I have been divorced twice at this point, and the match-making starts from the moment the ink is dry on the divorce decree.
Your parents will offer to set you up with someone they know from church but you don’t want to go back to church. Plus, he’s a widower with 6 kids whom he will expect you will help him raise in the faith.
You and a friend will see Aquaman and yell, “Take it off, fishboy!” Lots of laughs, but then she will insist on introducing you to all of her single male friends on Instagram.
Then it happens. Some well-meaning friend will say, “Hey, I hear you haven’t had too much luck with guys. Why don’t you try a girl instead?”
I can’t imagine this happens to divorced men in reverse all that often. “Hey, I hear you haven’t had too much luck with the ladies. Why don’t you try a dude instead?”
Regardless, the offer to go sappho is unavoidable for the modern divorcée.
Most recently, the offer came from a girl I knew growing up. I had no frame of reference back then, in my ultra-religious childhood. But now I realize she was probably always lesbian, and probably always slightly in love with me.
I did what you have to do in these cases: tell them no gently and never go back on that.
The first time, back in 1999, the proposal came from a friend at work who shared my childhood faith and was the youngest of 13 kids. I will call her Hannah.
Hannah was what we called a “lipstick lesbian” back then.
If any of the following terms aren’t currently considered appropriate, then I sincerely apologize. They were all we knew at the time.
Hannah had long brown hair, wore heels and short skirts. Even I thought she was attractive, and I wasn’t attracted to her in the slightest. Her girlfriend was a butch-dyke named Angel who rode a Harley and played high-stakes poker in Las Vegas.
It was curiosity more than anything else that led me accept the offer of an extreme make-over and then a blind date at an upscale Scottsdale, Arizona gay bar.
Hannah asked me what my type was, and I took a wild stab in the dark and said “blonde and busty but not too tall.”
I basically got a version of Bernadette from The Big Bang Theory.
I honestly have no recollection of her name, so I will call her Bernadette.
Katy Perry and her infamous song got one thing right: cherry chapstick.
But I didn’t like it. Too much squish. Bernadette and I went our separate ways.
So, in summation, I get why guys like boobs. They are fleshy and warm and jiggly and fit perfectly in the palm of your hand…. Yes. I. Get. It.
But I think one pair of them is enough for me, thank you all the same.
And the following clip from The Meaning of Life (1983) always makes me laugh.