I'm Not Gonna Lie (7 page)

Janine.

•   •   •

WE
arrived five minutes early for our appointment at the pet psychic. I parked in front of the pet psychic's house, a small, boxy one-level Spanish on a nondescript street close to the beach. I noticed that the street was a dead end, which, when you think about it, seemed appropriate. We looked at each other, hesitated, then got out of the car. Instantly, all feelings of nervousness or weirdness fell away. A sense of relaxation washed over me. I reached for my girlfriend's hand. We walked up to the pet psychic's door and knocked.

After what felt like at least five minutes, the door opened and a seventy-year-old woman pulling an oxygen tank appeared. She looked like an older version of Meryl Streep. Swimming pool blue eyes. A full mane of reddish hair. A warm smile bordered by two deep dimples. She put her hands together in prayer, and sort of bowed.

“Welcome,” she said. “I'm so happy to meet you.”

And then, without thinking, I instinctively hugged her. I reached out and put my arms around her. I have no idea why. I just felt compelled to hug this Meryl Streep–look-alike pet psychic. I didn't want to squeeze too hard, because she felt fragile, and her breathing was labored and came in short spurts, wheezes, but as I hugged her I felt a warm sensation go through me, like an electrical current. I'd never seen this woman before in my life, and yet I was enjoying one of the great hugs of all time.

“Yes,” she said. “I know.”

She slowly pulled away from me and put her arms around my girlfriend. They hugged even longer, and my girlfriend started to tear up. The pet psychic patted my girlfriend's hair gently and whispered something, and my girlfriend nodded. The pet psychic closed her eyes and spoke quietly in her raspy voice. “We have a lot to talk about,” she said.

She gently broke the hug and started walking toward a room in the back of her small house, dragging her portable oxygen tank behind her like a tail. We followed her past a cluttered living room completely filled with crystals—crystals on an old television set, a credenza, end tables, shelves. In the center of the room, on a coffee table, a gold Buddha sat surrounded by even more crystals. As we walked behind the pet psychic, wind chimes sang outside a large picture window and cast a golden light across our path.

We came to a back room, a kind of porch, and the pet psychic gestured toward a love seat facing an overstuffed armchair. We sat down and the pet psychic sat heavily into the chair, arranging her oxygen next to her. She smiled at us, and then she closed her eyes. She sighed, let out a long, cleansing breath, and fell into a deep trance.

After a full two minutes, she said, “Yes. Uh-huh. I see a strange-looking dog. A spaniel crossed with a poodle, maybe. A mutt.”

My girlfriend looked at me in confusion, but I nearly fell off the love seat. “That's my dog! From when I was a kid. I had that dog for sixteen years.”

The pet psychic dropped her head and covered her face with her hands. “This dog liked to go in the car.”

Wow. How could she know
that
? Lady, every dog likes to go in the car. This pet psychic was a fake. The oxygen tank was probably a prop, a way to tug at your sympathy and get you to cough up more money.

“This dog would go crazy whenever you grabbed your keys,” the pet psychic said. “That was his signal. You would grab your keys and he'd think he was going in the car with you.”

Whoa. She hit that on the head. I swallowed. “Yes,” I said. “It was kind of funny.”

“When this dog got old, he developed problems with his hips. Terrible. Finally, you had to put him down.”

Damn. Two for two.

“Yes,” I said softly. “That's true.”

“You brought him to the vet and you left. You knew it was the end, but you didn't stay with him. You couldn't face it. You knew if you stayed, you'd lose it, that you'd fall to pieces. You tried to pretend that you were tough, that it didn't matter. But it did matter. You left because you knew that was the only way you could hold it together. You didn't want to cry.”

I bit my lip. I could feel the tears welling up.

“He wants you to know that it's all right. He understood. He knew how you felt. He knew you loved him.”

“I didn't know what to do . . .” I said, the tears trickling down my cheeks.

“Are you crying?” my girlfriend said.

“No,” I blubbered. “Allergies.”

“He forgives you,” the pet psychic said. “Now, he says, you have to forgive yourself.”

I lost it. I tried to fight back my tears. And failed.

