Looking back, my dating career can only be described as, well, checkered. Sure, there were some good guys along the way, but there were also some oddballs too.
When I was about 24, I’d run into a dry spell, when our family friend and adoptive uncle,
Arthur Bean, invited me to come to one of his clubs, the English-Speaking Union. They met in downtown Washington, D.C. The English-Speaking Union is an international educational membership organization, founded in 1918. It’s goal, evidently, is to bring together people of different languages and cultures, by building skills and confidence in communication. Or so they say. It seemed like a a place to meet potential dates.
As it happened, I met a likeable fellow there, Art, who later called and asked me out for a date. We managed to get along for four hours and arranged a second date. After he picked me up in Arlington, he said that his father had had an operation and he needed to stop by if that was all right. Sure, why not?
Art’s father owned a B-rate furniture store deep in the Maryland suburbs called Rancher Roy’s Furniture Corral. I could imagine.
It turned out his dad’s place was in Silver Spring, a fair distance from Arlington and it took some time to get there. We finally arrived and went in the back door of a ranch-style house (!), where we found his father, Roy er, Jerry, lounging on a daybed. No sooner had he stood to greet us then the phone rang. After a minute or two, he said he had to take the call, and ushered us into the living room.

It was a shock when I saw that every flat surface, every wall, floor to ceiling, was covered with pictures of Art’s sister. As you walked into the room you could feel dozens of her eyes following you. Oddly, I noted there was not a single picture of Art. Hmmmmm!
“C’mon in and sit down,” Jerry said, congenially, virtually shoving us onto the couch. Looking around I could see the house was furnished from Rancher Roy’s. Art had managed to pick up a box of matzos as we moved through the kitchen and he opened it now.
“Have I got a treat for you!” Jerry crowed. “You’re gonna love it. I have one of the first TV recorders on the market. Nobody else has ‘em. And this movie is gonna kill you. The dialogue is so smart and witty you won’t stop laughing.”

After starring in Deep Throat, Linda Lovelace became
one of the most famous hard porn stars in the industry.
She died of cancer at the age of 53.
Jerry grabbed a box and flashed the cover at us. The movie was Deep Throat.
“No, wait, what?” I stammered. Art said nothing. He was munching on matzos. Each bite produced a shower of crumbs that fell in his lap, on the couch and on the rug.
Hmmm. Note to self. Add messy eaters to the red flag list!
Jerry slipped the video into the slot on the machine and got the movie started. “Don’t you kids worry! I’ll be on the phone in the other room and won’t hear a thing!”
"What the. .” It suddenly dawned on me: His dad wanted us to get it on. What, are you crazy? I turned to Art for support, but he continued to munch matzos, now creating mounds of crumbs on and around himself, and appeared oblivious to our bizarre situation.
About 16 eventful minutes into the movie, Art roused himself briefly and said, “I guess Mom’s home.”
“Your mother is home!?” I asked in alarm. “Art, I can’t meet your mother while we’re watching a porn movie.”
“Oh, Mom won’t care,” he said.
“She won’t? Well, I care. . .”
A petite force of nature swept into the room. Her hair was in a slightly outdated bouffant. She wore light linen bell bottoms and a blousey sweater. She had on a perfume that smelled horribly familiar; oh yes, Emeraude. I recognized it because I'd gotten so many bottles of it from my brothers for Christmas.
“Artie, honey, oh hi, dear,” she nodded at me in acknowledgment. “What are you two doing sitting here with all the lights on?” She went through the room and turned off all the lights. ‘Relax and have a little fun. We’ll be in the back and won’t hear a thing.”
Where had I heard that before?
She left the way she came in a cloud of Emeraude parfum.
I turned to Art. “What is going on? Your parents seem like they want us to have sex. Here on the couch.”
For the first time, he looked at me. “They probably do. They’re excited that I’m dating a younger woman. I usually date women a lot older than me, so yeah, I guess they want me to seal the deal.”
“WHAT!!”
I quickly considered my situation. I hadn’t even had dinner yet, for God’s sake.
“Art, we need to leave, I need to go home,”
“Don’t you want to finish the movie?”
“NO! I want to leave now. You go in and say goodbye to your parents. I’ll put my coat on.”
Art stood up, brushed all the crumbs off his clothes and onto the couch and floor and went back to say goodbye to his parents. In a moment, his mother bustled into the living room.
“Well, we’re so sorry you have to leave so soon. It’s so wonderful to see Artie with a woman his age.” She looked over her shoulder and whispered, “I don’t know why he likes women 20 years older than him, but this is a great good start to break that bad habit”
I muttered some vague niceties and finally got Art out of the house.
“Don’t you want to go to dinner?” He asked as we drove into the night.
Between Linda Lovelace and his parents, I’d lost my appetite and had Art take me home.
We saw each other one more time. His behavior or his lack of behavior at his parents’ house troubled me. But we had no sooner sat down for lunch at a table in the original Clyde’s of Georgetown than he started to pick on me.
“Why can’t you dress like that woman over there.”
I looked around and saw a woman of about 50. “That woman over there?”
“And why don’t you wear your hair in a more sophisticated still like the woman next to her!”
After two more comparisons to much older women, I struck back. “Because I'm not ninety years old, that's why! What’s the matter with you? You think it’s okay to watch porn at your parents’ house – with them there—and now think I’m just not old enough for you? I guess your mother was right.”
Before he could respond I leapt up. ”We’re done. Don’t you ever call me again!” I tried to march out of the restaurant in indignation, but it was so crowded I was slowed to a crawl as I headed to the front door and trying not to look my shoulder to see if Art was watching.
When I got on the street I realized I had no money at all and would have to hoof it home. No cell phones, no ATMs, nothing. Now I understood the old phrase “Mad money.”
I was mad all right, but I didn’t have any money.
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