Beth Mann's Open Salon Blog

The Dokken Factor and Other Dating Deal Breakers

Wed, 18 Nov 2009 12:11:59 -0500

First dates are up there with anal fissures in the pleasure department but they must be endured. How else can you get to the sex?

Unfortunately, one often encounters deal breakers on those first dates, making any future seem unlikely.

Take my date last weekend...please. Actually, he was a nice enough guy. Good-looking, above average intelligence. We went for brunch at a local joint at the Jersey shore, sitting in the Fall sunlight, sipping mimosas. Happy so far!

Small talk ensued, which generally sets my teeth on edge. I hate small talk. Weather, current events, "What do you do for a living?" "Your mother, when she's available." That kind of thing. Deadly. But I know, I know, it must be done.

"So what kind of music do you like, Peter?" I halfheartedly asked.

"Heavy metal for the most part...like Dokken."

"Dokken? What do you mean Dokken?

"It's an 80's metal band."

"Oh, I'm aware. They have lots of hair. I just never...forget it. So who else do you like?"

"What? You never what?"

"I never heard anyone mention Dokken as one of their favorite bands before. That's all. Like, it was the first band you'd mention."

"Well, who would you mention?"

"Any band other than Dokken?" I responded with a nervous laugh.

We quickly changed subjects but somehow Dokken loomed over us the rest of the brunch. They might as well have been at the table, guzzling my mimosa and giving me lap dances.

Peter and I never had a second date. Which is fine. But it got me thinking about the Dokken Factor - or any other element that makes you say, "Sorry cowboy, this is just not going to work."

Listen, I don't think everyone should think just like me. I mean, musically, I have some nerve judging anyone. I like heavy pop, for instance. The poppier, the better. I've stopped parties dead in their tracks from putting on a little Barry Manilow to add some "spice" to the evening. Phil Collins fills me with a deep sense of glee. I think The Bee Gees are one of most misunderstood bands of all time.

I also like classic rock. But I can't help that. I'm from Jersey. I was born with Boston in my blood, Van Halen in my veins and Genesis in my genes.

And it's fine to have differences in taste. It adds a certain fun, playful tension. But differences as great as Dokken? That may just be an unbridgeable gap.

My ex-boyfriend is a big movie buff. And when I say big, there are few movies that man hasn't seen. We can talk for hours about performances, directors, a certain shot or scene that has stuck with us forever. When he started dating again, he went out with some gal who over dinner said that she didn't like black and white movies. They gave her the "creeps." I had to break it to my ex that they stood no future whatsoever. He agreed. The Dokken Factor, clearly at play.

More intimately, a female friend of mine had been dating a man for 6 months when she confessed that while their sex life was going well enough, he never went down on her. He told her the first time they had sex that it just "wasn't his thing." (And no, it wasn't a hygiene issue. I asked.) I told her that she may need to break up with him. She sadly agreed.

She did talk with him about it before ending it. He reiterated that he just didn't like going down on women - not just with her, any woman. Cunnilingus done well may be one of the most deeply sensual and wonderful sensations a woman experiences sexually (in my humble opinion.) To do without, because it's not his "thing"? Au revoir, pussy hater.

I know - we all have our sexual preferences. But not as big as this Dokken Factor. It should be a primal drive to want to go down on a woman. Instinctual, I argue. If I were a straight man, I'd skip the breasts and run, not walk, to eat at the Y. And if a man doesn't like to do it, then he's either sexually self-centered or lazy (which means lame sex) or he secretly prefers other sexual organs in place of the vagina, if you get my drift.

Sometimes, deal breakers turn out to be deal makers. Surprisingly, I dated a Christian guy and we managed quite well for some time. As long as he wasn't proselytizing, I had no problem. It's strange that I would fear a problem, truthfully. I'm a spiritual person. Not in the Christian sense (though Catholic blood still courses through these veins, whether I want it to or not) but what did I think he would do? Burn me at the stake? Beat me with a Bible?

He cursed occasionally, drank beers and had the most devastatingly beautiful lips that he would place oh-so-strategically all over me. When he kissed me (which was heavenly) "Son of a Preacher Man" would play in my mind. I imagined that I was defiling him, sullying his Christian goodness, which was ultimately a real turn-on, for both of us.

One man I dated cowered in quite a dangerous situation we encountered. A homeless man approached us on the street one night, when I lived in Philly, with a pipe in his hand. I had to scare the guy off by using my special "dealing with crazy people" technique. When I was done, my date stood far off to the side, applauding. Applaud this, Dokken Factor.

