Transforming Lives... and 57 Orgasms (Part 1)

Scott 'winked' at me on an online dating site, so I read his profile. He described himself as "a healer and doctor who travels the world, helping people live extraordinary lives through personal transformation." With such a powerful claim, how could I not meet this guy?

Scott followed up the next day with an email, saying he was in town from Paris for a couple of days, and asked if I was free later that night. Since it was short notice, I suggested a neighborhood restaurant, where I know the staff and feel safe when meeting a total stranger from the internet.

About a dozen people were standing in the entrance when I arrived, but it was easy to identify Scott, since he's about six feet, four inches tall. He turned, smiled and introduced himself. He politely asked where I would like to sit and then pulled out the bar stool for me to sit down.

He spoke a lot about his work with severely ill people and how he helps transform their lives. He also mentioned he's an inventor and creates devices that help him heal others. "Like what?" I asked. "Anything I could buy on the market?"

He pulled out a small plastic item from his pocket. "This device contains rare earth minerals," he claimed. "You can put this item around practically anything and it will make it better." The stick looked like a miniature baseball bat filled with sand. "For instance," he suggested, "I could put this in your drink and the alcohol will taste better. He offered to place it in my cosmopolitan, which I thought already tasted pretty good. I was unsure of a guy, who I just met, putting some unknown substance in my drink so I laughed and joked, "Hey, that's a clever way to slip someone a roofie."

His response was, "Trust me, if we were having sex, and you were having 57 orgasms, I would want us both to be completely conscious and aware of one another. Sex is one of the most amazing experiences we have as human beings."

Scott put the stick in his own drink first, and then asked me to taste it. I rarely, if ever drink Scotch, so I did not notice any difference. He then placed the large swizzle stick in my drink and, after a few moments, he removed it. I took a sip. The tartness was gone, therefore making my cocktail a lot easier to swallow. I ordered another.

Scott talked a lot about healing the sick and transforming the lives of others, but not much about how he actually heals people, so I inquired about his practice. "What exactly is your process in identifying the problem and then fixing it?" Scott explained that he sees people's auras, energies, chakras and vibrations and then draws a picture of everything he sees inside and around that person. By being able to visualize their 'being', he can see where the strengths and weaknesses reside.

I wanted a more specific answer, so I asked him if he would give me an example, using me as the test subject. He agreed and then said, "You have a shadow on your left lung." Ok, hearing "shadow on my left lung" was not exactly what I was expecting. I immediately thought cancer and then realized "Oh shit, my health insurance just lapsed." My mind raced with paranoid thoughts, but I remained calm. "A shadow on my left lung?" I asked. "Well, what exactly does that mean and, more importantly, how do I get rid of it?"

"It means that-- when you were born, you were a happy and smiling girl, just like you are now," he said. "But your father and the people around you, told you life isn't that way. Life isn't always good, and you weren't supported in a positive way. You're still carrying that with you."

A shaman once told me that the lessons I need to learn in life will keep confronting me until I actually learn what needs to be learned. Anyone who knows me, knows I don't have a close relationship with my father. (Barking Up the Wrong Tree) I have no anger towards him, no pain, no suffering or regret. I just don't know him very well. But here I am, at a bar, with a complete stranger, twenty minutes into a conversation and he's telling me I'm carrying a shadow on my lung because of issues with my father. "Ok lesson, I hear you loud and clear!" Can I finally learn what I need to learn and move on?

So I asked Scott, "How can I, once and for all, transform my body and be free from issues clouding my lung?" "May I touch you?" he asked. "Sure," I said, as he placed his right hand on my heart and ran his left palm down my back. "Do you feel the energy opening up?" I can't really say I felt anything, however, I did imagine this shadow leaving my body. "It's all gone now," he said. "There's no reason for you to ever revisit that memory again. Just be in the moment and keep moving forward."

Wait. After 44 years of my father issues, was it really over? "Is that really it?" I asked. "I'm done with my father issues?" He replied, "Your dad may not have been the father you wanted him to be, but he's a divine being and he gave you life. You have no right to judge another divine being." It's so hard to argue with someone when they throw in the word 'divine'. But there was no denying his sperm penetrated the egg that divided multiple times and caused me.

