I'm Not Gonna Lie Read online

  How could she know that?

  “Well, that’s . . . amazing,” I said. “You’ve never been to my house, but you’re right: I have a lot of golf clubs lined up against the wall.”

  I could feel my girlfriend looking at me, but I was too freaked out to look at her. The pet psychic stifled a small chuckle. “Golf, yes, of course. She wanted to go with you.”

  “With me? To play golf? The dog?”

  “Yes.”

  Talk about irony. My girlfriend hated when I played, but her dog wanted to go with me. The dog loved golf. That little cute, adorable puppy loved golf.

  “Maybe we should’ve put golf clothes on her instead of dresses. Knickers like Payne Stewart. A tiny golf cap. Little cleats . . .”

  We both started crying then, my girlfriend’s tears flowing as a release, my tears coming from picturing me with the Chihuahua dressed in a tiny golf outfit on the first tee at Pebble Beach. Lee Trevino would’ve fallen over.

  “My baby,” my girlfriend said through her tears.

  “Fore,” I said through mine.

  SEX AT FIFTY OR . . . FRIGHT NIGHT

  SEX after fifty is a whole new ball game.

  In many ways, it’s better.

  When I was younger, I would do anything to get laid.

  Actually, that’s not true.

  I would do anything for the possibility that I might get laid.

  As soon as Friday came, I would prepare for my night out, and I’d obsess over every detail like I was a general planning a war. I’d think where to meet someone to get laid, who to get laid with, what to wear, what to say, and how to act. Should I try to be cool? Funny? Aloof? Interested? Bored? Should I channel Marlon Brando (ultra cool and tough), Richard Pryor (hilarious and sensitive), or Richard Lewis (neurotic and Jewish)? Hey, I’d do whatever it took.

  I paid special attention to my appearance, not the least of my concerns being . . .

  How should I smell? Should I go with your basic manly scent and just use Lava? Or should I roll on Axe? Or do women really prefer men who dab on English Leather? What about my hair? Should I go with the wet look, blown dry, or sculpted with product? And how about clothes? Always a challenge. I’d open my closet door, whip through my clothes like a maniac, and start to sweat. So many decisions, so many choices, so much pressure.

  In the end, none of my preparation or worrying mattered. As I told you, I wasn’t all that successful with women. I’m lying. I went, like, zero for my twenties and two for my thirties.

  As I got older, I gained more confidence and I got luckier. Strange how that happens. Ever notice that the more confident you become and the harder you work, the luckier you get?

  ALL THE WOMEN I DATED SEEMED TO SHARE SOMETHING IN COMMON, ONE SPECIFIC QUALITY: THEY WERE ALL CRAZY.

  As I started going out more, I began to notice a pattern. All the women I dated seemed to share something in common, one specific quality.

  They were all crazy.

  Yes. I was attracted to crazy.

  Or crazy was attracted to me.

  Every woman I dated was nuts.

  And if they weren’t nuts, they snored.

  I could handle crazy. That was easy. I ran like hell or changed the locks or I moved.

  But a woman who snored?

  That was impossible. Because snoring sneaks up on you. You don’t expect it. It’s an ambush in the middle of the night.

  The worst was when I began seeing a woman seriously and I asked her to move in. Then—and only then—did she start to snore. What is the deal with that? Where was the snoring before? Was she holding her breath all night for months before she moved in?

  When I’m talking about snoring, I don’t mean that cute, breathy sexy little humming sound that can be a total turn-on. No. I’m talking about that openmouthed, sour-smelling roar coming out of the face of the person lying next to you that sounds like a garbage truck backing up while grinding its entire load into pulp.

  This woman snored louder than a death-metal band. Try to feel sexy with that noise blowing out of the person who’s unconscious beneath your sheets two inches away.

