Apples to Oranges

The Apple Blossom Festival and Parade (long......deep......sigh......) is an annual, couple days-long (annoying as fuck) event, that takes place in a town just a stone's throw away from my quiet, quaint community. During the festivities, this neighboring city is decked out, top to bottom, in the vomitrocious theme colors - pink and green - which in and of itself provides adequate reason to detest the whole shebang - kit and caboodle. But wait...there is more to loathe...

Over the course of this (debatably) convivial weekend, the Old Town walking mall and practically every thoroughfare, are rendered virtually unnavigable...car traffic rerouted to make way for the parade...narrow sidewalks made hopelessly impassable, diminished by tight rows of spectator seating, and otherwise mobbed by every toothless out-of-town redneck and his sister cum wife - accompanied by their legions of inbred children and strollers and coolers and heaps of superfluous carnival crap...fucking cotton candy and bloomin' onion and Polish sausage stands - staking their claim on every square inch of once vacant real estate...

Part of my problem with Apple Blossom is that, even though I do like some people a tremendous lot - most - I can totally live without. And so to have to tolerate THAT MANY humans (and such a stellar assemblage, no less) jammed into a ridiculously limited amount of space - gives me a terrific case of the heebie-jeebies...

The local folk however, wholeheartedly relish this yearly tradition...oh how they revel in it! And those affluent enough to live on the parade route (or its environs) host elaborate, parties (invitation only, please) for two straight days - ducking into which, does offer a bit of respite from the droves of slow, slovenly, lazy Americans, who have literally no common sense when it comes to sharing the bloody sidewalk. These select few townspeople are fortunate in that they enjoy a commanding view of the parade and incomparable people-watching, safely situated behind strategically-placed barriers of snow-fencing and the like, temporarily erected as a deterrent for potential riff-raff party-crashers (and who can blame them) Honestly, the only way to even remotely tolerate the parade and Apple Blossom at all (far as I'm concerned) is to be so lucky as to attend one such fete. But even that comes at a cost - having to make the trek on foot from one's car, parked a mile or so away, through the hoards of tourists and carnies...and at a snail's pace, besides - just to get there.

As the several successive days of celebrating wend ever on, even the upper crust (after consuming enough alcohol to tranquilize an elephant) are apt to get a little nutty, and just for shits and gigs, might even willfully venture into the multiple blocks long and wide - street party, to mingle with the other - other half.

God I sound like such a fucking SNOB! (and maybe I am) but lemme 'splain sumpin'. Much as I despise most every aspect of Apple Blossom...my main problem lies within the social dynamic of the whole thing. Safe to say that I don't fit in with the local higher-than-thou's (my ex's peeps) and although I am closer in the food chain to the dregs of society in attendance, the sheer number of them conflagrates my anxiety...simply put, it's just not my crowd...and such an enormous one at that...hence my method of dealing with Apple Blossom most years - to avoid it like an STD.

What in the world does any of this have to do with online dating and sex and all that good stuff, you may be puzzling...Well, aside from Apple Blossom marking the anniversary of the first sex that I ever had, post-separation from my husband...there is something else...and I'll get to it...be patient, my leetle leiblings...

This past Apple Blossom (just a couple of weeks ago) signified the third time in my life, that there would be no avoiding the A.B. bedlam. As her older sisters before her, my youngest daughter was to be one of the Queen's seven little maids, her job requirements to include - being the Bearer of the Pillow during the coronation, riding on a float with Queen Shenandoah LXXXIII and her Court during the parade, and attending a gajillion parties and luncheons leading up the the big day. I seriously considered bagging out on the entire weekend and leaving the responsibility of accompanying her to every flipping engagement - completely up to her dad, a native son and lover of all things Apple Blossom. But I knew to do so would be selfish and reprehensible...so I did the "good mom" thing and joined her at every necessary function...(can you hear me sputtering expletives under my breath?)

(Yeah, yeah...I realize that this was an awful lot of perhaps unnecessary build-up just to get you to the good stuff...but damn if it didn't feel good to vent about my disdain for Apple Blossom. Pray thee, forgive my excessive self-indulgence)

Now...just so you don't think me completely cross, I will admit that there is one teensy thing about Apple Blossom that I do like, and which only effects a person if they are directly involved (or indirectly because of a child's involvement in the whole clambake) with the Queen and her Court...and that my friends - is the presence of the...Marines...

Yep, it's true...every year, a handful of strapping, young Marines are invited to attend the "Bloom" (as Apple Blossom is colloquially tagged) to walk alongside the Queen's float and to escort all of the princesses (the older girls who make up the Queen's Court) to each party and event. Before I had fully ascertained my penchant for younger men (and even while I was still married, come to think of it) I was utterly captivated by the poise and chivalry (and the smokin' hot bods) that these young men display (not to mention - I do have that thing about men in uniform, let us not fo'get)

I have never had the gall to try and seduce one of these dutiful squires away from their dates (especially with my ex and my children in tow) but let it be known, that to do so has always been a fantasy of mine...

