could always tell by my “hello” what I had been doing (usually to Leonard Cohen’s "I’m Your Man" – Yes, Yes, Yes, You Are, Leonard)

“Not again, Vic?” Jack would always say in disbelief.

Anyways, I’m not going to deny any woman her right to multiple orgasms.

I told Gail where to get one on the Net.

Because why should I be the only "Bird on a Wire"?

Wake up

Oh, please.

You didn’t actually BELIEVE that story about Ben calling and coming back and us living happily ever after?

Because you should know that life doesn’t ever work that way – except in crappy movies starring Sandra Bullock (basically all of them).

No, Ben doesn’t call.

Nobody calls.

I come home from the country to a very empty house and the next day I called Mr. Scrabble to see how things went with the HHH.

To be honest, Mr. Scrabble doesn’t sound all that happy to hear from me but at least he is nice enough to say he thinks it would be best if we keep our relationship personal and leave business out of it.

I agree with relief.

Then he tells me that he has decided to go visit his sister in West Palm Beach for a month and that he’ll call me when he is back in town for a rematch.

So much for Mr. Scrabble as a summer distraction.

I am back where I started from.

On my own.

Wondering what to do with myself.

I wait three whole days and then sit at my computer and start afresh on the internet dating site hoping to find a man who might be able to satisfy my three requirements.

I'm tempted to add the following sentence to my profile under the description of my "perfect first date":

"One where I don't have to come home from yet another coffee date thinking "nice guy but not for me."

Which I may as well have TATTOOED ON MY ASS because at this rate nobody will ever see it anyways."

But I don't.

Still can’t get over that you believed that fantasy about Ben coming back into my life.

Reader, you have DEFINITELY seen too many Sandra Bullock movies.

Wake up and smell the dozens of coffee dates just waiting to tattoo my ass.

Re-exit Mr. Scrabble Re-enter Ben

The next weekend, Mr. Scrabble (aka The Jewish Architect) invites me for a second time to his country house. He wants me to meet some prospective clients that might be interested in working with an interior designer on what could be Mr. Scrabble's biggest project to date.

Only after I agree to drive up and meet them does he tell me “by the way these clients are Hassidic Jews.”

As I’m driving up north, I remember my friend Gail telling me about her husband's very Catholic, very small-town parents visiting the "big city" and Gail and her husband gave them a tour of downtown including an old Jewish district. Her in-laws had never seen orthodox (or probably any) Jews before and hung out the car like they were at a Safari Park pointing at the Hassidics exclaiming, Look there’s another one!

I am late for lunch because when I stop to get gas on the way, of course I trip over the nozzle and badly scrape my hand. I realize that it’s still bleeding when I arrive at the cottage and I’ve run out of tissues.

This time Mr. Scrabble opens the door and gives me a look that DOESN'T say "I can't wait to rip your clothes off."

It says “Where the hell have you been?”

Behind him is standing a man I assume to be the head Hassidim honcho.

Wanting to make a good first impression, I rush toward the HHH (head Hassidim honcho) with my hand extended but he looks at me in disgust and says snidely, We don’t shake hands.

Mr. Scrabble just shakes his head and looks at the ground.

Trying to undo my faux pas, I then say, “That’s okay, I’m bleeding anyways.”

Both men look at me with absolute horror.

NO! I exclaim. I mean my HAND, I said. My hand is bleeding. Not, you know.

Mr. Scrabble gives me another look that says “For god’s sake are you trying to completely ruin this deal for me?”

After lunch I say my goodbyes with no expectation whatsoever to hear from Mr. Scrabble again.

Either for work or sex.

But as I walk through my front door, the telephone is ringing.

I'm expecting it to be Mr. Scrabble calling to tell me I blew the deal.

It’s me. Are you surprised? Ben asks when I answer.

I had forgotten the effect his voice has on me.

Yes, I say.

I miss you, he says.

I miss you too, I reply.

No you don’t, Ben says.

I wish I didn’t, I say.

So now what? He asks.

I don’t understand what happened in New York, Ben, and I’m not sure I want to, I say.

I know, I weirded out didn’t I? he replies.

That’s one way of putting it, I say.

I was confused, Ben says.

And now? I ask.

There’s silence.

Great, I think. The only man I ever really fell for - the only one who managed to make me think, make me laugh, make me come and then make me cry, is now calling me to tell me he’s still confused.

