Everyone's doing it...

There seems to be a rash (maybe that's a poor choice of words--hee) of bloggers itemizing their "lists." You know the "list" of which I speak--the list of the many/few men/women with which one has been...intimate. That's probably too pretty a word, in many cases. I would say "with which one has been naked," but, you know...that's not always the case, either. (Can you say quickie? I thought you could.) But you know what I mean...your list. I'm not going to attempt to share my entire list, for various reasons, including a somewhat faulty memory (I blame the pharmaceuticals which theoretically may have been occasionally involved, and also my advanced age. Hee.), but I'll hit some high...or low (as it were) points. I think I'll stick to list entries which did not involve actual relationships. That's more fun, right?

Where to begin?

Ooh, how about the big city lighting designer? Years ago, I was working administratively in the non-profit arts. One evening I went out to a restaurant to meet some of my stagehand friends. (Word to the wise--stagehands are great fun to hang out with, and they know ALL the best gossip. A "rumor" heard from a stagehand will almost certainly turn out to be true. And they are generous with the drink-buying. I used to sometimes have a drink for each hand. Ah, good times.) At any rate, joining us that evening was the big deal lighting designer brought in from NYC. We clicked instantly, and were having a delightful time flirting and eating off each other's plates. A few of us decided to segue down the street to our regular bar hangout, and...let's just call him L.D., L.D. came with us. More flirting. Mad, crazy flirting. Footsies under the table flirting. You get the picture. All too soon came last call, and we began readying ourselves to leave. I was pretty sure the evening wasn't over, but couldn't figure out a delicate way to proceed. For some reason, L.D. and I were convinced our flirting had been very subtle, and we didn't want to just flagrantly go off together. What to do, what to do? He grabbed my hand to shake it, all "nice to meet you," and when I pulled my hand away I realized his hotel key was in it. Smoooth. Only...wait...I don't know what hotel he's staying in! What to do, what to do? "Hey, any of you guys want to give me a ride back to the "Moubletree"? Ahh...smooth...now I know where to take the key. We weren't fooling anyone, though. "I'll bet Liz will take you. Won't you, Liz?" Uh, sure...it's not really out of my way. Hee. We had a delightful time, though sadly our schedules precluded any additional fun before he had to fly back home. He thought at the time he was going to come back for several shows the next season, but then he got a better offer, and never returned to Tulsa. Oh, well. Probably for the best...particularly since I found out later that HE WAS MARRIED AT THE TIME. Nobody knew. Okay, obviously somebody knew, but nobody I knew knew. I heard through the grapevine that his wife was a real bitch, and they got divorced not too long after, but still. My conscience is clean on that score. No ring! (Does it make me a bad person that I'm sort of glad he was a liar--otherwise I'd have had to regretfully refuse the night of fun?)

Let's see...sifting through my brain cells for particularly fun times...okay, let's dispense with most of the details on this one and just say if you ever get a chance to sleep with a Russian ballet dancer with the body of a god (and 0% body fat), and whose dancing alone made you weak in the knees...you should totally go for it. And if you end up racing to the store for eyedrops after a particularly... shall we say salty, substance accidentally ends up in your eye and stings like hell, well...it still would be totally worth it. Totally.

How about one more fun memory, and then I'll try for some more embarrassing ones. That's what you really want, isn't it?

Oh, the Costa Mesa guy. That's a good one. Some years ago a friend and I went to California to visit some of our college friends. We got there mid-morning on a weekday, and our friends all had to work, so they dropped us at the side of their apartment complex pool with a case of beer. As we tanned and drank, we noticed a couple of cute guys seemed to be moving into a nearby apartment. They interrupted their move-in to flirt with us, and before we know it, we had a date to explore the new neighborhood with them the next day. (They were from out-of-state. One of the Dakotas. Can't remember which.) So we took off with them the next day, and the next. They were really fun guys, and at some point during those two days, the dark-haired one and I snuck off for some even more special fun. Then he had to start a new job, and we had to redirect our fun. Which was no problem. I "redirected" mostly in the direction of the brother of one of my friends, who was also in town visiting from Alaska, where he worked in a goldmine. (For real.) Man, that was a fun vacation. I have a bunch of pictures, and there is at least one beer in my hand in every single picture. Ah, youth. The next summer I went back again, and the Dakota boys were still living in the same apartment. I actually ended up spending the first day and night of my vacation at their place, due to some logistical difficulties with the friend I was staying with for the duration. That was a fun trip, too...although once again I ended up "redirecting" my attention by the end of the week. That was actually a 4-in-1 story, wasn't it? Something about Southern California just brings the slut in me right out, I guess. But what happens on vacation stays on vacation, right? Until you're foolish enough to confess to the internet, I suppose. ;)

Well, I'm not nearly out of memories, but I may have to save something for another post. I promised something embarrassing, though, didn't I? (Like random sluttiness isn't embarrassing enough?) Well, how about the time I sort of slept with a drug dealer? This was during the relatively short period of my life where I thought it might be convenient to have easy access to pharmaceuticals (we're not talking heavy stuff here, mind you...no heroin, etc.), and I ended up drunkenly making out with this guy. What do I mean by "sort of" slept with him? Well, we started the process, and then I suddenly became sober right in the middle of it, excused myself by saying something like "I don't think I want to do this after all" and got up and left. And you know what? He still wanted to go out with me again afterwards. Have some self-respect, dude. I left in the middle. You should never want to see me again. Jeez.

Then there was the French guy. I totally slept with him because he was French, and I thought surely a French guy would have something special going on in the bedroom. Aside from singing little French love songs in my ear, though...nothing special at all. Such a disappointment. And for that I willingly drank warm Scotch Buy brand beer. Anyone remember Scotch Buy? It was the store brand of Safeway, and had a little green plaid logo. French Guy was very excited because he thought it was Scottish beer. Poor guy. And poor ME. That shit was disgusting. (The beer, not the sex. The sex was...average at best.)

Well, I'm not nearly out of bad memories, either, but that's enough for one day, I think. Don't you? No? Oh...you want to hear about the public places, don't you? Maybe later. ;)