I was on my way to visit Sherry, Greg and Bill, a polyamorous co-habitating triad. They are an example of why conservatives don’t want gay marriage to be legalized–then “anyone” can marry anyone, and next we’d have polygamists wanting to get married, and then who’s to say you can’t marry a porcupine if you choose to?  (I mean, who doesn’t fantasize about porcupine sex?)

I was excited to have the opportunity to interview Sherry, Greg and Bill because they didn’t fit into the clichéd situation of two women and one man. I’m tired of it always being men who claim to want to watch two women getting it on: Strip club dancers, of course, already know this is the way to get the big tips.  Last week, The Daily Show–the one TV show I revere–did a spoof on the sanctity of marriage in the guise of reporting on Proposition 8, and the punchline was a married couple in which the husband had a girlfriend. But that just seems so Tiger Woods/David Letterman/Bill Clinton. Why can’t the celebs give us a little more variety? (Seriously, in this day and age, it’s front page news that someone’s having an affair?) Anyway, that’s why I decided to seek out a less tired version of a relationship involving a third person.

Maybe I envied Sherry a bit. She’s got it all. While Greg is a good breadwinner, he’s not so good around the house. That’s where Bill comes in: he likes to make chicken and rice dinners, bake pies and fix things. He calls himself the “housewife.” It beats having to find one man who must be all things all the time. It’s less pressure for Bill and Greg, too. Could I have one husband who makes the bed, and another who does the laundry? And then another who does that thing with his tongue?

We’ll get the basic questions out of the way first: Yes, Bill, Greg, and Sherry are all bisexual. No, they don’t all have sex at the same time, but they will all snuggle in bed together. Bill and Greg are affectionate with one another, but not necessarily sexually attracted to one another. They both have sex with Sherry.

When I first arrived, Bill and Sherry and I settled in the living room. “Greg’s still getting ready,” they told me. He joined us soon after, freshly coifed and showered. “Is there coffee?” he asked. Bill and Sherry looked at one another. “Sherry fixed some and I had a cup too, so it’s all gone,” Bill said.  “Oh,” Greg said, heading back toward the kitchen. “I guess I’ll fix my own.”

Bill told me he had tried monogamy for “five awful days back in 1984.” As I expected, all three of them argued that human beings are not naturally monogamous, that–biologically!–we are not structured to have one mate. Even that nice story about swans and ibises mating for life–that’s apparently bunk.  I’d heard it all before; my first husband harped on these “facts” for ten years of our marriage. Old boyfriends said it, even therapists say it’s true to some extent. But, in the same way that alternative lifestyle folks often say they’ve known since they were little kids that they [are bisexual], “[like to dress in women's clothing and do 'lady things'],” or that they’re “[asexual and masturbation is just a release],” I have known since I was 12 and had a crush on Skip Hollister that I am monosexual and like to stick to one person at a time. According to Freud and Kinsey, I’m part of a teeny tiny minority,  just five percent of the earth’s population. I’m only one in only three hundred fifty million (that’s equivalent to just one of me in the whole United States). There’s hardly enough of us for a rally.  I’m not even going to bother with a flag design.

Our world is crawling with lovemakers of all shapes, sizes, and orientations, and Bill, Sherry and Greg weren’t my first encounter with polyamory. But a relationship with one person at a time is hard enough, so I wanted to know how they juggled multitudinous relationships. None of the three are polyfidelitous–while they’re all committed to their intimate triad, that is, they each go out on the town.

But before you start picturing Wife Swapping parties from the 70s, let’s look at the day-to-day. Just as in a pair,  functional triads, quadrangles, hexagons and rhombus groupings have all variety of arrangements with one essential element: Honesty.  (Start taking notes, Bill Clinton, David Letterman, and Tiger Woods. And, my ex-husband.) My favorite sex writer and podcaster, Dan Savage, insists that this is the essential ingredient for all healthy relationships, no matter their configuration.

My interviewees were forthcoming about the play parties they had in the backyard pool. (Suffice it to say water wings were not the only flotation devices.) They also told me about their “dates”: one or more of them often become interested in another woman or man, but they take pains to be sure make everyone is on the up and up about the arrangement. And they make it clear that they aren’t available to be another person’s serious mate.

Bill, who’s from West Virginia, says that when he’s interested in a married woman, he likes to bake a pie and take it to the couple. Ah, the Southern polyamorous tradition. My Southern mother taught me that you must never return an empty pie pan–you always have to bake another pie and return it to the owner. But in Bill’s case, this sounds like an even trade.  Pie/Wife, Wife/Pie. I like to think of one half of the couple heading off on their date with Bill as the other hollers, “Save a piece for me!”

I asked about jealousy, and all three of them shook their heads. “It comes up, on occasion, but then we just think of why it doesn’t matter,” said Bill.  Where’s the drama in that? I thought to myself.  They’ll never get their own reality show if they keep this up.

But honesty isn’t just a value they share with one another, it’s something each must have with his or herself. Talking to Bill, Greg, and Sherry, I was reminded of a sweet friend of mine whose husband wanted to have a foursome with another couple.  She went along with it because she was gung-ho for pretty much anything (one of the things most of us love about her), but she also became sullen and severely depressed. She actually loved the other couple, she explained, but in the end, she had to admit that she had only done it to please her husband, not because she really wanted it herself.

