Um, really? Even if the situation is like this one, where the man is going to leave his wife and stay with the woman he left his children’s mother for? These two aren’t even divorced yet! Yeah, I know! Right. They aren’t divorced, and he already has her kids around this woman. That’s wrong in so many ways. Six months is a long time to a high schooler, but to an adult, six months is no time at all to know if the new person is going to be able to meld cohesively into the family. It isn’t even enough time for a person without kids to know enough about someone new. I mean, come on. Advicemama, take some advice and don’t help people screw things up. Waiting for kids to heal and become okay takes longer than six months. I want all the people who commented on her AOL page to come to my advice column at www.fixmylove.com. My Let Letty Help column is the real deal!

Ah, I feel so much better. I am not going to pussyfoot; I have some serious business going on in this D File. Bea dropped a bomb in the last edition, and now there is a plan in the works to find a person who may—or may not—want to be found.

That’s it. Read on. And let us know what you’d do.

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The D Files

Sam I am. But Where I am, or am I? Is Really the Question

Part I: It takes a village

By Letty Livingston

The winter was awesome, and springtime has given all of us here in the city of brotherly love a new perspective on life. I really don’t know if it had anything to do with how bad the economy had gotten and how broke some of us were (and you really found out who your friends were and weren’t), or if it was the groundbreaking, earth shattering, sobering news about Bea, via Tyler, her secret ex-husband (and our ex-stripper.)

If you haven’t been following The D Files novella—which started with Allergic to my Orgasm and introduced you to most of the people in the storyline, then took you to Germany for a few months for lessons on Internet dating, then went through a couple of months of Confessions of a Male Ex-Stripper, and is here now with Sam I Am—you simply must order back issues or check out the snippets at www.mytruelovestory.com. Follow this link to get caught-up on all of the juiciness; just look for my The D Files blogs.

For all of you who have been keeping up—we had the meeting at my place, the meeting that broke the news about Bea and her now “missing” daughter—all of our usual suspects were in attendance: Lisa and Angelica, Nikki and Freddie, Yoko and Tran, Bea and Todd, and Lauren. Yes. Bea and Todd. But Todd didn’t stay for too long because Tyler was there. No, Bea and Tyler have not gotten back together; however, Bea has changed. Honestly, she was like this wildly attractive caterpillar that sucked money—and God knows what else—out of wealthy men. And now that her secret, and the weight of it all, has been lifted, Bea has emerged as this ethereal butterfly.

She somehow has changed, done a complete 180-degree about-face. She was gracious and took Todd, who would have built a shrine as big as the Taj Mahal for Bea, into the kitchen and expressed that his services would no longer be required. I was making guacamole and heard the whole thing. Todd was good about it. He said his goodbyes to everyone and made a quiet exit. I guess when you live life waiting for the other shoe to drop, when it does, it comes as a relief.

Bea was the one who formally introduced the gang to Tyler, though most everyone had already met him or had heard of him. She sat Tyler down between Lauren, who is still single, and Freddie, who has kind of a bromantic inclination toward Tyler already. New news fizzles fast here in Philly, and even news as sexy as Tyler can seem superfluous in the shadow of something as juicy as a baby whose location is unknown.

Bea was calm and even-toned as she recalled the story of how she was lied to by Tyler when they were married. She was playing the good wife, staying home after shaving his back, as he went to shake his moneymaker for lewd and lascivious women. He came home disinterested in sex but smelling like one would imagine a whorehouse would. She talked about how she cried for Tyler to try to get her pregnant. She so wanted a baby with him. He didn’t want one. He always told her she was not old enough to be a good mother.

When Tyler left and never called, she was frantic. She didn’t sleep for a week and had her brother-in-law Guido, who was a NYC detective, look into it. Guido found Tyler in the matter of a few hours. He was at the gym, at the clubs, and at his regular tanning appointments. It was as if he was living life as usual except for coming home to Bea. Guido also found out where Tyler was laying his head at night. He reported to Bea that Tyler was shacking up with some hotshot lawyer’s daughter, in New Jersey.

The news shot through Bea like a lightening bolt. She fell into a state of shock and despair. She began showing up to work late and was in a zombie-like daze. Her boss, a tragically odd and strangely handsome multimillionaire, didn’t want to see Bea in such pain. She told us how he put her up at the Four Seasons in the city and sent her for massages and limo rides to and from work. He began treating her like a princess, which helped her feel a sense of self-worth again.

Then one Friday night, her boss showed up at her suite at the Four Seasons. He was drunk and so was she. He was tired of his life as a dad with two kids and having a wife he was with for the last twenty or so years. Bea was so sick of feeling alone. She let him in, they ordered champagne, and undressed each other. They remained there for the entire weekend—eating, drinking and pretending that they were okay together. There were no empty condom wrappers. Bea admitted to wanting to get back at Tyler. She would show him. She was old enough to be a mother. She didn’t need him. She had a millionaire now.

Bea had moved into an apartment on the Westside in the short span that Tyler was away. When he came back to their home on the Eastside, all of her stuff was gone—closets bare, drawers left askew and with nothing in them, pictures removed from frames, and an unforgettable stillness. Her new place was way out of her league—well, unless it was rent-controlled. But even then, the building was the home to A-list actors and celebrities and some of the cities’ biggest names in the restaurant business.

For a couple of months, Bea and her odd millionaire lived in a state of manufactured bliss. They played house and made love on every square inch of surface area. They went to the Grammy Awards, red carpet openings of new nightclubs and restaurants, and flew to Europe every weekend in his private jet. They lived life in the clouds. They were both afraid to put their feet on the ground; for fear that reality would surge back to them with a vengeance.

After three months of dreamlike luxury and a day after Bea told her millionaire that they were going to have a baby, she was served with a restraining order. She wasn’t to come within 100 yards of her now estranged lover. The locks were changed on the apartment and the doorman had her belongings behind his desk, waiting for her. She called her job, and even her away message was changed. She was out of a job, a home, and out on the street at 19 years of age, in a city that ate up even the strongest of our breed.

She headed east, to her not-so-old nest where Tyler was still living. She buzzed and was let in without questioning. She got out of the elevator and her heart was in her throat. She didn’t want to go back, at least not like this—homeless and pregnant with another man’s child. She pressed the L button and went back down. She wasn’t going to swallow her pride.

Once in the lobby of her old building, she opened her mobile phone and called a friend of her wealthy ex. He was an older man who always ogled Bea, and she knew he had various real estate investments around the city. She was in luck; he answered his phone and was happy to assist as long as Bea knew that she’d have to scratch his back too. Within an hour, she was lying on an overstuffed mattress in a huge apartment in Battery Park. It was an artist’s loft—three thousand or so square feet of the sweetest space in the city with an unobstructed view of the still-standing World Trade Center.

She lived there for a month. She could hardly stand the smell of the old guy who owned the place and visited a few times a week to pick up the “rent.” Then a neighbor introduced her to an Academy Award-winning actor who owned a good deal of real estate in Tribeca. So, she packed her bags and spent some time on the arm of an ostentatious actor. She dodged paparazzi and used only back doors to enter and exit buildings. When her baby bump got too big, the actor’s handlers thought it would be detrimental to his career if she was found to be living with—not to mention sleeping with—this world famous man.

This is when she admitted to calling Tyler. They met at Time Café, and it was tense. She knew she wanted her old, simpler life back. She liked—no, strike that—loved money and all that came with it, but she also loved Tyler and the small, not-so-complicated life they once shared. She told him what had happened. They both made their apologies and then she dropped the question in his lap. She asked if he’d take her back, if he were willing to start anew with her and her baby. He said no. And just like that, they were finished.

Unbeknownst to Bea, Tyler had filed for a divorce. He told her that the papers were being mailed to her grandmother’s home in Philly. She said he did this because no one knew where to find her and that he knew she’d show up at her grandmother’s eventually. A light bulb went on over her head—the idea of moving to Philly sounded wise.

She said goodbye to Tyler and spent a couple more weeks in New York City ensuring that her connections with the rich and famous were intact, and then she hopped on an Amtrak train and showed up at her grandmother’s home in Center City, Philadelphia. Betsy already had a room set up for Bea. She knew she’d show up.

Divorce papers weren’t the only legal documents waiting for Bea. There were a couple of other envelopes, with the names of some noteworthy law firms on them, sitting in a pile. Bea was now seven months pregnant and wasn’t fairing too well. Her OB-GYN told her that bedrest and good eating was all that was important right now and that the less stress the better.

So, Bea let her grandmother Betsy take good care of her for six or so weeks. She didn’t open any of the mail that waited for her. She didn’t want to be divorced when she delivered her baby, even though Tyler would not be listed on the birth certificate. And she couldn’t have possibly imagined that anything that pressing would have found her in Philly.

The day Bea went to deliver her baby was a peaceful one. It was a sunny and cool Sunday morning. Betsy had just come in from service at the Episcopal Church in Rittenhouse Square and had fresh goodies from Metropolitan Bakery. Bea sat up in bed, wiped the sleep from her eyes, and greeted the day with a scream. Her first contraction hit at 10 a.m., and the baby’s head was crowning just past noon. She was pushing and breathing in rhythm in a bright delivery room in Jefferson Hospital, and then it happened. The baby’s shoulders made it out and the rest of her slippery body followed without effort. She wriggled into the world and let out a cry of her own.

The cleaned off baby was placed in Bea’s arms for a moment, and then Bea was told she would need her rest. She let the baby go and slipped into the deepest sleep she had had in over a year.

When she awoke and asked to see her newborn daughter, she was told that there had been a complication, that she couldn’t see her daughter. Bea exploded in fear. She wailed and her body heaved with sobs. She demanded to know how her baby died. She was told that the baby was not dead, but the father had come in with a court order, and the baby was released to him.

A day later Bea was back at Betsy’s, and she tore into the envelopes from the law firms. She saw documents that let her know that she had to attend an arbitration hearing in NYC to face claims that she should not be allowed to have any contact with her yet-to-be-born baby. The other envelope contained a document that stated that since she failed to appear in her own defense, she was found unfit, and the father of the unborn child was given all rights and full custody of the yet-to-be-born child.

We were all left agog! None of us could believe it. Bea told us that she spent the better part of two years trying to get her daughter back, and then tried to get visitation rights. She said that the father of the baby had too much power and money. None of her “friends” would go up against the father of the baby in a courtroom. She couldn’t make a dent in the case. She never saw her daughter since the day she was born.

Bea told us that she named her Samantha, Sam for short, and that she has no idea how she is going to find her, but she is committed to finding her and she wants our help. She trusts us, as her closest friends, to keep her secret and to do all we can to assist her in her search, no matter the cost. She never told us why she kept us in the dark up until now, and none of us asked. There were no apologies. We figured that it was time to tell. All of us have skeletons in our closets. Some skeletons die with us, and some need to be aired out from time to time.

We did the math, and Sam is turning 20 this year. She’s an adult and therefore could be anywhere in the world. We have no idea what she looks like or where to start searching, but with ten brains working on it, I am sure we will come up with something.

I will continue reporting on our progress in our search for Sam. I will keep you up on where in the world our investigation takes us and what happens along the way. I am sure that some danger will be lurking in the shadows, because when powerful people want to keep you away from someone they love, they will go to any length to make sure you don’t get what you want.

Come back next week to find out what first steps are taken in finding Sam, what Tyler is doing to help (and who he is sleeping with, or not), how Bea is coping and if she has returned to being Queen Bitch, and how I use my contacts as an internationally acclaimed columnist to assist in the investigation.

