Humorous Dating Article About Clutter and Sex
"One should either be a work of art or wear a work of art."
- Oscar Wilde
Good Understanding, by David Wright (prints available at ObsessionArt.com)
“How can you live with this clutter? Every room is overloaded with stuff that belongs in a rummage sale. It must be impossible to find anything.” My French friend Irene scoffed at the clothes piled on chairs, overflowing closets, under bureaus and tables – the jewelry draped higgledy piggledy on lamps and hanging from pointed objects all over my Greenwich Village apartment – the assemblage intermixed with miscellaneous art works. Books and papers essential to my writer’s profession assaulted Irene’s heavily mascaraed eyes. “Frankly Bella, from you, I never expected Martha Stuart. But a colossal mess? Why?”
It was a sensible question, touching on complex motives that I really had never examined. How could my "comme il faut" chum—hair, a testament to Sassoon's artistry, crimson nails perfect ovals, top-to-toe color coordinated—comprehend my attachment to a plethora of possessions, which to an outsider might appear to be “junk?” Irene inhabited a neat apartment, everything relegated to a carefully chosen spot. Only after months of requests to come over, had she finally got a glimpse of my lair, the preserve I inhabited with consummate satisfaction.
“I’m speechless…” continued Irene, “…a mature academic, with publications in several genres, buried in shit.” As a curse word burst from her Dior-colored lips, Irene blushed. “At least get a cleaning person to straighten up.”
Confused, Irene left, never to return.
Her abrupt departure shocked me. Indeed, my attitude differs from the prevailing one of today, which considers “compulsive hoarding” a debilitating and potentially dangerous condition. According to Belinda Lyons, executive director of the Mental Health Association of San Francisco, about one million people have the “compulsive hoarding syndrome.” This affliction has resulted in the establishment of the Obsessive Compulsive Foundation, which estimates that 20% to 30% of people diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorders have hoarding symptoms. Oprah Winfrey even devoted two episodes of her show to this “problem.”
Entertaining with the hodge-podge of stuff scattered about my place requires guests to have a tight-rope walker’s agility, and few people are keen to perch on a chair in front of one of my three computers, sitting with multiple wires underfoot. Every other space in my place is occupied. Meanwhile, I continue to search for a long-term relationship on internet dating sites, once in a while dolling myself up to attend social dances with the object of meeting someone.
Am I – a woman over fifty – really prepared to make the compromises necessary to establish a close connection? That is the sixty-four dollar question to which I answer a resounding YES – as long as I don’t have to conduct a holocaust on my beloved possessions to establish one. The forties and beyond are ideal years to explore and open new sexual frontiers. An empty nest leaves lots of room for a warm, sexy body to move in, feathers and all. Traditionally, European women “of a certain age” have boldly embraced their sexuality. Happily, American woman are following suit.
Most “gentleman callers” who still have the majority of their marbles glimpse the clothes closet that I call home and bolt out the door faster than a cat jumps off a hot tin roof. A logical solution would be to find a man with his own apartment close by, which would give me breathing space now and then.
When I was younger, I established a few excellent connections, which did not require voyages to the antipodes in order to score hot kisses. A suitor would utter the magic words: “Come up to my apartment for a drink,” and I could stay in the small world of Manhattan. Nowadays, I hope against dashed hope that a date at least has a car if travel is necessary. The prospect of a long subway ride or an expensive taxi to a borough cools the ardor of this workaholic writer.
Mature dating is vastly different from dating in my early, madcap years when eligible prospects were as abundant as coconuts in the tropics. These days, it’s as hard to find an age appropriate man—with a Manhattan apartment—as a duck-billed platypus parading down Madison Avenue. Only the genuinely affluent can afford the stratospheric rents required to inhabit the “Big Apple." I imagine the line up of women for GD (geographically desirable) dates could resemble the throngs outside the unemployment office during the Depression. Of course, one can always join the popular Cougar Club and hunt younger men; however, this is not for me. I lack the fortitude required to endure the surprises that can occur in the unequal May-September pairing.
