Once a week, Daily Intelligencer takes a peek behind doors left slightly ajar. This week, the Female Music Critic Who Named Her Vibrator for a Member of Guns N’ Roses: Female, 39, Seattle, critic, separated, straight.
5:45 p.m. I’m on a date with The Dad. He’s 38, age appropriate and my first attempt at legitimate “dating” on OkCupid. He’s not my usual type, but I was swayed by his classic grunge-band screen name, classic good looks, and the message, “I found your profile to be the most refreshing I’ve seen! … I know it’s the Northwest, but does every picture have to be of the woman holding up her skis, climbing rocks in Belize and making fish lips? Mediocrity rules.” He’s wearing a polo shirt and is probably the most conventionally handsome man who has ever asked me for a drink. After months of me saying to myself “I’m done with boys. I’m ready for men. All I want is Jon Hamm,” the universe has provided a fair enough substitute.
6:37 p.m. I realize I absolutely do not deserve this nice man, because I am a jerk, the kind who lets their inner Lou Reed shame them into hipster decision making. The Dad reveals he drums on the weekends; I take it in stride. I ask about what he’s listening to and when he can’t provide me a title that’s been released in the last two years, I give up. He’s game enough, however, to ask for recommendations and I volunteer to forward him my top-twenty list from last year. Despite his easygoing nature, good job, and maturity, I know in my heart I could never utter the phrase, “I’m going to see my boyfriend’s cover band this weekend.” I accept it’s my shortcoming. I have friends about to D.J., he has another engagement, and we part ways without making further plans. He’s a catch for someone, but that someone’s not me.
7:15 p.m. The Internet provides yet again, and I’m on a date with The Carpenter, 38, a tattooed from neck-to-toe retired Navy guy who does woodworking by day and glass blowing by night. After a near week of heavy text flirting, we meet in my neighborhood for wood-fired pizza and drinks.
8:30 p.m. We are already not clicking when he suggests late-era Danzig as makeout music. He then volunteers he still lives and is sleeping with his ex, along with a long list of troubles he’s having with his landlord. I signal for the check.
8:39 p.m. Driving home deflated and horny, I chastise myself because if he’d instead offered up The Misfits I would have somehow found it in my heart to see past those “other issues” and would most likely be in my car moaning along to “Walk Among Us” right now.
9:25 p.m. I’m about to have my first spontaneous, musically induced orgasm in a good while watching a beautiful band from Tampa that’s about to get signed. Their mix of nineties hardcore and warm washes of guitar are as enrapturing as their sexy guitarist. Dark, thin, and bursting with frenetic energy, he seems to play subconsciously, as if he’s channeling. He proves impossible to look away from.
9:26 p.m. A mix of minor chords and feedback induce a little O. Not the kind you have from touching yourself, but the kind that occurs from reverberation and Marshall stacks. Standing literally slack jawed, I have to remind myself to breathe. Hoping it wasn’t visible, I push my jaw shut and zen out to the band.
10:30 p.m. I invite “Clark Kent” — the bespectacled guitarist who got me off musically an hour before while his band was playing — to get stoned outside the club. He looks 12 years younger offstage than on and immediately starts checking his phone when the conversation veers from his greatness. I can’t decide if I want to have sex with him or bake him cookies, so I head out to see another band.
12:33 a.m. As Mudhoney busts in to “Sweet Young Thing Ain’t Sweet No More,” I’m completely feeling Steve Turner, a man who has made a career out of the sluttiest guitar riffs in the business and is in fact the gentleman who turned me on to bespectacled, indie guitarists who go from smart nerd to sex god when they strap on a guitar.
2:20 a.m. I fall asleep with ringing ears and an aching clit.
8:35 a.m. I wake up edgy with my hearing semi-restored. I reach for my vibrator, who I’ve cheekily named Duff McKagan because it’s long, white, covered with tattoo print and its rhinestone handle reminds me of his carefully frosted tips.
8:42 a.m. Duff has successfully taken me down to “Paradise City.” Twice.
6:30 p.m. The soon-to-be-ex brings my son home and joins us for Sunday “family dinner,” a tradition which we’ve been respectably able to maintain since our split, so our kid still gets at least a meal a week with both his parents. Parents who now get along much better over dinner since they don’t live or sleep together.
2:30 p.m. In an act of what I hope will be good sexual karma and for the greater good of corporate functions, weddings and class reunions everywhere, I make good on my promise to forward along my 2012 faves — Father John Misty, the XX, Alt -J, METZ, Twin Shadow and a few others — to The Dad.
2:55 p.m. I receive an e-mail informing me a speech I’m scheduled to give at a music writers’ conference entitled “My Vagina Makes My Musical Decisions” is slated for 9:20 a.m. It seems a little early for hearing the word “vagina” 30 times in five minutes and I bemoan the bad timing. My vagina doesn’t like to wax on about itself before it’s had at least two cups of coffee.
3:15 p.m. While working on a piece about music and sexism from my comfy home sofa, the Bass Player, 38, hits me up via Google Chat. I’ve been seeing him occasionally for the last eight months and our relationship mostly consists of fighting about records, discussing the merits of Seattle’s premium marijuana, and hooking up when our schedules allow. He wants a little naughty talk to pass the afternoon and teases me with a promise of meeting up next week to see if our epically long bone fests can be synced to Led Zeppelin’s Physical Graffiti in its entirety. I immediately get wet thinking abut Jimmy Page’s guitar tone and my co-conspirator’s perfect, seven-and-a-half-inch, always agreeable penis, and play along for fifteen minutes even though it only takes me about four to conclude my business.
9:35 p.m. After an exhausting day, which included working, working out, accidentally demolishing my cell phone, hanging with my kid, and having guests for dinner, I pass out before I can “welcome myself to the jungle.”
6:05 a.m. I wake up to find “Duff” still softly buzzing in my bed. I note the manufacturer of his current batteries and contemplate sending an appreciation letter.
3:16 p.m. My new phone gets its first text from Mr. Potential, 37, a singer-songwriter who wants to meet up for happy hour and his first Internet date. Our schedules are crazy and we book a date, out of necessity, for the next evening. He’s handsome, seems cool, we know a ton of mutual people, the bands he’s into are acceptable, and I vow, as a step in personal growth, not to deeply investigate his music until after we’ve met.
6:25 p.m. We are two drinks in at a mellow Capital Hill cocktail joint and things are going well. He lives up to his photos and reveals himself to be goofy and sweet-natured.
6:45 p.m. He also reveals he’s three months out of a nine-year relationship. I fess up I’m almost a year and a half out of mine. He also gives it up that he has yet to “rock ‘n’ roll” since his split. I visibly panic. I have no desire to take anyone’s long-term relationship virginity and regale him with tales of what a mess my re-deflowering turned out to be. I warn him to choose someone he can’t get emotionally entangled with, and make it known while I think he seems awesome, I am not up for the task. I assure him it’s for the best, as the last guy who went out on his first Internet date with me ended up marrying me.
7:20 p.m. He gallantly insists on paying the check even though I’ve shot him down. He’s bemused and agreeable when I suggest he check out the band Phosphorescent, sleep with two ladies, and get back to me in three months.
TOTALS: 3 dinner dates; 3 acts of solo masturbation; 1 act of chatsterbation; 1 spontaneous musical orgasm; 2 live bands.
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