But Bill, Sherry and Greg have been together for more than ten years, and they seem truly happy. Once Greg had made his own cup of coffee, we all sat in the living room chatting about life and love. It was easy to believe that more really was merrier.

When I got home after the interview, I was famished. Luckily, when I walked in the door I could smell burgers grilling. “Oh boy,” I said to my outré, “I’m starving.” Eber looked at me, then at the empty frying pan. “Sorry, you’ll have to fix something else. I ate the last one.”

Just goes to show you, no matter how you slice it, there’s never enough love to go around.

Photos by ljcybergal, net_efekt

My sister, 10 years my senior, made certain that I understood that Ken was by no means anatomically correct. At nine I didn’t know what “anatomical” meant, but I knew she meant that the bulbous area at Ken’s crotch was not how it looked on real men. It didn’t bother me, because it was Barbie who rubbed up against that area, not me.

Barbie and Ken would do it on the dollhouse couch made of two by fours and contact paper. The sounds of sex coming from these hard plastic dolls:  click clack, clickety clack.

Afterward, he’d sit on the sofa with his legs sticking straight out in front of him, reading a miniature newspaper, and she’d put on a sundress and high heels and begin dinner. My older sister should have also let me know that Ken was a chauvinist.

As an adult, I’m happy to say the doll manufacturing world has fixed that anatomical incorrectness. The stiff legs, the plastic pyramid breasts, the sock-shaped crotch, have all been revamped with silicone. She hasn’t just been given new breasts, botox or collagen injections; Barbie got a full-body implant. Of course, it’s not Mattel’s doing. I’m talking about Real Dolls by Abyss Creations. Their website says, “Our dolls feature completely articulated skeletons which allow for anatomically correct positioning, an exclusive blend of the best silicone rubbers for an ultra flesh-like feel, and each doll is custom made to your specifications.” No more clickity clack sex sounds. No more bogus genital areas! These dolls are full-fledged pseudo human beings.

Choices go beyond just Malibu Barbie, PJ, and Palm Beach Sugar Daddy Ken. You can choose between 50,000 options. Choices range from lip color, nail shape, pubic coif, magnet-based removable faces, and nipple size. There’s a flat-back doll that falls perfectly in position when dropped on your bed. Come up with a flawed mortal part, and Real Dolls will answer with a flawless immortal silicone replica. And Real Dolls aren’t just for men any more.  Two male dolls are available for purchase, and for an additional fee you can have a penis attached to a female doll to create a she-male. Something for everyone, or rather, for every relationship.

While it still might be a game — let’s pretend that you, the perfectly gorgeous woman of my dreams, wants to have sex with me, a lush who hasn’t brushed his teeth since 1979 — reality still reels its ugly head after the last post-coital snore. In addition to the clean up (Real Dolls come with a cleaning kit), just like every relationship there’s every day life on the other side of that initial stage of passion.

When I first started researching the Real Dolls, I wondered who would spend $6000 for a body that needs to be heated up with an electric blanket just so the “user” can avoid feeling like a necrophiliac. I assumed they’d be low-life sex addicts who objectified women, and some of them probably are. But I can’t help also picturing men who are terribly shy or awkward, who have tried and tried to find companionship, like the title character in “Lars and the Real Girl,” a must-see movie (and one that’s done a lot to shape mainstream perceptions of Real Dolls and their owners).

When I was a kid, I played with Barbie during the day, but at night I slept with a stuffed monkey named Pinky (not  an original moniker, but he never complained). He fit just right between my arms and just under my chin when I curled on my side. One night when I had a stomach virus, I threw up on him. My mom tossed Pinky in the washing machine, and after the spin cycle he never quite looked the same — his pink fur, now more of a silvery fuzz. But I loved him even more for not rejecting me after I puked on his head.

Perhaps the Pinky/Real Doll comparison can only go so far — Pinky had no orifices, while a Real Doll has a throat that is seven inches long. (With her gaping mouth, each doll looks like she’s gasping.) But while Real Dolls probably endure much of the same abuse Pinky did, and more, I see proof in the online catalog that these owners also love their Dolls even more after the spin cycle. For instance: the part of the Real Doll that wears out the fastest is the feet. The Dolls weigh close to 80 lbs, and since they don’t walk on their own (robotics have not been perfected yet, though the lab is at work on sensitizing the genital and nipple areas so the doll exerts an “ahhh” sound) there’s quite a bit of dragging around the house being done. So, new feet are required, and replacements are available. It’s like the carburetor of the little woman, some engineer’s idea of TLC.

In some ways,  Real Dolls and the Men Who Love Them (MWLT) have a perfect relationship. She’s there whenever he needs her, she’s always in the mood, and she never lets her figure go.  But the Real Doll can’t clean house, she can’t grocery shop, and she can’t entertain his mother. She can keep him company during just about all of the above, except maybe entertaining his mother.

