Wednesday, August 21, 2013

Man-ho, Ho!


I had a co-worker, Jim, who was a Navy man since before “It's Not Just a Job, It's An Adventure” was the official slogan. All it took were three little words - “See the World! – and it was “Anchors Aweigh!” for Jim. At the time we worked together, he was in the Reserves, waiting for retirement. But to a sailor, even a landlocked one, shore leave is shore leave: Jim likes the ladies, and the feeling is more than mutual. 

Frankly, I would call him a “hound,” except that hounds have been known to lick themselves. Jim has the ladies do that for him.

I was always dazzled by the Monday morning tallies at the nursery where we worked, and wondered if the house plants were blushing. I was even more impressed with his masculine finesse as he would catch a smoke near where the bags of soil got loaded into ladies' cars. Trust me, it wasn't the only manure flying around. These ladies, who definitely had fertilization on their minds, would arrange with Jim to “meet later.” However, I'm sure these encounters were anything but “garden variety” (aren't euphemisms fun?).


But of all Jim's stories, one in particular blew me away: being assigned a girl for the weekend – no dates, no promises, not even money exchanged. WTF?

Jim had visited an old “swabbie” buddy in San Diego where, apparently, there is a breed of girl who “follows the Navy,” another way of saying “Fleet Groupie.”

Understand, I do not mean that in a derogatory fashion – I completely know what it's like to go weak in the knees over a hot bod in tight white pants – I came of age in the era of Disco, after all. I'm just being blunt about how easy it is to turn a hobby into a lifestyle. I'm no one to judge: I, for one, can say without shame, that I am an “It's a Wonderful Life” collectible Whore.

It seems that on said visit, Jim was assigned a “Follower.” “Bro,” his buddy informed him, “Tiffany's gonna take care of you this weekend.” Apparently, Tiffany was more than happy to comply and they were off to the races. No muss, no fuss, not even money was exchanged – just Jim and Tiff partying all weekend long. Sunday night, he stepped back on a plane, a grin plastered to his face the whole ride home.

It's here I must cry, “No fair!”

What I want to know is: where, oh where, is the correlating party for the ladies? Not the faux-fun shriek-fest known as the “Bachelorette Party” - why would an impending marriage be a reason to celebrate? No, no,no, I'm talking about a weekend visit to the home of a dear friend who knows my preferences. She puts my hand in the large hands of a tall, gorgeous man and says, “Stephanie, this is Francesco. He'll be taking care of you this weekend.”

Francesco's warm blue eyes would lock into mine, he would gently kiss my fingertips, and the rest would be a blur. Neither of us would feign interest in each other's lives. No pointless “get-to-know-you” chatter. No wondering, “Where is this going?”, since I'd already know. Just Francesco and me, and more Francesco.

To answer your timeless question, Dr. Freud: that's what women want. I mean, penis envy? Really?

For once, it would be nice not to worry about who makes the first move, and who's being too forward and all that. It would be especially nice not to have to endure attempts at seduction, a la Pepe LePew. Case in point – and this is just the introductory email, mind you – a Europlayer tried to lure me with this response to a profile picture I posted of myself, san makeup.

“I am empressed (sic) . . . What a wonderful idea it is to be naturally yourself. I like it. By the way, why wear makeup at all when you are blessed with beauty? Ah! Being beautiful naturally has its benefits. Look at the money saved not buying makeup . . . Something about me . . . When I meet a woman and begin to know who she is, I would ask to see her without the makeup. You see, if and when two people become involved, a time may come when the two of them may share the night (sic!). So here comes the morning, that is when you see each other at your best (sic!!!). I feel you are understanding what is to unfold. So this is why I am so empressed (sic) with your truth – and I await your reply . . . “

I hope he's not still waiting.

I'm flattered that Pepe is “empressed with (my) truth,” but I don't think his “understanding (of) what is to unfold” and mine are remotely similar. For starters, let's just say that, “comes the morning,” I am definitely not at my best. Let the Good Ship Le Pew sail on without me.

But you never know: a Francesco just might wander by while I'm sittin' on the dock of the bay, someone who knows what it means to care of an “empressive” woman.

Francesco will understand: it's not just a job. It's an adventure.