And so what a bonus, that I should chance to meet a Marine of my very own-ness, the Friday night before the Apple Blossom Parade...YIP!

My Marine (who I met on CougarLife) walked out onto the patio at my favorite meeting spot for my online dates (I'd like to give shout-out to the Blackthorne Inn, in Upperville, Va. for all that they've done for me - unbeknownst to them, of course) and I have to say, he definitely looked better in person than he did in the only face shot that he had posted on his profile. He was, how do I put this...delectable...goodness me...with those azure eyes of his and his completely shaved head of an enviably superlative shape...and his broad shoulders and chest...he was like a gift from the dating gods...sent to me, special...perhaps, I thought - my reward for enduring all of that Apple Blossom nonsense...

My Marine had driven quite a good distance to come and see me, and after eating his dinner and having one beer, he coyly mentioned that he wouldn't mind drinking some more, but not if he had to drive...in other words, "let's go back to your place and get hammered"...and so we did.

The time that My Marine and I spent together, was very amusing, all lighthearted good fun - it was really nice to laugh so much and so hard, at completely idiotic shit (like "the Cervix" shooter that we invented) And it was definitely fun to fool around with him in a hot bath and stuff...but check this out - My Marine never kissed me, not once. And what was even weirder than that, was how long it took me to realize that he hadn't. Our interaction with one another was rich with juvenile humor and belly-laughter, but conspicuously bereft of heady passion. When it did finally dawn on me that we had yet to smooch, instead of just going in for the kiss myself, I hesitated...I just had this feeling that he had some hang-up about it or something, and so I asked him what was up. He fed me some ludicrous line about how Marines are trained to not kiss so as not to get too attached to anyone in specific...in the event that some unspeakable tragedy should occur in the line of duty...the veracity of which has since be debunked by another Marine friend of mine...who looked at me like I had 10 heads when I mentioned it.

What came straight to my mind - was Julia Robert's prostitute character in the movie Pretty Woman. Didn't she adhere to some policy of not kissing her johns? Maybe My Marine was viewing our thing (a textbook, sleazy hook-up) as somewhat in line with hiring a pro. Main difference being that he never asked for any money and he certainly didn't leave any for me on the nightstand...

Needless to say, when My Marine left the next morning, I had no preconceived notions that I would ever see him again, and I was fine with that. I would certainly enjoy another romp with him, should the opportunity arise, but my feelings would not be hurt if he drifted off into the sunset.

Although it may be inappropriate to compare the date with My Marine to the two that I had with VelveTongue, I am hard-pressed not to juxtapose the dramatically different evenings spent with the two men. And this is precisely why dating guys who read my blog could get a little dicey...

The fling with My Marine was a classic example of good ole-fashioned fun...and if you know me at all, you know that I am totally down with finding my fun. Conversely, my thing with VelveTongue was a romantic thrill-ride, offering more substance and on a higher thinking plane. I was more mentally challenged by VelveTongue as well as more physically compensated.

I realize that reading about each other could be the kiss of death, as far as future rendez-vous are concerned, and yes - it would kinda suck if both men told me unequivocally to get fucked, but I would manage. One thing's for sure, neither of them can claim that they weren't given ample warning...they both new exactly what they were getting themselves into...And who's to say...could be that neither guy ever had any intention of doing anything other than witnessing firsthand, the Big Ugly spectacle that has become my freak show...

On the upside of all that, I am becoming remarkably adept at letting things roll off my back without incident. Back in the day, I foolishly believed that every guy that I met and screwed, had the potential to become my bf, and I would experience varying degrees of disappointment if things didn't end up working out that way. This same sentiment applies to my daily life, when dealing with acquaintances who give me the cold shoulder or nasty fucking attitude. I no longer experience that wave of crippling mortification that used to shoot down my middle, any time someone snubbed me in public. And although effectively deflecting arrows of contempt is a handy new defense mechanism in my coping repertoire, it does give me pause. Could it be that I am becoming emotionally null and void...I can't help but wonder...

The way I look at it, with the throngs of online thousands that I could theoretically meet, befriend, fuck, piss off and drive away - what's the use in getting hung up on any particular one, or getting my feelings hurt if I lose a couple along the way, am I right? Seems to me that only a man with an inordinately high pain threshold could be adequately equipped to even approach tolerating me and all of my idiosyncrasies...and a man such as this might even have what it takes to prove to be the forbidden fruit...that intangible apple of my eye...