  The first time I heard her snore, I woke up like I’d been shocked with electricity. I shot right up into a sitting position. I thought the television had exploded. Then I realized that the horrifying sound giving me an instant migraine was actually my recent live-in girlfriend deep asleep, snoring like a jet engine coming in for a landing. I couldn’t sleep in the same bed with her. I couldn’t sleep in the same room with her. Hell, I couldn’t sleep on the same floor with her. I had to sleep downstairs. That’s how loudly and violently she snored. And the moment her snoring went into high gear, my sex drive went into park. Doctors have a name for this condition now: sleep apnea. They suggest going to sleep with a Hannibal Lecter mask over your face. Nothing kills your sex drive faster than sleeping in the same bed as a serial-killer cannibal.

  After I turned fifty, my feelings about sex changed. I was no longer obsessed with getting laid. I started seeing the whole person and not just her body. I wanted to really get to know someone. I wanted to allow a relationship to build. I felt the need to take my time, to relax, to laugh, to connect. As I changed my attitude toward sex, the sex actually got better, and I became a better partner. I think a lot of guys would benefit from changing their approach to sex. How did I do it? Easy. I just related sex to football. Starting with . . .

  If you’re on offense, you shouldn’t always throw the bomb on first down.

  You’ve got to set things up. Try a couple of running plays, mix in a slant, a screen pass, a draw play up the middle. Then go for the end zone. Don’t shoot for pay dirt right away. Don’t get sucked in. Come on; go deep. No. What if you throw an incomplete pass? Or worse, what if you throw an interception? You do not want that.

  Worst of all, if you score too early, you’re gonna end up fumbling.

  Bottom line: Sex after fifty requires a different approach. You have to adjust. Some adjustments occur automatically.

  First, the room is darker.

  Almost pitch-black.

  The darker, the better. I used to like lava lamps and incense. Now I like blackout curtains. My partner may want to see my naked body, but I’ve already seen it, every day, four, five times a day, and trust me, it’s better to keep her in the dark. When I was younger, I could have all the lights on and the windows open and sunlight streaming in. We could do it with a mirror on the ceiling or illuminated by a spotlight or under lights as bright as a night game. I didn’t care. And it didn’t matter when—night, noon, dawn, dusk. There was no bad time. It could be anywhere, too. In a car, a swimming pool, a closet. I didn’t need any advance notice or warm-up, either. I was always ready.

  “What did you say? You want to go now? Great. No, that was plenty of warning. More than enough. Let’s get it on.”

  But when you turn fifty, all that changes. You especially lose spontaneity. That’s one of the first things to go. You have to plan ahead. You need plenty of notice so you can put the booty call on your schedule. You have to tap the ass-tap time right into your smartphone calendar.

  “Honey, how’s Wednesday night?”

  “Wednesday night? Let me see. Well, I have a thing, but it’s not important. I can move it. And that other thing can wait. Okay, yes, Wednesday night will work. Thursday night would be better. And actually, Friday’s even better. That gives me plenty of time to plan and get ready.”

  Yes, sex becomes something you plan. An event. An activity. Hopefully a regular activity. Many therapists and experts on aging suggest that sex is better after fifty if you remove the guesswork. They say you should make a night out of it, preferably the same night every week. Sunday night you have dinner with the in-laws; Tuesday night you bowl; Wednesday night you bang. Once a week seems about right. More than that can put strain on your heart. Less than that can ca
use you to dry up. A weekly booty call gives a guy enough time to gear up, to get his head into the game. Wednesday is perfect. It’s hump day, right?

  A lot of guys count it down.

  “Five more days to go. Four more. Three. Two. Today? Is it Wednesday already? Sex day is today. Wow.”

  This may sound like I’m lying, or that the world has turned upside down, but when some guys turn fifty, they don’t always look forward to the scheduled weekly sex date. As the night gets closer, a feeling of dread hits them. It could be performance anxiety, or feeling the loss of spontaneity, or hating that sex has become an obligation. Or maybe they’re just not in the mood. That over-fifty drop in testosterone can do that. Whatever the cause, when we know that the night has come and calculate what is expected of us, there can be pushback. We don’t want to be told what to do. We’re men. We’re in charge. We’re supposed to be the ones who do the deciding. Yes, sure, that’s a lie. We never had control of sex. But now, after fifty, we start to get resentful. We start thinking of excuses, especially if there’s something good on TV, like a game or a wildlife special or a reality show about bounty hunters or restoring a World War I helmet.