“He was a good dog,” I said.

The pet psychic pulled a tissue from a box on the table next to the love seat and handed it to me. I dabbed my eyes and blew my nose. My girlfriend shook her head and rested her hand on my forearm.

“Now you,” the pet psychic said to my girlfriend.

The psychic closed her eyes and drifted off into that trance again, this time for a solid three minutes. When she opened her eyes and spoke, her voice seemed higher and had lost its raspy sound.

“I hear her,” she said.

My girlfriend gripped my hand so tightly I thought she would snap off a finger. The pet psychic nodded and spoke in an even higher voice. “‘Hey, dying was as much of a shock to me as it was to you,'” the pet psychic said.

My girlfriend gasped.

“‘It was quick,'” the pet psychic said in that new voice. “‘I wanted it to be quick, because I knew you couldn't handle a long illness. Believe me, I didn't want to go through that, either.'”

The pet psychic scrunched her forehead; then she coughed and her raspy voice came back again. She opened her eyes and scanned our faces. She stared into my girlfriend's eyes. “It was a freak thing, wasn't it? Unexpected. The dog was so young. A puppy.”

My mouth dropped open like a trapdoor. I thought, “How does she know this? Puppies don't usually die. We never said one word to her.”

“Was she in any pain?” my girlfriend asked her.

“No, no, none at all. She just said, ‘Shocked me as much as it did you.'”

“But no pain?” my girlfriend said.

“No. But. Oh. Aha.” The pet psychic scrunched her forehead again.

“What?” I said.

“I see her again,” the pet psychic said. “She said . . . Wait . . . Okay, I got it. . . . She said that she did not like being dressed up.”

My girlfriend let out a small scream.

The pet psychic raised her head and looked up into the ceiling. She frowned. “I see clothes. A lot of clothes. Tiny clothes. Piles of tiny clothes. I see a teeny pink dress and pink hat.”

“I put that on her for her birthday,” my girlfriend said, then turned to me. “She looked adorable, didn't she?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, she did. Absolutely. Very cute.”

“I thought she liked that outfit,” my girlfriend said.

“Apparently not so much,” I said.

“The clothes choked her,” the pet psychic said.

My girlfriend grabbed herself around her midsection. She looked stricken. “Is that why she got sick? From the clothes? Tell me it wasn't from the clothes.”

“She didn't get sick from the clothes,” the pet psychic said. “She just felt uncomfortable. The clothes were too tight.”

“That sounds right,” I said. “I get very uncomfortable when my pants are too tight. But I can undo them because I have thumbs. I can even take them off. The dog? No.”

I shook my head sadly.

“I didn't realize. . . .” My girlfriend's voice trailed off.

“She had a lot of clothes,” I said to the pet psychic. “That's true. A lot of tight-fitting clothes.”

My girlfriend frowned at me. “Did you ever think her clothes were on too tight? Did she ever look uncomfortable to you?”

I squirmed in my seat. I tried to catch the pet psychic's eye, but she was staring off, avoiding me. I looked back at my girlfriend. “To tell you the truth, a couple of times I thought the dog didn't really dig it when you put clothes on her.”

“When?”

“Well, okay, when I put the Lakers jersey on her, she seemed cool, relaxed, comfortable. But when you put on that tight dress, the pink one, or that hoop skirt, or those snug little capri pants, she would just sit there. She never moved. She would not move at all. When you turned away, she gave me a look that said, ‘Take this off me.'”

My girlfriend folded her arms. “She did not.”

“She did. You could see it in her face. ‘I hate this outfit. Take it off me.' You could see it in her eyes.”

My girlfriend shot me a look that could kill, then looked past me out the window. “You never said a word.”

“I'm telling you now. It's a little late; I grant you that. I was going to say something the next time you put on the tight clothes, but then, you know, she got sick, and then . . .”

The pet psychic slowly swiveled her head and looked into my eyes. She held her gaze on me, gave me a ferocious stare. “She wants to talk to you,” she said.

“Me?”

“Yes. She has something important to say.”

“Really? I'm surprised. I mean, we liked each other, we got along great, but we weren't close.”