I will be answering my readers’ dating and relationship questions, so send them, along with your comments to me at help@letlettyhelp.com. All submitted material is considered for publication and all names are kept in the strictest of confidence. Come back next month for another installment of The D Files and you can read more of my work at: http://letlettyhelp.blogspot.com/, and www.mytruelovestory.com.

©MMX~Letty Livingston ~ The D Files are intended as inspiring and engaging sources for advice and entertainment and are not alternatives for therapeutic intervention, should it be needed. All names have been changed to protect the identity of the people mentioned herein. The situations are fictitious and do not reflect the lives of any people alive or dead.

Then I told one of the girls that was getting a mani-pedi while I got rubbed-down, and she went and got a rub-down while I got my nails polished. She let the hottie do what he does best and tipped well accordingly. What a whacky morning that was. We told our friends that we met for lunch and we were split on the topic. Half of them wanted the guy’s card (and most of them were in some type of LTR), and the other half thought it creepy… skin crawling creepy, not Freddy from Nightmare on Elm St. creepy. (By the way, I saw Nightmare on Elm St. One-word review: S-C-A-R-Y!)

Anyway, I thought I’d ask you. What do you think? It was only sixty years ago when…

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…a woman could go to a doctor and get one polished-out for her. Doctors, for decades, did that for us. Vibrators weren’t sold to us gals at home, we had to go and let a doctor do us; some didn’t use vibrators to get the job done. They rhythmically let their fingers do the walking, if you know what I mean… And remember, most docs made house calls! Now that is creepy!

Ok, what would you do? No, not if your masseuse suddenly thumbed you. But, what if you had a friend who, over a casual lunch one day, told you that she had a guy (or girl) masseuse that would rub one out for you like you couldn’t imagine; it was so relaxing afterward that you would make weekly appointments, like she did. What would you do? Would you call and try it once? Well, would you? Let us know here. Or, do it anonymously and I will post it for you here. Send your comments and questions in to me at help@letletthelp.com. All names are changed to protect people’s identity and all submissions are considered for publication.

Now onto the D Files: We are getting a bit closer to the marrow of the issue in this one. The secret about Bea’s past, which was never in question in the first place, is coming out. She now has to face the music. Or does she? She can run again! Read on to see if she holds her ground or runs for the hills and we never get to learn the truth.

The D Files

Confessions of a Male (Ex) Stripper

Part Three: Starting the New Year off with a Bang

By Letty Livingston

Let’s catch you up on what’s been going on in town. On a night soon after Christmas, Lisa, Angelica, Nikki and Freddie were out for drinks. Bea showed up late, as usual, and they saw a super hot guy across the room. Bea ran from the table looking like she had just seen a ghost. Freddie brought the hottie over to the table and the girls found out that his name is Tyler and that he is Bea’s ex-husband. None of us knew that Bea had an ex-husband, let alone one that looked like a Ford model.

Angelica got his number and gave it to me. Everyone was relying on me to get to the bottom of what was going on. I called Tyler and we made an appointment—(I almost said “date”)—to have lunch. He and I sat down at Rum Bar the very next day.

He told me how he and Bea met when they were in their teens. He was her first love(r), and they got married when she turned eighteen. He confessed to doing steroids and lots of drugs and drinking. Tyler also told me he was a stripper and that he slept with many of the women who came to see his show. He said he left Bea for a few weeks to be with a woman who looked like Julia Roberts, and that Bea was “consoled” by her oddball millionaire boss.

Tyler told me that this millionaire left his wife and kids to be with Bea and then got Bea pregnant. When Bea wound-up carrying his child, he went back to his wife. Bea went to Tyler to see if he’d take her back. He didn’t. He left her alone, carrying some rich guy’s baby. They got divorced, and twenty years later, Tyler was back in town to find out what happened to Bea and her baby.

Holy Smokes! None of us had ever heard that Bea had a baby. She never mentioned it, not once. She is a brat most of the time and she uses men as her personal bank account. But we never imagined that it was because she was dumped pregnant and penniless by not one man, but two, when she was just a teenager.

I almost didn’t know what to do with all of this information. Tyler asked me to help him reconnect with Bea. I explained to him that Bea was not the sweet innocent girl that he described, and that I really needed some face-time with Bea before I could promise him anything.

So, here we are; it is a day before New Year’s Eve and I am waiting for Bea to meet me at DiBruno Brothers on Chestnut Street, here in Rittenhouse. I already have a steaming cup of spiced hot cocoa. My palms are sweating, and it isn’t from the warm cup in my hands. I am a bit afraid of what is about to transpire. I don’t know what Bea is capable of—you know, kill the messenger and all.

I see her walk in. She spots me, and motions with a gloved hand that she is going to get a beverage. I smile and hold up my cup so she doesn’t think I want anything—not that she’d get me anything. I sip my whipped cream and give myself a frothy mustache. Just then, Bea arrives. “I always took you for a spitter.” I licked the foam clean and told her that swallowing is my little way of saying thanks. She laughed and sat down.

She had a curious look on her face. She knew something was up. I didn’t want to pussyfoot around the issue, so I just went for it.

“Tyler is in town and I had lunch with him. He told me everything.” I said it in one breath, like I was confessing to a crime.

“Everything?” Bea asked.

“Everything.” I said with consolation in my voice.

Bea’s shoulders began to shake and her eyes welled up. And then it came: Heavy sobs from deep inside of her. They surfaced in waves. I brought her close to me and hugged her. “It’s going to be okay Bea.” I told her. She cried for a while.

The barista came over and asked if everything was all right. Bea twisted her head around and before she could spit her venom, I told him that we were okay and that he should not worry. I hugged Bea for another moment or so.

“Let’s get out of here.” Bea said, as she dried her eyes.

We both got up and donned our wool coats, hats, scarves, and gloves. We picked up our cardboard cups and headed out to Rittenhouse Park. The park is only a couple of blocks away and pedestrian traffic was thin. There were still piles of ill-colored snow packed against the sides of buildings and slushy, undulating puddles at every corner. But we managed to navigate our way into the park without falling down on any black ice patches.

The park was practically empty and the statues and trees still held onto the snow that had fallen over the past few days. “Does everyone know?” was the first thing that Bea uttered since we had walked out of DiBruno.

“Just me.” I told her. The condensate froze from my words and its steam dissipated slowly. It was that cold out here. “How about a snow angel?” I asked, as we walked past a patch of virginal snow.

“I have to get back to the office.” Bea said. But she stopped in front of the field that had no footprints on it.

“It’ll take a minute.” I said and took a step toward the snow-covered lawn.

Bea followed. We didn’t speak. I took a few steps onto the fresh snow. Bea followed in my footprints. I plopped down on the right side and Bea fell on the left. We both waved our arms and legs, pushing the snow from underneath us. Our hands just about touched and when we thought that our imprints were thoroughly swept, we got up; still not a word had passed between us.

I stepped behind Bea and began to brush the snow off her back. She did the same for me when I finished. She whipped out her iPhone and took a picture of our snow angels. “I’ll send it to you.” Bea said. And we made our way toward the exit.

“He took Sam. Sam—short for Samantha. He took her and moved away, far away. His wife accepted the child and I haven’t heard from her, ever. I don’t know if she even knows I exist.” Bea’s eyes were dry. She walked and talked as if she were in a trance. “When I saw Tyler the other night, all of those pent-up emotions flooded back to me. I had buried them so deep inside of me, I never thought I would have to face them again.”

“He wants to see you.” I told her.

“I’ll sit down with him.” She quipped back. “I’m not mad at him. . .anymore. Sure, I can sit down with Tyler and talk about things.”

“What about Sam?” I asked carefully.

“We need to find her.” Bea stopped walking and stared straight into my eyes. “I want to tell everyone the truth and then I want to find Sam.”

“Done.” I said. “Let’s meet tonight, tell the gang all about what happened, and then we can map out a plan to find Sam.”

“Good! I am going to do it. That will be my New Year’s resolution. I am going to find my daughter!”

And that was that. Bea walked uptown, and I jumped in a cab and called the girls. We were going to meet at my house and have a talk. They wanted to know what all the secrecy was about. I told them they’d have to wait until tonight to find out. But, I promised them it was HUGE news!!!

So, that’s it. Next week I will let you know how the meeting went. I invited Tyler. I didn’t tell Bea, but the other girls know. It is going to be an explosive meeting and you have ringside seats for it all. We are going to find out about Sam, the father, and see how the Tyler and Bea face-off goes. So, be sure to come back for the next installation of The D Files.

I will be answering my readers’ dating and relationship questions, so send them, along with your comments to me at help@letlettyhelp.com. All submitted material is considered for publication and all names are kept in the strictest of confidence. Come back next week for another installment of The D Files and you can read more of my work at:

http://www.fixmylove.com/blog/entry/this-blog-will-affect-the–b-rest-of-your-life–150/

©MMX~Letty Livingston ~ The D Files are intended as inspiring and engaging sources for advice and not alternatives for therapeutic intervention, should it be needed. All names have been changed to protect the identity of the people mentioned herein.

This week’s D File comes at a perfect time. I was astounded that Kitty Kelley actually made the news again. For those of you who don’t remember who KK is, well, she comes from way back when the only gal doing what I do was Dear Abbey. She—Kitty, not Abbey—is famous for “outing” famous American icons in unauthorized biographies. The first one to put her name on the map exposed secrets of America’s royals, The Kennedys…more specifically Jackie O’ herself.

Well, her latest unauthorized biography tackles America’s TV high priestess, Oprah. The book promises to tell on Oprah. It will answer questions that Americans always thought about but never had enough pull to find out the answers to. It also is purported to tell some juicy tidbits that Oprah was going to confess in an autobiography some years ago, but people close to “O” said that she didn’t have to say such things about herself. Which, I guess, opens the door for someone else to do it. Kitty Kelley stepped up to the plate and is dishing dirt that says things such as, “Oprah was once a prostitute.”

Holy Moly! Was the first thought that I had. And then my empathy kicked in. Heck, we all have skeletons in our closets. My blog: http://www.fixmylove.com/blog/episodeview/id_141/, talks openly and honestly about dealing with one’s relationship with one’s skeletons. It teaches how to improve the way we relate to our skeletons, allowing us to feel better overall. If you haven’t read it yet, please, do!

What is Letty going on about? I know you are asking yourself that right now. But there is a point, I promise. This D File is going to be the beginning of the opening of the proverbial can of worms, or Pandora’s Box. Something is about to happen that is going to change the course of many of the lives of the people you have met here in the pages of The D Files.

With that, I am going to leave you to read this excerpt. Please, be empathetic. We all have skeletons. Stick with this story…it is going to get really hot really fast!

Lotsa Luv,

LL

The D Files

Confessions of a Male (Ex) Stripper

By Letty Livingston

It was a cold Thursday night. The holiday spirit was still in the air and the strings of twinkling blue and white lights still hung in the trees in Rittenhouse Park, directly across the street from Rouge. The space near the bar was elbow to elbow, but Lisa, her daughter Angelica, Nikki, and her man Freddie were lucky enough to have a cushy corner booth, allowing them ample room to people watch.

Angelica was the first one to notice him. Her taste in men is for those who are sexy-ugly, but this guy had all of the former and none of the latter. After a nudge, Lisa took notice of him too. But as soon as she felt she was about to get him to look her way, a dark figure broke her line of sight. Bea was standing there, waiting for them to scoot over so she could sit down.

