1151 days into self-imposed celibacy ended recently with a (long overdue) bang. From this excursion into deserted tundra, I have been blessed with ninja-like intuition and Quattro Razor sharp insight. Not unlike Jim Morrison the Lizard King rebirthing in the desert sun, through two years of abstinence, I have been divined with supernatural powers of relationship perception– sans the two scoops of peyote. Forsaking the distant cave dwelling where many Sikhs choose residency, my hideaway guru-pad is perched in West Hollywood – not on a remote mountaintop, but just off of Melrose Avenue on a slight incline.

For readers of The Urban Celibate, this is certainly a momentous occasion. As a friend once said, “When it’s wrong you can’t do anything right, and when it’s right, you can’t do anything wrong.” Every now and then a person comes along that is just too good to miss.

During my extended solo flight, I had two major fears. One was that I would shake my newly found sturdy foundation by finding another big love. The darker fear was that I wouldn’t. Indulging in routine fears and misconceptions is an unaffordable luxury when something worthwhile is on the line. At the end of the day, nothing good comes from fear. This situation despite its complicated logistics, has come about quite easily. This makes me think that I wasn’t celibate for all that time – I just didn’t tinker with what I knew was going nowhere. I’m a high roller, but only if the stakes are dear.

In a quick fire turn into the relationship zone, this holiday season brought many new Yuletide experiences…including but limited to, meeting my boyfriend’s family. I had approximately six weeks to mentally fortify myself for this mission, and started prep work early. As previously stated, my handsome lad is British, and from the North, specifically. Northerners have a reputation for being quite rough and tumble, contrary to the ‘tea and crumpets’ Englishmen that Americans normally envision straightening their cravats.

Before I headed over to the Motherland, I packed three dresses below knee-level to maintain my matronly modesty at Christmas dinner with the brood. I funneled what would have been a six week anxiety wave by obsessing, in a displaced fashion, of what to get Mum Yvonne and Father Terry for Christmas. This became a game of wits and immaturity with my gay best friend, Charles J.

Every morning Charles J would call and ask, “What are we getting the family for Christmas?” Los Angeles mementos, digital photo frames, high tech ice scrapers, bottles of wine, and Hickory Farm gift baskets all found their way into the suggestion pool. None seemed personal enough, without being presumptuous to be the right choice.

While sure, a vacuum-pack machine to keep meats fresh during an impending nuclear crisis would be especially handy, but does it really convey that personal touch? Being too intimate might seem like I’m stretchin’ out the old calf muscles for a sprint down the wedding aisle. Striking this delicate balance was particularly challenging, and eventually gave way to nightmare fantasy scenarios of the most inappropriate gifts one could bestow upon meeting someone’s family for the first time.

The fact that we’ve never met lends itself to the believability of all sorts of bizarre behavior, sparking hilarious imagined Yuletide scenes. Little Drummer Boy would crackle on the old time radio with the aroma of freshly spiced cider wafting through the house. Yvonne would delicately open her gift, saving the paper for later. To her surprise, it’s a framed 8 X 10 full color glossy headshot of me in a black turtleneck, spandex leggings and white Capezio shoes, with my signature over-the-shoulder pose as I wink at the camera. In the weeks preceding my family visit, these scenes became increasingly twisted imaginations. Eventually, through much analysis, Charles J and I scientifically determined that the most effed up present one could give a new sweetheart’s parents would be a leather gimp mask and a Thomas Kincaid Christmas card.

Meeting the folks is a universally
unnerving experience, and for good reason. Impressions form quickly, and rarely bounce back from disapproval. It’s a serious gesture of commitment, and facing a protective mother is voluntarily throwing oneself into the lion’s den; and as a right of passage in any serious relationship, most of us will face our moment in the coliseum. GULP.

Elaine

Oh the sweet words of advice from Dear Old Mom. There was no suggestion of having a conversation about my feelings and working it out with my friend. There was no question of, ‘Why do you feel she is flirting with your boyfriend?’ The opening and closing arguments, verdict and judge’s sentencing went down in less than ten seconds. “You can’t trust her, dump her,” was repeated ad nauseum in the ensuing conversation. The gavel had been slammed. Case closed, no chance for appeal.
The fact is, becoming half of a couple and introducing your sweetheart to your circle of friends is bound to ripple the waters. The change in dynamic just might bring to the surface some character traits (and flaws) that were previously unnoticed. A few friends might be envious of your new romance and begrudge your sudden absence, and others may do the most harm when they spout out well-meaning advice.
Be mindful of the details you share and the company you keep. Friendships are never static; they react to changes in location, lifestyle, and many times profoundly to another entity entering the picture, which is bound to compromise your time and attention. And if you happen to be the town minx who enjoys getting your flirt on with a friend’s boyfriend…don’t make my Mommy rearrange your face. “Dating Advice from an Italian-American Matriach, Part 1”

Will I be ‘tempted by the fruit of another?’  1091 days…and counting. But not for much longer, according to the frank wisdom of my Magic Eight Ball. When asked if the Urban Celibate might end the spell of abstinence, it answered: “All Signs Point to Yes”. After a second opinion from the Oujia board, I’m sure to match undergarments from now on, it’s high alert.

