THE UNAVOIDABLE COLLISION ON THE SUBWAY, POST BREAK-UP

New York City is overrun by millions of people, all rushing to be somewhere. They hurry to work, hurry to their happy hour martinis, hurry to their dinner engagements, hurry to finish shopping before the shops close for the day, and try to fit work and appointments in between.

It's easy to get lost in the hurrying masses and feel anonymous, and it's always startling to run into someone I know.

Often I prefer to take cabs rather than the subway. In a city where it is hard to be alone, those few minutes in the backseat moving through traffic seem like a luxury. But when its hard to get a taxi, sometimes I give in to the subway, never dreaming I will run into anyone I am avoiding.

So I was on the 6 train going uptown one afternoon, appreciating the fact that I had scored a seat, and distracting myself from the uncomfortable over-crowdedness by listening to music.

At 33rd Street, even though it seemed as though not one more person could fit in the train, ten more crammed in. I glanced up to see how this was possible, and saw the 21-year-old whose heart I had bruised a few months ago.

We had ended badly. Devon was sweet, and attentive, and always around to hang out with me when he wasn’t playing bass guitar with his band. He needed more affection than I could give, probably because I was never in love with him.

He was a few years younger than me, after all, just finishing college and in a different emotional space. He still lived with his parents.

We only lasted a few weeks. I had tried to break up with him in a kind way, but it was awful. I was increasingly cold towards him, and I could tell by his eyes that it hurt him in the way only a 21-year-old can hurt.

And I felt guilty.  I tried to call and apologize for not handling it better, but he refused to talk to me.

This made me feel even more remorseful. I’d only been his second girl, and I worried about the damage I’d surely done. Dating a younger guy made me have sophomoric emotional reactions to the break up.

Now he was holding the railing and looking at me straight on. He waved.

“How have you been?”

“Oh, good. How’s your music stuff going?”

“Really well,” he said. “I moved out of my parents and got a place downtown. I have a gig pretty much every night.”

I gave him the one sentence summary of the updates in my life, and then we were awkwardly silent. All the things unsaid.

“My friend Daniel said he saw you a while ago,” he said.

I had a vague recollection of some guy I couldn’t place talking to me at a Lower East Side bar after I’d had a few drinks.

“Oh, that’s who that guy was,” I said. “I kind of remember.”

Once, when I went out with Devon, I’d mixed a ridiculously large Mohito with a ridiculously large margarita, and he’d held my hair back while I threw up all the way back to my apartment. He probably thought I was a total alcoholic.

The train stopped at 51st Street.

“Well I’m transferring to the E,” Devon said. “It was good seeing you.”

“You too,” I said.

But I couldn’t leave it like that. If there was one thing I had learned from my guilt, it was not to avoid saying anything unpleasant, because the truth was ultimately less painful than the subtext.

Devon got off the train and I ran after him.

“Look, I need to say something. How we ended…I didn’t handle it well. I was never clear with my communication. I was a jerk.”

“That’s okay,” he sighed. “I don’t know what even happened.”

“I tried to apologize on your answering machine.”

“Yeah, I never called you back. But let’s hug it out,” he said, and wrapped his arms around me.

“Maybe I’ll call you sometime and we can catch up properly,” he said.

He smiled and walked away and as I ran up the stairs to catch a cab the rest of the way home, and I felt better.

THE 21-YEAR OLD BOYFRIEND GETS SERIOUS

It’s always strange when we look deeply inward at our own preconceived notions and then realize they are not practical anymore. I would never have considered even being with a younger, just-out-of-college man until I hit my mid-twenties.

But I still felt like I was doing something wrong, hanging out with a twenty-one-year-old. I thought of him as a kid, and I resisted holding Devon’s hand when we walked around the East Village in the evenings on our live band excursions, or while shopping in the afternoons.

I did not invite him out with my friends, though they were all curious about what they referred to as my ‘sweet young thing.’ I certainly did not miss the knowing looks of his friends, who we frequently ran into. They were intrigued that Devon was hanging out with a full-blown woman.

“They think it’s hot that you’re older,” he said, trying to tongue-kiss me on the Bowery while I blushed and pulled away.

“Not in public!” I insisted.

We had a very adolescent relationship in that we were not sleeping together. I just couldn’t. We made out on the couch as though I was seventeen again, and that was pretty much it. I didn’t want him to stay over. I didn’t have desire for him. I was still hung up on his questionable maturity.