Even at $6000 a pop, sales at Abyss Creations are strong. What does this say about the difficulty of finding someone who will just be with us?  Someone who we can be intimate with, who we can care about and feel safe with. Someone who we are happy to buy new feet for when hers get worn out from being dragged around.

While a Real Doll may not be able to laugh at your jokes, and may be generally lacking in the conversation department, when she does embarrass you, you can just stuff her in the closet. And if we are really honest with ourselves, who hasn’t sometimes wished they had a partner who would (maybe just for a short while) be quiet, disappear, look sexy, wear what you wanted them to, didn’t interrupt, didn’t criticize, and yet would always be there when you needed them to be?

Of course, we shouldn’t all switch from real humans to Real Dolls, but I can’t condemn the men who find a truer happiness for themselves because flesh and blood just wasn’t really their type. For the lonelyhearts with an extra $6000 dollars lying around, I hope that at least one can trade in the teddy bear he’s cried into, jacked off on, and slept with since he was 14 and find happiness with something just a little more adult. My advice, and this goes for all types of relationships: Just don’t wait until it’s too late to replace the feet.

Photo credit: come as you are cooperative and kankalas

Earlier this month, we had to watch as yet another celebrity was revealed to be doing something naughty. Judging celebrities on their bad behavior gets a little tiresome to me. But okay, David Letterman had to fess up to all the sex he partook of with his staff (apparently we’re talking about more than four staffers). Obviously I’m clueless about how many is “too many,” so I can’t judge Dave on that. Diagnosing Dave with a sex addiction is out of my professional realm as well, yet I don’t think I’m so off target when he meets the addiction criteria of American Psychiatric Association (DSM-IV). Albeit a relatively new consideration, sexual addiction today is even being treated clinically.  So, when his first words to the public were “I have to protect my family,” I started thinking about how he–and all sex addicts out there–might protect their families before stepping outside their relationships.

Now, the experts all say that Dave and Regina should keep things private after his admission. That he should spend some quiet time with her. They may be alone, but I guarantee you she’s not keeping quiet.  She may not be bothering to say anything to us, but there’s some screaming going on behind those closed doors. Okay, let’s pretend that it was an open marriage: Dave seems to be pretty capable of pretending, and as for the public’s response, believing theirs was an open marriage is a way of protecting Regina, making her seem like less of an oblivious fool. Marriage has a surreal quality to it anyway. But alas, that’s Regina and Dave’s business, not ours.

What made it our business was when Dave announced it on national television, and well, inquiring minds want to know: Does this make Dave a scumbag? I don’t have a definitive answer to that, but he did inflict some pain. It’s also hard to believe he’s going to stop doing what he’s been doing for at least the last 48 years. So, how about Real Dolls? You’ve probably heard of them: silicone, life-size, anatomically correct “companions.”  Some reports claim they’re a lonely man’s dream come true.  Others argue that Real Dolls help creepy men stay creepy.  (Disclaimer:  there are male Real Dolls, but the rate of sales and available selection are so much higher for the female dolls, that I’ll save that for another story. For now, I’ll have to rely on sexist statements–but yes, there are female sex addicts.)

Having a Real Doll might help Dave, and others like him. Their starting price (without any extras) is around $6,000–although, like buying a car, once you start adding on the extras (like elf ears and facial expressions), it can really add up. Not cheap, but on Dave’s salary it’s a drop in the bucket, and definitely less expensive than a $2 million extortion bill.  Right now, with the bad economy, the Real Doll company is offering monthly specials.  Last month it was a free face with purchase!

Besides the cost savings, the Real Doll provides everything else that men like Dave are hungry for. Always need that euphoric rush of first time sex? Real Dolls come with replaceable body parts. You can get just about any hair color or body shape you desire: Ten female body types, and 16 interchangeable female faces are available. The body and head are sold separately, and if you like a girl that you can just fling on the bed at the perfect angle (i.e., flat on her back with her legs spread), you can get the Flat-Back Doll that’s just a torso.

Interestingly, the parts of the doll that wear out first  are the feet. Yep. The Real Doll is so real that she weighs the same as a chubby Ralph Lauren model–75 lbs. That’s a lot of chick to have to haul around the house. I mean, not everyone wants to do it in the bedroom night after night: Sometimes you’ll want to bring her to the den for TV watching, or maybe the kitchen for a little something-something on the linoleum. And dragging a woman around by her hair is just so caveman-like. A real man with a Real Doll can wrap his arms around her waist and stumble together with her to the next room. But don’t worry about that little foot problem. You just order a new pair!

One drawback of the Real Doll is that (unlike women who are real with a small “r”) they have no natural body heat: unless he’s into necrophilia, a Real Doll owner will probably want to wrap his synthetic lady  in an electric blanket to warm her up  first, which can really put a damper on spontaneity. Luckily, Dave has that “bunker” above the Ed Sullivan Theatre where he could store his stash of Dolls. He could request that his choice Doll be pre-heated while he’s busy working. Surely, he has an intern who could be in charge of this chore.