What starts off as a chance meeting at the discothèque in London with no expectations might just quickly turn into a charged scenario. A friend warned me: “When you have a long distance relationship, you don’t really get to experience life with that person on a realistic level. Emotions are heightened, and these relationships don’t usually last. You’re missing the normal everyday things like paying the bills and taking out the trash.” 

Make sure your seat belt is securely fastened, and keep your arms and legs in the vehicle at all times. You are about to board the oldest rollercoaster known to modern traveler, the long distance relationship, a.k.a., the L.D.R. ‘No shame’ is the game as multiple calls are placed to airlines, national health services, and travel agents in begged efforts to extend your trip and spend more time with your foreign sweetheart. After you’ve exhausted your travel cash and ignored all responsibilities on your home turf, you realize there is no choice but to get on the plane and resume life as you knew it. The packed suitcase and tearful ‘see you soon’ is, in reverse dramatic form, just the beginning. 

The resulting temporary insanity is par for the course, and the flight crew returning you to the clutches of doldrums will have their work cut out for them. It is now that I would like to confess and apologize to Pauline at British Airways for my scandalous behavior on flight 023 from Heathrow to Los Angeles.  I know it wasn’t Pauline’s fault that I was being ripped from the lip lock of the Beautiful British Boy, but her loveless attitude didn’t help matters. 

By the time I boarded the plane back to the States, I had been awake for three solid days. Prolonged lack of sleep has been known to cause psychosis, and citing this loosely based fact, I cannot be held responsible for my actions. Exhausted, I was unable to move as everyone stood in line to board the aircraft. I waited until I was able to glide in, after luggage was stowed and my fellow passengers were safely funneled into their seats. I soon fell asleep and sometime later I woke up to an odoriferous assault of the senses. 

The German woman sitting in front of me had spewed bratwurst all over her row and my computer bag was caught in the crossfire. I made a spontaneous executive decision and cuddled up (in what I felt was my rightful place) in a bed by the window in the plush Club Class section. I had barely kicked off my Go Go boots when I made the mistake of flagging down a stewardess to explain my situation. My designer computer bag was vomited on, which, in a bizarre domino effect made me feel nauseous as well – but there was no cause for concern, as I had worked out my own accommodations. 

Color me surprised when she didn’t thank me for my quick thinking – and actually sent me back to my original seat. This was a British crew, and I still maintain that if they had been American (and thus, more aware of possible litigious grounds), I would have been fed frozen grapes in the cockpit. 

The second time I crashed the Club section, I drifted into the most serendipitous dream of eating chocolate in an English garden with my beautiful British boy. I was jarred awake by the sharp poke of an overzealous male flight attendant who seemed to take my shenanigans personally, like he owned the friggin’ plane. “You’ve been asked to leave the Club section once before. This is the second time. One more time, and we will alert the captain,” he snipped. Tattletale. Jeez, Louise. I grabbed my things and reached for the plush Club section comforter and he quickly defended the integrity of the blanket. “That blanket belongs here. In Club Class.” Even though I was grifting my way through the eleven hour flight, frankly, I did not care for his brand of customer service. Even though my actions were shameful, I feel I earned my place in Club Class by simply providing several hours of in-flight live entertainment and fodder for future team-building gossip sessions. 

Clearly I did not deserve such persecution, and was in fact, entitled to some kind of congratulatory guest experience. I felt I was doing my part for global relations with my L.D.R. The gentleman I was courting was a citizen of an allied country, and international bonds were strengthened with my mission as an ambassador of love. 

I hereby offer my apologies to Pauline, the flight crew, and fellow passengers for my emotional free fall on flight 023. Cruising at high altitudes of emotions and physical heights is not without its dips and falls. What I don’t regret is riding this ride. The L.D.R may be dramatic, intense, and unreal, but sometimes an opportunity is taken simply because it is too exciting to pass up. For even the most cynical, such romantic possibilities are irresistible to explore. Sometimes the most crucial goal is to open the heart, and however that happens is irrelevant in the end. The long distance romance may not be relationship by numbers, but I can live without someone taking out the trash.  

Days turned into weeks, which turned into months. The dates of 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?’  1061 days…and counting. Believe me, I’m counting. 