The shoulders of her black wool coat were dusted with fresh fallen snow, and when Bea shook it, the wet flakes flew in all directions. There were people at four or five tables who were glaring at her. She made a “pft” sound and squeezed past Freddie and Nikki. Angelica moved slightly but enjoyed the feeling of Bea’s thick thighs up against hers.

Now that she was seated, a drink was a must. Since the place was packed to the gills, getting a waiter could have been a problem—a problem for anyone but Bea.

“Hey! Hey Sandra!” Sandra the manager/hostess/social butterfly weaved passed a dozen or so customers to answer Bea’s holler. She smiled at everyone and attempted some small talk, asking how everyone’s holidays were. Bea was having none of it.

“Get me a dirty martini, extra dry and extra olives on the side. Belvedere. Be sure of it sweetie!” It sounded like Bea was barking orders at some child.

Sandra made a mental note of the drink order. Lisa gave her an apologetic look as she left, working her way toward the cramped bar.

“Why the ‘tude, dude?” Freddie immediately jumped on Bea when Sandra was out of earshot.

“Dude, don’t call me dude!” Bea growled back, almost before Freddie was done with his admonishment. “You have no idea how hard of a day I had.” Freddie was about to retort when Nikki pinched his thigh.

“Damn that hurt!” Freddie yowled. He winced and decided to shut up and sip his cocktail.

Though the crowd that stood by the bar and filled every square inch of the standing-room-only floor space in the restaurant seemed like it was still, it was moving like an amorphous amoeba. People were side-stepping for waiters, moving slightly so patrons could either exit or enter, and wriggled out of the way of people who were going or coming from restrooms.

“There! There he is again.” Angelica spied the super hot guy again. Just the right amount of people had moved the slightest bit for the moisture-inducing man to come back into view.

“Ooooh yes!” Lisa groaned. This was not her type of guy. She liked effeminate men. This man was tall, dark, and strapping. He was the kind of man that was an every-woman’s man.

Freddie leaned in front of Bea to see what all the fuss was about. “Oh yeah,” he said. “I’d do him. If I were gay, that is.” The girls laughed. But the laughter was with bated breath. The women were beginning to get steamed up. This guy was that attractive.

Bea was still irritated from her prior joust with Freddie, so she pushed Freddie back and craned her neck to see for herself. Bea looked astounded and then her jaw dropped. She turned white as a ghost, despite her pristine war paint. “Oh my God!”

“I told you guys he’s smokin’!” Angelica was proud of her discovery, but then got Bea’s thick butt smushed in her face. Without another word Bea shot up, pushed passed Angelica and then Lisa. She reached across the table, grabbed her long wool coat, and tore a path, directly into traffic, in the opposite direction of the guy all the women were lathered up about.

Everyone at the table watched as Bea elbowed and shoved her way around the back of the bar. She pushed between two sets of tables and knocked over a few drinks along the way. She never looked back. Her head was down as she made a beeline for the exit.

“What the heck was that all about?” Nikki asked. Freddie laughed and excused himself. He headed toward the men’s rooms. The waiter arrived with Bea’s dirty martini and a glass of olives. Lisa didn’t have the heart to send it back and she patted the space next to her Cosmo, letting the waiter know that he could put the glasses down there.

The women were murmuring, wondering what had gotten into Bea. No one had even seen her react like that. Angelica proposed the possibility of some type of stomach ailment, when suddenly Freddie appeared with the tall, dark, and handsome man.

“Ladies, please allow me to introduce you to Tyler.” Freddie had a Cheshire Cat smile pasted across his face. The women were dumbstruck. Angelica didn’t say anything, but she instinctually slid over, pulling her mother, making room for the man to sit with them.

Tyler sat. Lisa offered him the martini. “It’s fresh,” was all she could muster. Freddie sat down and proposed a toast. They all raised their glasses and toasted to having a happy and lucrative New Year.

A couple of drinks later, the story was unfolding. Tyler was telling them how he was back in the northeast. He moved back from the west coast after spending some twenty years there. He confessed that he knew his ex-wife was in Philly and that he saw her bolt from their table earlier that night.

Everyone was dumbstruck. No one had any idea that Bea was ever married before. She never, ever told any of us. We all thought we were really close friends, and having an ex-husband, especially one who looked like he was the prototype for leading men in the movies, would be news that one would tell their closest friends.

This is where I come in. I got a call later that night and was filled in about all of the goings-on. How there was an über-hottie in town, how Bea had an ex-husband and how the ex-husband of Bea’s was the new über-hottie. My girlfriends wanted me to get to the bottom of it. I don’t know if it was because I seem closest to Bea, because I don’t allow her to take a superior tone when talking to me, or because everyone else, including Freddie, are a bit scared of Bea.

Angelica grabbed the phone from her mother’s hand. She said that she had the presence of mind to get Tyler’s phone number. She told him that he needed to get in the loop as to all of the social events in and around Philly and that our circle of friends could put him in the center of it. Besides relaying his mobile number to me, she asked if it were all right for her to try to bed down Tyler, even though she knew he was Bea’s ex.

I told her to hold off; that sleeping with your friend’s ex, be it ex-boyfriend or ex-husband, was not a good idea, even if the guy was super hot and was a secret-ex.

I waited until the next afternoon. I called Tyler and introduced myself as a friend of the table of people he had drinks with the night prior at Rouge. I also told him that Bea had never told us she was married before and that, as a relationship counselor and an advice columnist, I’d be interested in speaking with him as to why we never heard about him.

“It may be because when Bea and I broke up, I was a Chippendale’s dancer.”

“Excuse me?” I choked out.

“Yes. I was, at one time. Chippendale’s, you know, a stripper. But there is much, much more to the story than that. Are you free for lunch? I could tell you my side of things.” Tyler sounded sincere.

“Of course. Let’s meet at Rum Bar at 2.” I set the time and place and could hardly wait to find out all about Bea’s ex-stripper, ex-husband, and to get to the bottom of why none of us knew anything about him, up until now. And perhaps figure out why, all of a sudden, he is in the same city as his wife of twenty years gone by.

For the next issue of The D Files I will have the interview with Tyler for you. It is going to raise some questions while answering some too. And, it will, of course raise some eyebrows in the process.

In the meantime, I will be answering my readers’ dating and relationship questions, so send them, along with your comments to me at help@letlettyhelp.com. All submitted material is considered for publication and all names are kept in the strictest of confidence. Come back next month for another installment of The D Files and you can read more of my work at: http://letlettyhelp.blogspot.com/

©MMX~Letty Livingston ~ The D Files are intended as inspiring and engaging sources for advice and not alternatives for therapeutic intervention, should it be needed. All names have been changed to protect the identity of the people mentioned herein.

Bagman or not to Bagman—That is the Question!

By Letty Livingston

Well, I am back on American soil and doing things that make me feel great. I hope admitting that shopping makes me feel great doesn’t make me come across as shallow. Some people hate shopping; they either don’t have the patience or hate spending money. Some people don’t like trying on clothes because they are unhappy with their shape, and being reminded how big or small or fluffy they are makes them feel worse. I enjoy getting new clothes and shoes and bags and accessories; however, shopping to me is not just about buying, it is about spending quality time with people that I care about dearly. And that is one of the main reasons that I’ve grown to enjoy shopping. That, and the fact that I live so close to two super malls, King of Prussia and the Philadelphia Premium Outlet Mall.

I was at the PPOM this weekend and was shopping with my hubby, who happens to be an Über-hottie. When I was in the changing room, some young pretty thing was trying on stilettos near where my man was sitting waiting for me and she asked him his opinion. He is a dear and told her how sexy the shoes were. I looked and the shoes were to die for, but this little hard body got under my skin. . .her, and her pierced belly-button glimmering right in my man’s face like that. Then I noticed that her heels looked like cement. She sooo needed a pedicure. I was vindicated; my feet are as soft as rose petals!

Okay, now that I have vented and have made a point that shopping with your man can be challenging, I want to get right into this chapter of The D Files. It deals specifically with this situation. . .no, not hotties with cement-like heels hitting on your man, but shopping with your man. Is it taboo? Some of my friends do and some don’t. I never knew it was such a black-and-white issue, like spitting and swallowing (either you do or you don’t). And if you do, you do it because you love it, not for his benefit. Now, of course I am talking about shopping. Riiiiiiiiiight!

As seen in True Romance Magazine, October 2009

The D Files

Being with a Bagman; or Not

By Letty Livingston

One of the beautiful aspects of living in and around Philadelphia is that you are a quick car ride away from one of this country’s most lush shopping malls, The King of Prussia Mall, better known in these parts as The KOP. Personally, I’ve always been a city girl and boutique shopping has always been my modus operandi; however, ever since I’ve been introduced to mall shopping, I now consider myself a connoisseur of what the latest designers are selling.

My girlfriends are no different; in fact, they are old-school mall babies who now have earned “OG” [original gangsta] status and are recognized in the high-end shops and are catered to accordingly. That is where this edition of The D Files starts off, in The KOP, in Cartier. Bea is still dating Todd. Since she’s stopped taking her allergy meds, (see Allergic to your Orgasm edition of The D Files) Todd has become her steady squeeze. She is now able to orgasm at-will and Todd can put up with her constant irascible state.

Bea invited us to meet her at Cartier to watch her pick out her Christmas gift that will be given to her by Todd. So Lauren, Yoko, Nikki, and I arrive just as the trays of brilliant baubles are being brought out for viewing and, of course, trying on. We each pick up an extravagant piece and slip it on the appropriate body part, ooohing and ahhhing as we hold the sparkling stones up to the light.

The solitaire diamond ring that Lauren had on was an engagement ring; we all had the same question on the tips of our tongues. Yoko blurted it first. She asked Bea if she was getting married. Bea burst out laughing and motioned with a flick of her manicured hand for the tray of engagement rings to be put away. Lauren removed the four-carat prize and reluctantly handed it back to the now-deflated sales associate.

“We are here to pick out my Christmas gift, not a promise ring, or anything of the sort.” Bea told us. “Look at the price tags girls.” She continued. “Santa is going to be very good to Bea this year because she has been exceptionally naughty.”

We all felt a bit mortified and a little bit jealous at the same time. How could such a cranky woman get these men to buy her anything she wanted? Yoko finally asked if Todd was going to come to the store to okay her decision. Bea told her that she has forbidden Todd from coming to The KOP. She said that when they first got together, they’d go shopping and Todd would wait outside of the fitting rooms and tell her what he did and didn’t like. He’d carry all of her shopping bags out of all of the designer boutiques, and it drove her nuts. She hated the clinginess and despised the way Todd sat around acting like a sheik and Bea was some girl in his harem.

“I am no one’s property.” Bea told us as she slipped a ten-carat diamond and ruby necklace on. “I shop alone! Men who shop with their women are control freaks and I won’t have it. I broke Todd of that bad habit after the first month.”

Nikki and Freddie shopped together all the time, and Nikki told Bea that she thought the polar opposite, that men who enjoyed shopping with their mates were thoughtful and gentlemanly. Tran, Yoko’s man, also was a bagman—the kind of guy who you will find sitting, patiently waiting outside of a woman’s fitting room, with a Coach purse in his lap and an i-Phone in his hand, texting someone who was having way more fun than he was. Yoko agreed with Nikki. She said that she thought it was sexy when Tran told her she looked hot in new outfits.