Sometimes, I am sorely tempted to bid adieu to the dating game, which has produced patches of gray hair. One night, a sincere, if doltish, fellow I met on an Internet dating site inquired, “Does someone your age still have a sex drive?” Stunned, I replied, “Yes, certainly!” Suddenly I felt like Methuselah escaped from his sepulcher.
This same sort of seemingly inadvertent put-down happened at a birthday party for an old friend. During a discussion of the youth culture’s domination of the media, a colleague of the host gave me a benevolent stare and said: “Old is gold. You look great for your age.”
Many female friends around my age express no interest in finding a sexual partner. Unhappy marriages, diminished libidos, and vaginal issues have turned them into “blue haired ladies,” satisfied to attend cultural events nonstop. If I attempt to discuss personal sexual experiences with these women, they stare at me as suspiciously as though I were a pervert. A “relationship junkie,” this over-the-hill party-girl soldiers on.
Fortunately, having no available apartment saves me from married—a fact they mention causally, as though it were an eye color or ice cream preference—men, desperate for a little funsy-wunsy on the side, apart from wifey, whom they “adore.” I believe that their ardor would not be dampened if I looked like a chimp. In my experience, attached men are keener on the “nasty nasty” than single ones. Bile flows into the soup as the “misunderstood, about to divorce” hubbies ramble on about their wives’ crimes to an underpaid “dinner whore” doing her best now to yawn. I am grateful that for them, entertaining at home is a no-no; therefore, we are residentially incompatible.
Two women I know have men they go to bed with occasionally. Such “fuck buddies” are a convenience. When offered this lackluster arrangement, I have passed. I want “long term,” the possibility of deeply felt emotions, more than once a month. A greedy piglet, like my swinish brothers and sisters, I am willing to scavenge far and wide to find truffles among garden-variety edibles.
An incident last month added another act to my ongoing drama (or farce). Tired, I found myself standing on a freezing cold corner with a hunk having a debate about whether or not he could come home with me. Buffeted by winds, we were in the Gramercy Park area, about one mile from my apartment. Cavalierly, with obvious ulterior motives, he offered to walk me home. Did the cost of a cab demolish his budget? I wondered.
Tipsy from a champagne reception after a classical concert, my thoughts were scattered. Nevertheless, I had no intention of letting critical eyes gaze scornfully on the collection of treasures I had so lovingly accumulated. Ironically, Philip had his own apartment on the Upper East Side. Guess what: he refused to entertain there. Poof, only chez moi would satisfy him. He wheedled that in my space (no pun intended), we could be cozy out of the blistering cold. A stalemate! Toes frozen, I took a taxi home.
Add this incident to the many similar ones that have taken place over the years, generally outside my apartment. The scenes in front of my door belong on a stage set. Balanchine could have choreographed the moves to perfection. Pirouettes, pas de bourrees, and balances have been executed by potential partners keen for the privacy my premises afforded—an opportunity to perform their erotic repertoire with all the flourishes. Sometimes the tempo was staccato, now and then it slowed down to a whine or dirge. I wonder if Philip Glass would care to compose a musical score to accompany the routines – sighs and heavy breathing notwithstanding.
A case closer to home carries more emotional charge. Ernie is a good friend whom I met at a late night comedy club last year, or should I say, we re-connected? Finding an old neighbor from my younger days in a fifth floor, rent controlled Greenwich Village walkup bordered on the magical. We had lived in the same building—he on the bottom floor, me on the top—for a decade, but we had never met. I don’t remember ever even seeing him. Eventually, I moved away to fancier digs.
Strangely enough, unbeknownst to either of us, Ernie and I chose the same movies, plays, and concerts to attend. Our cultural and culinary tastes dovetailed to a remarkable degree. It was as though we had been hanging out together constantly for all the years we were apart. Superficially, we would appear to be a romantic match. Dr. Phil would approve such a pairing. Pity, I just could not go there. On my side, chemistry, that old cliché, unfortunately, was missing
That did not stop Ernie from trying. I came to dread the end of our fun nights, his offer to “walk me home.” At my doorstep, he employed every stratagem possible to wangle his way inside: use the bathroom, make an urgent call (he has a cell phone), watch a must see show on TV, give me a significant present. Out of the blue, he would lunge at me to inflict a kiss. I tried to be diplomatic, I wanted, at all costs, to carry on the connection both of us gained so much from.