He told me his parents were suspicious of me, especially since they were Catholic. When he called, his mother often listened on the extension phone and he had to yell at her to hang up. Attractive.

“What am I doing?” I thought.

Devon burned persistence.

“Usually a chick doesn’t last more than a month with me,” he said one day.

“Have you had a lot of groupies?” I teased him. His rock band was doing very well.

“I’ve only slept with one woman.  I hope you'll be the second.”

Wow.

He was the exact type of energy I needed in the summer heat. He stopped by my house frequently with gifts of bottled water, and often left his bass in my kitchen between gigs.

When my roommate went away for a couple of days, he convinced me to let him stay over. I relented, and all of a sudden we were a full-blown couple. I still wasn’t entirely comfortable, but he was so attentive and would do these romantic things like pull me into a photo booth in a bar and kiss me while the camera snapped away, then tear off half the photos and give them to me as a memento.  He was sweet.

I realized how serious I had been for so long and it was amazing to be around someone who had that fresh type of joy that seems to unfortunately dissipate by the age of twenty-four (or even earlier in the case of those who leave home at a young age). I was the type who grew up too early, and so I was excited by the spontaneity and disorganization that only those who still live at home possess.

After those sweaty nights together, Devon developed a pattern of frequently showing up to help me with my errands.

“What’s on the agenda this afternoon?” he’d call and ask. “I’ll meet you.”

I would be on my way to go buy a lamp or a stereo or some random electronic device, and he would rush into the city to help me carry it home. I didn’t ask him - he insisted he loved to do it.

I had my own personal slave.

How inappropriate.

How convenient.

But after helping me lift some items that weighed more than sixty pounds, and after tenderly holding my hair back when I threw up one night after having too many margaritas, Devon began to complain that I was not giving him enough emotional attention.

“I need you to show me some love,” he insisted.

“What, you don’t think I’m nice to you?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, you’re nice. But you’re kind of cold. I don’t feel like you’re really into me. I drop everything for you, and you just kind of fit me in when it’s convenient.”

Oh.

Apparently resisting holding his hand in public, and the fact that I was starting to usher him out of the apartment by 2 a.m. was getting to him.

“I’m sorry,” I said, truly worried that I had done some irreparable damage to his fresh young heart. “I’ll try to be more…affectionate.”

I tried, I swear I did.

I went out to meet him and his friends, who decided I was okay even though I had a grown-up life, and they were on the verge of first cars and moving out of their parents’ houses, and they still got allowances.

Devon proudly proclaimed later that his friends had given me a nine out of ten.

“What?”

“You know…the rating system. And you got a better rating than any other girl I’ve introduced to them.”

“You guys still rate chicks?”

“Yeah, man,” he said. “And most of mine only get a six.”

He didn't realize that by his saying he usually only got girls who rated a six, he was on his way out with this nine.

There were two more things that brought us to our bitter end.

One night his parents were out of town and he wanted me to trek out to the family house in Queens and stay overnight. I politely declined. It had been a long time since I had dated a guy who lived at home, and I just couldn’t do it - what if they came home early?  Awkward.

Which would have been fine if he didn’t sulk and leave me petulant telephone messages for a full week after.

The other thing is that he started wearing a headband. A girl’s headband.

I just didn’t look at him the same way after that.

He took the breakup badly, and refused to ever speak to me again.

I realized that barely legal just wasn’t my thing, and that maybe I needed someone more jaded and cynical. Someone more like me...

BARELY LEGAL: DATING A YOUNGER MAN

I had read Nabokov’s Lolita in high school, and loved it on so many levels. Before reading about Humbert’s obsession with nubile underage girls, I had always wondered why my father’s friends or my friends’ fathers looked at me in that strange, longing way that made me self-conscious about wearing a bikini.

“What?” I would ask, in that bold second where the indignation outweighed my shyness. Really, what did they think was going to happen?

I never got a straight answer. After reading the book, however, I had some ideas about exactly what they might be thinking and promptly formed stringent rules about only dating boys who were close to my own age.

However, it was nearly to the day of my 28th birthday that I began to notice the lovely awkward posture of the teenage boys when walking by the skate park, or how gorgeous the freshman college boys were, with their ruddy complexions and non-jaded expressions. While I am too young to yet be considered predatory, I started to pay more attention to these scintillating young men.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I told myself. “Men mature at a later age than women. What the hell am I going to do with a kid?”