Lauren is not currently with a guy, but chimed in and said that she enjoys shopping with her girlfriends and tries to keep it an all-female event. She stays out of the sporting goods stores, and she’d appreciate it if the men would steer clear of Victoria’s Secret. And then, they all looked at me, the expert. They wanted to know who was right. Was it Bea and Lauren, or Yoko and Nikki?

I could have chosen to answer directly from my own experiences, which would be that if the guy likes to shop, then it is pretty much a safe bet that it can be fun to be with a bagman, but I told them that I was going to do some digging.

When I got home, I reached out to other relationship experts and asked some friends what they thought. Here is some of the bagman feedback I received:

Dr. Ingrid Schweiger: “I am a NYC couple’s therapist and recently appeared on The Today Show to discuss modern relationships. We women love a man who hangs out while we’re trying on clothes and carries our bundles, because these behaviors make us feel “taken care of.” I work with highly successful women who are quite independent. When it comes to their man, they love the little things he does that make them feel pampered, taken care of, and special. The bottom line is we all need and want to be loved, and these behaviors are experienced as very loving.”

Carole Lieberman, M.D.: “I’m a psychiatrist/relationship expert and author of Bad Boys: Why We Love Them, How to Live with Them and When to Leave Them. There is something inherently ‘yucky’ about a man sitting outside a changing room or carrying the bags of his woman when they shop. This is a red flag, most often indicating that there is something wrong with the relationship. Although women may fantasize about how fabulous this would be, in fact these women are looking for a sugar daddy, rather than a lover. Men should not need to buy their mate’s love. Women should not need the ‘approval’ of their man as to what clothes to buy. In fact, men who need to control what their women wear are oftentimes overly possessive, if not abusive. Women need to retain an air of mystery, surprising their man with any new outfit they may buy. And men should have more important things to do with their lives than tag along with their girlfriends on a shopping spree. Other men will think that such men are ‘whipped’ and lose respect for them. There can be a few justifications for this shopping togetherness, such as buying an expensive evening dress for a family occasion, or when the guy is buying clothes for his girlfriend’s birthday and they want to make a fun day of it.”

Dale Koppel, PhD: “I’m a shopaholic and was married to a man who hated to shop, and I always envied women I’d see in stores with their spouses or boyfriends. I thought it would be so cool to be with a man who wanted to shop with me. Then, after almost 25 years of marriage, my husband left me (for a man who also doesn’t like to shop!), and I started online dating. Over a three-year period, I dated hundreds—yes, hundreds—of men, and the first man I fell in love with (the 13th man I met online) would sit outside of a dressing room, but only if he wasn’t allowed IN the dressing room. I hated it! I found it to be totally controlling, and I realized that the act/art of shopping for me is a totally solitary and personal activity. I don’t want anyone with me, not even a girlfriend. Actually, I don’t even like to show a man the clothes I bought when I bring them home!”

Patti Kerr: “As a thrice-married (and thrice-divorced) woman, I dare say whatever a couple chooses to do is between the two of them.  Should he decide to sit outside the changing room—or follow her in—is none of my business. After all this time and experience, I’ve learned that if it bothered me, I would tell him. If a couple can’t get through a non-issue like shopping together—where he places his bum while she’s trying on clothes and who carries the bags—it’s probably not going to last through the big issues like raising children, or dealing with illness and death.”

Beverly Solomon: “Because I was once a model and then an account executive for some of the top fashion designers, I know fashion. I am happily married to internationally recognized artist Pablo Solomon and now spend all my time promoting his art. We go shopping together. For one thing, we make a day of it as we live on a ranch and have to drive at least an hour to get anywhere. But we also enjoy helping each other pick out fashions that enhance our images. Because we do many appearances connected with art, we try to maintain a fashionable, successful, and yet up-to-date image. I am good at color, and Pablo is good at form—his sculptures of dancers are collected around the world. So I help him with choosing color combinations for his clothes, and he helps me to choose outfits that make my overall shape look good. We always have a great lunch out at one of our favorite restaurants and we have fun commenting on the fashion mistakes of people we see. We enjoy being together, and shopping is just one of many things that we share.”

Rob X: “That guy, the one carrying the bags or sitting outside the changing room, is either young, totally clueless, or looking to get laid, and if he is older, well, he’s totally whipped. I would rather be water-boarded than go shopping with my girlfriend. I would give up state secrets if forced to endure an hour of walking through a department store with a woman. It is pure torture: first my legs get heavy and it becomes difficult to walk; then my brain slowly goes numb until I want to pound my head on a wall; finally I get as cranky as a toddler in need of a nap—fussing, moaning, and throwing a fit until it stops. I’m convinced that forcing a man to go shopping with a woman causes de-evolution—it is the fastest way to reduce a man to a zombie or less. “Escape! Escape! Escape!” shrieks the last vestige of sanity in an otherwise normal mind. Gee, an appointment with my drill-happy dentist would be a cakewalk by comparison. And, when I see another man, staggering like an automaton, carrying his girl’s bags as she stops and examines. . .every. . .single. . .item she passes, all I can think is, Poor Bastard!”

Jennifer Della’Zanna: “I don’t have a husband who goes shopping with me—he hates to shop. I do prefer to go alone, though, so I’m actually happy about that. I always wonder when I see men holding women’s bags (or their purses) or waiting in chairs outside the dressing rooms, how they ever managed to get talked into it. They almost never look happy to be there. I usually feel sorry for them, really. I kind of feel like the relationship must be one where the woman is sort of domineering and the man more submissive. I would never, if my husband were with me, ask him to hold my purse. If he’s not there, I take it in the dressing room with me, and that’s what I would do if he were with me. As for bags, I’m sure he would take them from me if they were heavy, but if not, I would carry them myself. It’s not that I’m a terribly independent, do-it-myself type. . .it’s just that I would not expect anybody else to do those things for me, so I wouldn’t expect it of my husband either. If I needed a second opinion when trying on clothing, I would take a girlfriend who’d be happy to have a day at the mall—certainly not my husband!”

Well, there you have it—thoughts on the idea of the bagman from world-renowned experts and people who live ordinary lives. It comes down to this: What makes both people happy is usually what makes the best fit for the couple. And since every couple is as individual as the two people who are in it, being a bagman can be either good or bad.

I’d love to know what you think. Write in to me at help@letlettyhelp.com with “Bagman” in the subject line. Readers’ answers will be posted in a future D Files blog.

——————————————————————————————-

I will still be answering my readers’ dating and relationship questions, so send them, along with your comments (and if you would like to receive my seasonal newsletter that is chock full of dating news, advice and links to wonderful resources) email me at help@letlettyhelp.com. All submitted material is considered for publication and all names are kept in the strictest of confidence. Come back next month for another installment of The D Files and you can read more of my work at: http://letlettyhelp.blogspot.com/, www.fixmylove.com

©MMXLetty Livingston ~ The D Files are intended as inspiring and engaging sources for advice and not alternatives for therapeutic intervention, should it be needed. All names have been changed to protect the identity of the people mentioned herein.

Keep in mind that these re-posts will not last much longer. Right after this post we are back in the U.S. of A. and our hero (of sorts) Letty is back in action with her gang of gal pals. The plot really begins to thicken and you will get up-close and personal with more of the supporting characters. And then before you know it each and every Tuesday you will be getting brand spankin’ new chapters of The D Files, served up hot and fresh for you right here at mytruelovestory.com.

For those of you who aren’t in the know, in the coming weeks we get to know Bea a lot better. We meet someone from her past who gets the whole social scene in a tizzy. This mysterious person is tall, dark, and handsome. Speaking of dark…we are going to be let in on a huge dark secret. But I can’t cross that bridge until I get you back from Germany. So, let’s wrap up this European vacation with a bang! Well, at least for Aggie’s sake, let’s hope it winds up that way!

Click below to read the latest installment of the D Files.

The D Files

Dating in Deutschland: Part Drei

(Originally printed in the October 2009 True Romance magazine)

By Letty Livingston

The leaves on the trees have displayed their glorious spectrum of hearty colors, and the days have dwindled as our nights have become so much of our existence. It is dark when I get up to go to work, and it is dark as I pull back into my driveway after a long day. October is so transitional here in the Northeast. I take long drives out of the city to photograph the autumnal sights—oddly shaped pumpkins, cornfield mazes cut at right angles, and those magnificent leaves. I love the fall, but I get a bit glum knowing that the landscape will be barren in the matter of a few weeks.

What does bring a smile to my face are the memories of my trip to Bochum, where I went to help my friend Aggie find a man via an online dating site. In the past two D Files, I told of how I wound up some three thousand miles from home; I introduced you to Aggie, my best friend from Germany; and I explained that online dating was always something very American and how excited I was to learn that Aggie jumped on that bandwagon. I arrived in Düsseldorf, drove to Bochum, caught up with Aggie, set up her dating profile, and scheduled five dates with five different guys.

The guys did not know that an online dating coach would be accompanying Aggie on their date, but none was too upset; in fact, they all were pretty congenial about the whole thing. (Okay, I confess, one guy wanted to tear my head off, but we’ll get there.)

Guy Number One went the cup of coffee and movie route. He was a false advertiser—shorter and with a lot less hair than his dating profile picture—and Aggie wasn’t too crazy about him…or the movie.

Guy Number Two was artsy and showed it by deciding to start the date at an art exhibit. Aggie liked him, but—yeah, there is a but—he was short. That and the fact that he had made dinner reservations at a restaurant that was located on the ground floor of a hotel put him on the “no-next-date” list. And now we will pick up where last month’s D Files left off. Enjoy.

A week passed, and the weekend commenced again. Guy Number Three had a profile that said he was into the eighties. He liked everything about it, especially the music. And don’t we all? I mean, come on now, who doesn’t dance when they hear 99 Luftballoons?

We were told to meet at the Do-So Colossium, in Essen, for the Eighties Dance Party. We showed up at just after ten o’clock and danced our butts off, had a couple of drinks, and kept our eyes peeled for Number Three. He turned up at midnight, an hour after he was supposed to arrive. Luckily, Aggie had me there.

We pulled him onto the dance floor and explained the reason why there were two of us, and it became unmistakably clear why he wanted to go dancing to 80s music. Anyone, even someone who has no rhythm, can seem to be able to dance to 80s pop. He knew all of the 80s moves and it was really funny. (Funny ridiculous!)

He didn’t seem to mind that I was there, and Aggie and I were having fun. Him, not so much; he wanted a change of scenery. I am not a fan of going clubbing on a first date. The music is way too loud to get any real communicating done, so if you attempt to, you have to get in the other person’s personal space to do it. Then there is the proliferation of booze at clubs. Drinking and first dates don’t mix well. The combination can lead to too many regrets.

Number Three was an hour late, chose a bad place for a first date, but a fun place for Aggie and me to party, so we listened to his next idea. He wanted to go to a friend’s house party. He said that it was in the neighborhood and that his friend had a karaoke machine. I was hoping that this wasn’t part of his original plan: Step 1) Get girl drunk. Step 2) Take her to friend’s house. Step 3) Take advantage of drunk girl.

Number Three was a hottie. He was tall, lean, had bright blue eyes and dark hair. But what was his game? Was he really a tool who used his looks and liquor to get into girls’ panties, or was he a hottie-nerd who liked 80s music and karaoke? We went to the friend’s house to find out.