But then he says, Vic, all I know is that when I was with you, I was happier than I ever have been before. Everything seems dull without you. Food tastes bland. Nothing is funny if you’re not there to enjoy it with me. I feel like I’m walking under water. Can’t we try again? Don’t you still love me?

I don’t know, Ben. You really hurt me. I thought we were so good together and then you just disappeared. What if it happens again?

Look, he says, I’m not going anywhere. And if I do, you’re coming with me.

Good answer, I think, despite myself.

That night in bed (despite myself), Ben looks at me and asks, What happened to your hand?

I tripped pumping gas and then fucked up a deal with an orthodox Jew, I say.

I hate it when that happens, he says.

Fun and games

Dating on the internet can feel like another full time job. I have notes and names and phone numbers scribbled all over my agenda yet still I get details mixed up when I’m on actual dates.

I'm tired.

So if my friend Liz can take a sabbatical as a professor, I don’t see why I can’t also take a break from what has become my second career.

Realizing I need a sabbatical from my quest to find the right "virtual man", I decide to “hide” my profile from the internet dating site for the summer.

My kids leave to spend two months with their father in Europe.

Work dwindles down as most of my clients are away.

As are most of my friends.

I start going back to the gym on a regular basis.

I buy only healthy food.

I call up old friends that I rarely see hoping they might be around for the summer.

I organize all my work files.

I find the missing documentation that my accountant has been asking me for the past eight months.

One evening, I rearrange my living room furniture.

And then wake up at four a.m. to put it all back the way it was originally.

I am in the middle of sifting through a box of old photos when I get a text from Mr. Scrabble.

Wanna play? it says.

I’m so fucking bored I don’t care if he’s referring to sex or Scrabble. I am just so happy to hear from him (or anyone) that I get in my car and drive to his house without even calling.

Twelve minutes later I’m ringing his doorbell.

Mr. Scrabble opens the door, sees me and laughs.

What took you so long? He asks with a smile.

After we have sex, Mr. Scrabble says he has to take his dog Turner for his nightly walk.

So we walk and talk and afterwards we go back and have sex again.

It’s a good thing we only see each other this sporadically, Mr. Scrabble says. I don’t think I’d get anything else done.

It’s true, I think, because we totally connect in bed.

But I still can’t figure out why sex is so good with him when really there is no connection between us other than a love of Scrabble and crossword puzzles?

After all, his linguistic talents certainly don’t follow him to the bedroom.

In fact, it’s better for me if he doesn’t say anything at all (remember, this is the man who said I had “great boobs”).

Still, we seem to speak the same sexual language in so many ways.

Just as long as it’s not spoken aloud.

Afterwards, Mr. Scrabble takes out his board and we play another kind of game.

As I pick my letters, I realize that I'm hoping that this evening will set the tone for the rest of the summer.

Thinking of my married friends slaving away at some cottage instead of at their house, convincing themselves they are on holiday, a few weeks of triple letter scores and multiple orgasms could be just what the love doctor would prescribe.

And by the time September rolls around, my hope is that Ben will have ebbed from my memory, washed away by a tide of sex and Scrabble.

Freudian slips can lead to chipped teeth

When Ben and I come back from New York, I sense that something has changed.

It’s hard to ignore that the frequency with which we speak dwindles as does the number of times we see each other.

Another bad sign is that Ben says "he’s tired a lot" and, for someone who couldn’t get enough of me, suddenly Ben no longer has the energy for anything sexual.

I’m talking to Liz about this one day at our favourite café.

To me, it’s obvious why he’s dropping below the radar, Liz says. It’s because you went to that fetish club with him.

He begged me to! I protest.

Freud’s Whore-Madonna complex, she says.

Pardon? I say. I don't follow you.

Being a psychology professor, Liz cannot resist giving me a little private lecture on the topic.

She removes her groovy lime green glasses, clears her throat a bit and begins.

You told me that Ben often spoke about how cold and distant his mother is, right? Liz says.

Men like Ben try and obtain intimacy with other women to replace what they didn’t get from their mothers.

As a result, they can only have satisfying sexual relationships with women they consider "bad" or "dirty" and will not develop "normal" feelings of love in these sexual relationships.

You and Ben connected as people, right? Liz continues.

You share the same interests, the same humour, the same sensibilities?

Exactly, I say. That’s why what you’re saying doesn’t make sense to me.

Because Ben is so intelligent, on a certain level he probably recognized his pattern and even tried to break it with you, Liz says. But he couldn’t.

For someone with his psychological makeup, sex and love are entrenched as mutually exclusive traits, Liz adds.

