I was sixteen or seventeen the first time an attractive older lady took hold of my penis.

I’d driven to my annual checkup for the first time, only having recently passed my license examination. In that, there was a small sense of pride, my duty as a growing and maturing human becoming less and less contingent on the aid of others (read mothers). I was becoming a man.

I entered the examination room full of spirit. Greeted by my doctor, I told him I was feeling well and had a short conversation about school results both academic and sporting. He politely asked if I would mind if a medical student administer my check-up. Thinking little, I accepted his suggestion and in walked a stunning young woman, raven haired and straining the buttons of her lab coat.

“Be calm,” thought my teenage self, “be calm.”

My examiner might too have been a tad nervous. Of course, her issues professional and not riddled with fantasy.

Her clinical paces through the general medical points were swift. My mind given little time at all for sordid imagination, we progressed to a vital point.

“Remove your trousers, please.”

Fuck. Fear struck. True adolescent fear. A cold shiver up spine, I delivered on the request if for nothing but standard doctor/patient procedure.

She took hold. She asked me to cough. She looked up. Then, she spoke.

“Don’t worry, it will get bigger. “

Here’s a top ten list of things (done/experienced) in 2010 -

10. Discovering the Jewett City, CT flea market. Open each and every Sunday, the Jewett City Flea is everything the Brooklyn Flea is not… though, oddly enough, there are always several people dressed like Mark McNairy.

9. Publishing an article about my sobriety and love of alcohol free beers. Many thanks are due to Ms. Kaity Velez, EIC of Antenna Magazine, for allowing this to happen.

8. Eating Mac & Cheese at Zingerman’s Roadhouse in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Several kinds of mac and cheese available there. All are amazing.

7. Seeing Garth Brooks in Las Vegas. In a year where I saw Slayer, Jay-Z, Lady Gaga, and 178 rappers, Garth Brooks proved to be the best concert in the WORLD.

6. Touring with Stalley and Camp Lo. If someone had suggested I would go on tour with a platinum selling rap group early in the year, I would have laughed in their face.

5. Driving a 1985 Chevy Monte Carlo SS. While on the tour mentioned above, I drove an ‘85 Monte Carlo SS. I love big box Chevys. (Conversely, I do not like Chevy’s Mexican Grill).

4. Having ESPO draw me a tattoo. On Super Bowl Sunday, I told ESPO he could draw anything he wanted for a tattoo on my chest. I now have a portrait of Einstein, designed so that my hair simulates the scientists own locks. Peter Williams is partly responsible for this activity, and for the end result I am forever grateful to him.

3. Dinner at Peaches Hot House, Bedstuy, Brooklyn. The other meal I ate in Brooklyn was at Brooklyn Fare, recipient of 2 Michelin Stars and considerably less amazing than Peaches. My companions on that night – my Brother, Gary, Magdi, and Simon – were equal to the food.

2. Meeting Dana Brunson. Mr. Brunson is a tattoo legend and a class act. We were both judges at the 2010 New York Tattoo Convention. Sitting beside him was an honor and a privilege.

1. Celebrating my birthday. Due the generosity and hard work of Adrian King Carter, three of my favorite rappers (Kokayi, Oddisee, and Stalley) performed at a free concert to celebrate my 30th birthday. Words cannot adequately describe how much this meant to me. Special thanks to all those involved in making the day a reality. It would only have been better had Wale not attended the after party.

Here is the text of an email I wrote two ladies in early 2009. (I am currently very, very bored).

—————————————————————————

The other day I opened a package of crisps marked “fiesta size.” I laughed to myself, thinking “ah, but I am a party of one.” I told my brother. He found it funny. I told my mother. She asked if I was doing ok.

Two responses. One circumstance. Raising a question – Why do I think actions that can be read as “sad” are so hilarious? Being a bit like Adrian Mole, it might be obvious. I raised my own comic understanding tied to the most pathetic characters. Bottom, for example, depicts two absolute losers. My brother and I love it. My mother absolutely hates it.

The episodes including party scenes are not unlike an average day at my house, except they are driven by false hopes. Why should opening a “fiesta” size bag of chips make me laugh? There are no false hopes, I am simply buying bulk for economic reasons, only later realizing that the marketing of such a product delivers an internal slap in the face.

Am I overeating? Acting in a glutenous fashion?