One Saturday, as usual, our evening extended into the wee hours. In my neighborhood, the New York Times sells out early Saturday night. I never wait until Sunday morning to buy the must-have “paper of record.” This particular late night, Ernie followed me dutifully from newsstand to newsstand. They were all closed, so I told him that only one store, quite far away, surely had some left. I said a brief goodnight, then ran away and twisted my ankle to avoid an awkward scene in front of my doorstep.
My most mind-scrambling misadventure happened with an attractive redheaded guy, allegedly an occupant of a three-room apartment uptown in a luxury building. His 212 area code, three magic numbers that made Jerry geographically desirable, immediately piqued my interest. Straightaway, both of us were keen to cut to the chase and meet in person after a brief back and forth on an Internet dating site.
We met at a bookstore and strolled around, chatting about general matters until he found a bar, which he said looked “reasonable.” En passant, he mentioned another date with a woman “who took half an hour to open her purse and pay for her drink.” Mister abused tightwad launched into a diatribe about feminists thinking they are “entitled,” but refusing to pay their share.
Ironically, at the same time, Jerry boasted about owning two Jaguars plus several homes in Florida and elsewhere. Alas, real estate taxes were reducing him to penury. I gulped, but said nothing. Keep an open mind, I told myself, he’s got digs uptown, a perfect trysting spot. Finally, a relatively handsome prospect—admittedly, a penny pincher—however, close by is not to be tossed away like a candy wrapper.
It was difficult to hear Jerry in the noisy sports bar, full of fans apt to give deafening cheers if this or that team scored a win. Nevertheless, my frugal cavalier wasted no time stating his agenda: instant intimacy. He expected a prospective lover, minus the courting, to come to his apartment on the first date.
Generously, he offered an incentive: his eighty-four-year-old aunt with Alzheimer’s (otherwise in great shape except for an inability to open cans) was in residence. Was this aunt a voyeur, or did she join in the action? I wondered. Afterwards, Jerry assured me, a nice dinner and an ongoing “serious relationship” would commence. According to him, his past was a cornucopia of romantic successes with women who still adored him.
Next, Jerry whipped out a paper, which showed the results of his recent negative AIDS test. “Women like to see this,” he explained. Fixing me with an intent stare, Jerry got fidgety. I asked a few pertinent questions. After monosyllabic answers, Jerry’s voice assumed an angry edge.
Suddenly, Jerry informed me that I was “not his type!” If I had come right to his apartment, shared a bottle of wine and gone through the routine, including hanging out with his aunt—he assured me—it might have been different. Ostentatiously, he paid for my drink, a prudently ordered club soda, then fled back uptown. Depleted, I slunk home.
Instinctively, I sensed that the Jerry chapter had not closed. For the next few days the phone rang often; the caller left no message. Since I monitor my phone, I refused to pick up. Eventually, a message about a problem at the bank prompted me to answer. Lo and behold, Jerry’s Alzheimered aunt had had a heart attack. He wound up locked out of the apartment. To add insult to injury, the doorman of the ritzy building refused to give him a passkey. “Get a locksmith,” I suggested. He declined and implored me to let him sleep on my couch. I gagged at the receiver in my hand and hung up. Spontaneously, I wrote a poem on the “apartment issue”: NO FOUR WALLS NO ROMANCE
I don’t care if your prick
Stretches from the Village to 14th
Forget the argument
Do you have an apartment?
There’s no use blabbering
Of things we’ve in common
Don’t bother to phone
If you don’t live alone
Life’s to fleet for games
Fumbling hands and long subway
rides
If you live in Great Neck
I’ll take a rain check
If you’ve no apartment
Call another number
Save your randy advances
For more auspicious romances.
