After moving down to San Francisco after the collapse of my first marriage, I managed a pickup of the sort that had characterized the dark days between my first and second girlfriends, 14 years before. I went to a club in the SoMa (south of Market Street) district that I kept reading was wonderfully vibrant and hip, and asked a blonde with large breasts to dance. She acceded so eagerly that I asked when the music stopped if she might enjoy coming home with me. She acceded eagerly. It was just like the old days, except that on the way back to Lower Nob Hill, I stopped at a Walgreen’s on Geary Street for some protection. Let’s-Call-Her-Alison asked if she could be on top, which turned out to have been injudicious. When I reached around to unhook her brassiere, her breasts collapsed. I concealed my disappointment, we exchanged phone numbers afterward, and of course never saw each other again.
I suppressed my embarrassment and ran a personal ad in the San Francisco Bay Guardian, describing myself as looking like a rock star (it was impossible for me to walk through an airport at the time without being asked for autographs). One woman who responded, and who came over, pronounced me not at all her type, her idea of a rock star having been Jackson Browne. I arranged to meet another respondent who described herself as looking like Olivia Newton-John. She turned out to look a great deal more like Elton John. Stop me if I’ve told you that one before, and told you and told you and told you.
We met on a Sunday afternoon in front of Santa Rosa’s poshest supermarket. Sharon was striking, if just a touch masculine. On finding that she worked in the East Bay, a very long drive south and east, I feigned altruism, and suggested she come down and spend the night on Lower Nob Hill to spare herself some driving the following morning. To my astonishment, she agreed. I later learned she’d taken Ecstasy the night before, and was still in love with absolutely everyone.
The sex was nice, and it had been several weeks since I’d had any, so I wanted a lot. I got behind her and, acting intuitively, slapped her hard on her ass. It excited her enormously. It turned out she was kinky. She regarded welts as hugely sexy. She implored me to beat her, and I was a gracious host. The second time was twice as good as the first, and the first had been nothing at which to sneeze. She lay atop me afterward and we studied each other’s faces. I’d never seen prettier blue eyes.
We began seeing each other regularly. She turned out not to be as enthusiastic about the Korean barbeque place on Polk Street as my daughter and I were. “It filled the cavity,” she sighed after our dinner there, and I made a mental note to use that myself about restaurants that disappointed me, but not too grievously. But then she stood me up one night. It turned out that a woman into whose pantyhose she’d been trying to get had finally done some acceding of her own. That I would have felt worse if she’d stood me up for a guy didn’t mean I didn’t feel bad about it. Her wondering if I’d enjoy doing her and her new girlfriend at the same time made me feel very much better, and I accepted her invitation to come up to her place in Santa Rosa the following Friday night.
Her girlfriend hadn’t made it, but once again the lovemaking was really good. When I woke up the following morning, though, it was with her little boy glaring at me in confusion. She’d given no indication that he didn’t have a room of his own. I felt pretty awful about that, and gave her a piece of my mind. She said, “There seem to be a lot of things about me you don’t like lately,” daring me to agree. I agreed, and it was the last we saw of each other.