My days as the Urban Celibate are numbered. For the past few months, I have been hard at work, wiping the sweat from my brow in the laboratory of love. With my white jacket and latex gloves, I have concocted numerous hypotheses on the bizarre alchemy otherwise known as sexual chemistry. Leaving behind my test tubes, I have sought firsthand knowledge in the outside world of intra-species dating. 

As testimony that even the most cynical can melt within the clutches of romance, note the sickly sweet tone of this column. The bigger they are, they harder they fall. George Carlin said that all skeptics are disappointed optimists. Similarly, most of the ardent anti-relationship proponents I know are those who, when they fall in love, do so with reckless abandon and hapless results – yours truly included.   

Enter an individual we will call Beautiful British Boy (BBB). Handsome, funny, thoughtful – and with the audio-aphrodisiac of a Britalicious accent, this chap was custom built and Europe-sent for my Anglo-fetish. My shameless love for the English is well known with family and friends, and bears deep roots in my romantic psyche. At age six, I discovered the 1967-70 Beatles Compilation in my parents’ collection, and became transfixed with not only the music, but the images on the album fold out as well. 

My obsession at first sight with Paul McCartney would become my primary topic of conversation and interest for the next several years. I knew I had fallen in love with a man from another era, but I had not ruled out the possibility of time travel. To be a child of the 80’s in suburban New Jersey obsessed with the Paul McCartney and subsequently Wings…not a popular preteen life choice. 

I distinctly remember chanting as I attempted to mentally transport myself into McCartney’s beach house, which was pictured on the inside cover of his Pipes of Peace solo album. My mom walked into my bedroom and I recoiled in humiliation. Like many other girls, (although said girls existed in a different space and time continuum…) swooning to McCartney’s melodies brought with it a lifelong fantasy of the ever gallant and slightly fruity Englishman of my dreams. 

Paul and I broke up when I was in the fifth grade and I sold all of his albums and cassingles. I had seen the reports on television. Paul had been busted for the possession of marijuana in Japan. I couldn’t believe my doe-eyed hero was more like a dope-eyed user. I thought those books I read depicting his alleged drug use were just examples of what I deemed “yellow journalism”. I denounced our love and swore never to utter his name again. Paul & I later reconciled during my senior year of high school. 

The UK does three things to exquisite perfection: music, chocolate, and boys. I wonder why I ever ditched out in the first place. Tax on tea is inconvenient, sure, but I think we may have overreacted a tad. But it’s all groovy now. Our countries have patched it up since then. We’ve been buddies for awhile – and members of a mutual admiration society. They rightfully love America as much as we love them. As intrigued by Beautiful British Boy’s culture as I truly am, I KNOW he’s thinking, “Blimey, I nicked me a fab
American Girl. Brilliant.” 

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.

Days turned into weeks, which turned into months. The dates of 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?’ 1001 days…and counting. Believe me, I’m counting.

I have emerged from my cocoon a stealthy warrior, fit for battle on the dating scene. My pilgrimage into celibacy has afforded me sage knowledge and wisdom into the hearts of man and womankind. Never before have I seen so clearly my own folly and the mistakes of others in the bloody quest for companionship in the modern age. A few months ago I decided to test my skills in actual combat, and the following are my formidable opponents.

The Contenders: (in no particular order…)
The Rock Star Stylish Hipster (#1)
The British Music Manager (#2)
The New Jersey Ninja (#3)

Hipster (#1) is on the wire for every social gathering east of La Brea. Through this association I learned that this is the Mason-Dixon line dividing hipster and mainstream. I personally thought the impasse would be the 323 / 310 crossover, but I have been informed that L.B. calls the shots. In fact, I saw a t-shirt that depicted the La Brea & Sunset intersection with an arrow pointing east that read “Cool”, and an arrow pointing west that screamed “Lame”.

Although I admire the self-adoration of such graphic design, I will point out that the funky belt buckle is only cool the first 100 times you see one. And while body lice from unwashed thrift store duds can provide ample companionship, I prefer my clothing parasite-free. Weho pride!! Regardless, hipster is an adorable straight boy with a respectable ascot collection which is highly appealing to my stylish sensibilities.

B.M.M. (British Music Manager #2) is sweet as sugar, but due to his world traveling un-proximity, is sadly taken out of the race. New Jersey Ninja is an interesting character. However, this spiritual warrior is a lone wolf. Having no close friends outside the ninja circuit is cause for concern. A cultlike clan of cotton clad ninjas is the last thing I need on my plate right now. As a tool for your convenience and mine, I have compiled a list of questions to cut out the time and expense of going-nowhere dalliances:

Please take out and sharpen your #2 pencils. Completely fill in the circle corresponding to your answer. You have six minutes to complete this test. Start…now. 

Are you married?

Do you have any kids?

Are you a wheel-watcher?

Are you in AA?

Have you had any priors – or do you have any current warrants for your arrest?