In her article “Clutter-Busting for Health and Wealth,” Lyons postulates that clutter-bugs generally “live alone” and “some suffer from dementia. It does tend to get worse over time with older age,” she speculates.” Psychiatric disabilities such as major depression, obsessive-compulsive disorder, attention deficit disorder or schizophrenia are part of the package Lyons warns against. A few more characters, like Jerry and I, probably fit the profile.
I do live alone, a sweet-sixteen multiplied several times over who has never grown up. In my case, dementia might be a higher form of awareness, and could attack with ferocity if I were forced to straighten up my place according to rigid, anal standards. Displacing the collection which has been with me more years than husbands or lovers might cause me to babble, or worse.
I admit to an excessive adoration of beautiful things, and want an array of them nearby to stare at and fondle if the spirit moves me. Indeed, my clutter propensity, as more tempting objects find their way into my hands, has increased with the years. As messy as things look, I can find everything anytime I need to. For the word “clutter,” I substitute: treasure, intimate friends, comrades in arms, éclairs, emeralds.
Who would ask a much-decorated general consistently victorious on the field to lay down his armaments in his struggle to win a war? I, too, am tactically supported by my medals (presents of jewelry, art, and other sundries). These possessions strengthen the Victorian hussy in her battle to find a suitable, long-term partner—hopefully, one without a pacemaker.
Clothes and bibelots gathered in my travels to the antipodes, as well as works of art, assert their own unique personality. It arouses me to hang a huge, bejeweled pendant of the Hindu God Shiva around my neck. This trophy came my way in Delhi, via an ebony lover, as we sat holding hands in front of the Qutab Minar tower. If I want to stay toasty warm, I wrap up with the hand knit Victorian shawl the lover I met at a hip Soho pub bought me at a London flea market. It’s a wriggle but worth it – to fit into the Saint Laurent dress my bespectacled French admirer who taught at the Sorbonne bought me in a Left bank boutique after lovemaking and a pain au chocolat. Some nights, while reading a book or watching TV, when I have no one to cuddle with, I rub one of my luxurious cashmeres against my cheek. Its soft texture brings back different lips that have pressed mine over more years than I care to count. My “clutter” has both intrinsic and sentimental value.
These possessions form a kaleidoscope of my romantic history, a colorful display that enlivens my apartment. Some are large, so they stay put to be admired; others accompany me into the world with panache to spare. These “props” are my companions, a buttress against life’s unexpected whacks.
Recently, one of my most prized possessions nearly escaped me because of residual guilt about acquiring new stuff before discarding old items taking up space. In a local thrift shop, a shimmering green jacket worthy of a fairy tale queen wrapped itself round my shoulders. Its seductive voice whispered: ”Spirit me home at once, find space for me, I’m worth it. So are you!” Then the serpent of minimalism, egged on by the “clutter busters,” whispered: “When will you wear this dressy extravagance only suitable for a wedding or a ball? At your age, won’t you look foolish decked out in so ostentatiously?” Had a self-esteem issue I had not been aware of just kicked in?
Stupidly, I left the store without this purchase of purchases. At home, immediate regret set in for listening to this poisoned internal councilor. I rushed back the next morning and took possession of the jacket, which now occupies a prominent place in my closet. What a frisson, every time its lacy cuffs brush my cheek!
A date with a new “gentleman caller” is an excuse to get dolled up like an ambulating work of art. Rings on my fingers, a rhinestone toe ring, I anticipate a new adventure. My crotch tingles as I choose from a couple hundred high and low heels stacked hither and yon. Was I a centipede in a former life? As the designated shoe wriggles onto my foot, I feel an erotic charge, filled with hope that it may be a prelude to pleasure with a stranger who will open new horizons of my heart.
The words “spring cleaning” make me frown. Images of Puritans tossing “heathen garments” on a bonfire dance before my eyes. My home may resemble Dickens’ old curiosity shop, but my mind is clear and youthful. Meanwhile, I embrace clutter, and throw very few things away. I make space for new ones and hope to find a lover worth adding to my collection—one I’m eager to make space for.
Whatever the odds, an inveterate bacchante, I am loath to retire from the dating game.
Copyright July 27, 2011
Published with permission from author on OystersandChocolate.com. Copying or reprinting this work in part or in whole without permission is illegal.