The Urban Celibate “Dial 011 for Romance”

Posted on 01. Oct, 2008 by in Lifestyle

by Mz Moxy

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.” 

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