My girlfriend elbowed me.

“I'm open. I'll listen. What does she want to tell me?”

“She says . . .”

The pet psychic stopped, then nodded as if she were listening to someone giving her complicated instructions. She began again.

“She says she's sorry that she was such a nuisance when you came home. She wants to apologize for barking so much and for running around and around your feet like a lunatic.”

This was uncanny. How could she know that? Every word the pet psychic said was absolutely true.

“That's okay,” I said. “Tell her it's okay. I might've jumped or yelled a little bit at the time when she nipped my toes, but I'm over it.”

“You yelled at her?” my girlfriend said.

“No. Not at all. Not really. I might've raised my voice a little bit. She was biting my toes. I didn't want her chewing up my nail polish, choking, and dying. I guess it wouldn't have mattered. . . .”

“There's something else.” The pet psychic jammed her eyes shut and scowled. “I'm getting something with . . . golf clubs.”

I moved forward in my chair. “Golf clubs?”

“Yes. I see a bunch of golf clubs lined up against a wall.”

I had to keep myself from leaping out of the chair.

In my house I keep several golf clubs lined up against the wall.

How could she know
that
?

“Well, that's . . . amazing,” I said. “You've never been to my house, but you're right: I have a lot of golf clubs lined up against the wall.”

I could feel my girlfriend looking at me, but I was too freaked out to look at her. The pet psychic stifled a small chuckle. “Golf, yes, of course. She wanted to go with you.”

“With me? To play golf? The dog?”

“Yes.”

Talk about irony. My girlfriend hated when I played, but her dog wanted to go with me. The dog loved golf. That little cute, adorable puppy loved
golf.

“Maybe we should've put golf clothes on her instead of dresses. Knickers like Payne Stewart. A tiny golf cap. Little cleats . . .”

We both started crying then, my girlfriend's tears flowing as a release, my tears coming from picturing me with the Chihuahua dressed in a tiny golf outfit on the first tee at Pebble Beach. Lee Trevino would've fallen over.

“My baby,” my girlfriend said through her tears.

“Fore,” I said through mine.

SEX
after fifty is a whole new ball game.

In many ways, it's better.

When I was younger, I would do anything to get laid.

Actually, that's not true.

I would do anything for the
possibility
that I might get laid.

As soon as Friday came, I would prepare for my night out, and I'd obsess over every detail like I was a general planning a war. I'd think where to meet someone to get laid, who to get laid with, what to wear, what to say, and how to act. Should I try to be cool? Funny? Aloof? Interested? Bored? Should I channel Marlon Brando (ultra cool and tough), Richard Pryor (hilarious and sensitive), or Richard Lewis (neurotic and Jewish)? Hey, I'd do whatever it took.

I paid special attention to my appearance, not the least of my concerns being . . .

How should I smell? Should I go with your basic manly scent and just use Lava? Or should I roll on Axe? Or do women really prefer men who dab on English Leather? What about my hair? Should I go with the wet look, blown dry, or sculpted with product? And how about clothes? Always a challenge. I'd open my closet door, whip through my clothes like a maniac, and start to sweat. So many decisions, so many choices, so much pressure.

In the end, none of my preparation or worrying mattered. As I told you, I wasn't all that successful with women. I'm lying. I went, like, zero for my twenties and two for my thirties.

As I got older, I gained more confidence and I got luckier. Strange how that happens. Ever notice that the more confident you become and the harder you work, the luckier you get?

As I started going out more, I began to notice a pattern. All the women I dated seemed to share something in common, one specific quality.

They were all crazy.

Yes. I was attracted to crazy.

Or crazy was attracted to me.

Every woman I dated was nuts.

And if they weren't nuts, they snored.

I could handle crazy. That was easy. I ran like hell or changed the locks or I moved.

But a woman who snored?

That was impossible. Because snoring sneaks up on you. You don't expect it. It's an ambush in the middle of the night.

The worst was when I began seeing a woman seriously and I asked her to move in. Then—and only then—did she start to snore. What is the deal with that? Where was the snoring before? Was she holding her breath all night for months before she moved in?