Dave could have a whole harem of Real Dolls, and it wouldn’t really be like stepping out. He could get a variety of faces and body types and it would seem like he had as many women as he does now, without the personal involvement, without chance of extortion, and Regina would know that he was still true to her…sort of. The Lettermans could go about their business as a happily married couple, whatever that is in their eyes. Dave could go to work as usual, and spend every commercial break with a different real doll.  Lunch hour with the brunette, coffee break with the large-breasted Flat Back. By the time he got home and kissed his wife and kid goodnight, it might come as something of a relief.

There’s just one thing missing that could ruin my whole idea. David Letterman could have all the sex dolls, Real and not, in the world. He could replace their faces and feet, and keep their bodies fresh, warm and plentiful. But the only way Dave can truly ”protect his family” is if  one particular part inside of him is real.

The heart.

Photo credit:  Come As You Are Co-Operative, Come As You Are Co-Operative

A good friend of mine once witnessed identical twins French kissing.  You can’t get much more narcissistic than that.  Kissing yourself?  I’m not even sure I’m attracted to myself enough to want to goose myself on the butt, much less stick my tongue down my own throat.  But then, I’ve never been attracted to insecure people.

Last week Mackenzie Phillips published her new memoir, “High on Arrival,” and announced on Oprah that she’d had consensual sex with her father, John Phillips of the Mamas and the Papas.  Coincidentally, I was reading Kathryn Harrison’s memoir, “The Kiss” (about her own adult affair with her minister father) the day of the Oprah announcement.  Had I not been reading Kathryn’s book, I may have thought Mackenzie was making a big celebrity scene about an issue she otherwise should have kept to herself.

I’ll pause here to add the disclaimer that my experience with incest is limited to a trip to London I took when I was seven. After a day spent visiting museums and statues, my mother leaned over me as we stood outside Buckingham Palace waiting for the changing of the guard and explained, in all seriousness, that the reason the British monarchy was so hideously ugly for many generations was all the inbreeding—she thought the idea of subjecting a child to a life of frizzy hair, a stunted nose, beady eyes and mental ineptitude might make me think twice before falling in love and procreating with my first cousin.

But back to Mackenzie and Kathryn, and “The House of Yes,” the 1997 movie starring Parker Posey.  When does “close” become “sick,” and the usually reassuring “between two consenting adults” get seriously complicated?

Family members can be close.  Very close. Family ties can be as simple as the guilt that makes us show up for Thanksgiving, even though we know it will just end up a boring repeat of last year—when Aunt Judy brought her mincemeat pies decorated with leftover Halloween candy corn. “The House of Yes” is a laugh-out-loud comedy about the uncomfortably close relationship between Parker Posey’s character, “Jackie-O,” (who thinks she’s JFK’s widow), and her brother Marty (played by Josh Hamilton).  When Marty brings home a girlfriend (Tori Spelling), all hell breaks lose, as Jackie-O suddenly realizes Marty isn’t completely “hers.” The craziness comes not from genes being crossed, but from the manipulation we exert in that ridiculous familial way. It’s one of the rare films to portray this kind of relationship, and though it’s part mad-cap comedy, something about the relationship between these siblings rings true.

But family isn’t always funny.  And possession rarely is.  My neighbors were perhaps too close–they only had one twin bed in their home, and they were both large people (maybe one of them had a bad back and opted to sleep on the wooden floor?).  I don’t know the internal psychological workings of their relationship, but Mackenzie Phillips calls what happened to her the first time “rape.” Kathryn Harrison describes her relationship differently, but she’s explicit about the subtle control her father had over her.  Both memoirists were exploited by very narcissistic men.  Both men called this possession romantic love.

Some bloggers say Mackenzie should keep her trap shut and talk to a good therapist, accusing her of exploiting the situation.  They say she’s gone public just to make money.  Really?  I bet Mackenzie has lots of money-making options available to her that don’t involve putting herself through what she had to know would be a public backlash.  Or maybe she did it just to get that big hug  from Valerie Bertinelli on Oprah.  (I snagged one when I interviewed Val at the LA Times Book Festival, so I understand.)

Both Kathryn and Mackenzie exposed a secret they carried inside for a long time.  Secret-keeping can wreak havoc on a person’s emotions and general psychological state. That’s any secret, from the Matchbox car I stole from my Sunday school class when I was five, all the way to the CEO embezzling from his company. The gradual meltdown is why we don’t do well at keeping secrets.  And a secret like “my father makes love to me”—if that doesn’t drive you crazy, I don’t know what will. But who do you tell?  Who will believe you?  And who are all the people who will be hurt by it?  These considerations are overwhelming, so it’s easy to understand why people would keep something like this locked away.

Love, as adults, comes in many shapes and forms. We should never shy away from it if it fits us well. I heard once that perversion is only as perverted as one’s perspective—a kind of extreme version of the “two consenting adults” excuse. But often, “love and commitment” can be a guise for one person wanting acceptance, and the other taking control. To me, Mackenzie and Kathryn’s stories don’t seem like tell-alls. The act may be the same, but the stories are their own. Each was seeking love from their father and in the end discovered a more complete love for themselves. Every relationship has two perspectives (well, menage a trois has three and so on…), and no two relationships are alike.  Relationships come in a variety of packaging, but no matter what the wrapper looks like, the candy on the inside should be a sweet one.

