The Zipless List

I talked to Red a long time last night. He's as obsessed with his Bolivian as I am my potential Rebound Man. I love Red's tolerance for my obsessions. A great friendship can be built on nothing but the constant flow of hot air—in fact, that's what friends are for. That and fucking each other senseless in the event of the end of the world, crashing boredom, extreme drunkenness or other emergency. But then I'm a pragmatist. I've always said, "If you can't fuck your friends, who can you fuck?"

Maybe that's the rum talking. Maybe it's the sangria. Gods know I've had enough of both in my time to come up with all kinds of unhealthy philosophies.

Fred and Tippy's housewarming was tonight—hence my liver is steeped in rum and sangria. Fred cooked pizzas while Tippy bid on a movie camera on eBay…oh, the fun we have!

On the ride home I obsessed about men as is my current wont to do, beginning with a list of types to sleep with during the next three years of slutty rebounditude. After all, I've got to have some inspiration for this single malt diary of mine. Here's the list so far:

The Loop type (Cee Cee thought I said "lube type.")—a nice boring businessman all cashmere coat and Porsche 911 and fucked-up perversions (you'd be surprised).

Fireman—one must sometimes do the obvious thing. As the great Charles Pierce once said, "Every line can't be a zinger."

Coast Guardsman. This one's in the name of research—the heroine of my series of mystery/romance novels is going to have an affair with a Coast Guard captain in the next book. One can only write what one knows; therefore, I need to get to know a Guard. Really, really well.

The Rebound Man, of course. This one's been eight years in the making.

The Musician type. What goes better with lyrics than music?

The Surprisingly Deep Manual Laborer type. Move my refrigerator and quote Goethe. Sweat up the sheets and pontificate upon the gods of the dust mites. Good times.

The Famous Person type. Me, a Starfucker? Hmm. Maybe once, just for the single malt memory. (Tom Robbins would qualify for this. If anyone knows him and can manage the introduction…)

The Not Quite 21 Yet type. Come on. They're cute, eager, and best of all, energetic.

The list of rejected types: Work-Release/Prison type, Bus Driver type, Junkie, Dealer and/or Pimp type, IT guy type, Superfan type, Stalker type, I Just Want to Get Married type.

The long and short of it is I've got a terrible taste left in my mouth from my years of deadly complacency, being dead in a dull, lifeless relationship. I don't care to stop and analyze, though. Over-analyzing a sex partner only leads to having a long, pointless relationship while I delve deeper and deeper into psychoanalytical psychosis until I can finally extract myself from it. For me, relationships are nothing more than overlong incidents of therapy gone terribly awry.