  Some guys try to get out of it. They hope for a tapeworm or some kind of virus. Some guys throw themselves down the stairs. That usually works. Others feign migraines. Or, better, stomach pains. No woman wants to be with somebody who’s got diarrhea. That’s your real out.

  The truth is, it’s really about respect. And appreciation. And commitment. I want to be there for my weekly Wednesday-night party. If you’re in a relationship with a truly caring woman, just being together affectionately, lovingly, intimately, can be all she wants. Of course, if it leads to something else . . .

  I wasn’t always this way. I admit that there were times, especially in my marriage, that I may have been a tad selfish.

  One warm Saturday afternoon in late May 1997—that day still sticks in my head—I promised my wife that I would go with her to a strawberry festival. Now, I like strawberries as much as anyone—nothing wrong with popping a few strawbs into your mouth for a snack, or spreading some strawberry jam on your toast—but a strawberry festival? An entire weekend devoted to strawberries? With games and rides and people walking around dressed up like actual strawberries? Really? Why did I agree to this? What was I thinking? But I’d made a commitment. I promised I’d go.

  Until I found out that Tiger Woods had entered the Byron Nelson Tournament and was playing in a twosome with a friend of mine. Tiger had just won the Masters and was on a roll. I knew he would kick my friend’s ass, but I wanted to see my friend go head-to-head with Tiger. How many times do you get to watch your buddy play with Tiger Woods on national television? I wanted to get comfortable on my couch, pour myself a couple of adult beverages, roll out some snacks, and watch the golf tournament on my big screen.

  I broke the news to my wife. I told her I changed my mind. I was gonna stay home and watch golf. I wasn’t leaving the house.

  “What about the strawberry festival?”

  “Unfortunately, I have a conflict. Something came up. Something unforeseen and unavoidable. I have to watch the golf tournament.”

  “But you said—”

  “I know what I said. And I meant it. At the time. But my friend’s playing against Tiger. Could be a once-in-a- lifetime thing. I can’t miss that. You can go to the strawberry festival without me. You’ll have a better time. I don’t love strawberry cream pie all that much, especially in the heat.”

  “I’m not going without you.”

  “Well, you’re gonna have to.”

  Things escalated from there. Kind of got heated. Shouting, screaming, finger-pointing, name-calling. I don’t remember exactly what we said, but I remember doors slamming and a lot of crying. My wife got upset, too.

  Bottom line: I got my way. My wife went off to the strawberry festival, and I settled in to watch the golf tournament. I found my spot on the couch, kicked off my shoes, aimed the remote and—

  Fffzzzt.

  The cable went out.

  One minute I’m looking at Tiger; a second later I’m staring at a pitch-black screen.

  “Son of a bitch.” I whacked the back of the remote with my palm. That usually works. I tried the TV again.

  Nothing.

  I couldn’t believe it.

  “The damn cable’s out?”

  Whack, whack, whack.

  Nothing.

  Then I realized what happened. “She probably cut the wire.”

  I groaned miserably. I figured this was either an example of my luck or God getting back at me for bailing on my wife.

  I never did see Tiger and my friend playing in the Byron Nelson, but at least I avoided the long lines in the heat at the strawberry festival.

  But to this day—sixteen years later—I gag whenever anybody mentions anything to do with strawberries.

  “Interested in dessert?”

  “Tempt me. What do you have?”

  “Pies. We bake all our pies here. We have apple pie, cherry pie, and our house favorite, creamy, gooey strawberry cream pie—”

  I gag, cover my mouth, and bolt into the bathroom.

  HAVING KIDS AFTER FIFTY OR . . . ARE YOU CRAZY?

