Three things can happen in a marriage and two are bad. I'm experiencing one of the bad things. It's called divorce.
What am I doing now? I am now sitting in my girlfriend's Sunday school class at a protestant mega-church. It's a class for divorced singles. The speaker is telling them how men don't understand their wives and moms, and there is one reason for the awful divorce rate -- MEN!
So where did this start? Last night, we made the night club circuit. We danced. We kissed and groped. She came to my apartment; and after a lot of sex, I was exhausted. I took her home at 3 a.m. Let me think ... I promised to pick her up Sunday at 8 o'clock for a day of fun. Now, I'm sitting here ... and this is definitely not fun!
Where did this this story really begin? I am 36-year-old black man, who went to a well-heeled university and got into a banking career in North Dallas. Then I got married! It was beautiful wedding and honeymoon. She was white. We were married for 11 years. Actually, make those two happy years and nine miserable years. Then I was divorced.
I was determined to make the best of my divorce. The last thing on my mind were women and dating ... at first that is.
"This is not good! I really didn't expect this, ' my twin brother, Gerald said. He lived 250 miles away. He was a devout Christian and the subject of divorce was abhorrent to him. He still lived within 20 miles of our birthplace. While I was determined to leave there and never come back, he would never leave. He married his high school sweetheart. He settled down with a safe government job and had three kids. The youngest was still living at home.
"I just wanted to let you know. I don't need any help. I'm doing fine," I said. We continued to communicate about once a week.
I was determined not to let divorce get the best of me. I certainly did want my family believe I had turned into a bum. In the ensuing months, I paid off all my debts, saved a lot of money, and bought a two-level condo on Addison Circle. The town of Addison is in North Dallas. Nearby are the fabulous Galleria mall, Neiman Marcus department store and lots of fine dining places. It was near my banking job, too. So life was good.
After work and on the weekends I sat on my patio or sipped coffee in the many sidewalk cafes in the area. I worked out at the gym. I lounged in my spa. I listened to my classical music. I read. I supervised the remodeling of my condo to my tastes. I made acquaintances and chatted.
I made friends with one of my neighbors. Bill was his name. He was a confirmed bachelor. He had lots of advice.
So why you say am I not like all the other divorced men? You know the drill: Every other weekend taking the kids to the park, with the kids to the movies, keeping them on the weekend, and then rushing them home on Sunday. The simple fact is: I don't have any kids. That was the cause of my divorce. Katherine -- that's my ex-wife -- never conceived. She blamed it on me! OK! Just relax! This is a really emotional subject with me. I went to a doctor. He said I was fine. One thing led to another ... It's a long, sad story. It's was story I wanted to forget.
First, I made a list of things I wanted to do in my new single life. I summarized them into three rules: Rule number 1, do not get into any obsessive behavior; Rule number 2, save money; and Rule number 3, keep my options open.
So here I am. I have met all my goals. It's time to have some fun. My first attempt was the single bars. That went against my Rule No. 1. The next was dating services.
"Yes! I love evenings sitting by the fireplace. Oh yes! I love candlelight dinners. Absolutely! Children are no problem..." I lied on all the questions. I figured "they" would too.
My first contact was a surprise. She was Candy, a divorced mom with two kids at home.
"Hi, are you M.D.?"
"Yes," I said.
She was a petite four-foot-10. Her hair was dishwater blonde, and her eyes were hazel. She had rather thin, but cute, sexy lips. I noticed a slight accent. It was part Southern and part something else. She told me she was a Cajun woman from south of New Orleans.
Wait a moment! How can one be from "south of New Orleans"? I thought. There was nothing but mud, swamps, and ocean south of New Orleans! Well, maybe not!
We met at a coffee shop. She had a beautiful smile. I kept glancing at her body, legs, and feet. I made a date. I went out to dinner and danced. She was a poor dancer. I had two years of ballroom lessons, and she did not measure up. But then again, she had other attributes. Those red lips and a sexy body.