When I'm talking about snoring, I don't mean that cute, breathy sexy little humming sound that can be a total turn-on. No. I'm talking about that openmouthed, sour-smelling roar coming out of the face of the person lying next to you that sounds like a garbage truck backing up while grinding its entire load into pulp.

This woman snored louder than a death-metal band. Try to feel sexy with that noise blowing out of the person who's unconscious beneath your sheets two inches away.

The first time I heard her snore, I woke up like I'd been shocked with electricity. I shot right up into a sitting position. I thought the television had exploded. Then I realized that the horrifying sound giving me an instant migraine was actually my recent live-in girlfriend deep asleep, snoring like a jet engine coming in for a landing. I couldn't sleep in the same bed with her. I couldn't sleep in the same room with her. Hell, I couldn't sleep on the same
floor
with her. I had to sleep downstairs. That's how loudly and violently she snored. And the moment her snoring went into high gear, my sex drive went into park. Doctors have a name for this condition now: sleep apnea. They suggest going to sleep with a Hannibal Lecter mask over your face. Nothing kills your sex drive faster than sleeping in the same bed as a serial-killer cannibal.

After I turned fifty, my feelings about sex changed. I was no longer obsessed with getting laid. I started seeing the whole person and not just her body. I wanted to really get to know someone. I wanted to allow a relationship to build. I felt the need to take my time, to relax, to laugh, to connect. As I changed my attitude toward sex, the sex actually got better, and I became a better partner. I think a lot of guys would benefit from changing their approach to sex. How did I do it? Easy. I just related sex to football. Starting with . . .

If you're on offense, you shouldn't always throw the bomb on first down.

You've got to set things up. Try a couple of running plays, mix in a slant, a screen pass, a draw play up the middle. Then go for the end zone. Don't shoot for pay dirt right away. Don't get sucked in.
Come on; go deep.
No. What if you throw an incomplete pass? Or worse, what if you throw an interception? You do not want that.

Worst of all, if you score too early, you're gonna end up fumbling.

Bottom line: Sex after fifty requires a different approach. You have to adjust. Some adjustments occur automatically.

First, the room is darker.

Almost pitch-black.

The darker, the better. I used to like lava lamps and incense. Now I like blackout curtains. My partner may want to see my naked body, but I've already seen it, every day, four, five times a day, and trust me, it's better to keep her in the dark. When I was younger, I could have all the lights on and the windows open and sunlight streaming in. We could do it with a mirror on the ceiling or illuminated by a spotlight or under lights as bright as a night game. I didn't care. And it didn't matter when—night, noon, dawn, dusk. There was no bad time. It could be anywhere, too. In a car, a swimming pool, a closet. I didn't need any advance notice or warm-up, either. I was always ready.

“What did you say? You want to go now? Great. No, that was plenty of warning. More than enough. Let's get it on.”

But when you turn fifty, all that changes. You especially lose spontaneity. That's one of the first things to go. You have to plan ahead. You need plenty of notice so you can put the booty call on your schedule. You have to tap the ass-tap time right into your smartphone calendar.

“Honey, how's Wednesday night?”

“Wednesday night? Let me see. Well, I have a thing, but it's not important. I can move it. And that other thing can wait. Okay, yes, Wednesday night will work. Thursday night would be better. And actually, Friday's even better. That gives me plenty of time to plan and get ready.”

Yes, sex becomes something you plan. An event. An activity. Hopefully a regular activity. Many therapists and experts on aging suggest that sex is better after fifty if you remove the guesswork. They say you should make a night out of it, preferably the same night every week. Sunday night you have dinner with the in-laws; Tuesday night you bowl; Wednesday night you bang. Once a week seems about right. More than that can put strain on your heart. Less than that can cause you to dry up. A weekly booty call gives a guy enough time to gear up, to get his head into the game. Wednesday is perfect. It's hump day, right?

A lot of guys count it down.

“Five more days to go. Four more. Three. Two. Today? Is it Wednesday already? Sex day is today. Wow.”