"Say 'I love you dad'," said Scott as I swallowed the last gulp of my second cosmo. I declined. I wasn't feeling it. "What do you have to lose?" he said. "Come on, 'I love you dad'," he repeated. Ok. I finally gave in. "I love you dad," I said, "Is that ok?" Scott was persistent. "It doesn't have to be okay for me," he responded, "Is it ok for you?" I wondered how much longer I could be polite before I escaped home to watch the rest of "Sherlock Homes" which has been spinning in my DVD player since last Tuesday.

"I love you dad" I said repeatedly until it was so easy to say that I didn't care anymore. Scott then asked me to repeat those same words of 'I love you' to every man who has ever caused me grief. With two cocktails in my system, softened by the rare earth minerals, I easily pronounced 'my love' for every guy who has ever perceivably fucked up my life over the past two decades.

Wait a second... within an hour of meeting Scott, he talked about 57 orgasms, put a questionable foreign object in my drink and had me say repeatedly at the bar, "I love you daddy"?!

A woman I work with is always astounded by the type of men I meet. After telling her about Scott she asked, "Who is the most normal guy you've ever met online?" "That's easy," I said, "It was actually the guy who legally changed his name to Rock Star."

To Be 29 Again...

Sometimes I schedule a meeting, but the guy thinks it's a date, and sometimes I have meetings I wish were dates.

I met Ken, who works in the film industry, at a social event. I was interested in seeing him again and learning more about how his end of the film business works. We exchanged business cards. He called two days later and we met for a drink at AOC on Third St. The hostess took us to the little bar in the back, but before we sat down he said, "I didn't think it would be so easy to get a date with you."

Ken was quite a bit older than me, so I hadn't thought our meeting was a date. I sat down and re-examined him. One of the perks of working in the entertainment industry is the casual dress code. If I was meeting Ken to talk business, I would have paid little attention to his wardrobe, but since he's single, I studied the man sitting across from me a little more closely. If he thought we were on a date, why was he wearing Crocs, baggy jeans and a fleece pullover littered with lint and a food stain? My 78-year old neighbor wears the same outfit to the end of his driveway to retrieve the morning paper. Ken was unshaven (which I sometimes like) but in his case, the stubble sealed his general unkempt look.

"Guys are telling you all the time who they are," said Dennis. "You just need to look and listen." Ken has been single for a long time and clearly put little thought into his appearance before meeting me for a date. I didn't need to look closely to understand that comfort was more important to him than looking good.

Ken didn't want to talk about business. He wanted to talk about dating. "Why do you think you've never married?" he asked. I am asked this question on every date and I can answer this question a dozen different ways. However, at this particular moment in time, my answer was, "I haven't met a potential partner who... the more I get to know him, the more I want to know him." I have had a few long-term relationships, one in particular that was headed for marriage, but the more I got to know the guy, the more I questioned his integrity. Until, finally, I couldn't back pedal fast enough, put the car in reverse and peel away. (I'm still recovering financially from that mistake).

Frankly, the more dates I go on, the more I realize how surprisingly easy it is to lower my expectations. I have to take a step back every once in awhile and reassess the qualities I desire in a man. Or, I find myself on a second date with someone like Larry. We went to a beach club for a few hours on a Sunday afternoon, and after a couple of glasses of wine, I dozed off in the sun, only to be woken up with Larry squeezing into my cabana chair, trying to stick his tongue in my mouth.

"Well, what qualities are you looking for in a man?" he asked. Guys ask this question all the time too. If they're interested in you, they want to know if they're even in your same ballpark, or if a woman's expectations are too high.

In this economy I fantasized finding a handsome, successful man in great shape, who lives in a beautiful house, travels the world, has interesting friends, and who tells me I don't have to work anymore, or have a care in the world. However, what I really look for, and what has eluded me over the years, is finding a romantic partner with a strong moral core, who I can trust. "Trust is really important to me," I said, "Without trust, you've got nothing."Maybe your expectations are too high," revealed Ken. He was right. In Los Angeles, it's harder to find an honest man with integrity, than a guy with a nice car and a pool.

