For The Love Of Success

Last weekend I nailed a young brunette hottie 12 years my junior.

We met at a wine bar in Newport Beach. Bored and companionless for the evening, I had decided to go out on my own. I stood at the bar, drinking cabernet sauvignon, watching a recording of the Germany-Greece football match from earlier in the day. I can appreciate good wine--I was practically raised on the stuff--but I'm just not that into it. Still, female wine drinkers can be an amusingly superficial, silly lot and wine bars tend to attract a certain kind of young woman. Years of hitting the upscale bar scene alone or with a friend or two have made me extremely confident in this environment.

Surrounded by an orbit of flirtatious women in tight clothing, whose interest in me was as obvious as their perfume was strong, I noticed her sitting with another girl at a nearby table. When her friend momentarily got up and left, I walked over, smiling, wine glass in hand. She looked like a much younger version of the actress Marisa Tomei. I said something that made her laugh, ordered her another glass, and then said we should get two seats at the bar where I could watch the end of the game. Her friend returned briefly, and then said her goodbyes. Later, over a bottle of pinot noir, we discovered shared tastes in politics, movies, and sex. She was recently separated, she told me, and lived nearby with a roommate.

She tried to spring a jealousy shit test on me. When she started chatting with two young men at a nearby table who had been staring at her, I merely laughed and gently encouraged her. They were friendly chaps and the conversation soon turned to Euro 2012. When one of them made a suggestive remark to her, she rubbed my back and replied: "No, he doesn't get jealous". Which is true. From that moment she couldn't take her hands off me, slowly rubbing her hips on my thigh or stroking my large, tanned forearms.

At my place she stood in the library, glass of water in hand, admiring the books, framed prints, and various exotic souvenirs, occasionally asking a question about one item or another. We soon kissed, undressed, and went upstairs. She smelled deliciously of coconut body oil. In between bouts of sweaty sex, where I pounded her into the bed, she discussed her failing marriage. She made a comment that I found very interesting: "I don't want a man to feel as if his happiness depends on me." Obvious, of course, but the reminder alone was worth the soaked, stained sheets. It is something that all men, expecially single men, should take to heart and be reminded of now and then. One's happiness does not depend on a woman, but rather on achieving success in other arenas, at the office, on the sports field, in the studio, or in battle. Satisfaction comes from manly accomplishment. Stay focused and take your own side first. Put yourself above all--and women will, too.

That was several days ago. I haven't contacted her since. I did find an elastic hairband of hers on the floor behind the bed, which I disposed of in case certain interested parties found it. But last night, as I was draining the last cocktail of the evening and getting ready to head upstairs to bed, she texted me: "I've been thinking about Friday night. I want more of what you've got". Stay tuned.