I hope my neighbors were happy in their own way, whatever that was, and that the Christmas tree experiment was not some cry for help that I missed.  As the months got warmer, I worried about the possible combustion of the dried pine needles in the hot car. The only thing I can be pretty sure of is that the tree was probably another family obligation that neither had the wherewithal to take to the dump.

Photo credit:  serikoytik1970, bubjay, Fire Monkey Fish

]]> http://thefastertimes.com/unconventionalrelationships/2009/09/29/family-ties-and-love-cuffs-thinking-about-mackenzie-phillips/feed/ http://thefastertimes.com/unconventionalrelationships/2009/09/08/whatever-cougars-why-age-doesn%e2%80%99t-really-matter/ http://thefastertimes.com/unconventionalrelationships/2009/09/08/whatever-cougars-why-age-doesn%e2%80%99t-really-matter/#comments Wed, 09 Sep 2009 01:57:04 +0000 Amy Wallen http://thefastertimes.com/unconventionalrelationships/?p=82 In my very early 20s, I was hot to have an affair with my dweeby, curly-headed (but balding) 40-something boss.  Fortunately for him and a few other people–like his wife–it was pure fantasy and nothing ever happened.  Since it’s rather embarrassing, I rarely think about the situation, even though it was only in my head and I never consummated so much as a kiss.

When Chelsea Handler sent Ted Harbert (her long term partner, and boss) packing, I had momentary flashbacks to my fantasies about having an affair with a much older man to whom I was also a subordinate. Chelsea and Ted have a May/December relationship. Or maybe they had one. Demi Moore did it the other way around: she’s the December portion, with Ashton Kutcher as the May.

There are many examples of these relationships with vast age differences, the stereotype being an older man, younger woman. Those of us in a relationship with someone where the age difference is within society’s approved five-year range like to make quizzical comments (i.e. bad jokes) about them.

My girlfriends laugh with one another about the older man and his saggy little wrinkled butt. Once the old man pulls out that pill box with the letters SMTWTFS (representing the days of the week) on each of the seven little lids, we claim we’d hit the road. If he donned a pair of Rockports to go out, I know I’d cringe. And once the box of Depends shows up in the bathroom closet, the romance is over. I’m going to assume Chelsea booted Ted out before they got that far–he seems to have all his teeth, or at least the money to get new implants and a prescription for Androgel.

The jokes about the younger woman are just as old and boring. Demi and Ashton pushed aside the stereotype, but that didn’t stop society from looking down its nose. In a 2006 Psychology Today article, Purdue University researcher Justin Lehmiller explains, “Women are most likely to bear the brunt of society’s reproach. Younger women are seen as gold diggers, while older women are scorned for trying to hang on to youth. Either way, men get a pat on the back.”  Chelsea has never invited me for tea, but someone with her comedic ability couldn’t be too dense, and she obviously provides well for herself.

A self-help group called WOOM Mates–Wives of Older Men–apparently existed at one time in the 90s. The organization’s phone number is disconnected, and Google had nothing but a dead link to teaser in which founder Beliza Ann Furman says, “There’s a tremendous amount of prejudice against these couples. Families often don’t welcome them with open arms.” (WOOM Mates apparently also offered help on dealing with stepchildren. But I better not get started on “step-relatives”  again.)

Many websites offer tips on how to deal with an age-gap relationship. My favorite is, “If you are the younger one, ensure that you make yourself presentable and clean at all times.” I picture Demi saying  that to Ashton as they’re leaving the house on their way to the red carpet, “Do you really think you’re going to leave the house dressed like that, young man?!”

We could get into psychological analysis: if people never got the love they needed from their mothers or fathers, the older partners become substitutes. The older partners with the younger lovers want to relive their childhoods, have power issues or maternal desires. The 1967 Oscar-winning movie The Graduate is filled with womb imagery, but that pantyhose scene…well, “Here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson.” The sexual attraction is all grown-up.

Twenty years seems to be the number that starts tremors in social norms. When I was newly divorced, I dated a man eight years younger than I was.  No one noticed, nothing was awkward, and we seemed to have plenty to talk about, at least when we were talking. While our IRAs had different balances, the only really big difference was  that I had an ABBA cassette in my Volkswagen stereo and he had a 50 Cent CD in his SUV. I didn’t even know who 50 Cent was before that, and I’m exaggerating about the ABBA (it was probably Brian Eno or Queen).  Our relationship lasted most of a summer.  But that age difference wasn’t  even of record proportions. For real life experience, I defer to my grandmother.

My grandmother married a man 24 years her junior. Richard was her fourth husband, but he’s the one that stuck. They were together over 40 years, til death did them part. He was younger than my dad, her son. At Richard’s funeral, I had to giggle because the preacher who didn’t know the family called Richard my dad’s stepdad. We were close to Richard and had never thought of him as such, but that wasn’t what was funny. The preacher went on to say, “While not a biological father, Jim came to think of Richard as his dad.” I would have said he was more like a younger brother.