The house party was a lot of fun. Number hottie, I mean Number Three, couldn’t dance to save his life, but this boy could sing! Holy Smokes! He could sing the skirt off of a nun. Despite all the fun, I was not sure if it was part of a ploy or if he really was just a smokin’ hot dork. A guy like that can be really dangerous…or not.

The party thinned and the conversation lagged. So, Aggie gave me the ol’ “let’s vamoose” raise of an eyebrow. We said our goodbyes and headed home.

Guy Number Four’s profile page had a picture of him rock climbing. He told Aggie to wear comfortable clothes for their date and to meet him at eleven in the morning at a specific part of the Ruhrgebiet, which is an area around the Rhine River. We pulled into a parking lot that had a few large groups of people waiting in it; all of them were in shorts and hiking boots.

Number Four was leaning up against a fence post. He had a clean-shaven head and light eyes. He was handsome, really handsome. His jeans were snug and his biceps bulged just the slightest bit. We walked over, and he shot us a smile that must’ve broken a thousand hearts. Aggie introduced herself, then me. She described the why of my presence, and his megawatt smile faded in a nanosecond. He gave me a look that would make a cat run for cover. I held my ground, stuck out my hand, and gave him a firm “howthehellareya.”

We were going on a nature walk, all forty or so of us. The guide explained for an hour how there are remarkable instances of nature right here within the city limits. We looked at plants and birds, more plants, and some rocks. Number Four seemed like he couldn’t get over that I was there, too. Come on, there were so many other people. What’s one more?

All of a sudden, he made his big move. He sat down, tore his backpack off, and pulled a bed sheet from it. He dropped to one knee and did a sort of maneuver that a bullfighter does with a cape and the sheet landed on the ground beneath a tree that was not significant enough for our guide to name. A picnic.

Number Four pulled Aggie down by her elbow. She was surprised, so she did the same to me. He was removing foil-wrapped sandwiches from his sack while shooting daggers at me. He apologized and said that I can share Aggie’s sandwich, but he had only brought two cups for the wine so I couldn’t have any. My loss.

We ate egg salad and sipped cheap red wine. Well, they sipped cheap red wine. Aggie offered me some of hers, but I didn’t want to impose any further. I also wanted him to have it his way for a while. The whole time he pouted, not being able to move past my being there. Okay, now that it was just the two of them, I could see his consternation. But he’d already blown it by being pissed off for the entire hour prior.

Despite his obvious irritation, Number Four said that we should go to the next part of the date. I asked if it were something where having an extra person wouldn’t be a problem, and he said it’d be fine. Fine. We went.

It was to a place where people play paintball! Right there in Düsseldorf. Eco-tour, picnic, paintball. Go Figure. Well, I was a bit worried that good ol’ Number Four was about to take out an entire half-day’s frustration on me via the wicked end of a paintball gun. So, I communicated this to Aggie by way of an eyebrow raise and a nose wiggle. She nodded, squinted her pretty eyes, and shot me a wry smile. As it turns out, that was the only thing that shot at me that afternoon.

Suffice to say, Number Four got his in the end. He also got it in the back, the arm, the leg, and the ear.

Guy Number Five had a very high-tech online profile. He had all types of links to You Tube type of videos. Some had him in them, others did not. He seemed to be high energy.

We met at the front of the VideoSlam show. Number Five was one of the producers of the event (or one of the sponsors for the event—there is a difference). Nevertheless, we got the VIP, All-Access badges to hang around our necks. When Aggie told him that I was a dating coach, there to help along the way, he didn’t even blink. He put his great big arms around us both and promised that we were going to have a ball!

We began walking through the video-screen-laden rooms together for a bit, and then Number Five disappeared for a minute. He had apologized, saying that since Aggie was in such good hands, it’d be okay, and that he would be quick. And he was. He returned with a few of the people who were showcasing their videos, and introduced me and Aggie to them. He told them who I was and let them know that she was his date for the event. (Bonus points!)

We had a good time watching the videos. There were all types from all over the world. It was a mini version of something you’d imagine the Independent Film Channel organizing. The night went by quickly, and Number Five was a gentleman all the way through. He said the right things and opened all the doors. He knew when to compliment a person and when to keep quiet. Number Five didn’t blow smoke up people’s skirts to curry favor. He was a great catch, but there didn’t seem to be any fireworks. Perhaps the timing was off.

Well, like I said in my intro, I am not looking forward to the barrenness of winter, perhaps that is part of the reason I enjoy helping people find each other; there is less barrenness that way. But I digress; I am surely happy to be writing in English and glad to have shared my trip to Bochum with you. As for Aggie, she and Number Five are still dating. She says she doesn’t know if he’s Mr. Right, but she really enjoys spending her time with him. There was just enough chemistry on their first date to take them to the second and the third, and now they are not dating anymore. They are together, because German people don’t date. And I won’t tell anyone…if you don’t.

~LL~

Be sure to come back next Tuesday for more of The D Files.

I’m glad you came back. I’ve been a busy bee since last Tuesday. I couldn’t help it! The weather magically went from cold, torrential winter rains to seventy degrees, sunny, with spring flowers popping up all over the place. I love the changes that come in March here in the northeast!

I am so glad that this part of the novella is being posted right now, because much like the weather in March, this story is of my exploring my past, and in real life I have been house hunting in a lovely new city. Don’t worry, it is five minutes outside of Philly, and I will still be out and about with all of my gal-pals. I will keep everyone posted on my progress in finding my new home.

However, let’s get on with the action in Germany. If you missed any of the drama, just go to the previous postings of The D Files to get caught up. For everyone that knows where I am and what I am up to… read, enjoy and be sure you are right here next Tuesday for more of The D Files!

Lotsa Luv,

LL

The D Files

Dating in Deutschland: Part Zwei (2)

(As seen in True Romance magazine, September 2009)

By Letty Livingston

So, here we are back in Bochum. The weekend is about to start and we have a couple of men whom we are going to go out with. I was careful to start Aggie off slow. I didn’t want her to speed-date the whole weekend and not know where she stood on any of the guys. I also wanted to give each guy an honest chance at making a unique and hopefully good impression within the time he was allotted.

In order to avoid having to make up five names for the men, I’ve decided to call each one by the number date he ended up being. Aggie let the guys know that what they did on their dates was completely up to them. She did not tell them that I would be tagging along.

Guy Number One was supposed to be tall, have light hair and eyes, and the photograph on his profile was rather attractive. When he turned up at the coffee shop, he was average height and he had less hair than when the online picture was taken. He was already losing points. He walked right passed Aggie and me. He likely figured that a table with two women couldn’t be the right one. So, Aggie gave chase and brought him back.

I let Aggie do most of the explaining as to why I was there. We could have gone with a line about her not feeling safe with a stranger, but we told him the truth, and he didn’t get up and walk away. That was a good start. The strong coffee got the conversation going. Number One had chosen to keep the date simple; after the caffeine, we would go to a movie.

Personally, I am not a fan of going to see a movie on a first date. You just sit there for two hours and do no talking to each other. However, if both people are film buffs, the 120-minute investment is a primer for future conversation. Number One was not a huge movie guy and Aggie wasn’t much of a celluloid-head either, but what they both had in common was an interest in this specific movie. John Rabe, the story of a German businessman who saved nearly a quarter of a million Chinese during the Nanjing massacre in 1937. He became known as “The Schindler of China,” even though he was a member of the Nazi party.

After the movie, Number One was going on about the impact one man could have on an entire nation of people. I told them that the hit Broadway musical The Producers was going to open in Berlin soon and that it was going to be shown in a theater where Adolf Hilter once frequented. I explained what the show was about and how it took a comical look at Nazis, not at the atrocities they committed. Number One was not too interested in even talking about the play. He steered the conversation back to how the movie showed that not all Nazis were bad. He either was not a fan of Mel Brooks’ work, or has a lot of nationalistic guilt to work out in therapy.

There was some more chit-chatting as we made our way to Aggie’s car and Number One followed. She gave me the “let’s get outta here” eyes (not to be confused with the “why don’t you get lost for a while?” eyes.) So, she electronically unlocked the doors with a quick press of a button on her keychain, causing a slick chirping sound, and I slipped into the right side of her Audi. They drive on the same side of the road as we do here.

I could not turn on the car’s audio system to drown out the sound of their muffled voices, nor could I get my window to go down to hear more clearly, but judging by how little time it took for Aggie to sit down in the seat next to me, there was nothing brewing in the next-date-department.

She didn’t look disappointed; she just started up the car, backed out of the parking spot, zipped passed Number One as he walked back to whatever he was driving, tooted the horn, and sped into the flow of traffic.

It is Saturday, and Number Two’s pictures made him look like he was built like a fire-plug. His statistics listed green eyes and ginger-colored hair. It also stated that he has an interest in the arts. So, when he said to meet him at the Kunstverein Kulturrat, an art gallery in Bochum, we weren’t too surprised.

The exhibit was called Ute Ostermann, and there were lots of contemporary paintings that were open to much interpretation. Number Two walked into the gallery right on time. He was thick and had no neck; he looked like a college wrestler, plus about twenty years. His hair was pale red, as was his face. He must’ve stopped at a pub for a couple of pints of courage just prior to arriving.

We walked up to him and introduced ourselves. At first, he didn’t get it. He told us his name, smiled, shook hands, and began to walk into the gallery with us. Aggie asked him if he might be forgetting someone. He said he didn’t think so. She reminded him about the woman from the dating site, and that’s when the light bulb came on, ever so dimly.

She explained that she was the woman from the dating site and that I, besides being her best friend and wingman for the night, was a dating coach from the U.S. and would be a part of their evening. . .if that was quite alright. He laughed, hard, for about a minute. He thought it funny. Funny as in great, not funny as in ridiculous. He was a wonderful sport about it.

We strolled through the exhibit and shared our feelings about the artwork. I saw that there was a bit of chemistry forming between Aggie and Number Two, so I would make sure to linger in front of some of the paintings as they walked on getting to know each other better.

We all stopped in front of the last piece of art hanging on the wall, and Number Two asked if we wanted to get in his car or if we wanted to follow him to the restaurant he chose. I gave Aggie a quick once-over, and she returned an “I’m still interested” glance.

Her biggest complaint in the ride to the restaurant was that he was short. He was, and there is nothing either of us could do to change it. I asked her if he was too short to dine with. She told me it’s all the same when sitting down. I told her she’d have to tell me if it held true for a position of the horizontal nature.

Girls get to joke like that amongst themselves. He wasn’t within earshot. And I am talking about the sex part of the commentary, not the vertically challenged part. However, we wound up following him just a few short streets to the Ratskeller Bochum, which happens to be located inside of the Renaissance Bochum Hotel.

A huge red flag went up. He didn’t know that she was with a friend and that being so, means that he was taking her to a place where there are rooms with beds in them right on the next floor. Not cool for a first date with an online connection. The question now was, to eat or not to eat? We ate. We paid our own tab and left.

I know, the story is just starting to get juicy, but that’s all I’ve got for you this time. I promise in next week’s D Files I’ll have the last of the guys and what happened with them, along with news on whom, if any, Aggie is still with. Until then, enjoy the magic that happens in the beginning of springtime. The birds and the bees know what to do, be sure you do too. And be sure to check out all of the rest of the content, right here on My True Love Story dot com.