Then there are the times I find myself sitting across the table from someone I wish was a date. I met Sam, a fledgling screenwriter, who is new to town. He's a former professional baseball player, 29 and single. I sat across the table from this handsome guy, with his broad smile. Listening to him talk about his recent experiences, reminded me of the time when I first arrived to Los Angeles and the excitement and anticipation I felt being here, wondering how my life would unfold. Ah, if only I was 29 again, knowing what I know now.

"Must See to Believe"

After a string of mediocre dates, I have a really hard time mustering up energy to make another date with some random guy. So, I considered myself lucky when I received an email from a 52 year-old Beverly Hills man that read, "I'm free tonight. Meet me at Cecchoni's at 7:30 and don't be late." I had a date without having to lift a finger.

I liked this guy's direct approach, and imagined he is a real man who knows what he wants. However, after close examination of the small photo he posted, I couldn't really tell what he looked like, which is always a bad sign. Handsome men typically post multiple pictures in various poses. Guys who aren't blessed with good looks, usually post one photo and expound about what incredible men they are in their profiles. However, this Beverly Hills "management consultant" whose screen name was "2good2btrue," only filled in the cursory answers (leaving out his height) and wrote one sentence about himself, "Must see to believe," oddly making himself sound like a circus freak.

I imagined what my friend Dennis would say if I called him up and asked his opinion. "Baby, what kind of guy would write that in his profile, unless he had major issues?" I wondered if "2good2btrue" sent the same email to multiple women and waited to see if anyone would actually show up. Or, was he just so arrogant that he believed he could captivate any woman he met? I came across this type of guy before, and his attitude reminded me of one particular night in New York years ago...

It was a warm, sunny evening in Manhattan. I walked into Raoul's on Prince Street in Soho to kill time, before meeting an acquaintance for dinner. Only a few tables were occupied in the restaurant, and the bar was empty. I sat on a stool and ordered a cocktail from Eddie, who has poured drinks at Raoul's for almost as long as the place has been open.

I sipped my martini while writing a letter to a friend traveling through Europe. A few minutes passed before a strong smelling cologne hovered in the air, breaking my focus. I looked up from the page. “Hi, I’m Jeff,” he said, holding out his hand. "Hello," I replied. Jeff was slender, average in height and had dark hair, combed back with too much product. He was wearing suit pants and a blue, collared shirt. His skin was pasty and shiny, and he looked slick. I went back to writing my letter, but he sat down on the stool next to me and asked my name. I put my pen down, knowing he wasn't leaving anytime soon.

We made small talk for awhile and then I asked him what he did for a living. “I’m an artist," he said. He didn’t look like one. I lived in New York for a number of years and had met a lot of artists. I figured Jeff to be an accountant, stockbroker or attorney. He told me his last name, saw the blank stare on my face and was quite offended I didn’t know who he was. I frequented museums and galleries and thought I was fairly knowledgeable of the New York art world, but I didn't recognize his name.

“Would I know any of your work?” I asked. He mentioned one of his pieces that had received a lot of attention. I had seen the sculpture and wondered who, in their right mind, would consider it art. Assuming he was joking, I laughed out loud. My amusement, however, sparked an interesting conversation about our favorite artists, writers and films. Surprisingly, we shared similar tastes and a few laughs. Then, Jeff leaned in, as if he was letting me in on a secret, and told me he was staying at The Algonquin Hotel in midtown.

“Would you like accompany me to my hotel room?” he asked. I was a bit shocked at his direct approach. “No, I’m sorry," I responded. It was nice talking to you, but no.” He leaned in closer. “Really?" he said, "I’ll give you one more opportunity," he whispered, his lips brushing against my earlobe. "Would you like to accompany me to my hotel room?”

Was it because I am a woman, alone in an empty bar at night, that he thought I would jump into a cab with a stranger and go to his hotel room, after a couple of cocktails and a pleasant conversation? Or was he just incredibly arrogant and not used to hearing 'no' for an answer? "No. Thank you." I said. He threw enough money on the bar to cover his drink. “You have no fucking clue what you’re missing!” he seethed as he stormed out the front door, knocking into a patron on his way out.

