The Urban Celibate: Love Notes from a Broad Abroad

Posted on 01. Sep, 2008 by Administrator in Lifestyle

by Mz. Moxy

Days turned into weeks, which turned into months. The dates on the dusty wall calendar were crossed off with an angry red pen, and tumbleweeds blew across my bedroom floor.

I realized my extended period of nonsexual activity had a name, and that there were others like me. Claiming my celibacy was not something I had planned, but as time would have it, it proved an unavoidable realization. In the spirit of child experts that have no kids, I endeavor to advise, through the clarity of my heightened awareness and distanced perspective. Sister Spinster at your service.

Will I be ‘tempted by the fruit of another?’ 1031 days…and counting. Believe me, I’m counting.

Like anything in life, lucidity is relative to proximity. Similar to Monet paintings that up close look like a bunch of dots - the complete picture can only be seen from a distance. Let’s study human nature, specifically that of the opposite sex, with a fine eye, but a panoramic view.

LOVE IN L.A.

Hollywood is not L.A.! Many of my fellow celibates congregate in the glitzier side of town. Having everything (or trying to) can be the antidote to love and sexuality. Just as I had given up on Cupid in this lost city of angels, I was schooled by a homeless woman named Dolores, who explained that love is just under the radar where the streets have no shine, in ‘box alley’ cardboard love shacks. It’s not just about the chemistry Tinsletown writes about in movie scripts. In Dolores’ world, just about everyone has a sweetheart, and rarely does anyone have the luxury of being isolated. In actuality, the coveted Ivory Tower is one lonely bachelor pad. When all you’re left with is love, it becomes everything.

When you are racing to a meeting in your BMW with tinted windows, flirtation is surely in the backseat, if at all. Only in Hollywood proper is a hot piece of ass last on the list behind contacts, connections, and conference calls. Driving from point A to point B with no interaction with the dirty world outside has certain romantic limitations. When you emerge from your motorized bubble, romance awaits. Nobody walks in L.A., but those who do get laid.

TROPICAL HEAT

Flying out to the ever-mystical British Not-So-Virgin Islands, I was privileged to receive homegrown love advice from the no nonsense locals. With a typically dry sense of humor and relaxed attitude, Mr. Doo Doo explained matter-of-factly that “sometimes the drink makes you feel sexy,” when I lamented the Boogie Nights scene I reluctantly witnessed the previous night. Finding your two best friends on the roll-away cot, bumpin’ uglies with local gangsters dubbed “The General” and
“Dirty Water” is…disturbing.

The day after this feast of the senses, I crossed speedboats with a woman named Tortola Jo. As literally the only female living on a private Caribbean island (population: 3), she most certainly fits the role of an all-knowing medicine woman. Jo reflected on my romantic folly by explaining that truly living and loving requires that hearts be broken, even your own. Love’s path is messy, and like the saying goes, “You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs.” Knowing Jo was right sent a pang of painful recognition through my soul, wishing our love lives could simply be served sunny side up.

CAUGHT BETWEEN THE MOON AND NEW YORK CITY

The best that you can do…is fall in love. There is an intense vibe in New York where the people are emotional and the reverberations of past affairs whip through its building, nooks, alleys, and crannies. New Yorkers feel emotions tenfold. The fanaticism for the things they love and loathe is astounding, and as every caveman suspects - women feel some kind of animalistic attraction to the raging bull.

In a city where fisticuffs over a donut or parking space is not unimaginable, consider the ramifications of love gone wrong. With such electrically charged personas, it is little wonder why Manhattan’s passion is so irresistible, and the subsequent heartbreak is particularly lethal. With a direct line to the muse of sweet pain, tortured poets and artists have favored this city for centuries.

Catching up with a one time big deal ex brought to mind the self control of most L.A. daters: Polite breakups over sushi. Friendly texts on birthdays. Fake smiles and limp hugs. Control is overrated. In New York City, when you board the “L” train, it’s the love express. No stops, no brakes
and full speed ahead.

As I sit in the garden in Manchester, England, on a typically grey and cold summer day, I reflect on my search for the sexiest city. I realize it’s a different town for everyone…

Now I must excuse myself – I’m having tea and Maltesers with a lovely Salford lad. The Urban Celibate just may hang up her habit.

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