Aretha and Nigel

I only remember having sex with Aretha three times. She was a recipient of the Presidential Fellowship at Ohio State, she spoke fluent German (so she said), and she was almost a D.M.A. candidate. I was a newly emergent doctoral student from the American South. Aretha recently had been dating our advisor, and he was not seeing his patients. (I mean students) That first quarter Ted put Alice out on the street. Seems the “Party Was Over” for some reason. I remember she said to me, “He just put me out on the street just like a dog.” Out with the old and in with the new, and the new was a blond graduate student from Belgrade, Yogoslavia. Aretha was pissed, but she got over it. I think it was more the loss of prestige of dating your professor than lack of sex that was more the issue. Ted had a Nazi blond comb-over. You couldn’t really tell, because his youthful energy and vitality made him appear more appealing. Aretha had said, “I would really look at him and ask myself why I was with such an unattractive older man.” There are a multitude of reasons why women prefer older men, but we won’t get into that. Aretha became fair game, but she was not a pushover. I was losing my eyesight while I knew her, so she was dismayed with my demeanor. I was no longer confident, cocky, and optimistic about life and music, because I was dealing with an unforeseen malady that was causing me to lose my eyesight. I didn’t know at the time this was the only thing causing unrest between us. All women are high maintenance, and Aretha was no different. There was no room for self-pity or even thoughtful reflection on one’s situation. It was “Seek and Conquer!” You better make up your mind 100% what you want and go after it. Sometimes that is what it takes to get a woman. Cruise ship women are similar, and the familiar joke about Italian officers is this. You must tell them over and over you want them. Then they decide when you’ve had enough and submit to having sex with you. It’s their game. The ball is in their court, and that is why I never have chased women on cruise ships. How can a man 44 years old with a successful past record of lengthy monogamous relationships submit to being manipulated by uneducated Eastern European women? The answer is only if your libido allows you. Aretha came before I made that decision, so I was still at the beckon call of intimacy. EEEuuuuoooowwww! Intimacy. Yuck! What’s that!? Oh, the bearing of your soul, all of your weaknesses, your desires, and your innermost secrets. Fuck that. In America the nice guy loses. You have to grow a tough skin to make it in America. I’ll never forget having played a few gigs at the Hyatt Hotel in downtown Columbus, Ohio. Rob Ricin, the singer/guitarist that had the house lounge gig told me a D.J. was trying to work his way in. Damn! Just like the dreaded karaoke, Rob had to stand his ground and try to keep what was the last of only a few good steady paying music jobs. When the D.J. left his speakers in the back closet of the lounge, Rob unmercifully poked holes in his “woofers” with a pencil. “Sorry,” he said. All is fair in love and music. I didn’t have a tough skin back then, and I still wanted intimacy after reeling from my break up with Geraldine. I hadn’t made the necessary changes in my emotional and sexual psyche to heal myself from the four or so odd years of clinical depression that manifested themselves upon me with Geraldine’s help. Although it became a nasty break up, and I partly was to blame, she made the conscious decision to hurt me. I had not intended to hurt her. It just turned out that way. She on the other hand, like satan incarnate became a “Maneater.” She tempted me, then she consumed me like a black widow spider eating her mate after he had serviced her. Then she formulated some theory that I had been given everything on a silver platter. My good grades, my acquisition of a Graduate Teaching Associatship, and my diligent study in the field of music were no reasons I deserved success. Her new fiancé on the other hand, “Hit the streets everyday looking for work.” Good luck, Johnny. Have fun driving your shoes and pouring beer all over yourself while the band cooked red beans and rice at their Charleston gigs. It took me along time to figure out why she went with him, and I finally gave up. Who cared? Time to move on. I didn’t have bad feelings about Geraldine, except that I have to. She tried and succeeded in hurting me. I guess it was repayment for what I had done to her. Little did she realize it and a few other factors would contribute to four years of clinical depression and a nervous break-down. I didn’t know it was happening at the time, but I knew the world just ended after thirteen or so years of happiness and success. I had to re-invent myself and my life. Aretha unfortunately was the first woman I had after Geraldine, and it took a few years. Three years exactly without sex. Ouch. (There was one one night stand with a fat, African-American groupie, but that didn’t count) I was still vulnerable, artistic, and introverted as a result of this harmful process that occurred. I was living in a cerebral world of doctoral studies, and although I retained my ability to play jazz on the trumpet in somewhat of a happy fashion, inside I was wanting. I was unfulfilled, as my now next-door-neighbor uttered to me one night after a show we had done together. (She was married, so how was I to interpret that remark?) I should have fucked her, but my mind has always been in control of the little head. “Sometimes Joel you just have to say, ‘What the fuck.’” Although our relationship developed into something more substantial, Aretha and I never were meant for each another. She did not fulfill my sexual desires. In this relationship Aretha wore the pants. She decided when we had sex, and it wasn’t often enough. Of all the times we did fool around, I was never allowed to orgasm. This became like a Seinfeld episode where you were being tested to remain “Master of Your Own Domain.” After we drifted apart Aretha called me a few years later and informed me she was having a procedure performed at the Mayo Clinic where they were going to burn ten dimes worth of “material” off her cervix. She recommended I get tested. I informed her I had been clean for a while before coming to OSU, and her new found beau Nigel must be responsible for her ailment. That was the last time I ever talked to Aretha, but she still does send me a Christmas card every December.