Sadly, I don't always heed deal breakers. I had a wonderful date many years ago in Brooklyn - a romantic movie, a lovely dinner, great conversation, laughs. When we walked home, we came to his place first. It was there he said goodbye to me, leaving me to walk about 10 blocks home at 1 am in a semi-sketchy neighborhood. I remember trying to shrug it off, but tears kept filling up my eyes on my solo journey home. Yes, I could have asked him - but I didn't. He could have offered, too. I stayed with him for several difficult years.

Clothing, while not a deal breaker, can certainly be deal altering. A man constantly donning a baseball cap can dampen my spirits a bit. Wearing sneakers all the time is a turn-off as well. T-shirts with slogans plastered on them...ick. He doesn't have to be a fashion plate but show a little effort. Show that your look matters.

At this point of my life, I hope my deal breakers turn into meal makers. A man who cooks well can lure me in pretty quickly, transporting me past many Dokken-like character flaws. Sad but true.

So while I don't think I'll ever fall for a a metal-loving, pussy-hating Christian in a Budweiser t-shirt who thinks black and white movies are creepy, I'm still open. At least, I try to be.

(That lap dance by Dokken doesn't sound so bad afterall. If you guys are available (which I'm guessing you might be), please meet me at The Sandbox Cafe this Saturday. I'll be the girl with the mimosa and the semi-jaded outlook.)

(Yeah, that's right. Manilow. Try to stop me. Just try.)

The Sexiest Men in Rock & Roll - A Scientific Study

Mon, 9 Nov 2009 18:11:46 -0500

"You want this."

Some think sexiness is in the eye of the beholder. But is it? Here at Silly Lists of Nothingness, we say its an exacting science that can be proved in labs with women in white coats using complex formulas that are beyond you, so don't worry pretty little head.

This isn't a case of "I think he's hot" as much as this guy is definitely hot - like, scientifically. These guys work it and they own it. We also threw in a few hot rock stars that are non-traditionally sexy but radiate that sexy vibe, which means there's hope for us all.

Here's the criteria which lead us to our findings:

They ooze sexiness. They know they're sexy and show it off. They're cocky, sometimes literally.

They look good in tight pants.

They look good in tight pants.

The Top Ten Hottest Men in Rock

1. Jim Morrison

Topping our list is the Lizard King himself. Jim Morrison stands heads and shoulders above the rest, according to our esteemed panel. In fact, he sets the standard for the rest of the list. The man oozes sexiness, from his leather pants to his pouty lips. He even passes out on stage sexy. Not everyone can pull that off.

2. Sting (The Early Days)

Young Sting was a HOTTIE. Tantric sex Sting of today is a little too rich and self-involved, not like the lean and hungry Sting of yesteryear. Just the video for "Don't Stand so Close to Me" alone created lifelong English teacher fantasies for women worldwide.

3. Jared Leto

"Big ego, maybe...but I'm smoking. Just try to deny me."

4. Michael Hutchence of INXS

"I'm feeling cocky....can't you tell?"

5. Rod Stewart (Early Days)

"I plan on fucking a lot. I mean, a lot, a lot."

6. Trent Reznor

"I want to fuck you like an animal."
Likewise, I'm sure.

7. Mick Jagger

"Please...this list was invented for me."

8. Robert Plant

"Yeah, right, Jagger."

9. Elvis Presley

"Easy, boys. I clearly started the whole thing."

10. Billy Squier

"Stroke me."

11. Freddie Mercury

"I'm non-traditionally sexy but I got "it" in spades."

12. Chris Cornell

"I don't know why I'm here."

(Cornell wasn't going to make the list but as our team of scientists reviewed more photos, it was decided amongst our team that he would "not be thrown out of bed for eating crackers" as Dr. Lanci put it.)

13. Prince

"Bitch please. I should be number one."

14. David Lee Roth

"Need I say more?"

The People You'll Say Should Have Made the List and Why They Didn't

...scientifically:

1. David Bowie - While he is elegant, stylish and charming, he isn't sexy per se. He's got a little bit of an alien element to him as well which isn't sexy, at least on this planet.

2. Jon Bon Jovi - First off, we did say "rock." And Jon Bon Jovi is good-looking - no doubt. But not sexy. He's kinda cookie cutter good-looking, like a Ken doll.

3. Jeff Buckley - He's a little too poetic and sad to be "rock out with his cock out," as Dr. Lawrence so aptly put it.

4. Kurt Cobain - Raw beauty indeed - but too damaged to be sexy.

5. Skidrow's Sebastian Bach - A little too pretty for his own good.

6. Chris Isaak - Good-looking in a 50's sort of way, but not sexy.

7. Bruce Springsteen - Earthy, gritty...but not sexy. (Though the album cover with his ass on it is a step in the right direction.)