I turned to Eddie, “Can you believe that guy?” I asked, a bit shaken. We both started laughing to relieve the tension, and just as we were getting over the shock of Jeff's outburst, he reappeared in the doorway, a cab idling behind him. “Alright," he said, "I’m offering you one last chance. It’s now or never.”

I arrived at Cecchoni's and thought about that night in Manhattan, wondering if "2good2btrue" was at all like Jeff. I took a seat in the far corner of the bar, where I could easily keep an eye on the entrance. I like Cecchoni's. It has a New York vibe and professional bartenders who know how to make any cocktail you can possibly name.

By 7:50, no one had arrived, looking for a date. And, just as I was ready to leave, a woman shouted my name, "Oh my god, how long has it been since I've seen you?!" Monica and I were good friends when I first moved to L.A., but had lost touch over the years. Here she was at Cecchoni's with her new husband and baby girl.

They were waiting for a table, so they joined me at the bar. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed an extremely tall, awkward gentleman walk into the restaurant. He stood at the entrance and took his time glancing around the place, uncomfortably aware of the patrons turning to stare at this unusually tall man. I could feel his eyes eventually land on me, as I chatted away with Monica and her new family, catching up on the past decade. Just as I looked in his direction, he turned, reached for a toothpick from the hostess stand and left.

I'll never know for sure if this man was "2good2btrue", but he made me contemplate about how difficult and tedious dating can be and how hard it can be to connect with someone on an emotional and intimate level. We make ourselves vulnerable, but we never know if we'll be accepted or rejected. What can you do, but keep trying, and learning and growing. However, I'm guessing it's easier for some of us, than it is for others.

Coffee or Cocktail?

I've gone out on a number of dates this past week, but haven't met anyone I want to see again. "Really?" asked my sarcastic friend Amanda, who is also online dating. "What a surprise since there are so many fantastic men in this town!"

My brother mentioned a book called, "Undateable: 311 Things Guys Do That Guarantee They Won't Be Dating or Having Sex," written by a former producer for Oprah. I skimmed the list of what makes a guy bad date material and agreed with a couple of comments, like "guys who don't like animals," "bad spellers" or "heavy texters".

Bad spelling has always been a pet peeve of mine, and you can't get to know a person through text messaging. However, many of the other items on the list were ridiculous like, "guys who order salads," or "guys who can't grow a mustache" or "Mr. Have You Met My Chest?" for the guy who has one too many shirt buttons unbuttoned. (However, if a guy's in really good shape, I personally take no offense to this entry and, depending on how the date goes, may want to see more).

I found the list mostly superficial, but wondered why I was not excited about a second date with any of the men I met recently. Maybe I was being superficial too.

First, there was Jason, who I met at the Four Seasons for a drink. He works as a CPA in the entertainment industry and is quite a bit older than me. He was unable to look me in the eye and spoke directly to my forehead the entire evening. No matter how much I adjusted my position on the barstool, Jason adjusted his eye line, directly to my hairline. Making eye contact with him was completely impossible. I now know what it must be like for women who have big boobs and guys talk directly to their chests. Granted, talking to my forehead was completely different, but disconcerting all the same.

Jason was quite animated. He spun a detailed story about one particular position he held, starting in 1983 and ending... an hour and forty-five minutes later. After three Jacks on the rocks, his speech was a little looser and his saliva sprayed a fine mist. When he began the third act, and finally reached the climax of his tale, he drooled. I did not see where it landed and pretended not to notice, by focusing on his forehead.

Then there was Luke, who is my age. We met at a coffee house in Encino. He's fair-skinned, with light blue eyes and was wearing a horrible, beige, knit sweater, blue jeans, white socks and black shoes. When meeting someone for the first time, I like to make a good impression. If this is the best you got, then it can only go downhill from here.

Once we sat down, Luke said that since he had my cell phone number, he googled me. He scoured the internet and knew more about me, than most of my own friends. I was a little creeped out by his admission. So, since he knew so much about my life, I asked what he did for a living. He immediately began to apologize for his career, "Oh, my job is not so interesting. It's really boring," he said. "But I guess I did ok since I raised four kids with it." I asked him again what he did for a living. "Well, I sell ad space on bus benches, " he stated. "Most of my clients were realtors and I was making bank, until the real estate market bottomed out."