Richard died before my grandmother. I’m pretty sure that’s not what she had in mind at all. She wore a red dress to his funeral because “Richard always said it showed off my legs.” She was 89, and I took that comment to mean they still had a little something-something going on. She had a stroke and lost her senses three months later. We’ll never know, but I like to believe she had no desire to live without the man who had been her “Richard honey.”

When I was newly divorced and had just turned 40, a group of younger friends told me about a bar guys liked to frequent because “cougars” would go there. I had to ask what they meant:  An older woman, usually in her 40s, divorced, looking to have sex with a younger, 20-something man. I think that pretty much describes any newly divorced 40-something woman.

I never went to the bar, only because I pictured myself showing up among a pitiful group of women my age wearing moth-eaten leopard skin coats they’d picked up at a second hand stores. I imagined they would have pushed up, wrinkled cleavage sagging inside a Cross-Your-Heart bra, and little bellies bulging at the belt-line of their A-line dresses. Or, god forbid, be wearing spandex body suits.

Apparently you don’t have to go to a bar to meet a cougar.  Like every other kind of relationship, there’s a version of Match.com just for you: www.dateacougar.com.

Every night that my outre’s son, Adam Lambert, is on stage, women go crazy for him. He’s got the right moves, the right look–he’s hot. When the 40-somethings began to go gaga over him, I assumed their lust was pure fantasy. When they would go public with it, I thought it was very bold. But I wondered, did they really think their love could ever be reciprocated? Adam’s sexual orientation aside, did they think it possible that a 28-year-old would think they were hot? Then I remembered my grandmother. What’s wrong with the possibility of a 40-year-old woman and a 20-something guy? An element of fantasy is good for any relationship.

Maybe it’s not an issue of old and young. Forget the physical attributes that can often be our first level of attraction. When I think back to the boss I had my big crush on, he wasn’t exactly “attractive.” What attracted me wasn’t the cliché of the powerful man, either. What made me tingle, what made me want to “jump his bones” (as we said back then), was his sense of humor. I’m still a sucker for that (see Eber Lambert). Needing someone to take care of you, or adoring taking care of someone else, is a building block to a strong relationship. The key to longevity is when it’s reciprocal.

I still think I might gag a little if, eventually, my partner’s teeth slide out into a bowl before bed. I suppose he’ll do the same when my hot flashes soak the sheets and my fish-belly upper arms slap him in the face when I turn over. But if I have someone to die laughing with, I won’t care how old (or young) he is. I’ll die happy.

Photo credit:   aknacer, ridemypony, planet pixel

Ruth Madoff visited Bernie recently.  We don’t know what state their relationship is in, but I don’t picture them requesting a conjugal visit any time soon. For the regular visits, Ruth  has to rein herself in: “Handshaking, embracing and kissing are ordinarily permitted within the bounds of good taste and only at the beginning and at the end of the visit,” the rules say, and “miniskirts, spandex and see-through, form-fitting or low-cut blouses are all prohibited in the visiting room at Butner,” Bernie’s new digs for the next 150 years.  The rules don’t mention the confiscated Russian sable coat.

With Bernie in his 70s and Ruth fast approaching them, much more than a peck on the cheek may not be necessary unless Bernie’s got an insider doling out the Viagra, probably not a drug that should be introduced in prisons.

I know several people who have had relationships with people in prison. One of them is Amy Friedman, who was married to a prisoner for six years while he was on the inside.  I found Amy in the New York Times when she wrote an article about her marriage for the Modern Love column in February. She’s now about 10 and a half minutes away from completing her memoir on the experience.  When I remarked to Amy that I knew more than my share of people who had experienced a conjugal visit, she said, “It’s not that you know so many, it’s that there are so many people in prison.” (The federal government and budget crisis is squeezing California to release 40,000 prisoners, an act that will surely ruin many ideal relationships.)

Amy also writes legends and fairytales for children, which got me thinking about the very strong bond that exists between couples who have an electric fence, 30-foot reinforced concrete walls, and armed guards between them. Like Romeo and Juliet with razor wire on the balcony, or Rapunzel and her hair-fetish prince. Forbidden love. But in fairy tales and legends, more often than not it’s the women who are imprisoned, with princes pining below the tower or balcony. In reality today, more men than women are locked up, with a woman pining at the guard tower, or metal detector.

Amy and a few of my former roommates filled me in on the realities of  conjugal visits.  The only way to physically consummate your love in prison is to request a “family visit” from the warden.  Spontaneity is all blown to hell with the request going in three months in advance, but there’s something to be said for anticipation.  The warden is less likely to turn you down if you’re married, so that’s a pit stop along the way. Pre-marital sex is frowned upon–I assume to protect the prisoners’ moral reputations. (Though you’d think once most of the mortal sins have been slashed through ,they would be free to run through the venial ones.) Imagine: a trailer house where many have gone before, a place where naugahydes go to die. But the couple’s love is so strong, and their desire so intense, that scratchy sheets and musty smelling pillows—even guards listening at the door!—won’t deter their passion.