America is predicated on buying foodstuffs that are way too large. A big gulp soda does not tell me to share. A kingsize candy bar never says, “this must be broken in half and consumed with others.” Chips (especially tortilla chips) directly say, “open this and invite all your mates down to your yard for a party.” All other consumables celebrate my desire to BUY BIG. Why must crisps tell me otherwise?

For one, I’m offered a “grab bag.” In fairness, this size is considerably larger than a single serving should be, and much larger than the average package in a Walker’s variety pack. Like a “fiesta” size, a “grab bag” implies that I should eat every crumb in a single session. They both suggest that opening a bag of chips is a function of how many people will eat and how quickly.

Family size I have little problem with – yes, a large bag should serve several folks. But, “fiesta” somehow makes the whole scenario very amusing. Food should not mock me.

Yet it does, and the opening of a large package of crisps appealed to my comic sensibility. This is born from joy in juxtaposition. Not false hopes, as mentioned above, but the positioning of reality vs. promise.

Two years ago, my best friend performed at Nashville’s Grand Old Opry.

No, he’s not some super talent. He’s not even in a professional band. But, He was, in that year, a backup singer in the 3rd best corporate cover band in the entire world.

Created in 2001, the Fortune Magazine Battle of the Corporate Bands was formed as beneficial partnership with the Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame. A “celebration of musicians with day jobs,” the event let’s normal desk jocks feel like rock stars a few nights a year.

My friends band, D7, had its own set of groupies, (granted, the leather pant clad gals were married to members), they played bar gigs, and they even cut a demo. On one track, the drummer struggled through Hinder’s “Kissed By An Angel,” his tone frighteningly suggestive of past infidelity. Equipped with warm up gigs, cds, and even a little merchandise, the D7 (first letter of company name + number of members = sure sign these folks don’t work in creative) team marched through 2 regional “battles” and 1 legal battle to claim a position in the Nashville finals.

Regretfully, I couldn’t make it to Nashville.

I write this, thinking about cover songs… and thinking a little about what I’ll say at this particular friends upcoming wedding. I used to introduce him to girls as a member of the “3rd best cover band in the world.” I thought it funny. They usually thought me odd. And, you won’t be surprised that my friends future wife met him when I wasn’t anywhere close.

Wedding speeches can cover quite a lot of ground. Key moments in friendship. Embarrassing stories. Generic toasts.

In may ways, they are not unlike those songs people gravitate towards as covers. Something too heartfelt… like an ill timed Hinder cover… comes off too personal. One wants to hit the high points, and keep things light. Keep, as they say, the party moving forward.

When singing a cover song, much like giving a wedding speech, it is about a certain emotional distance. One must be engaged, but not veer too far from the expected.

Over the Summer, I saw Phil Collins perform Motown covers at Roseland Ballroom. I’ve rarely witnessed such shear self indulgence, each song allowing Phil full opportunity to butcher a classic… and make it sound exactly like a Phil Collins’ track. His rationale for the tour was full of genuine admiration – these were the songs he grew up with – but the end result pushed reverence out the door in favor of self-aggrandizement.

Lesson learned – treat a wedding speech like a good cover song. Respectfully, and sounding like the expected original. Do not, under any circumstances, turn it into an individual platform or draw from the example of Phil Collins.

To end, below is my favorite cover, period. These guys, the Broviet Union, are quality.

You are a great man, Cheddar Ted.

Do first kisses mean anything?

My first proper kiss, one outside the playground, occurred on a dock, beside a lake. I recall the lady saying something about skinny dipping. I may or may not have said, “or, we can just get naked here.” Then we made out in a super awkward fashion for a period of time much longer than I’d like to honestly reveal. Funnily enough, nobody got naked.

That begins a story of great inconsistency. In my 29 years, and in enough situations, I’ve kissed a few different women for the first time. I don’t have a “move.” Or, a style.

Do other men have methods to this? Fool proof choreography that anticipates the peculiarities of a new partner, and balances passion and tenderness. (Are men supposed to think about tenderness?). What is at stake with a first kiss? Something? Nothing? Everything?

Sadly, a good portion of my first kisses came in college, while grossly intoxicated. In these cases, the first kiss was empty (the end result isn’t important here) and devoid of any relational aspiration. In meaning, the kiss was wasted. An aimless action undertaken in a most baseless form of lust.