Luke was an affable guy, but I wasn't feeling much chemistry. I am looking for a partner and he is looking for someone to make his life more exciting. We said our goodbyes and I got into my car. Thirty seconds later, Luke texted me a photo of himself and a text message that read, "I can be a lot more fun then today... I promise!" :-D Call me if you're interested, if not... phooey! :-)" He was apologizing again. And, up until what age is it appropriate for a man to text multiple smiley faces to a date?

Twenty minutes went by and my phone chirped with another text. Again, it was from Luke. "P.S. Please ignore the hideous picture I just sent. After further review, I really wish I could take it back. Do I really look like that? (sigh)." Instead of calling me on the phone, Luke was unwittingly playing out the same infamous scene in "Swingers" via his repeated texts. (And by the way, I'm hoping he isn't still googling me and finding this blog).

I've grown tired of all the lists about what makes men 'undateable'. I would much rather focus on all the good things women look for in men. For me, a sense of humor is a must and suggests a strong intellect as well. Or... does he open the door, does he listen as much as he talks? Is he gracious? Is he nice to me, as well as the people around us? A quick survey of the women around me suggested adjectives such as: confident, good-natured, soulful, outgoing, adaptable, honest and faithful. Unlike Amanda, I know there are plenty of amazing, single men in Los Angeles. I just haven't quite figured out where to find them.

The Pick-Up Line

"Excuse me, Miss?" said a male voice behind me. I was walking down Hollywood Boulevard near Highland, late for a meeting. I didn't turn around, assuming his request was addressing someone else at this busy intersection.

"Excuse me, Miss," the man's voice asserted again. Hollywood & Highland is a very popular tourist area. It's not uncommon to see two or three Spidermans, a couple of Marilyns or a Michael Jackson posing for photos with vacationers. This particular location is not a great environment to engage in conversations with random strangers.

"Excuse me, Miss!" he said a third time. Persistent bugger, that's for sure. I wondered if I just kept walking, how far he would actually keep following me. I didn't want to find out.

"You dropped something," he said. No I didn't... Did I? But, how could I know for sure? Damnit. I stopped and turned around. A young guy in his mid-30s stepped in front of me, smiling, "If you fell for that, could you fall for me?"

Virtual Men

You would think with all the communication devices that exist today, it would be easy to meet someone in person, but the complete opposite is true. If we're all online, then why does it take so much effort to come face-to-face with a date? What's the point of spending time talking, texting, IMing, or emailing if there's no chemistry when you actually meet?

I got a phone call from an online match Friday night, as he was driving home from work. His first two questions were, "What kind of man are you looking for?" and "What character traits are most important to you?" I had just walked in the door after a hectic day and was feeding my dog. I usually like to start with, "Hi, how are you?" but Rick dove right into the deep end. I know his type of personality though. Rick works in film production so he's used to gathering large amounts of information as quickly as possible, in order to make informed decisions and then move on to the next thing. I was probably one of a few phone calls he was making on his way home from the online inventory. "Rick, I'm happy to answer these questions, but could we meet in person first?" I asked. "Let's see if there's any chemistry between us before we start into such a personal conversation." He replied, "Well, I'd like to understand who you are, before meeting in the flesh."

I could hear my friend Dennis' voice in my head, "Baby, these are the kinds of questions you answer when you're on date four or five, not over the phone to some guy you've never met." I was less than enthusiastic to divulge my wants, hopes and desires in a man, over a speakerphone in a stranger's car, as he was multi-tasking during rush hour traffic.

While Rick was telling me about his five kids and ex-wife, my phone 'tri-toned' with a text from "Todd" asking what I was doing later, and then chirped with an email from "Jake" (A Potpourri of Potential Paramours) wanting to know if I used any IM's. Great, I could spend my entire day on a variety of technological devices, communicating with a bunch of virtual guys, and never actually meet a real man.

"Do you have any questions for me?" asked Rick, bringing my focus back to him on the telephone. I really didn't. We could have driven to a location and had a coffee or a cocktail in person, during the same time we spent on the phone. "You must have some questions about me," he insisted, so I thought a little harder. "Uh, ok, why did you and your wife divorce after twenty years?" As soon as I uttered the words, I regretted asking the question. I didn't care to know why this total stranger divorced his wife. However, his answer was quite informative. After implying she wasn't bright he added, "She wasn't a good representative of who I am." Was I just tired and cranky, or was Rick really arrogant?