So, why would anyone want to date a person in prison? “Date” probably isn’t the right word, as there are no restaurants, movie theatres or even bowling alleys in prisons, at least not in the visitors’ lounge. Maybe predictably, the women I know didn’t intend to get involved with someone in prison. It just happened that way.  Amy met her Romeo when she was interviewing him for a column she wrote.  Both of my roommates had just met their beaus outside the prison walls when the parole officer came knocking and the courtship had to change venues.  Parents, friends, roommates…we all tell our loved ones “Don’t do it.”  “What are you thinking?”  “He’s killed four people, doesn’t that tell you he has issues?”  When I told one of my roommates that her lover probably had a lot of baggage, her response was, “We all have baggage, Amy.”  But to me, there’s baggage, and then there’s forty-foot shipping containers.

Some people do seek out this fairytale romance. InmatesForYou.com, PrisonPenPals.com,  and ConvictMailbag.com are the Match.com for those searching for a particularly dysfunctional relationship.  Or have these couples figured out the secret to an ideal relationship?  ”Conjugal” reeks of prison, but resonates with a bond that many of us with all four partner feet “on the outside” struggle to acquire. One of my convict-dating roommates would receive a dozen red roses weekly.  Daily, she received a hand-painted card in the mail (no Hallmark at the Federal Penitentiary).  And nightly phone calls–collect, but who’s going to complain when the guy actually calls exactly when he says he’s going to? Clearly he didn’t just want her for the sex, since there wasn’t any at first.  Time spent together was time for talking, for handholding. My other roommates and I began to envy this relationship.

On visiting days, the couple sits face-to-face and talks.  No cell phones ringing, no football game on TV. Hell, she could tell him about the new knitting pattern she just learned and he’d have to sit there and listen. Okay, maybe he’d wander over to the vending machine, but he’d have to return to her side, or it’s back to his cell.  Maybe that’s what we could learn in our “outside” loves: visiting hours are important.

When the warden denies that first conjugal visit, the fires of rebellion are reignited, reinforcing the couple’s bond.  Every visitor’s day, it’s more of the same: disapproving looks and comments from friends and family. Prison guards sneering, telling the visitor her Wal-Mart t-shirt is too revealing and that French kiss is lasting too long.  Fondling and playing footsy are not allowed, showing affection permitted only as dictated by Emily Post’s Guide to Prison Visitation.  Together, the couple fights for their right to love, to be accepted by the world, or at least by family and day shift guards.

And eventually the prisoner’s release date arrives: the togetherness the couple has been fighting, hoping, waiting for is no longer quarantined and closely monitored by an armed stranger.

We never find out what happens after the happy ending of the fairy tales.  Sure, Cinderella gets whisked away by the prince in his carriage, and Snow White gets kissed and assumes the surname White-Charming, and Rapunzel’s prince finds her in the desert with two children we can only assume were conceived during a conjugal visit. But then what?  How does the marriage go after the honeymoon?  “Happily ever after” is rarely all it’s cracked up to be.

On the outside we have the freedom to be fickle.  Probably, the prince wouldn’t be so handsome if Rapunzel hadn’t been locked away and unable to date any other guys, prince status or not. Rapunzel wouldn’t have been so enticing without playing hard to get stowed up there in the tower.  We never see happens when the prince finally gets to spend 24/7 with her, when she spends most of her time at the hair salon dealing with that unwieldy mess of hair, when he wakes up to her smelly rampion breath and has to listen to nonstop bitching about how traumatic her childhood was.

I hope Cinderella didn’t sign a pre-nup, but got a college education so she won’t have to go back to scrubbing floors once  she gets tossed from the palace after her prince gets a whiff of her smelly little feet and seeks out a new damsel in distress. As for Snow White, maybe after all that time with those chimerical dwarves, life with Mr. Charming is dull, and she heads back to the woods.

Maybe these couples with bars between them had the ideal relationship, because more often than not, once the gates of San Quentin are open, the relationship disintegrates.  Outside, it’s just two lonely people  no one pays attention to, no disapproval, no intrigue or nonconformity.  They are just like the rest of us–craving love and acceptance.

When the conjugal visit becomes diaphragm-in-the-nightstand, hopefully-simultaneously-in-the-mood, are-the-kids-asleep-yet sex, a certain passion is clearly missing.  Perhaps the scratchy sheets and guard at the door aren’t missed so much as the mutual martyrdom.  On the inside or the outside, when there’s someone rooting for you, or when someone understands how you feel about all the injustice in the world, it seems like a safer place.

Advice for the InmatesForYou.com subscribers: Get yourself a lifer not eligible for parole.

