After almost four years of being in a committed relationship with the woman I thought I would marry (the woman who still possesses my engagement ring, as it is), I find myself single. At 32. That's right...two years past that dreaded age marker that defines the fading pigment of one's hair and the slow descent of one's testicles. So now I'm out here trying to attract women, long teeth and all. Looking for Miss Right, or a former Mrs. Right, or possibly even Widow Right.

So, how did all this happen? What series of events led me back to the unkempt lair of bachelorhood? It's simple, really: the fiancee moves to Africa, a friend engages in some harmless dowsing then receives a message from God, a saxophone-playing Ivy League-educated Mexican seductress confesses her love for me through a cloud of bong smoke and voila! Suddenly I've shirked my chivalry and decided that 28-years of irresponsible sex and commitment-less passion just wasn't sufficient. I need more!

More pregnancy scares with people I barely know, more walks of shame down bedroom halls adorned with George Clooney posters and Crate&Barrel paraphernalia, more awkward conversations in overpriced restaurants so that I can learn about the most recent Sandra Bullock film or why Fendi is no longer en vogue.
Welcome back to the Great American Poon-Tang Chase. The game of human croquet where the mallets have scrotums and the course is closed five days out of every month.

The engagement just ended. Literally, two days ago. I got a call from Liberia, where the fiancee has been living for the past three months while she helps develop a solid-waste initiative. For the sake of avoiding litigation, I'll assign her a moniker. Grendel.
So, Grendel calls to tell me that a.) Liberia is lovely this time of year, b.) the food is delicious, although Liberians are predispositioned to using an excess of sugar in their tea c.) she's been fucking some guy named Kyle.
Kyle? This indignity I can not suffer. While I could nobly accept that I have lost her fidelity to a Marcus, or a Xavier...I can not grant any modicum of superiority to the penis of a Kyle.
Alas, however, I must respect her terrible, terrible choice.
The fucked up thing is that Kyle was another student from the U.S. who had accompanied her on the trip. How are you going to be in Africa, surrounded by Africans, and wind up blowing a white guy? Wow, sister, you went to a lobster bake and ordered the seaweed salad.
But, I digress...

Following her confession, I tell her that I am hurt and perplexed, yet understanding. After all, hadn't we both seen this coming? She's known for months that I share a mutual attraction with a young brown-skinned lady with whom I play in a jazz band -- for privacy's sake, we'll call her Isabella de Coltrane. And recently, a co-worker engaged in a ritualistic form of magic (which, in retrospect, seems to have been eerily correct) that predicted a significant change in my love life. I do not accost her, do not press her. Merely acquiesce and let her have her Kyle.

But I should have know it isn't that easy. As soon as I am not heartbroken, not ravaged by her sinful confessions, not redfaced and threatening to show up in Monrovia where I'll promptly remove Kyle's balls and forcefeed them to her, she changes strategies.
Maybe she's been too hasty. After all, we really were in love at one time. Maybe we shouldn't be too rash...blah, blah, blah.
Crazy, fickle woman.
So, long story short...I tell her to get bent, enjoy Africa, don't swallow too much Kyle lest she get a tummy ache on the plane ride home. Her admission of lewdness had already introduced into my mind the vision of Isabella wetting her lips before wrapping them around the reed of her woodwind...lips that were no longer off limits, given the fodder of this incredibly stupid telephone conversation. If you rip the blinders off the horse, you will promptly get bucked the fuck off.
Sorry, Grendel.

So I am now single. Isabella is the first of many mountains I plan to climb before I lose whatever bizarre sex appeal it is I still seem to have. It's only a matter of time now. My body is a time bomb that will one day explode into a mess of erectile dysfunction, back hair and uncontrollable gassiness. Before that day arrives, I am setting out to see what casual sex looks like in the 30s.
I have a feeling it's somewhat the same as it was in the 20s. There will probably be more naps.

Regardless, I am Josh Palmer. Single. 32. Did I also mention that I live in a basement?
How could this not work?

And guess what, I'm bringing you with me, faithful reader.
We'll walk this road together. From hand-holding to promiscuous sex to the dreaded morning after you'll be beside me every step.
So stay tuned. Friday is only four days away. And I've got four years of nasty just waiting to introduce itself to an unsuspecting lady. Hey...it could be your mom.
You never know.