Todd texted me again. I have never met Todd either. He's also from an online dating site. We spoke briefly on the phone the night before, commenting that we looked familiar to each other. He was an affable guy, but made it quite clear what he was looking for, "You understand I'm not a relationship guy, right?" he stated. "Yeah, I got it." I didn't need to read between the lines. He replied, "Oh ok, good, you figured that out." Five minutes on the phone with Todd was enough time to know I wouldn't be sharing details of my personal life with him over a glass of wine.

The following night, I was out with friends and received a text from Todd after midnight. "You able to come by?" he asked. This was my first booty text ever. I didn't respond. The next morning he texted me again, "Wow, not even a text back." Funny how suddenly I'm the jerk for not responding to a booty text from a guy I've never met. I wrote back saying I didn't think driving to a stranger's house in the valley, in middle of the night was a recipe for success. He texted again, "Wanna come by today? Meeting me is always a success." I declined. He wrote back, "Unavailable is such an LA thing, big turn off." I didn't need drama with someone I've never even met.

What happened to making a date and feeling the anticipation and excitement about getting to know someone better? The few successful online dates I've had, resulted from a short email exchange--no long conversations on the phone or multiple texts back and forth. We just picked a place to meet. If there was chemistry, we went out again. Emails and texts can sometimes be misconstrued and cause misunderstanding and heartache without having uttered one audible word.

We all have busy lives and maybe, sometimes, stay busy in order to avoid starting a new relationship. But no technological device in the world could ever duplicate chemistry between two people and... what our eyes see and our hearts feel.

"I Know the Perfect Guy For You"

I learn a lot about people by the type of man they fix me up with.

I have friends who are happily married and are genuinely interested in introducing me to a great guy. However, over the years, I have discovered that most blind dates aren't really for my benefit, but to fulfill a need for the person fixing me up.

For instance, Angela is 45 and has been married for 20 years. She loves her husband, but he is quite a bit older than her, and intimacy has waned over the last decade. So if a handsome man flirts with her, she gives him my phone number, hoping romance will develop, so she can hear all the juicy details.

Other women fancy themselves matchmakers and like to take credit for all the successful marriages they have arranged. Then, there are the women who are so miserable in their own life, they want you to be miserable too.

"Carolyn, oh my god, is that you?" said Cynthia, surprised to see me at the grocery store at 7:00 am on a Saturday morning. Cynthia was a former development executive, who was high-maintenance to the nth degree. I used to wonder how she ever got any work done, since her life revolved around pedicures, spa treatments, waxings, botox injections, hair appointments and shopping trips. She left the entertainment industry after she met a producer and got married.

However, a handful of years passed since I had last seen Cynthia. She put on some weight, her hair was wet and she had three small kids crying and pulling at her clothes. I'm guessing she was grocery shopping early in the morning, hoping she wouldn't run into anyone she knew.

"You're still hopelessly single, aren't you?" she screamed to anyone within three aisles of us. She always had a knack for embarrassing and belittling people, in order to make herself feel better. I imagine seeing me solo, happy, with a book in my hand and headed for the airport for a weekend trip, reminded her of the time when her life revolved around... well, her.

"I know the perfect guy for you!" she exclaimed. Cynthia had always been competitive and she had never been particularly nice to me, so her sudden urge to fix me up on a blind date raised a few flags. I proceeded with caution. When certain people are unhappy, they like to make sure that everyone around them is unhappy too.

"His name's Peter," she said. "He used to be an accountant but now has his own film company. He's smart-- just like you" she added. Cynthia never complimented anyone. "Sure, let me know," I said, hoping she would never follow through.

Two days later my phone rang. "Hi, Carolyn, this is Peter. Cynthia told me I had to call you up and ask you out, before someone else snatched you up." Cynthia never did anything nice for anybody. She was clearly working both angles really hard in an attempt to get us together. I was convinced nothing good could come out of this date. "I've got two tickets to the hottest place in town," he offered. "Oh really, where is that?" I asked. "Well, you'll just have to come with me and find out." A blind date who doesn't want to tell you where he's taking you is a bad sign. However, could all these negatives turn into a positive? Ok, Cynthia. I'm game. Bring it on.

