Sex : relationships

Disappearing Acts

Jeannie Greeley — Fri, 13 Jun 2008 19:35:00 GMT

Why is it so hard for people to have a relationship and a social life?

My friend asked for an annoying favor the other day. She wanted to know if I would take out the one other lesbian she knows, because the woman is going through a bad breakup and has no semblance of a social life. Vulnerable, sad, lonely woman? Just my type.

I hate this predicament for two reasons. 1) It makes me feel like a “token lesbian.” 2) It validates my theory of relationship hibernation. My first cynical thought was that maybe if the woman had a social life, she’d still have a relationship. But I bit my tongue and accepted yet another burden that we single people are so often saddled with: having lives.

Why is it that for so many people, relationships and social lives cannot go hand in hand? Is it a lesbian thing, or do straight couples suffer from this too? I always try to rebuff the notion that two women together simply want to “nest,” like we’re birds spending our days scraping for sunflower seed. The theory, I guess, is that most women have an inclination to be pregnant homemakers. Combine two and you’re doomed to a life of Saturday-night television and crock-pot dinners. Unfortunately, the lesbian population hasn’t done much to invalidate this theory.

See, I can go on this rant because I’m not a nester. In fact, most of the time I’m flying the coop. The complaint from most of my girlfriends has been that I spend too much time with my friends. The reason I do that, darling, is because they’ll be there long after you’re gone. And I also think it’s completely unhealthy to spend all of your time with the same person, even if he or she is hot and good in bed. Many people, it seems, don’t think this way. Perfect example: that freaky couple on Bravo’s The Real Housewives of New York City. (Don’t pretend you didn’t watch it.) The woman brings her husband to “girls’ night” and sees nothing wrong with it. Can you say codependent? And you wonder how their kid ended up in Manhattan with a name like François.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m all for marathon sex sessions and the occasional disappearing act during a new relationship. What I can’t stand is the solemn reemergence by people who lost your phone number somewhere in their girlfriend’s ass and now expect you to become their therapist once the door has hit said ass on its way out. Dionne Warwick is a fool. That is not what friends are for.

I learned very early in my relationship career (because this is work) that balance is one of the most important elements of a partnership. My scales tipped way out of whack at a young age. For one woman, I gave up a good job, moved from state to state like a puppy on a leash, and left most of my friends in the dust. When I finally re-emerged, broken-hearted, I was lucky to have one friend willing to offer me her couch. The rest I earned back slowly, with my tail between my legs and many an exhausting apology. (Fortunately Ecstasy was all the rage then, so I was able to attribute a lot of my behavior to brain-cell loss.)

But I vowed never to make that mistake again. I think I’ve made pretty good on that promise. I like a distinct breakdown of time with partner, time with friends, time with friends and partner. If your girlfriend is jealous of your friends, she either doesn’t have enough of her own or she clearly hasn’t realized that you are embarrassed to bring her out in public. Only time will tell.

In the meantime, I’ll be a good pal and take this newly single woman out on the town. And she’ll have that typical look of uneasiness as we approach a place like ZuZu. “Is this what kids are wearing these days?” she’ll wonder, forgetting the last time she actually got “dressed up.” I’ll recommend martinis to kick off the evening, showing her how you put the glass to your lips and sip. Go on. It’s not going to kill you. “What kind of music is this?” she’ll ask as we make our way onto the packed floor. “Are these people gay or straight? My God. I’m going to die alone!”

We’ll dance up a sweat and have what most would consider a great night, and she’ll thank me as she gets into her Subaru to head back to the suburbs. But along the way, the road will turn dark and lonely. She’ll wake the next morning with a killer hangover and think “I’m too old to be out dancing and enjoying life.” And she’ll reach for the phone to call the ex and return to that old, comfortable compromise.

And I’ll never hear from her again. Until the next breakup.

Jeannie Greeley is a single freelance writer on loan as a wing woman. You can reach her at jeannieg@comcast.net.