~LL

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I will still be answering my readers’ dating and relationship questions, so send them, along with your comments (and if you would like to receive my seasonal newsletter that is chock full of dating news, advice and links to wonderful resources) email me at help@letlettyhelp.com. All submitted material is considered for publication and all names are kept in the strictest of confidence. You can read more of my work at: http://letlettyhelp.blogspot.com/ , www.fixmylove.com

©MMXLetty Livingston ~ The D Files are intended as inspiring and engaging sources for advice and not alternatives for therapeutic intervention, should it be needed. All names have been changed to protect the identity of the people mentioned herein.

My gal-pals and I were out sans significant others over the rain-soaked weekend, and we were discussing the TV show Millionaire Matchmaker. We were seeing who would subject themselves to Patti Stanger’s belittling in order to be hooked-up with some guy who needed someone like Patti Stanger in the first place. I had to stand up for women everywhere with a comment about being one of her [Patti’s] millionaire’s and not a Barbi-wanna-be. But even then, she [Patti] speaks down to her multi-mega-dollared clientele as if she had called them to work for her, but wait; they called her to work for them.

I don’t want to go too far off on this tangent, however, if you look closely, at the end of each broadcast of TMM there is a disclaimer that tells all of us at home that the millionaires on the show received the services gratis for being on the show. Honestly, I wouldn’t let someone speak to me like that for free services, a chance to be on TV, and/or a chance to meet the millionaire of my dreams. I’ve lived in L.A. and know the nature of the beast and understand the spell that the people are under and why they let themselves be treated like they are on the lowest rung of a caste system on national TV. It is quite disturbing.

But the matchmaking is not! I might not be all for Patti’s way of communicating or her choice of wardrobe, or assistants (the list can go on, promise) however; matchmaking is not just fodder for people who want to bathe themselves in mindless hours of reality TV.  Matchmaking is a serious business and has been around for eons.

What led me to all of this blather about TMM and the like? Well, it is the topic (sort of) of the next three chapters of our novella, The D Files. The D Files is going across an ocean and to a completely other continent, not to mention a different country. I am getting excited just typing about it!

I don’t want to give too much away (I just hate Spoiler Alerts!), so here are a few teasers: best friends are reunited, old haunts are returned to, dirty dancing happens, dating is in the air with men of mystery, and surprises are everywhere! Enjoy and bon voyage!

(Originally printed in True Romance, August 2009)

America’s views on many a subject are ridiculed around the world. Now, I’m not talking politics here; I’m speaking of dating. The way in which two people meet in order to mate has never had so much manipulation as it does here in the good ol’ U.S. of A. Over the past handful of decades, American businessmen (and women) have tried to figure out how to package the perfect way to meet your ideal partner.

Of course, most Americans have roots in some other nation and the business of matchmaking is nearly as old as humanity itself, but for some reason, Americans get smeared with the negative connotation of making a mess of meeting someone special.

Here is a bit of history on it: Back when Harry Truman was fresh out of the White House and Father Knows Best was what people were watching on TV, Americans were simpler. I don’t mean dumber, I mean that times were less complicated, and meeting that special girl was as simple as going down to the local soda shop and buying that pigtailed princess a cherry-cola.

The years slipped by, and by the time Ike was out and JFK was in, times had changed. There was a new vibe in the air and it came from across the pond [England]. Elvis had some serious competition. His gyrating hips had to move over—the Beatles had all the kids going crazy.

People were craving the latest thing, trying to keep up with the Joneses and dreaming about having a life in space just like the Jetsons. They wanted “faster”—faster cars, faster women, faster ways of getting across the globe. A stove-top dinner wasn’t fast enough; they needed microwave ovens. Computers and robots were simultaneously a dream, on the verge of being in every household making life easier, and a nightmare, threatening to take over our lives and the planet in Hollywood movies.

Telephone bars and chat lines were all the rage. People would flock to nightclubs to sit at tables in order to call interesting others who were in the same room, yet sitting at other tables. And if you had to stay at home, you could still reach out and touch someone, simply by picking up your home phone and calling a chat line, talking to a stranger and making up some story about how wonderful life could be.

Then one day, there it was on the horizon, the dawn of the Internet and the World Wide Web. Dating went from face-to-face to voice-to-voice to keyboard-to-keyboard in the matter of a few generations. Americans’ fascination with the next best thing and technology collided with their drive to keep up with the Joneses and voila; here we are sitting at home wondering if the guy or gal with whom we are chatting online really is the person they say they are, and should we dare to meet them face to face?

What’s this got to do with anything? I’m sure you’re wondering by now. Well, one of my best friends lives in Germany. She lived a few doors down from me when I lived there about a decade ago, and since then Aggie [my best friend] and I have stayed in close touch.

I currently live in the U.S. as an expatriate from Venezuela. I came here by way of Europe, Germany to be specific. So, I am accustomed to hearing all of my South American and European friends slam American customs.

However, as of late, there has been a turn in the tide. Now, I’m not referring to our new president’s effect on America’s international reputation, or how the upswing in the American economy has bolstered just about every other international market. I am talking about Internet dating becoming commonplace in other countries.

For as long as I’ve known Aggie she’s been “on the market,” but she was not specifically “looking.” However, now that she has a successful career as a realtor and has a home of her own, she has begun a search for a suitable companion, preferably a husband.

German men, by nature or by custom, are momma’s boys. Traditionally, a German man will live in the home of his parents for as long as he can. To this day, many men, after marriage, will bring their new bride into the home in which they were raised for as long as the wife can stand her new in-laws, or as long as the marriage lasts.

A lot of times, it works out that the wife and in-laws get along just fine, and the couple raises children with the grandparents having a hands-on relationship with the kids. This is favorable and part of the glue that holds better societies together, and part of what America is striving to recover—the extended nuclear family. But, I digress.

Aggie and I email each other a few times a week and will usually make time to chat on the weekends. I have heard her struggling with her quest for how to locate and bond with a potential partner for nearly a year. Her tone changed in the last few telephone calls, and she finally admitted to joining an online dating site! For a German woman, this is über liberal.

Germans pride themselves in being traditionalist. As a people, they want to stay German, the same meticulous Germans that have been around for centuries and hopefully will last forever. This includes their dating and mating practices. You meet and marry someone from your town, settle down, and have a family in the home you grew up in.

Nope, not Aggie—and apparently, not a lot of other Germans. There are more and more Germans turning to the Internet for help in finding a potential mate.

The dating site that Aggie joined is the big one, the German version of one of our popular “match” or “harmony” sites. It is marketed to upwardly mobile, progressive twenty and thirty-somethings who are hoping to discretely utilize their services in finding a likeminded, available other. The site advertises on television in the late-night time slots and in the better newspapers, online web sites, and print magazines.

Aggie sounded distraught when she admitted her secret, and it had been way too long since I’d last seen her. So, I decided to surprise her and visit in order to help her find a man online in Germany.

I rearranged my schedule and booked my flight. I was knocking on Aggie’s front door very early in the morning that very next Monday.

Aggie lives in Bochum, a quiet city just outside of Düsseldorf. Just like any small city, nearly anywhere in the civilized world, the dating scene is better where there are more people. So, we would be doing our partying in and around Düsseldorf, which has a lot more dining, art, music, and cultural events happening. It really is a beautiful city and one everyone should visit when in Germany.

She was elated to see me and I her. We sat down and caught up. My German was a bit rusty; I sometimes use it when we talk on the phone, but her English is so much better than my German. In Germany, students study English the way American kids study Spanish—it’s the unofficial second language of the nation.

In the matter of a few hours, and after a quick bit of shut-eye and a shower, we got down to business. I told her that I was going to spend a couple of weeks being her personal online and offline dating coach. After the initial shock wore off, she grabbed onto the idea as if it were a life preserver and she was adrift at sea. We embraced; we both knew that she would soon be “off the market.”

Showing up on Monday was not by chance. I wanted the whole week to refine her online dating profile, get the right kind of guys interested, and then set up and go out on a few first dates with them.

The plan worked perfectly. That afternoon, over some schnitzel and strong coffee, we fine-tuned her profile and posted new pictures, ensuring that we highlighted her “assets” and emphasized what she was passionate about. Then we surfed the site looking for men who seemed interesting and sent them a wink.

She got about thirty messages the very next morning. By Wednesday we were done sifting through them, casting out the ones who were obviously just interested in having a one-night stand, or in it because Aggie is smokin’ hot. There were five guys, all with different interests, left over. We emailed them back and set up dates for the coming weekend.

Of course, I would not advise everyone to go out with a guy after only one email. But when you have your very own personal dating coach along to give insurance and insight, it is perfectly fine.

We had an awful lot of fun catching up, Aggie and I did. I went to see some of my old hangouts, from when I used to live there, and saw some old acquaintances. Moments of nostalgia percolated throughout my emotional landscape, and the feeling of “being back” made me appreciate what I’ve been through and how far I’ve come.

However, the job at hand, and the whole point of the story, is getting Aggie a good man. Next month I will divulge all of the naughty, nutty, and downright dreadful first date moments that Aggie, her online matches, and I experienced.

Some guys made the cut and others, well, let’s simply say, did not. Perhaps the seed of a relationship sprouted, love took root, and a blossom of undying devotion emerged by the time I was back on the plane. Or maybe not; Aggie may still be pecking away on her keyboard hoping the guy at the other side is really who he says he is. You’ll have to come back next month to find out.

~LL

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In the meantime, I will still be answering my readers’ questions, so send them, along with your comments and if you would like to receive my seasonal newsletter that is chock full of dating news, advice and links to wonderful resources email me at help@letlettyhelp.com. All submitted material is considered for publication and all names are kept in the strictest of confidence. Come back next month for more of The D Files. Read more of my work at: http://letlettyhelp.blogspot.com/

©MMXLetty Livingston ~ The D Files are intended as inspiring and engaging sources for advice and not alternatives for therapeutic intervention, should it be needed. All names have been changed to protect the identity of the people mentioned herein.

Greetings faithful readers and newbies alike! So, last week you got a feel for what may unfold here in The D Files. You’ve had a glimpse at the cast of characters that were in the previous edition and those who are going to pop up along the way. It starts off as a juicy, chocolate-covered, mystery-laden story of sex, lust, disappointment, and despair. It also taps into what makes us, as women, unique and connected, and hopefully winds up restoring our faith in what makes us strong and able to keep striving for our dreams!

Keep up with who’s who and what’s happening each Tuesday. Once you are hooked, be sure to let your girlfriends know about it by sharing the link with your address book, your Facebook friends, and your Twitter followers. Be sure to keep up with the story, because some real twists and turns are going to happen very soon. (Hint, hint)

As far as what’s going on right now in the real world, it has FINALLY stopped snowing here in Philadelphia. We’ve had over fifty inches already this winter and I have had it. I am ready to book a flight to Miami and do some sun worshiping. If anyone has a condo or a timeshare that has an ocean view, email me and let me know if I can use it. I am SOOOOO over all of this white winter weather! UGGGGG!

On another note: Is it just me? Did anyone else have numerous jaw-dropping moments while watching the winter Olympics last week? Some of those women (and men) are just absolutely incredible. I was amazed at how tough they are, and it has inspired my workouts at the gym. I am working so much harder in spinning class, and my kickboxing class is no longer kicking my butt. These women inspired me, bringing back memories of my childhood and being inspired to ice skate by Dorothy Hamel. I am glad I still have that spirit in me and hope that you dig deep and challenge yourself in ways that you didn’t think were possible. You can do it!!