But Ben says that I was perfect for him, I argue. He always told me how great it was that I was so comfortable sexually. And that I made him laugh more than any other woman. We talked about everything.

Seriously, Liz, our relationship was something I’ve always dreamed of finding, I say sounding a little too desperate.

Vic, Liz says, Although Ben consciously thought he had found his “perfect woman” in you, Ben’s subconscious wasn’t so sure.

Basically, Liz says, I think Ben was testing you at that club when he said you should split up and go explore on your own.

And I failed the test, I say in defeat.

Liz puts her glasses back on and says, "class dismissed."

Later that evening, I think about what Liz said.

No matter how I look at the relationship, I can’t help but think she’s right.

And no matter how I look at trying to fix the relationship, I can’t help but realize that I can’t.

You can’t undo what’s been done.

Once the tooth is chipped, so is the relationship.

I brace myself for some real heart ache.

I thought Ben was the man I’d been looking for.

He was the first man to score 3/3 on my ranking system by making me think, laugh and come.

Ben made up for all the Crazy Clarks, Second Franks and Clouseaus in this sea of virtual men.

Which is why I feel like hanging up my internet dating shoes and hiding under a big rock at the bottom of the sea.

But I go shopping instead and buy a dress.

Okay, two.

When in Rome

I spend the morning taking in the smells and sights in SOHO while Ben is at his meetings. We meet for a quick Sushi lunch and then I go to the Guggenheim for the afternoon.

New York is amazing.

At dinner, Ben tells me about his latest account and I tell him about my day.

Suddenly, he looks at me with a dirty smile and says, I want to ask you something.

Uh-oh, I say. This can’t be good.

Relax, he says.

Look we’re in New York, right? Ben continues, let’s do something crazy.

Such as? I say.

How about checking out a fetish club tonight? he asks.

A WHAT?! I scream.

Someone told me about this place that’s supposed to be out of this world. People having sex all over the place. Mild bondage. We don’t have to do anything, Ben says. We could just watch and get turned on and then go back to our hotel and have some great sex.

So by mild bondage, you mean people are tied up with toilet paper instead of rope so they can get out at any time? I say.

Is it bring your own roll? I ask.

Very funny, smart ass, Ben says and leans over and kisses me on the mouth.

He gives me a long kiss and then whispers in my ear, Come on baby, let’s do something wild. I couldn’t imagine going with anyone but you. And that’s the truth.

Well, when in Rome, I finally say. But first I want to go back to the hotel and change.

That’s my girl, Ben says, smacking my ass as we walk out of the restaurant.

I have to admit, as I slip out of my dress and into a low cut black top and a pair of tight jeans and high heels that I’m kind of excited by what we might see.

Maybe because I have long admitted to myself that I am a bit of an experience junkie.

I don’t want to miss anything in life so I’ll try just about anything once so I have no regrets at the end.

When I’m an old woman I want to look back at my life and smile and shake my head and think what an adventure it was.

Of course that philosophy alone can lead to bigger regrets but I prefer to ignore this possibility.

Only in New York would they have valet parking at a bondage club, I think as we get out of our cab and walk into this rather swanky looking nightclub.

Everybody in the place looks pretty hot and pretty privileged and I wonder if Ben made a mistake because it looks like a normal uptown nightclub. It's quite impressive.

And there are even these funky low beds with luxurious white pillows all around the club. On some of the beds are up to eight people lounging around and chatting quietly and drinking. And the music is just great.

I’m happy to be here from a design perspective alone.

So where’s the sex? I yell in Ben’s ear. Where’s the bondage? Where’s the toilet paper?

Shut up, he says.

Ben leads me through this wonderful room until we are in a hallway that apparently leads to several other equally large rooms as well as some private rooms.

There are cute signs everywhere.

Unlike The Price is Right, it isn’t hard to figure out what is behind each door.

I grab his hand as he leads me through to the All You Can Eat Buffet.

It’s pretty dark but it doesn’t take us long to see that there are couples all over the place performing oral sex on each other.

It’s like a porno film except without all the cheesy music and overacted orgasms.

There are men going down on women and women going down on men who are going down on another woman at the same time.

Basically there is every combination and permutation you can imagine.

I’m standing in front of Ben who pulls me closer, starts caressing my breasts and points out various scenes he wants me to watch.

You’d like that, wouldn’t you baby? Ben moans in my ear. He’s getting totally off on what’s going on around us.