She came over unannounced one evening. I had just gotten out of the shower. I was dressed in a bathrobe. I poured her a glass of red wine. We sat on the couch. We exchanged little kisses. She startled me by reaching into my bathrobe and squeezing my ... It took my breath away! We started kissing and groping. We both undressed in a very short time. I laid her on the couch and spread her legs. I climbed on top. She was good at something – sex! She took my penis and guided, it into her love tunnel. She had two children, but they were delivered C-section. She had a very tight body for a thirty-something.
The next four weeks was like a whirlwind.
We spent a week in the New Orleans. We took in every night club, every jazz spot, and every dining bistro in the French Quarter. Along the way, I got in some fantastic sex. She was especially good as fellatio ... while I was driving. It was a first for me!
"I love you!" she said looking into my eyes. I knew if I said anything, I would be violating Rule No. 3. So I ditched her as soon as I could.
Then there was the very cute Latina named Marcella. I still remember those full ruby red lips. She had a svelte body and a sexy Spanish accent. She had those beautiful Latin eyes and dark lashes. We took in the usual coffee shop chat drill. We chatted on the phone. Then I asked her out.
On the first date, we met at an Italian restaurant. You know the type. They bring out a big jug of wine. They charge by the glass. She drank most of the jug. I really didn't mind paying for wine. Isn't that what a gentleman should do? Whatever...
We went to a ballroom club to dance. She was a great dancer! We danced the rhumba, the Cha-cha, the Samba, the Tango, and the Salsa. She kept drinking. She was too drunk to drive home. I had to call a taxi. Her ride home was on my dime.
Where else does a woman get falling down drunk on the first date? ... only in North Dallas. Whatever...
Then the dating service sent me Maurine. She was a cute blonde with a Southern accent. She was a secretary in a law firm. She was five-two and had very nice breasts. My guess was 36D. She had beautiful hazel eyes, and light brown hair. She had some girth.
We had two coffee shop dates. She talked a lot.
"I'm very concerned about what baggage you are carrying!" she stated it up front.
"I have no baggage other than eight kids and a huge pile of debts and I'm an alcoholic who hasn't hit bottom yet." Anyway, that's what I should have said. It turned out she carried all the "baggage".
I remember our first date. It was Saint Valentine's Day. It was supposed to mean something? I bought the dinner, and she provided all the conversation. Her talk was mostly about her ex-husband.
"Oh my god! Will she ever stop?" I thought to myself. She was obviously stuck on her exe whom she met while attending North Texas University. He was an artist and a drugged-out freak. That's my summary of her description. The walls of her home were plastered with cheap artwork. All of it painted, sketched, scratched, smeared, scrawled or scribbled by "him"!
She loved my condo and loved to drop by unexpectedly.
"You will have to take down that pornographic artwork if I bring my kids over," she said.
"Excuse me! I don't want your kids over here. This is my condo!" Well, that's what I should have told her.
So where else does a woman march into a male's condo and demand it be redecorated for her? ... only in North Dallas! Whatever...
One evening, she unexpectedly called to say she was coming over. I met her on the street. I didn't want her in my condo. She was happy and giddy.
"I just wanted to come up and see your condo again," she said giggling. She was drinking whiskey from a can.
"Oh my god! I didn't know they sold it in cans! Where did you get it? "I asked.
"I got it at a liquor store on the way." She said it like, "Doesn't everyone buy whiskey and drink it on the way home?"
She was drunk. She was slurring her words. When she climbed out of her Chrysler, she almost fell.
"Aren't you going to ask me up to your condo?"
"Well I would, but you are so drunk, I'm afraid you would fall on your ass before you got there." That is what I should have said. Instead I drove her home. She was too drunk to drive.
So where is it written that when a drunken woman comes uninvited to a male's apartment, he must drive her home and return in taxi on his dime? ... only in North Dallas! Whatever...
The dating in North Dallas was beginning to wear thin.
I discussed it with by neighbor, Bill.
"This dating is not really working out."
Bill laughed. He impressed me that he was a pro at dating in North Dallas.
"You gotta hang in there, friend. If you are in for a good time, you won't find it with the North Dallas girls."
Was that a prophesy?
.... There is more of this story ...