  I’VE been blessed to have accomplished a few things in my life, but when people ask me, “What’s your number one achievement?” I always say, “That’s easy. My incredible daughter, Mayan.”

  She’s the best thing that ever happened to me. Everything else is in second place.

  And believe me, I’m glad I became a father in my thirties, because when you’re over fifty, having a kid will age you rapidly.

  That’s the last thing you need—something that makes you older faster.

  If you’re over fifty and you get into a serious relationship with a younger woman, the question of having kids will come up. It’s inevitable. And you won’t like it. One night you’ll be in bed minding your own business, watching TV or sorting through your golf tees, and your girlfriend, wearing something slinky and sexy, will cuddle up next to you and very casually start having “the conversation.” It usually begins with her gently touching her finger to your lip or nibbling on your ear, and then she’ll say something like, “I was just thinking about how wonderful you are and how lucky I am. . . .”

  Uh-oh.

  Get ready.

  Here it comes.

  Pretty soon you’ll hear something like, “I was wondering . . .” and then you’ll zone out. Most of what she says after that will buzz right by you, but a few key phrases will stick, like, “My biological clock is ticking,” and, “Such gorgeous kids together,” and, “I’ll do all the heavy lifting,” and the absolute worst, “You’ll make an amazing daddy.”

  While she’s making her pitch, you’ll be having a conversation with yourself. You’ll be thinking, “Do I want a kid after fifty?” and phrases will start flying around in your head, like, “Having a heart attack playing catch,” “Say good-bye to nooners,” “A half a million bucks for private school, cash, before taxes, cash,” and, the killer, “I’ll be seventy-five when the kid graduates college; I hope I recognize her.”

  I knew a guy in his fifties, Marco, whose twenty-something wife, Terri, snuggled up to him one night and started having the “the kid conversation.” Marco already had grown kids. Terri purred and cooed and nibbled and Marco felt his pulse race, but not because of the purring and cooing and nibbling. He was starting to freak out about having another kid.

  “Listen, I love you,” Marco said to Terri. “I want to be with you, but I’ve already had kids. I really don’t want to have a baby.”

  “You won’t have to do anything except get me pregnant,” Terri said. “That’s it. That’s all I ask. Get me pregnant and you’re done.”

  That didn’t sound so bad to Marco.

  “That’s it?” Marco s
aid. “Hit it and run?”

  “That’s it,” Terri said.

  “Well, I’d be willing to do a bare minimum. You know, like make a cameo appearance in a movie.”

  “Okay, how’s this? I want to be completely honest and realistic. What if I set a limit for how much time you have to spend with her and I absolutely stick to it? How about you agree to be with her for two hours a day?”

  Marco mulled this over. “Two hours a day? And I’m done?”

  “I promise. After two hours, you hand the baby over to me, and you’re done until the next day.”

  “I’m gonna hold you to that,” Marco said.

  And he did.

  His daughter is four years old now.

  “I spend two hours a day with her and then my daughter and Terri know that Daddy’s tired,” Marco told me. “I come home. I roll around with the kid. We spend a quality couple of hours and then I hand her over to Terri.”

  This arrangement sounded crazy to me. I didn’t get it. It sounded both too radical and too good to be true, at least for someone over fifty who didn’t want another kid.

  “Run this by me one more time,” I said to Marco. “You just hand the kid over? How does that work?”

  “Easy. I say, ‘Here, Ter, take her.’ Most of the time I stick around, but sometimes, if I want some peace and quiet, I go to the condo.”

  “I thought you got rid of the condo when you got married. You said it was too small.”

  “No. I kept the condo. It’s way too small for me, Terri, and the baby. But it’s perfect for me alone.”

  I’ve heard of separate bedrooms, or a man cave in the basement or out in the garage, but Marco arranged to have separate houses. Or in his case, a house and a condo.

  “This is kind of like Mad Men,” I said. “You got the big house in the suburbs and the apartment in the city.”

  “Yeah. A crash pad.”

  “I have to admit,” I said, “it sounds pretty good.”