Now onto this chapter of The D Files: It is summertime, and it is about the support and nourishment of women and womanhood—about bringing one of our own children into our adult group of friends and ensuring that our circle of trust remains relevant and strong. Of course, there are sexy men and some tense moments, but nothing we can’t handle, even if it is by the skin of our teeth.

Read on, and be sure to send your questions and comments to me at help@letlettyhelp.com

(As seen in True Romance magazine July 2009)

The D Files

Never Send a Man to do a Boy’s Job

By Letty Livingston

This wasn’t just a getting all gussied up for one of our girlfriend’s birthdays, it was a dress-to-the-nines occasion, as one of our very own was bringing her daughter out for her first night of legal drinking and debauchery. More importantly, she was going to be officially joining our group.

Yes, Lisa’s baby-girl was turning twenty-one. The simple fact that Angelica wanted to come out and celebrate her 21^st with her mom and her mom’s friends was astounding. Angelica and Lisa, [Lisa, you may remember from last week’s D Files, is my friend who has been diagnosed with a slew of mental ailments.] have a terrific relationship—now. It wasn’t always like that. Lisa is DDG (drop dead gorgeous) and looks more like Angelica’s sister than she does her mother. This, you might imagine, was a problem when Angelica was a tween and she was trying to find her own feminine identity. But as Angelica matured through her teens and Lisa exorcised her demons, and her shrinks prescribed new cocktails of psychotropic drugs, the two formed a strong bond.

Angelica looks more like her father, who looks like David Bowie. She has fair hair and fine features. Her eyes and her height are what she inherited from Lisa, who has the most piercing purplish eyes and stands just a couple of inches under six feet. Lisa is all southern—southern Italian that is; she has olive-colored skin and deep, dark brown hair. Jaws drop when she walks into a room. Men want her, and women want her to stay away from their men.

Most of us have been friends for a lifetime and have known Angelica from the time she was in Pampers. It was mind-boggling to think that she was now going to be coming out with “the girls.” It meant that she was now officially old enough to be out on her own. It also meant that we were entering the age bracket that included empty nesters. Honestly, our clique has women who range in age from thirty to Lisa, who is the eldest at forty-three.

We used to think we were still current on what’s hot. We always had someone in their twenties in the clique to keep us fresh, but last year when Yoko turned thirty, we started to feel a bit—dare I say it—old. But now we’ll have some fresh blood, a new perspective, and she is going to be sworn in on this night.

The swearing in ceremony took place at the Racquet Club. It is a very old-money social club in Philadelphia. Some of us are members; all of us go from time to time. We had a room reserved and there was a round table with candelabra in the center. The candles gave an ominous glow, and we set a serious mood by not speaking as we filed in and took our seats. Lisa dimmed the lights and finally sat completing the circle, and we all joined hands. Angelica looked puzzled. But she soon understood why we were so solemn.

I cannot divulge the oath that she swore, but the gist of it focused on the fact that women are a distinct species, different from males. We have our own perspective and we are pack animals by nature. We thrive when we are part of a pack of other women who are goal-oriented and have our best interests—and the interests of the group—in mind. Our group believes in fidelity, fearlessness, femininity and fabulousness. We can help one another be the best damn woman she can be by being there as a trusted support system for each other.

Angelica now knows that she has the undying support of twelve very special women and that they are relying her on just as much. After the oath was sworn, the lights were brought back up and a waiter delivered a bottle of champagne. Angelica had the honor of popping the cork, the waiter poured, and we all toasted to her future.

Dinner was French and fabulous. George Perrier’s Le Bec-Fin does an old-world dining experience where the food and service is impeccable. There are now thirteen in our clique, and seven of us are married. Marital status notwithstanding, the subject of men always comes up. Angelica asked what we thought about our waiter. Bea said she thought he was a gargoyle. Lauren said that he was hideous. To be fair, he wasn’t so ugly that the sight of him would make your food taste bad, but the guy was far from being easy on the eyes. Angelica snickered and said she kind of liked the sexy-ugly thing—but she wasn’t into old dudes.

The table exploded in an uproar. (And Le Bec-Fin is not the kind of place where a table has an outburst.) The man had to be thirty-five tops. Old? Hardly. But that is the taste of reality that we, as a group, need. To a twenty-one-year-old, thirty-five is o-l-d. Angelica looked pleased with the results of her statement. She said that she would bring us ladies back to reality.

Now, we don’t think of ourselves as a bunch of thirty-somethings out on the town trying to hook up with every pair of tight trousers that walks by, but we are a group of social women who are out in the city for lunches, dinners, events, and the occasional drink with a chaser of debauchery. So, I guess, just because we don’t fancy ourselves to be the Philadelphia version of the cast of a beloved television series, it doesn’t mean that others don’t see us this way.

We left Le-Bec for PURE, deciding to walk. Walnut Street, in Rittenhouse, at this time on a hot Saturday night in the summer, was buzzing with people. There were the al fresco diners at the numerous restaurants sitting at café tables while pedestrian traffic perused the portion sizes on their plates, and then there were people who were heading to one of the many bars or nightclubs. A group of power brokers who looked like they’d been partying since happy hour stopped and let us pass. One guy was particularly conspicuous. “Sexy-ugly?” I asked Angelica. “That’s it.” she said wryly.

PURE is one of the city’s hot spots and it has a VIP section. VIP in Philly means that you get bottle service and don’t have to stand at the bar to order a drink. In cities like Los Angeles, New York and Miami VIP sections are filled with celebrities. In Philadelphia, if you can afford it, you get to be a celebrity for a night.

We had a table reservation for 11 o’clock and made it there just in time. A table for thirteen hot ladies is going to get a lot of attention, especially when it comes loaded with the obligatory seven bottles of booze. That’s the deal—there’s a two-bottle minimum on a table of four to six people. So, when I made the reservation for thirteen, they made me buy five bottles; they threw in two.

The VIP attendant who originally arrived at the table to pour our drinks looked to be about the same age as Angelica. Her skirt was nearly nonexistent, and her top showed so much cleavage that one could see the glimmer of her nipple ring. She was smoking hot, but I was not having it.

I spoke to the manager, and a tall, lean waiter replaced her. His black jeans were snug, and suffice to say, he filled them in in all the right places. He too looked to be about the same age as Angelica, but this time it was perfectly fine, and so was he. He was earning his tips by politely bending over to pour our vodka tonics and Manhattans. He also knew enough to call you “miss” or “sweetheart” when handing you a drink. There were no ma’ams at this VIP table—not tonight.

PURE has approximately a thousand-person capacity and the VIP holds about two-fifty. Tonight the fire marshal would be on-call. The place was packed with mostly happy, sweaty party people. Men of all ages shuffled in and out of our immediate vicinity. We all love to dance, so there were very few moments when we were all at the table at the same time. When I happened to leave the dance floor, Angelica and Lisa were at the table and there were a few guys sitting with them. One was really model-hot and was sitting in Angelica’s personal space. She was not impressed, and after he said that he had never done a mother and daughter together, his time was up and I politely asked him to leave.

I thought he’d be a prince about it, but instead drama ensued. He spat a few choice expletives and started to get in my face when a nice man from the next table stepped in. This gentleman was in our age category, and he must’ve thought his formidable size would intimidate the skinnier nuisance. But he was wrong. The model guy pushed the big guy over. He may have tripped or fell, but either way he landed on his butt. This caused all the men sitting at his table to stand up and come over. I thought an all-out brawl was about to erupt.

From all of the hoopla appeared our young waiter. He slipped one hand under the skinny, rude guy’s arm and the other on his throat. He lifted the man off of his feet and promptly removed him from the VIP section and out of sight. The men from the other table settled down and the manager had scantily clad girls pouring complimentary drinks in the matter of minutes.

As for our table, the young waiter reappeared about half an hour later. Last call had already been announced by the DJ and some of our clique had left. Lisa, Angelica, and I sat quietly, sipping our final drink, and the waiter asked if he could take a seat. He liked Angelica, and it showed. I mean, come on, not only was he dreamy to look at, but he had just vanquished a fearsome foe in honor of this young lady.

He whispered a little something in her ear. She whispered back. He smiled and nodded and said “Of course.” Then she asked Lisa and me if we were going to after-hours, and we both shook our heads “no.”

“I’m going to go with Paolo.” She announced.

“Okay, I’ll see you there,” he said and disappeared into the thinning crowd.

The three of us raised our glasses and once again toasted to Angelica’s future. Then we all laughed. I had to ask what she whispered in his ear. What was it that he said “of course” to?

Angelica said she asked Paolo if he had ever kissed a guy before. I was taken aback a bit. “Really?” I asked her.

“So hot.” Angelica replied. “So hot.”

Lisa laughed and said, “Like mother, like daughter.”

That’s when I remembered Lisa’s life-long thing for David Bowie. I laughed too.

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I will still be answering my readers’ questions, so send them, along with comments on The D Files to me at help@letlettyhelp.com. All submitted material is considered for publication and all names are kept in the strictest of confidence. Come back next month for more of The D Files. Read more of my work at: http://letlettyhelp.blogspot.com/, http://fixmylove.com

©MMX Letty Livingston ~The D Files are intended as inspiring and engaging sources for advice and not alternatives for therapeutic intervention, should it be needed. All names have been changed to protect the identity of the people mentioned herein.

For those of you keeping up with the D Files in True Romance magazine, here is Bea’s backstory about her estranged child (supplement to the April 2010 issue)

Bea was calm and even-toned as she recalled the story of how she was lied to by Tyler when they were married. She was playing the good wife, staying home after shaving his back, as he went to shake his moneymaker for lewd and lascivious women. He came home disinterested in sex but smelling like one would imagine a whorehouse would. She talked about how she cried for Tyler to try to get her pregnant. She so wanted a baby with him. He didn’t want one. He always told her she was not old enough to be a good mother.

When Tyler left and never called, she was frantic. She didn’t sleep for a week and had her brother-in-law Guido, who was a NYC detective, look into it. Guido found Tyler in the matter of a few hours. He was at the gym, at the clubs, and at his regular tanning appointments. It was as if he was living life as usual except for coming home to Bea. Guido also found out where Tyler was laying his head at night. He reported to Bea that Tyler was shacking up with some hotshot lawyer’s daughter, in New Jersey.

The news shot through Bea like a lightening bolt. She fell into a state of shock and despair. She began showing up to work late and was in a zombie-like daze. Her boss, a tragically odd and strangely handsome multimillionaire, didn’t want to see Bea in such pain. She told us how he put her up at the Four Seasons in the city and sent her for massages and limo rides to and from work. He began treating her like a princess, which helped her feel a sense of self-worth again.

Then one Friday night, her boss showed up at her suite at the Four Seasons. He was drunk and so was she. He was tired of his life as a dad with two kids and having a wife he was with for the last twenty or so years. Bea was so sick of feeling alone. She let him in, they ordered champagne, and undressed each other. They remained there for the entire weekend—eating, drinking and pretending that they were okay together. There were no empty condom wrappers. Bea admitted to wanting to get back at Tyler. She would show him. She was old enough to be a mother. She didn’t need him. She had a millionaire now.

Bea had moved into an apartment on the Westside in the short span that Tyler was away. When he came back to their home on the Eastside, all of her stuff was gone—closets bare, drawers left askew and with nothing in them, pictures removed from frames, and an unforgettable stillness. Her new place was way out of her league—well, unless it was rent-controlled. But even then, the building was the home to A-list actors and celebrities and some of the cities’ biggest names in the restaurant business.