8. Steven Tyler - Sequestered to this list due to poor online imagery.

"This isn't fair."

Thanks to my esteemed colleagues Dr. Beth Mann, Dr. Ruby Lawrence and Dr. April Lanci-Leseur whose level of professionalism is remarkable and most importantly, scientific:

"Leave the science to us."

_{(And Candy, you'll always be Number One on my list!)}

In Bed with the Devil (One Last Time)

Tue, 27 Oct 2009 22:10:36 -0400

“So how’s it feel having sex with a dead man?”

“Good,” I gasp. “Very good.”

We laugh at the gallows’s humor. We can make jokes while having sex. We’re at that point with one another.

Soon the laughing makes way to sighs and moans. A tear runs down my face but it doesn’t stop me from enjoying being very naked with my ex-boyfriend this one last time.

God, can I really call him an ex? That implies that we had a legitimate relationship, which I seriously question. He was my part-time lover in New York City years ago. When everything was falling apart there, he was my guiding light, my protector - which is a scary thought. Because Robert is the Devil. But when you’re in Hell, you look for the leader, I suppose.

Robert makes Bacchus look like a Jesuit priest. He’d make Caligula blush. He is debaucherous, cavalier and deeply self-centered. He embraces his self-destructive behavior in a truly shameless manner that one can’t help but slightly admire.

Robert is old-world beautiful. The kind of man they don’t make anymore. Big, rugged, broad-shouldered, well dressed. A former FBI agent. An esteemed soldier. He’s a professional sharp shooter and an overall badass. Now he owns several businesses in the city and holds orgies in his elegant wine cellar, with candles burning everywhere and the finest wine and coke pouring all night.

Robert is a compulsive liar. And an addict. Everything that pours out of him and into him are lies.

While not as self-destructive, I can go there with the best - or worst - of them. I consider myself a Dark Lighter. I can go where the dark people go, give of myself, and return to tell the tale. I can keep my light. I can keep my light.

Robert loves to tear off my clothes. He loves to see me naked. He tells me I’m his angel but I’m a trophy to him. He tears at my clothes when others are around so they can see my body. Being pretty unashamed in that department, I’ve often let him.

Not this night. Those wild times are done and I’m here for one reason only.

Tonight I’m visiting him at his Jersey shore home. He brought a friend along and we went out to eat – the best food, the best wine, the best everything. While Robert may rot in Hell for eternity, he is brilliant company – charming, wicked, wild and sweet.

When I tell him I won’t go back to his boat for more “fun”, he flips. He towers over me, bellowing, but I never fear him. Though I probably should. I’m drunk. He’s drunk. I want to sleep. I want to stay at his house and be left alone. His orgiastic desires bore me.

“So how does it feel having sex with a dead man?”

“Good,” I gasp. “Very good.”

We laugh. I cry a little but he doesn’t know.

That is what he says to me the next morning. After I leave his house at the break of down, enter his boat and slip into bed with him. Anger quickly dissolves into the pleasure of our two bodies coming together. He smells so good, like a man should. Robert is the father figure to end all father figures in my life. It’s a shame he is the Devil because he sure fits the Daddy bill pretty well - so big, so fierce.

We have sex. Soberly, beautifully. I know I can no longer go to the Dark Place with him - but this place is full of light and beauty. And he shines because Robert shines sometimes.

His cross keeps dangling in my face and I want to rip it off his neck. How dare he? How dare he use God like he’s used everything else? It can’t save him now anyway.

“Take the cross off, you liar.”

“No.”

“That cross should burn your skin. Don’t negotiate with Jesus now, you hypocrite.”

“Better safe than sorry, angel.”

The cross swings, the boat rocks, the sunlight pierces through the windows and we fuck comfortably. Like two people who’ve fucked comfortably many times. It’s the best sex we’ve ever had. Perhaps because the stakes are higher. He is dying of pancreatic cancer and has less than a year to live.

“So how does it feel having sex with a dead man?”

“Good,” I look into his wild blue eyes. “Very, very good.”

When I say this, a smile crosses flashes across his face that I've never seen before, like a man pleased with himself, a man who for one moment rose above his addictions and allowed himself to be sexual and intimate with a woman he loves. It’s the smile of a man who is proud of himself, proud that he pleased a woman. I know I will remember that smile forever. He tries to hide it by looking away.

“Stop hiding. I see you smiling. I know you feel good.”

He hugs me. We laugh. I start to cry a little but he doesn’t know.