And I have to admit I am too. Especially seeing men go down on women because it’s from a view that I’ve never had before.

At first I find it voyeuristic – which of course it is – but then I find myself getting really aroused.

Let’s see what else is in this palace of delight, Ben says and leads me out the door and into the foyer.

This looks interesting, he says, motioning to a sign that reads James Bondage 069.

Okay, this is definitely out of my league I think as we walk into a room where most of the people are wearing latex and bondage gear and the sex is a little rougher.

We try to stay inconspicuously in the back watching the scenes unfold around us when I hear a voice that sounds familiar.

It takes me a minute to locate the speaker but when I do I recognize her immediately.

It’s Big Tits.

From the Swinger’s Party in the country.

Oh my god, I say to Ben. I know that woman!

Really, how? Ben asks.

Oh never mind, I say. It just looks like someone I know.

Maybe I’m not ready to share that little experience with my new boyfriend just yet, I think.

Or ever.

Baby, Ben says, what do you say if we split up for a little while? Are you game? See what trouble we can each get into and then later we can tell each other all about it.

I’m kind of put on the spot here. While I would have preferred sticking to our original plan, it’s obvious however that my boyfriend wants to explore.

There’s nothing to gain in this situation by pouting or saying no.

I’m a big girl, I say. I’ll meet you in the first lounge with the beds in an hour.

You’re the best, Vic. You know I’m crazy about you, baby. Ben says, kisses me and walks out the door leaving me with the sex cattle.

I’m not standing there alone for more than a minute when this British voice says to me, Well, we meet again.

It’s Big Nose. Big Tits’ British husband.

The one I really wanted to end up with at the Swinger’s Party.

You’re a long way from home, aren’t you? he says.

I feel like Little Red Riding Hood and I’ve just run into the Wolf.

The very sexy, very attractive, British wolf.

Looks like the sex gods have conspired to bring us together again after that coitus interruptus we had to endure last time, he says.

Come with me, he says and starts to walk towards the door.

And like a junkie, I follow him.

Being a member comes with privileges, he says to me with a wink, as he unlocks a door around the corner. It’s a little like a hotel room except that the bed is on the floor for some reason.

What’s your name, Big Nose, asks me when we’re alone in this private room.

Victoria, I say.

What’s your name? I ask.

Simon, he says.

Of course it is. I say with a smile. So British.

Is that a problem, Simon says?

Quite the opposite, I reply.

Shall we pick up where we left off under the apple trees? Simon says and pulls me onto the bed.

I believe you were sucking something of mine before we were so rudely interrupted, he says. Care to continue?

He kisses me gently and then starts kissing me deeply until his tongue is in my mouth and I start to suck it in a suggestive manner.

That’s just the appetizer, my dear, Simon says.

He then starts to unzip his jeans.

Actually, there’s something you should know, he says, with his hands still on his zipper. I come with attachments.

Excuse me? I ask.

You’ll see, he says and takes off his jeans.

Simon is wearing no underwear so I can see right away that his jewel is bejeweled with a studded contraption that goes right through his cock!

Simon is not only a member, he is a pierced member.

I try not to wince.

He explains that his private jewelry is designed to rub against a woman’s G-spot during sex.

Do I have to know anything special about this? I ask as he pushes my head down into his lap.

Just be careful not to chip a tooth, he says with a chuckle.

We visit the "all you can eat buffet" for a while but the best part is when Simon fucks me. It is truly incredible because, even with a condom on, each time he moves in me he hits the spot. I make more noise than I do in a long time – it’s crazy how good it feels.

Afterwards I look at the time and quickly stand up and get dressed.

Goodbye Queen Victoria, Simon says. Until we meet again.

Later dude, I say, which I have always wanted to say.

And because it seems the most inappropriate time to do so, I do.

Then I try and find my way back to the first room to find Ben.

Ben and I go back to our hotel room and he must be as spent as I am because we both crash as soon as we hit the bed.

I don’t ask about his little adventure and I’m relieved that he doesn’t ask about mine.

In fact, we don’t talk about the night at all for the rest of the trip.

A week later, I’m at the dentist for a regular check up.

As he’s poking around my back teeth, my dentist looks at me with a smile and says, Well, Victoria, for the life of me I don’t know how you managed to fracture your tooth all the way back there, but somehow you did.

Was that a knowing smile? I always thought my dentist was a bit of a perv.

Could he possibly know? I wonder. I still half believe that other people can read my (dirty) mind.

Think quick, think quick, think quick.