Have you been diagnosed with any major mental illnesses?

Are you allergic to shellfish and / or legumes?

Are you an Evangelical Christian?

Are you a Republican?

Are you comfortable around gay men? (If not, please end test now.)

Do you eat pork, America’s other white meat?

(a) Zeppelin or (b) The Beatles?

Is the place you call home residentially zoned?

Have you ever been filmed having sex for the purpose of commercial distribution?

Are you currently rebounding from a psychotic relationship?

Have you ever (not in jest) referred to yourself in third person context?

Do you have any STD’s? (This answer does not refer to your psychic intuition regarding your health status, but rather, the results of medical tests performed by Board Certified General Practitioners.)

(a) Fender or (b) Gibson?

Has a restraining order ever been filed against you?

Please fill in your answers below:

When was the last time you drove a friend to the airport? __________

How many friends are you in regular contact with whom you have known for over ten years? __________

How many minutes of monthly ______ / weekly_______ / daily______ contact do you maintain with your mother?

Exactly what drugs do you do? How much alcohol do you drink? How much of each do you use: daily ______ / weekly______ / monthly______?

On having children, please circle one of the following:
Baby Gap, here I come!! Adult Swim Only

Time’s up. Pencils down. Pass your papers to the front row.

For your test scores, please contact mzmoxy@h-monthly.com, or you can cheat and get the answer key at moxymusic.com. Mz. Moxy is an East Coast broad keepin’ it quirky in the 323.

There is a current phenomenon on the information superhighway called “Rickrolling”. This occurs when one posts a deceptive link to a seemingly ‘must watch’ video clip. The unsuspecting viewer clicks on the enticing promise, only to be falsely led to the 80’s music video for Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up”. As defined by Urbandictionary.com: 

RICKROLLING (rik-rO-ling)
Verb 

A method in which a prankster makes a fake link to the music video of Rick Astley’s “Never Going to Give You Up”. To be Rickrolled is to be the victim; Rickrolling is the act of being the predator. The prank is considered funny because of the horrible dancing in the music video. Sometimes the bartender in the video is seen to be even funnier. Over one million people and counting have been Rickrolled. 

This renaissance O’ Rick has opened my eyes to the magic. Rick has an animal magnetism – there’s no denying it. That deep seductive voice, the greased up red pompadour…these are the unmistakable markings of a supreme Love God. Also in his favor, Rick seems to be very interested in providing long term companionship.

Never Gonna Give You Up 

We’re no strangers to love
You know the rules and so do I
A full commitment is what I’m thinking of
You wouldn’t get this from any other guy

I just wanna tell you how I’m feeling
Gotta make you understand

* Never gonna give you up
Never gonna let you down
Never gonna run around and desert you
Never gonna make you cry
Never gonna say goodbye
Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you

We’ve know each other for so long
Your hearts been aching
But you’re too shy to say it
Inside we both know what’s been going on
We know the game and were gonna play it

And if you ask me how I’m feeling
Don’t tell me you’re too blind to see

(* repeat)
Never Gonna…
Give you up. give you up
Give you up, give you up
Never gonna give
Never gonna give, give you up
Never gonna give
Never gonna give, five you up

I just wanna tell you how I’m feeling
Gotta make you understand

(* repeat 3 times) 

Rick Will Never: 

Give Me Up
Rick’s proclamation is re-assuring, loyal, and passionate. Unless he goes overboard, which prompts me to file a restraining order. 

Let Me Down
Rick does not disappoint. He aims to please, and damn if he isn’t a sharpshooter. Rick always remembers Anniversaries and Birthdays. 

Run Around
Rick is a one-lady man. He’s not one of those sleazy musicians who keeps a tally of every groupie he’s ever banged backstage at County Fairs. I can be sure that if we’re exclusive, he will never betray the sacred vow of our Claddagh rings. 

Desert Me
Rick is not intimidated by abandonment issues. He knows that relationships are all too fleeting nowadays, and believes both parties must “put in the work” for a positive union. 

Make Me Cry
Rick will never chop onions in my presence. He will never rent Terms of Endearment on movie night.

Tell Me Lies
This sword cuts both ways. I had better think twice before asking Rick if my ass looks fat in these jeans. Rick Astley is the George Washington of relationships. 

Hurt Me
Rick would never raise his hand to a woman. He understands that physical violence has long lasting repercussions, and that the scars which hurt the most are the ones that you cannot see. 

Rick, you’ve been right all along. I hope this explains what my heart’s been aching for, which I’ve been too shy to say. I’m never gonna give YOU up. 

Have a question for the Urban Celebate? Are you Rick Astley and want to profess your love for her? She would love to hear from you: mzmoxy@h-monthly.com

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?’ 880 days…and counting. Believe me, I’m counting.