Special thanks and credit to Steven Stahlberg's 3D image "One Last Time"

Famous Fights that Never Happened - Cash vs. Sinatra

Thu, 22 Oct 2009 10:10:14 -0400

The Rules:

1. Two celebrities face-off in an imaginary fight.
2. Both are in their prime.
3. No weapons can be used.

Let's start the match, shall we?

In this corner, standing at 5'8, is Frank Sinatra.

Points in Sinatra's Favor:

Sinatra was expelled from high school at 15 for rowdiness.

His father, Martin, was an illiterate former prizefighter and fireman.

Frank's dying words were "I'm losing" implying that even death was as a fight to him.

Sinatra has a highly unpredictable temper. According to one source:

"Though his temper was excessive, Sinatra was known for going from extremely angry to somewhat amused in a matter of seconds. In one incident he dumped hot coffee on a casino manager named Carl Cohen, who had somehow gotten on the singer's wrong side. Cohen responded by punching Sinatra in the face, knocking out his front teeth. Sinatra than concluded, as he later told a friend, "never fight a Jew in the desert."

"For all of his life Sinatra had a very unpredictable temper, often screaming at reporters and getting in fights. In one particularly violent tantrum he ripped a phone out of the wall of his hotel room, broke the windows, and then set it on fire."

Sinatra had endurance:

"Dean and Sammy, they couldn't hang," says Hank Cattaneo, Sinatra's concert production manager for the past 20 years. "They weren't in shape for it. After a half-hour, Dean would say, 'I gotta go to bed,' and then Sammy would say, 'Please, let me go too.' But the old man loved to hang, loved to talk and tell stories."

Sinatra's favorite passion was prizefighting and was a "close friend" of Tami Mauriello, a heavyweight contender in 1943.

A series of recent brawling incidents had been widely covered in the media on the night in 1957 when Sinatra and some of his Rat Pack pals dropped in on the act of insult comedian Don Rickles at a Hollywood club. Rickles, who spared no one during his act, immediately ad libbed: "Here's Frank Sinatra. Make yourself at home, Frank. Hit somebody." After an awed silence, broken only by a few titters on the floor, Sinatra laughed with gusto and the tension was broken.

The Mob Connection - if Sinatra didn't win the fight, Cash would be swimming with the fishes. You don't disrespect Sinatra by kicking his ass.

Points working against Sinatra:

He's a crooner and crooners aren't natural fighters.
He's dead, making fights a challenge, overall.

In this corner, standing at 6'2 is Johnny Cash:

Points working in Cash's Favor:

Cash may be a little cold-blooded with lyrics like:
"I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die."
Johnny had hard times in his blood: "Johnny Cash was born in rural, south-central Arkansas, on February 26, 1932." Ouch. That's got to hurt.

Cash was of Scottish descent and Scots can be badasses occasionally.

Cash was Southern and Southern people like to kick ass.

Cash was high and high people are unpredictable with drug-induced superhuman strength:

"As his career was taking off in the early 1960s, Cash started drinking heavily and became addicted to amphetamines and barbiturates. For a brief time, he shared an apartment in Nashville with Waylon Jennings, who was heavily addicted to amphetamines. Cash used the uppers to stay awake during tours. Friends joked about his and erratic behavior, many ignoring the warning signs of his worsening drug addiction. In a behind-the-scenes look at The Johnny Cash Show, Cash claims to have "tried every drug there was to try."

Cash often said fuck you to the man:

"In June 1965, his truck caught fire due to an overheated wheel bearing, triggering a forest fire that burned several hundred acres in Los Padres National Forest in California. When the judge asked Cash why he did it, Cash said, "I didn't do it, my truck did, and it's dead, so you can't question it." The fire destroyed 508 acres, burning the foliage off three mountains and killing 49 of the refuge's 53 endangered condors. Cash was unrepentant: "I don't care about your damn yellow buzzards."

During a live performance of Kris Kristofferson's "Sunday Mornin' Comin' Down", Cash refused to change the lyrics to suit network executives, singing the song with its references to marijuana intact: "On a Sunday morning sidewalk / I'm wishin', Lord, that I was stoned."

Points working against Cash:

He's a Pisces and Pisces can be real wusses.
He too is dead, which makes fights more of a challenge.
He posed like he did time in the slammer but he didn't really.

"Although Cash carefully cultivated a romantic outlaw image, he never served a prison sentence. Despite landing in jail seven times for misdemeanors, each stay lasted only a single night."

And the winner is?

FRANK SINATRA!

We believe from extensive research that whilst Cash was bigger and a badass in his own right, Sinatra is ruthless and soulless with brawling in his blood. We also believe that even though no weapons are to be used, Frank would disregard this rule and slice Cash before he knew what hit him.