This may sound like I'm lying, or that the world has turned upside down, but when some guys turn fifty, they don't always look forward to the scheduled weekly sex date. As the night gets closer, a feeling of dread hits them. It could be performance anxiety, or feeling the loss of spontaneity, or hating that sex has become an obligation. Or maybe they're just not in the mood. That over-fifty drop in testosterone can do that. Whatever the cause, when we know that the night has come and calculate what is expected of us, there can be pushback. We don't want to be told what to do. We're men. We're in charge. We're supposed to be the ones who do the deciding. Yes, sure, that's a lie. We never had control of sex. But now, after fifty, we start to get resentful. We start thinking of excuses, especially if there's something good on TV, like a game or a wildlife special or a reality show about bounty hunters or restoring a World War I helmet.

Some guys try to get out of it. They hope for a tapeworm or some kind of virus. Some guys throw themselves down the stairs. That usually works. Others feign migraines. Or, better, stomach pains. No woman wants to be with somebody who's got diarrhea. That's your real out.

The truth is, it's really about respect. And appreciation. And commitment. I want to be there for my weekly Wednesday-night party. If you're in a relationship with a truly caring woman, just being together affectionately, lovingly, intimately, can be all she wants. Of course, if it leads to something else . . .

I wasn't always this way. I admit that there were times, especially in my marriage, that I may have been a tad selfish.

One warm Saturday afternoon in late May 1997—that day still sticks in my head—I promised my wife that I would go with her to a strawberry festival. Now, I like strawberries as much as anyone—nothing wrong with popping a few strawbs into your mouth for a snack, or spreading some strawberry jam on your toast—but a strawberry
festival
?
An entire weekend devoted to strawberries? With games and rides and people walking around dressed up like actual strawberries? Really? Why did I agree to this? What was I thinking? But I'd made a commitment. I promised I'd go.

Until I found out that Tiger Woods had entered the Byron Nelson Tournament and was playing in a twosome with a friend of mine. Tiger had just won the Masters and was on a roll. I knew he would kick my friend's ass, but I wanted to see my friend go head-to-head with Tiger. How many times do you get to watch your buddy play with Tiger Woods on national television? I wanted to get comfortable on my couch, pour myself a couple of adult beverages, roll out some snacks, and watch the golf tournament on my big screen.

I broke the news to my wife. I told her I changed my mind. I was gonna stay home and watch golf. I wasn't leaving the house.

“What about the strawberry festival?”

“Unfortunately, I have a conflict. Something came up. Something unforeseen and unavoidable. I have to watch the golf tournament.”

“But you said—”

“I know what I said. And I meant it. At the time. But my friend's playing against Tiger. Could be a once-in-a- lifetime thing. I can't miss that. You can go to the strawberry festival without me. You'll have a better time. I don't love strawberry cream pie all that much, especially in the heat.”

“I'm not going without you.”

“Well, you're gonna have to.”

Things escalated from there. Kind of got heated. Shouting, screaming, finger-pointing, name-calling. I don't remember exactly what we said, but I remember doors slamming and a lot of crying. My wife got upset, too.

Bottom line: I got my way. My wife went off to the strawberry festival, and I settled in to watch the golf tournament. I found my spot on the couch, kicked off my shoes, aimed the remote and—

Fffzzzt
.

The cable went out.

One minute I'm looking at Tiger; a second later I'm staring at a pitch-black screen.

“Son of a bitch.” I whacked the back of the remote with my palm. That usually works. I tried the TV again.

Nothing.

I couldn't believe it.

“The damn cable's
out
?
”

Whack, whack, whack.

Nothing.

Then I realized what happened. “She probably cut the wire.”

I groaned miserably. I figured this was either an example of my luck or God getting back at me for bailing on my wife.

I never did see Tiger and my friend playing in the Byron Nelson, but at least I avoided the long lines in the heat at the strawberry festival.

But to this day—sixteen years later—I gag whenever anybody mentions anything to do with strawberries.

“Interested in dessert?”

“Tempt me. What do you have?”

“Pies. We bake all our pies here. We have apple pie, cherry pie, and our house favorite, creamy, gooey strawberry cream pie—”

I gag, cover my mouth, and bolt into the bathroom.