In the sack: letters from readers

Jeannie Greeley — Fri, 30 May 2008 19:40:00 GMT

Lately, I’ve been receiving a lot of emails about things like medical conditions and relationship struggles. I am not a doctor, a therapist, or a “sexpert,” though I could probably use the services of all three. But I will do something rare in this month’s “In the Sack” and attempt to address your inquiries with a bit of seriousness. Don’t worry: this is just a phase. At least that’s what my parents keep saying. (All letters and identities have been edited.)

Help! I need advice. I’m dating this amazingly sexy woman. She is off the charts. She’s got this collection of toys, many of which would likely be illegal in most states, that make her bedroom look like a freakin’ sex store. Not surprisingly, she’s absolutely amazing in bed, to the point that I’m reading books just to keep up with her. I’m holding my own, but only barely. So what’s my problem? She is more than interested in pursuing a fling with an incredibly hot friend of hers. Let’s call her Janie Meally. So here’s my question: how do I hook this up?
Struggling Stallion

Dear Struggling Stallion,
Honestly, I’d let the woman take the lead on this one. Otherwise, you might risk coming across as some lecherous boyfriend trying to bed your lover’s pals. Besides, women have this uncanny ability to flirt each other’s pants off when necessary and then completely erase the experience from their minds if it becomes awkward. More importantly, you need to make sure everyone is on the same page. There’s nothing worse than a fun threesome that becomes an uncomfortable twosome that becomes a lonely onesome.

First, I enjoy your columns, except a few that have been really gross. Here’s something I’ve been meaning to write you for months, ever since your column lamenting the lack of women with a 34B chest size. I think 34B is a very nice size. It’s my wife’s size. The only reason I know it is that she has sent me at least once or twice — probably soon after one of her two hip replacements and two knee replacements, when she was having a much harder time than usual getting around — to buy bras for her. She specified the store, the brand, and the model, as well as the size. I think there aren’t many situations more embarrassing than to be the only man shopping in a lingerie or “intimate apparel” department. You have the feeling that every woman there must think you’re some kind of pervert.
Big Boob

Dear Big Boob,
You know what’s gross? The fact that you only discovered your wife’s bra size when the woman was so incapacitated that she couldn’t walk or leave the house in order to buy her own undergarments. What is wrong with you? She probably knows your shirt size down to the millimeter and the number of blades you like in a razor. You, on the other hand, find it “embarrassing” to shop for bras. That poor woman should drag her wobbly self out of bed and leave your immature ass in the dust.

I am in love with your column! [Perhaps I should] thank God you do not write often enough for me to develop a meaningful infatuation with your thoughts, but regardless of frequency, your words have provided me with the diaphanous hope that a sexy and witty lesbian population exists somewhere within 50 miles of 02115. Although I’ve long occupied a doubtful position on the overall attractiveness [scale] of the Boston lesbian community, and have only become more committed to my shallow convictions with passing experience, your words have offered me comfort in suspecting that there is a whole other vibrant dyke scene out there that I have not come across, one full of clever and humorous lesbians like you. (Please spare me the disillusion if you actually believe otherwise. At the age of 24, I am too young to stop hoping.)
Little Babe

Dear Little Babe,
My poor child. You have been misled. Perhaps my sarcasm fell flat or you caught me on an off week. But I will refrain from bursting your optimistic bubble. With all the flack I receive from the lesbian community, it’s nice to know that one young soul remains unscathed by my jaded rants. Dare I say you might even be inspired by them? If I may impart one bit of advice without tarnishing your image of Boston’s lesbian scene, it would be similar to that of my journalistic forefather, Horace: “Go West, baby dyke.”

I am 48 and have no kids. I would not say this was by choice. It just happened that way, as I was busy with a career and all sorts of other things that the priority just seemed to be put aside. Now I feel very different than in my 30s. One thing is that I can no longer have children of my own — whereas in my 30s I remember thinking I always had that choice. Most of my friends are now married with kids, whereas in my 30s, this was not the case. Now I feel differently. Maybe it is when you suddenly see your parents age or when you see your best friend’s love for her children or suddenly all your friends around you are getting married and pregnant. It is lonelier as you get older, as most people’s lives revolve around “family.” I believe we as a human race are maternal. Some more than others, but that instinct is there. Screaming, drooling kids may not be for many, but I tell you, I saw my sister go through it with three kids and I have to say I miss that part of a family.
Fruitless After 40