The following Thursday, Peter picked me up at my house right on time. Upon laying eyes on him, I wondered if he was wearing a toupee, or if his hair was an expensive weave. He did, in fact, look like an accountant, wearing a brown suit and tan shoes. He was probably 15 years older than me and had bad breath. But he seemed nice and was a gentleman. "Are you ready for the time of your life?" he asked.

Peter opened the passenger side door of his new Jaguar for me and I got in. I was carrying a small handbag, so I placed my keys underneath the passenger side floor mat. "Please don't let me forget I put my keys here," I asked.

My anticipation about where Peter might be taking me, was cut short by the quick drive and left turn into The Magic Castle, a private club and training ground for aspiring magicians. I can appreciate the amount of time and talent it takes to become a David Copperfield or Criss Angel, but I have never been a huge fan of magic, magic shows or magicians-- and this particular night was 'aspiring magician kids night'.

I sprinted to the bar, but before I could utter my drink order, an older woman with blue hair, wearing an evening gown, pulled me aside and asked, "How did you get in here? There's a very strict dress code. Women must wear a skirt or a dress in order to gain entrance to the Magic Castle." I was wearing pants. "Fine by me," I thought. "Peter, should we go somewhere else?" I asked, praying we would leave. "Don't worry," he responded. "I'll defend you, should a staff member cause a ruckus." I appreciated his chivalrous gesture, but unfortunately, he wasn't my idea of a knight in shining armor. He took my arm and ushered me into the lounge.

After a cool shot of vodka entered my bloodstream, I took a mint and offered one to Peter, which, gratefully, he accepted. We then entered the theatre and took our seats. As we waited for the show to begin, Peter took a deck of cards out of his jacket pocket and performed a decent card trick. "Wow. That was very impressive," I commented. "Do you want to know how I did that?" he asked. "Sure Peter, how'd you do that?" "Give me a kiss and I'll tell you." The older woman seated next to me, who had been watching the card trick over my shoulder, nudged me. "Come on, give him a kiss so I can see how he did it." I kissed Peter on the cheek. He grinned and said, "A good magician never reveals his secret." "Ahhh, you're very clever," the woman responded.

The house lights went down. A twelve year old magician-in-training took the stage. For two hours, kids ranging in age from 8 to 15 years old, performed magic tricks. Every molecule in my body was screaming to get out of there, but no one was allowed to leave during a show. I longed for the bar and another cocktail, but was confined to my seat. So, I focused on the stage curtains and transported my mind to another place. I fantasized lying on a beach in Bora Bora and getting a massage by a young, handsome, muscular man. I thought about flying to New York to visit friends. I designed my dream house. I reminded myself to pull weeds in the back yard, clean out my closets, return those emails that I never finished and to floss my teeth. In between fantasies, I occasionally glanced at Peter, who was completely enraptured by the show. I nodded and smiled, acknowledging what a great show we were witnessing together, before returning to my drive along the Amalfi coast.

Two hours later, we made our way to the exit. I stood with Peter at the valet stand, waiting for his car to come around. It was a typically warm, L.A. night, so Peter put the top down. I prayed that his slightly skewed hairpiece would stay on, despite the breeze.

As he pulled up on my driveway, I reached under the floor mat for my keys. They were gone. I lifted up the mat and searched everywhere, anxious to put this night behind me. I scoured the entire car. I would have pulled up the floor boards if it was possible. I asked Peter if he had them. "No," he assured me. My keys were nowhere to be found.

I gauged the distance between the ground and my bedroom window and how I might gain entrance to the house. "No hidden spare key?" he asked. "Unfortunately, no," I said, as Peter grinned, watching me take off my shoes and hike my leg high up onto the ledge. "I'd give you a leg up," he offered, "but I threw my back out recently."

I hoisted myself up to the window sill and was able to pry open the window. I squeezed my way through the narrow opening, and landed hard on the floor. As I straightened my clothes, the doorbell rang. A few moments passed and the doorbell rang again. I opened the front door, thanked Peter for the evening and said goodbye.