Popcorn, I mutter feebly and consider changing dentists.

Too good to be true?

I have my first real date since Clouseau. (I have decided that swinger's parties and massages do not count as real dates.)

His name is Ben and he writes me shortly after I post my new profile. In his email he writes that has never been attracted to skinny, blonde women, has never bought any women chocolate as it’s too cliché (except his mother every Mother’s Day) and has never worn white socks with black pants (in fact he fired his last account exec for just that).

Based on these important criteria, he asks if I would consider meeting him.

Ben studied film but is now a marketing director for a big name advertising firm and that sometimes he loves his job and other times he’s embarrassed by how much money he makes for coming up with pretty dumb ideas that clients seem to love. However his true passion is documentary film making which he has dabbled in over the years. He considers a film he made about his 94 year old grandfather to be his finest creative achievement.

When I read this I know that I will agree to meet Ben. I had a very close relationship with two of my grandparents and instantly like him for having a special bond with his grandfather.

Besides, any man who buys his mother chocolates every year has to be worth meeting. (Unless she’s diabetic and he’s trying to kill her off slowly for his inheritance. But then at least he’ll be rich.)

In the photos we exchange I find that we even kind of look alike, he reminds me of some of my male cousins. He actually writes that I remind him of his sister. Not sure if that’s weird or not though.

We eventually move past email to voice and I’m relieved that he doesn’t make me think of Katy Perry’s “I Kissed a Girl” (aka Big Hair from the Swinger’s Party). Ben has a good voice. He sounds confident but is not arrogant. His sense of humour is clever and not corny. And best of all, he knows how to poke fun at himself.

Ben also has a great laugh. So much so, that I try to make him laugh as much as I can.

I could get addicted to that laugh, I think.

Just when I think it can’t get any better, he asks me if I like Woody Allen as “Vicky Christina Barcelona” is opening this weekend. And (be still my heart), he then says that Barcelona is one of his favourite cities and that he loves Gaudi’s architecture.

Me too! I exclaim.

Ben and I meet prior to the movie at “center rink”. That’s because the cinema is where the old hockey arena used to be and they kept the red circle in the foyer next to a few of the original red “Canadiens” hockey seats. I’m not a hockey fan myself but I did grow up in a house with two brothers, a father and grandfather so it was hard to escape.

Although for amusement, when they were kids, my brothers used to ask me to name teams of famous players just so they could hear me guess baseball teams for hockey players and vice versa.

The movie is great, except for the annoying narration that tells you what’s happening as you’re watching.

For example, the narrator says something like “Vicky was very tired and wanted to go home” which is followed by Vicky sitting down and saying “I’m very tired and want to go home.”

I’m not sure if this is supposed to be funny. But it’s not.

Anyways other that that, Ben and I love the film and can’t stop talking about our trips to Barcelona.

Maybe one day we’ll go together, Ben says at dinner after the movie.

I just smile. I’m not falling for those kinds of comments again, I think, remembering Mr. Washington and his big words: “For me, it’s as if you were drawn by an artist with my specifications in hand.” Or Crazy Clark who said “I see that picture and wish you were my wife.” And let's not forget Second Frank who confessed “You’re really getting into my head.”

I have come to learn that men say what’s on their mind propelled by emotion at that moment in time but that it means no more than that to them. Whereas a woman will hear these words and attribute permanent weight and symbolism to them.

Only to be disappointed.

Besides, it’s been such a bizarre journey that even though Ben seems to be normal, well adjusted, smart, good looking, funny, sweet and doesn’t wear white socks with black pants, I can’t relax until I know that there are no hidden ghosts in his sexual closet.

I’ve become one of those jaded, pessimistic single women I realize. Because I’m sitting there across from this seemingly wonderful man and all the while thinking he must be gay.

Or lives with his mother.

Or has eighteen cats.

Or follows a strict macrobiotic vegan diet.

But as the evening progresses he shows himself to be none of these, and we start to see each other a couple of times a week.

After about four months (which in internet dating life is like fourteen years), Ben calls me one day and says he has to go to New York for a few days and could I get away and go with him? He has points for my airfare and it wouldn’t cost me anything as the hotel is paid for and the per diem is so generous it will easily cover all of our meals.

My kids are with my ex anyways during this time and I push back my appointments with clients and before I know it we are sitting in first class on a plane to JFK.

By this point I have decided to accept that Ben is as great as he appears to be and stop waiting for him to come out of the bathroom wearing women’s underwear.

TO BE CONTINUED…