For a couple of months, Bea and her odd millionaire lived in a state of manufactured bliss. They played house and made love on every square inch of surface area. They went to the Grammy Awards, red carpet openings of new nightclubs and restaurants, and flew to Europe every weekend in his private jet. They lived life in the clouds. They were both afraid to put their feet on the ground; for fear that reality would surge back to them with a vengeance.

After three months of dreamlike luxury and a day after Bea told her millionaire that they were going to have a baby, she was served with a restraining order. She wasn’t to come within 100 yards of her now estranged lover. The locks were changed on the apartment and the doorman had her belongings behind his desk, waiting for her. She called her job, and even her away message was changed. She was out of a job, a home, and out on the street at 19 years of age, in a city that ate up even the strongest of our breed.

She headed east, to her not-so-old nest where Tyler was still living. She buzzed and was let in without questioning. She got out of the elevator and her heart was in her throat. She didn’t want to go back, at least not like this—homeless and pregnant with another man’s child. She pressed the L button and went back down. She wasn’t going to swallow her pride.

Once in the lobby of her old building, she opened her mobile phone and called a friend of her wealthy ex. He was an older man who always ogled Bea, and she knew he had various real estate investments around the city. She was in luck; he answered his phone and was happy to assist as long as Bea knew that she’d have to scratch his back too. Within an hour, she was lying on an overstuffed mattress in a huge apartment in Battery Park. It was an artist’s loft—three thousand or so square feet of the sweetest space in the city with an unobstructed view of the still-standing World Trade Center.

She lived there for a month. She could hardly stand the smell of the old guy who owned the place and visited a few times a week to pick up the “rent.” Then a neighbor introduced her to an Academy Award-winning actor who owned a good deal of real estate in Tribeca. So, she packed her bags and spent some time on the arm of an ostentatious actor. She dodged paparazzi and used only back doors to enter and exit buildings. When her baby bump got too big, the actor’s handlers thought it would be detrimental to his career if she was found to be living with—not to mention sleeping with—this world famous man.

This is when she admitted to calling Tyler. They met at Time Café, and it was tense. She knew she wanted her old, simpler life back. She liked—no, strike that—loved money and all that came with it, but she also loved Tyler and the small, not-so-complicated life they once shared. She told him what had happened. They both made their apologies and then she dropped the question in his lap. She asked if he’d take her back, if he were willing to start anew with her and her baby. He said no. And just like that, they were finished.

Unbeknownst to Bea, Tyler had filed for a divorce. He told her that the papers were being mailed to her grandmother’s home in Philly. She said he did this because no one knew where to find her and that he knew she’d show up at her grandmother’s eventually. A light bulb went on over her head—the idea of moving to Philly sounded wise.

She said goodbye to Tyler and spent a couple more weeks in New York City ensuring that her connections with the rich and famous were intact, and then she hopped on an Amtrak train and showed up at her grandmother’s home in Center City, Philadelphia. Betsy already had a room set up for Bea. She knew she’d show up.

Divorce papers weren’t the only legal documents waiting for Bea. There were a couple of other envelopes, with the names of some noteworthy law firms on them, sitting in a pile. Bea was now seven months pregnant and wasn’t fairing too well. Her OB-GYN told her that bedrest and good eating was all that was important right now and that the less stress the better.

So, Bea let her grandmother Betsy take good care of her for six or so weeks. She didn’t open any of the mail that waited for her. She didn’t want to be divorced when she delivered her baby, even though Tyler would not be listed on the birth certificate. And she couldn’t have possibly imagined that anything that pressing would have found her in Philly.

Catch up with Bea in the April 2010 issue of True Romance!

Dearest Friends and Faithful Readers,

Regretfully, I must inform all of you that my acclaimed Let Letty Help dating and relationship advice column and The D Files, my novella that has been running in True Romance for the past year, have been put on the shelf for the time being.

Just in case you haven’t heard, print publications are having a hard time keeping up with online versions of e-zines of similar content. Part of it, of course, is the slumping economy. Another factor is that modern times call for nanosecond sound-byte-sized morsels of infotainment. However, there is something so nostalgic, so pure and simple about turning a page, about picking up a magazine and flipping to the end to find your favorite column, about coming home and it is there waiting for you in your mailbox.

With the support of my publishers, my wonderful editor Gia, and all of you, we are going to try to keep the wind in the sails of The D Files. Each week I will post previously published portions of The D Files, where you are going to get a unique opportunity to see love, romance, and interpersonal relationships be tried and tested, be formed and broken, and be supported through friendship.

I know many of you know who the cast of characters in the novella are, but for those of you who are new to The D Files and for those who are about to become wrapped-up in the storyline, I have a list of central players for you:

Cast

Nikki   32        Steadfast friend whole takes relationships seriously  w/ Freddie

Bea      37        Entitled, overbearing, uses men for gifts                    w/ Todd (since june)

Lauren 28        Hopeless Romantic                                                     Unattached

Yoko   30        Token Asian who has the wit of a fortune cookie      married Tran

Lisa     43        Bipolar, depressed, parties hard, gorgeous                 divorced

Angelica 21     Lisa’s daughter, wry, sharp as a whip                         unattached

Agatha  41? Letty’s friend, lives in Germany. Was in the Dating in Deutschland series

Isadora              32      Letty’s younger sister, lives Philly, monotone            unattached

Tyler    41        Bea’s now not-so-secret ex-husband ex-stripper who is going to get a novella of his own soon!

Sam     17        Bea’s daughter who is somewhere in the world. She is going to be found, possibly.

Guido              Bea’s brother-in-law NYC detective helped track Tyler when he left her.

Oddball Millionaire     Father of Bea’s daughter Sam. Never named

I had considered only giving you the names of the players who appear in this edition, but then felt that allowing you some foresight, some premonition, about where this tale may lead, will surely get you to come back and invite your friends to read along.

So, in order to get the ball rolling I am going to be posting an excerpt of The D Files each Tuesday. Please feel free to leave your comments there. Or write to my, Letty Livingston at help@letlettyhelp.com. I am still answering questions about dating, romance, and relationships, and, of course, sex. So, don’t be shy. All names are kept in the strictest of confidence and all submissions are considered for publication.

The D Files

Allergic to My Orgasm

By Letty Livingston

Hello and welcome to the first installation of The D Files. Though there are no questions posed by readers, as in my acclaimed Let Letty Help column, there is still plenty of titillating infotainment for you. The D Files are essays, stories, and tales of my life as a dating coach, relationship counselor, and sexpert. Being a lady who wears those particular hats does come in handy. With that, let me let you enjoy the following.

xo

LL.

It all started with a sneeze. Nikki said, “Allergies,” and began riffling through her shoulder bag looking for a tissue, while someone at our table offered a halfhearted, “Bless you.” Then Lauren looked up from her heaping plate of fried calamari and suggested that Nikki take an antihistamine. “I take Claritin and it works great,” Lauren said, as she picked the crispy tentacles up and popped them in her mouth. Some agreed that they hated hay fever and that antihistamines were the only way to get through springtime, not to mention summer’s ragweed.

Bea, one of the women who was still nodding in agreement like a dashboard Chihuahua going over a speed bump, continued her story of Todd—her latest in a string of first dates. She picked up where the sneeze had interrupted her. “I don’t know what it is with these guys nowadays. Like, doesn’t anyone know how to get a girl off anymore?”

The head nodding recommenced and Yoko, the unassuming Asian woman in our lunch clique, let out an “I know, that’s right!” We all laughed.

“It’s not freakin’ funny!” Bea slammed her fist down hard enough to rattle the plates on our table and turn the heads of diners who were within a fifty-foot radius. “I mean, come on. I’ve been out with seven guys since April and bedded six of them. Nada! Zilch! Not one has come close to getting me off.”

We were becoming numb to this rant of hers, and then out of the blue Nikki, who generally sits and listens (unless she’s had too much to drink), said, “I don’t know. Freddie has been giving it to me real good.” She leaned on her “e” for a nanosecond, so it sounded like reeeal good. Bea rolled her eyes and flicked her wrist, bestowing the international signal for, “Whatever!”

“Could be related to the antihistamines,” I finally added after a few seconds of silence calmed our herd.

“Yeah right,” Bea shot back.

“No, come on, Letty’s the pro. Let her educate you.” Yoko wanted to know what I was talking about. Things between her and Trung had been going nowhere lately.

“Just because a medication is over-the-counter doesn’t mean it’s any less potent than something available only by prescription. All medications have side effects, antihistamines included. The downside to OTC meds is you don’t have to go to a doctor to get them. If you’re diagnosed with depression and the doctor prescribes an anti-depressant, she’s going to tell you about the possibility of sexual side effects.”

Lisa, the bipolar/chronically depressed girl of our group, spent years on antidepressants, and she gave me an “I know what that’s like” look.

I took a second to meet her eyes and continued, “When you go to Rite Aid to pick out your own allergy medication, the box can’t tell you all the risks. Sure, you stop sneezing, but what else is going on?”

Bea hates it when I get preachy, and honestly, I try to save it for the column. “Would you get to the point already?” Bea requested, motioning for our hottie waiter to bring us the check. He shot over instantaneously.

“Okay—here’s the skinny: Histamine is released as part of the orgasm from mast cells in the genitals. What you ladies may be experiencing is called anorgasmia, the inability to achieve orgasm. If you want to climax and know you have prior to taking antihistamines but haven’t since—” I paused and looked over at Bea while I fished for my Amex card. She didn’t have the usual “nobody likes a know-it-all” expression pasted on her perfectly angular face. No, Bea was really fed up with test-driving men and wanted to know how to fix it.

“The best thing to do is get off them and try a more holistic approach.” I put my credit card atop of the small pile and smiled.

“Come on,” Yoko cried. “You can’t stop there. What do we do?” The bobble-head nodding started again.

The tan waiter overheard me talking about orgasms, or the lack thereof, and was frozen like Michelangelo’s David.

“Um, hello? Today!” Bea snapped her manicured fingers in his face and he scurried away. She loved emasculating men. And she wondered why she couldn’t orgasm.

I let it slide, but felt sorry for the hot hard-body. “Okay, there’s lots of complementary and alternative medicines available. You can reduce the symptoms of allergic rhinitis with acupuncture, yoga, herbal medicines, and homeopathic remedies. Some people say that decreasing the intake of dairy products during allergy season can help. You’ve got to see what works for you and try different combinations of the techniques. You’re all smart ladies. Surf the Internet for more info and tips, and get your orgasms back.”

Hard-body hottie returned with the receipt, and we all took our respective slips to sign. The ladies were buzzing in pairs, discussing what they’d just learned. I quietly signed my name and knew that soon my friends would be coming back to lunch with renewed looks of satisfaction.

~LL~

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I will still be answering my readers’ questions, so send them, along with ideas that you would like to read about in coming issues of The D Files to me at help@letlettyhelp.com. All submitted material is considered for publication and all names are kept in the strictest of confidence.

Come back next Tuesday, right here are www.mytruelovestory.com for more of The D Files. Read more of my work at:http://letlettyhelp.blogspot.com/

©MMX~Letty Livingston~The D Files are intended as inspiring and engaging sources for advice and not alternatives for therapeutic intervention, should it be needed. All names have been changed to protect people’s privacy and all are fictitious characters.

©2009 Letty Livingston ~ The D Files are intended as inspiring and engaging sources for advice and not alternatives for therapeutic intervention, should it be needed.