Dear Fruitless After 40,
Every time I leave my sister’s compound and her screaming brood, I get a little pang of envy as I walk into my empty, silent apartment. No doubt, as I get older I am becoming part of a minority as an unwed, childless woman. Add the gay thing and I’m soon to be extinct. Aside from my biological family, I’ve worked to create a sort of surrogate family of other unwed friends, friends who don’t plan to have children, and married friends who would never treat me differently because I’m the odd number on the dinner reservation. Keep in mind that your more “traditional” friends probably envy your freedom and detachment. But that’s often little consolation when the plane you’ve been jetsetting in comes to a halt on the runway and there’s no one at the airport to help you with your bags. I get it.

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer who collects her mail at jeannieg@comcast.net.

Friends with no benefits: why do I need my exes to like me?

Jeannie Greeley — Mon, 19 May 2008 18:39:00 GMT

A few weeks ago, I got a scathing phone call from an ex. My offense this time? I wasn’t around to rub lotion on her back. “You are never there when I need you!” she howled. From lube to Lubriderm in such a short time, with so many feelings crushed along the way.

Soon after, I attended her birthday party so she could perform her ritual of degrading me in front of her riends and treating me like the ingrate I am for leaving her dry between the shoulder blades.

This was followed by a different ex calling to bend my ear about her breakup with a boyfriend. “There, there,” I consoled her, sending inspirational messages worthy of a Hallmark stamp. “You’re the best!” she replied in text messages, until an apparent lobotomy led her to hate me again within days. “You’ve been mean to me in the past,” she wrote, “and I’m seriously considering not being your friend anymore.”

I cracked up. The thought of any of us being “friends” is somewhat comical. Really, we are simply each other’s emotional punching bags, there to take a tap or a steady barrage, depending on the other person’s mood. I always seem up for a good pummeling. Allowing myself to get knocked around is my penance for having hurt another person in the universe.

I am one of those people who believes that my world will tip off its axis if I can’t maintain peace and harmony with all who have rolled in and out of my bed. It’s almost a goal of mine to feel like the better person by becoming her friend.

But the stage being skipped in most of these relationships, I realize, is the hate: some good old-fashioned voodoo shit where you wish the other person dead and ignite piles of her belongings. I usually try to progress directly from love (or something resembling it) to like. I skip the stage that Dr. Phil would probably refer to as “anger.” As a result, I end up surrounded by the carcasses of my past, everyone dancing around one another in a little circle of bitterness.

I think this behavior is a byproduct of that bright but empty philosophy that “Everything happens for a reason!” We want to believe that we’ve loved or lusted after or screwed people for a reason. I spend unusual amounts of time looking under every rock trying to find the answer — a line of Portuguese learned from this one, a cross-stitch from that one, a new film director from another. Something. Anything. It would be too depressing to conclude that certain relationships amounted to nothing more than regular sex or placeholders. Dare I use the word mistakes? Becoming friends with the ex seems like the easiest solution to the problem. We can breathe a sigh of relief: ahhh, we were just meant to be friends. That must have been it.

Please. Tiny toothpicks jammed into the soles of my feet would probably have a better effect on my overall emotional health.

“You have a hard time letting go,” a friend told me recently. “Nuhuh,” I replied defensively, ticking off a list of exes in my wake. But my list slowly proved support for her claim, each person
still lingering in the shadows, needing everything from emotional propping up to skin-smoothing. I’ve spread myself thin like a salve, trying to repair any wounds I might have caused and prevent any future burns. It’s a pattern I can’t seem to break, despite knowing that it leaves me with less of myself for the next person who might come around.

“Why do you need to be her friend?” a pal asked of my recent pursuit of friendship with an old flame. “So she can get all the benefits of your friendship and then go home to bed with her boyfriend?” Ouch.

But she was right. There was nothing in it for me. It’s a conclusion that many of my exes seem to be realizing, too. You can’t rely on the person who’s hurt you to lick your wounds. Like can’t replace love. Rejection can’t be forgotten through acceptance. It’s work best done on your own, or surrounded by real friends who haven’t been in your pants.

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer who can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net.