The next day, Peter called my office. "Carolyn, I didn't know to what great lengths you would go in order to see me again." "Excuse me?" I asked. "I found your keys," he said laughing. "Right under the floor mat. Exactly where you put them." I didn't need to kiss him to know how he managed that sleight of hand. "Some magic trick," I thought.

I haven't seen Cynthia since she arranged my blind date with Peter, however I suspect she enjoys a good laugh each time she thinks about it.

Franco and His Ferrari

I had a glass of wine with a girlfriend yesterday at a restaurant in Santa Monica. We caught up on each others lives as we watched the sunset on the beach. When we asked for the check, the waiter told us that a gentleman named Franco had already taken care of our bill. I only know one man in L.A. with that name.

Ten years ago, Franco and I met at a bar when we were both waiting for friends. We spoke briefly, realized we knew a couple of people in common and then exchanged business cards. He called a week later and asked me out to dinner. We met at this same restaurant in Santa Monica-- Sushi Roku.

Franco was in finance. He worked at a large corporation for fifteen years as a self-described 'thug'. They send me in to close the deal," he said. He made a lot of money for this company but was frustrated, knowing they would never promote him to the top ranks. He was good at closing deals, but the company didn't think he had the chops to be a corporate officer. So he left and started his own venture capital company. "Gotta keep moving, gotta keep shaking," he said, as he snapped his fingers on both hands, simultaneously.

While we waited at the bar, I examined Franco more closely. He was tall and muscular with requisite salt and pepper hair. He was wearing an expensive suit jacket and jeans, Prada loafers, a thin gold chain around his neck and sported a ring on each pinky.

The bar was so crowded, we could barely hear each other speak. Franco pushed through the crush of people and ordered a couple of drinks. He turned back and gave me the once over. "Nice tits. They're a little on the small side, but that's ok." A few moments passed before my brain actually computed what he had just said.

I wondered why, during the course of history, clothes were designed to promote and enhance a woman's breast, but not a man's genitalia. I lamented a world where women could behold the family jewels before committing to a date.

Dare I retort with "What a dick!" and add, "Even though you're average in size"? Since the conversation had begun at such a low, there was no point in responding to his statement. It could only go downhill from here. I bit my tongue. I understood why Franco had never been promoted.

He handed me a martini and immediately started in, "I rolled the Ferrari," raising his voice unnaturally with an emphasis on Ferrari. I understand a man's fascination with high-powered cars. Driving a sports car up the coast on a beautiful afternoon can be a transcending experience. The smell of the leather, the feel of the clutch, the sound of the engine and the power at your fingertips is seductive and sexy. However, when a date grinds the clutch or doesn't accelerate about 65 mph, I suspect he didn't buy the car for the ultimate driving experience.

"You got in an accident?" I asked, not sure what 'rolled' meant. "Nah, nah, nah. I flipped it. I turned it over. I rolled it. I'm getting a new one. I've put too many miles on the one I got."

I listened as Franco leaned against a stool, describing the intricacies of owning a Ferrari. Both guys on either side of Franco listened to his pontifications, before turning around to scrutinize me. "Franco, sushi bar for two," rescued the hostess.

Franco ordered enough sushi to feed a large family. He wanted me to try at least one piece of every kind of fish on the menu. This was fun, until he insisted on hand feeding me. "No, really that's ok," I protested, as he shoved a piece of fish into my mouth. I pulled away quickly. "That was too fast," he said. "You gotta do it slower." I fantasized sitting across from Johnny Depp and hearing those same words. Being tipsy on sake and a handsome man feeding me sushi could be an erotic experience, but not with Franco.

When the valet pulled up, I thanked Franco for dinner and sprinted to my car, but he grabbed my arm, pulled me in close and kissed me so hard that my lips parted and he got my teeth. Once free from his grip and safely inside my vehicle, I heard the roar of his engine revving behind me. I quickly pulled away from the curb, happy to finally be on my way home.

... Years later, here I am at the same restaurant. We turned to thank Franco for picking up our tab, but he had already left. I looked up the street and saw a bright red Ferrari. He waved and then peeled off up the coast and into the sunset.