There is, of course, nothing wrong with those experiences. They don’t differ greatly from my true first. While they are technically first kisses, given the divorce from potential romantic entanglement there is no reason to rehash them all here.

After a wild college life, I moved to the respectable world of graduate school. Several weeks in a nice girl asked me if I owned the documentary Scratch. Perhaps she was interested, perhaps the question arose because I was wearing a Rob Swift t-shirt (totally unlikely), or most probably it came because she was interested in me (I wouldn’t have noticed, I read signals like a blind man). In any event, I did own Scratch and we watched it together in her apartment. After the final credits, feeling quite bold (thanks beer!), I asked her if I could kiss her.

She said yes. We ended up dating for quite sometime.

Our eventual breakup also coincided with my decision to sober up – for the record, we did not break up because of my drinking… but we may have broken up because of a steadfast desire to regularly attend the NBA All-Star Game – leaving me with both room for new first kisses and without the crutch of Dutch courage for aid.

My next two first kisses happened in kitchens. Both times the kettle was boiling. Both times I was incredibly attracted to the woman in question. Once I said, “I could kiss you right now.” Once I said, well, nothing.

At the time of each kiss, I very much wanted to date both women. One relationship lasted two months and died thanks to a trip to the NBA All-Star Game (a theme, you’ll note, is developing). The second lasted a hair over a year. It ended with heartbreak and the loss of a very loyal dog.

A kiss near boiling water won’t happen again.

But, looking back I think about timing. In the case of the later kiss, the moment had been preceded by the following email – “Hi, I feel that you sometimes think about making out with me. I just wanted to let you know I’d be amenable to that. Best, Nick.” The lady responded, “You are very funny.” And, thanks to not being an idiot for once I read the signal correctly.

She had wanted to make out with me.

In her freezing kitchen in the early afternoon of New Year’s Eve, we kissed for the first time. In that instance, the experience must have been far better than either of us imagined, for it was the true beginning of a real romance. We very quickly became star crossed lovers.

It remains one of very few times with that lady I look back on with fondness.

The kiss balanced some degree of anticipation with a deft capturing of the moment. It was cold, an embrace made sense… a mutual attraction led to the inevitable.

Imperfect, yes, but still combining elements I feel important to the first kiss.

Anticipation. Attraction. Surprise.

I’m not hanging out in bars anymore. I’m not drunk enough to kiss at random. I’m turning into, what some men might call a pussy, but I’m happy to believe is an adult.

Still, I wonder what is at stake with a first kiss.

Something? Nothing? Everything?

Experience hasn’t taught me much beyond the feeling kissing a good looking girl is a nice one. I’ve never had a first kiss that would accurately chart the course of a long-term relationship. Should it matter? Should it provoke worry?

Or, should the first kiss always just be as awkward as that rather sleazy time on a lake side dock? Filled with lust, the potential for passion, and plenty of room for improvement.

Esquire used to have a column I enjoyed called “Women We Love”. (Still might, haven’t picked up the magazine in years). I remember one contribution by English comic Frank Skinner well. Skinner wrote an ode to Sporty Spice, a women who was probably at the bottom of most “best looking Spice girl” lists. (Coincidentally, my brother thinks she is “dead sexy”).

Skinner’s mature response to the column has stuck with me for some time. I read it at the time I realized that it was possible to fall for women that are not universally acknowledged as attractive, the moment when you discover personal peculiarities in your taste in ladies.

While I don’t have a “type” just yet (or perhaps don’t realize I do), I’m unmistakably drawn to women like Juliet Elliott, a feminine tomboy type who rides bikes and looks remarkably cool doing it. She also has three things that always work with me – a charming smile, decent enough tattoos, and super legs. I imagine, also, Ms. Elliott has a good sense of humor.

Aside from riding bikes for Charge (and running Final Agency), Elliott also has a line of lip gloss. I forwarded along a press release related to this line to a friend earlier in the week, suggest that I have a crush on Elliott and might send her an unsolicited love letter. My friend, a charming lady, seemed to think that a sound plan.

I don’t.

As such, I have taken the cowardly approach and made Elliott the first of my own “Women I Love” columns. All of the featured women will be the type that are likely to break my heart (if given the chance) and none will be particularly famous. The major issue with highlighting less than famous women is that I will come off looking like a stalker and a creep.

So be it, I am too old to allow attraction to be completely unheard. And, still too young to accept the pain of out and out, face to face rejection.