Photos by Ricardo Carreon, Snick!, ouchiscool

It was somewhere between the first few horrific audition weeks of scathing remarks from Simon and the last week when one of the American Idol directors grabbed my arm and pulled me out of a camera view of a “family shot” with the explanation, “Amy, I leave my conscience at home for this job,” that I introduced myself with my tacky quip to the mother of  contestant Megan Joy. I was standing with Adam’s dad and mom, Eber and Leila.  For weeks all of Middle America (who apparently not only believe everything Sarah Palin tells them, but also believe that reality TV is reality and not staged at all) had blogged about Eber and Leila.  What a close family they seemed to be, the bloggers said, wasn’t it wonderful that they had stayed married after all these years?  Even my own mother was sending me emails asking why every Wednesday night the show kept putting Eber and “and that other woman” next to each other.  “That’s Adam’s mom,” I kept telling her.  But the whole thing–our entire raucous experience of American television’s circus–was about Adam, not about me.  I don’t have many maternal instincts, but I do have one: the kid comes first.  While bloggers and my mom continued to speculate and ask who is that other woman–the bloggers meant me, and my mom meant Leila (my mom’s level of concern much greater than any blogger) — I’ll be the first to state that this was never some big controversy. Eber and I tried our best to ignore it. Okay, he ignored it, and I cringed when I had to say, “He’s my boyfriend’s son”–like I just got a date with a rock star’s dad, like I’m a roadie, a statement way too temporary for what we all really are to one another.

But, in the same way that I like to pop bubble wrap, pick scabs and gnaw on gristle, I wasn’t going to leave the question of what I should call myself alone.  It had presented itself in the past, but never quite so publicly.  And, while I figure not everyone lives with the father of a rockstar, very likely other lovely readers are out there who have encountered the same awkwardness, or at the very least wondered why paramours get their own word and living-in-sinners don’t.

This really begins with what is the right terminology for my relationship to Eber. Boyfriend/girlfriend is the word I used when I was a teenager. But I’m 45, and my relationship is an entirely different one than what I had with my boyfriend in high school (thank god).  I don’t feel I need to explain to strangers that Eber and I are committed with a legally binding document, and  that we live together — have for several years — and fully intend to spend the rest of our lives together, which is the rough definition of marriage.  There were no bridesmaids, no five-tiered cake, and no tulle or veil. I’m too old for that, we each had one of those already, and we don’t feel it’s necessary since we don’t plan on having kids of our own. “My long term life partner” sounds not only cold and unemotional, but it’s way too long (five words is too many). I thought about using the term “husband” loosely. Allegra Huston, author of the memoir Love Child, told me she refers to the man she lives with, who is the father of her son, as her “husband she’s not married to.”  I like the humor in that, but it’s still too long, and “My husband I’m not married to’s son,” doesn’t work either (see five-word rule above).  The word “Partner” alone sounds too cowboy, or like he’s my business partner.  “Lover” instantly creates a visual that is too private, and S.O. always makes people respond with, “What? S.O.? (pause for mind flipping to 1972 memory files). Oh. Right. Significant Other.”  I could have saved them time and just said, “The man I sleep with who happens to be the father of Adam Lambert.”

The issue starts with what I call the father of the rockstar, then continues with what do I call his son?  I mean, besides, “Adam” which is how I address him.  But what is the relationship I pass on to acquaintances, co-workers, or total strangers, and those incessant gossipers? Or, my mother (who doesn’t understand why I’m not on the cover of Rolling Stone too) who without any qualms tells her friends she’s Adam’s stepgrandmother (she’s had all of one Christmas dinner and five scotches with him). This is when I realized it’s more than just a stumble bumble of words.  Stepson would be the easiest word to use.  But stepmom/stepson, can be bothersome to some.  I received flak for using it in a column for The Writer’s [Inner] Journey.

According to dictionary.com “stepmother” is The wife of one’s father and not one’s natural mother. I’ve heard and read the stories–when the stepmom over steps her bounds.  I’m afraid this ain’t The Brady Bunch, “Here’s the story…of a lovely lady…” I can also see where the biological mother is coming from–no way does she want anyone claiming any maternal rights to her child-she went through the labor, the worry, and all the discipline and caring.  She deserves that title “mom” more than anyone, and hands off to anyone else.

I’m certainly not asking for any sympathy here, just a new vocabulary for our not-so-new standards of living.  Perhaps we even need to re-think the word “stepmom”-first get rid of “step.” It’s so Cinderella evil.  And you have to get rid of the “mom” portion unless it applies in that unconditional-raised-them-to-be-the-rockstars/politicians-they-are-destined-to-be sense of the word. The mother/child relationship is sacred, and I don’t want to intrude on that.  But without step and mom, there’s no word at all.  I tried to come up with a new word, but neologisms aren’t my strong suit.

This is about more than just the territory of who is whose who, but I’d rather avoid turning this into an article for Psychology Today, so instead I’ll stop there.  I just want a couple of new words.  Hell, I’ll settle for just one: What do I call Eber?

Apparently, we who do not go to a courthouse or church and provide public affirmation of our commitment and love to one another are freaks of nature.  Our relationship is too bizarre to get its own word. So, I’m going with that.  “My outré.”  It’s an adjective I’ve turned into a noun–romantic poet’s license. I can proudly say, “My outré’s son is Adam Lambert.” Over the years, the dictionary will show the word’s derivation, the history, and it will say something like…

[American, from Middle America - noun. Began with rockstar familial relationships, but evolved into common usage. Originally French adjective - bizarre, freakish, past participle of outrer, to pass someone, from outre, beyond, from Latin ultrā; see al-1 in Indo-European roots.  See pop culture 21^st century.]

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