Tune in next week when our Celebrity Fist Fight includes:

Steve Perry and Kate Bush

Thanks to Ms. Ruby Lawrence for her contributions.

Heathlike & Me

Wed, 14 Oct 2009 13:10:08 -0400

I don’t even like Heath Ledger. But there he is, kneeling over me in bed, his shirt unbuttoned, wondering what to do next. Well, I can’t be sure it’s actually him. He is very Heathlike, that’s for sure. And that is good enough for me.

We are friends. I don’t remember how or when this happened but Heathlike and I are friends. I can feel that warm and relaxed energy dancing between us – the kind old friends have. (See photo above.)

So why are we in bed together if we’re just friends? I don’t know. We want to take a chance, bridge a gap, daringly enter a forbidden terrain. I feel good about it. Life is for merging, I think, as I stare at him longingly. Longingly? I never even had a movie star crush on him! But strangely, when you're suddenly in bed with him, you feel differently.

He, on the other hand, is slightly conflicted. I don’t take this personally. He’s not conflicted about me per se. He likes me. He seems more troubled and scared of himself. Of opening up.

“Kiss me. Kiss me.” I instruct.

He nervously leans over me and obliges. I feel his reticence again. His warm lips tremor on mine.

“Ugh. What’s your problem, Heathlike? We don’t have to do this if you don’t want!”

He then shyly pulls his hard cock out of his pants, as a way to express his true feelings. He is so beautiful, he shimmers. My body desperately wants him. I know at this moment he will enter me, despite all his internal resistance.

And he does.

He enters me once, twice and then a third time. I almost die from pleasure. Pure sexual perfection. Little shafts of light and electricity shoot between the two of us. We are electrifying together, Heathlike and I. This is more than sexual. This is a merging.

Then two of his Keepers enter the room to discuss business with him! How could they walk in on us right now? He’s not even fully Heath Ledger. He doesn’t need Keepers. Heathlikes don’t need Keepers.

Leave us alone! Can’t you see we’re having sex? I’m enjoying myself. Business can wait! Get out! I just coaxed a reasonable facsimile of a conflicted Heath Ledger into having sex with me. Can’t you just leave us alone?

I think these things but don’t say it aloud. Or do I? I try. The words live somewhere between my mind and my mouth, hurting to get out.

I wonder why Heathlike isn’t angry. He just seems like he’s trying to appease everyone. Its not the most redeeming quality but I give him some allowance. He’s just that kind of person. Too nice for his own good.

Suddenly, I’m outside with Heathlike. This pretty woman has joined us. She long brown hair with perfect grey streaks – almost as if she had them done professionally. She is a loyal person to Heathlike. She is in love with him but he doesn't feel the same way about her. She hangs in there though, trying to be his ultimate ally, trying to be indispensable to Heathlike. I don’t like her false goals.

They leave me to go into a university or a grocery store or a university that is half grocery store. I wait outside but know I won’t wait long. My dignity won't allow it. I keep occupied with surfing since a neon-blue ocean suddenly appears before me my feet.

He is still not there when I finish my session so I look for the subway, slightly hurt and angry. I see Heathlike and Grey-Streaked Hair Girl leaving the grocery store/university. He has groceries in his arms (for a meal he plans on making me. Shh...it's a secret.) I hear her talking about me, not nice things. But Heathlike won't tolerate it. He tells her to stop.

Your loyalty is totally with me, you sexually fraught cutie. But you have kept me waiting too long. You should have been more respectful. Feel my departure, Heathlike. Feel my pain!

I say or think these words.

Luckily I see a subway stop and count my lucky blessings. Now it will be easy to get home and screw over Heathlike in a childish act of revenge.

As I walk downstairs, I realize I’m on the wrong side of the track. The train I need is arriving on the other side and I’ll never make it over there in time. I’ll have to wait a long time for another one. Suddenly my revenge sucks.

The subway station is rather handsome with high, old-fashioned ceilings. And there is produce everywhere – scads of fresh produce. Not for people but for restaurants and grocery stores. Still the air is a little cleaner and the subway a little less dismal.

It will be a long wait. No dinner. No sex with Heathlike. Just me and my stupid pride and a bunch of produce that isn’t even for sale to the general public.

Heathlike – if you can hear me, I'm sorry. I would like to taste your dinner. I think we deserve time together - real time. We broke through a wall and now we’re ready to torpedo past those issues of yours, I’m sure of it. Just reach out to me the next time I close my eyes.

I think these thoughts. Or say them. I’m not sure.