But I started to talk about music, tattoos and graffiti painting with nineteen year olds who randomly hung out with their older siblings in my group of friends, and I was always secretly pleased whenever they asked me: “What high school do you go to?

“They have to be at least 21,” R. said to me at a loft party in the Financial District. “You don’t want to date anyone in New York who can’t drink. And young guys never have money to take you out anyhow! They have to ask their parents for an allowance. For God’s sake, control yourself!”

This was the night I happened to meet Devon, a bass player who had just finished his last year of college at the New School. He was originally from California, and had that laid back demeanor, killer dark eyes, and a pierced tongue which he constantly bit on, suggesting all sorts of dirty things.

But I didn’t know how old he was until the first date.

He took me to brunch on a Sunday afternoon in the West Village. He claimed that his Catholic church was in the neighborhood, and he had time for a quick date on the way. It was raining and I had cabin fever, so I agreed.

He smoked like crazy in the streets, apologizing for the bad habit, and kept pulling up his weathered jeans which relentlessly exposed his hips. I was charmed by the awkwardness of the gesture.

“They let you wear jeans to church?” I asked.

“Yeah, it’s cool. I do what I want.”

Devon told me he made money teaching tennis to wealthy people. He said he was in four bands and that he was going to revolutionize the music industry because he was one of the best bass players ever.

“I’m already famous in New York,” he claimed. “It’s just the beginning.”

He was equal parts lackadaisical and enthusiastic. He told me he had just turned 21 a few months before, and thought it was hot that I was a few years older.

“You’re going to really like me,” he said. “But don’t get too attached. This is doomed. My parents won’t approve. They’re religious. They don’t want to think I might be corrupted by an older woman.”

“Oh come on, dear” I said. “I am not likely to get attached, and I don’t want to be responsible for any damage to your psychological development. How many girlfriends have you had anyhow?”

“One serious, and some casual dating things,” he said. “But don’t worry, I grew up in Queens. I’m tough. I am up for anything.”

What does one possibly say to a persistent young man who has an answer for everything?

Devon went off to church and called me every day thereafter, though I half-heartedly put him off while deliberating my levels of accountability.

I was thoroughly convinced he was deeply sensitive, and that I would destroy him if it went any further.

“I’m really busy right now,” I claimed.

“Then I will call you tomorrow. And the day after, and the day after that, and one of these days you won’t be busy anymore.”

I was seriously worried that recent dating disappointments had rendered me a potential heart breaker when it came to commitment issues. I couldn’t even commit to the next week, so what was I going to do with a sweet young thing who had a lot of time on his hands?

Eventually, Devon convinced me to see him again.

“Um, I just auditioned for something and I have an important gig tonight and I was really hoping you would let me just store my bass at your house for a few hours because it’s really awkward to carry around, and maybe we could go walk around your neighborhood?”

So he came over and we talked about music and I still wasn’t convinced but then he leaned over and kissed me with the world’s softest lips.  He tasted of college dreams and summer romance, and I had no choice but to surrender.

He stopped by my apartment regularly after that when he was in the area, bringing me bottled water which he observed I drank a lot of, flowers picked from forbidden public park gardens, and CD’s of his band’s music.

He wrote me adorable notes stuffed into the CD’s such as:

'I knew this music would soothe you when I’m not around…'

He was cool, calm, and funny.  And although he soothed me, I was keeping him at arm’s length.

I admit that the idea of his only being 21 was psychologically erotic, but I was still not entirely comfortable with it.

However, I did go back to the bookstore and pick up a new copy of Lolita. It was good summer reading, after all, and I needed some inspiration that would give me courage before I corrupted this young man’s innocence.

THE LAWYER WHO WANTED A TASTE...

Sometimes a woman who prefers handsome men will make an exception. After a rash of handsome men who turn out to be idiots, for example, a woman will look for other attractive features in a potential suitor. Straight teeth, perhaps, or a good head of hair. Nice eyes, or a muscular body. Or a killer voice. Yes, some women are susceptible to audio-logical persuasion.

I met Dom at Birdland, the famous jazz club, where we had a mutual friend singing in the show. He had one of the firmest handshakes I had felt in New York City, indicating extreme determination. He focused on me as though I was the only girl in the room, and he seemed to have good manners and conversational skills.

He was a transplant from Toronto, lived on the Upper West Side, and liked to run in Central Park in lieu of a lunch break. His career was as a business lawyer

“Stable job – good sign,” I thought.

Dom was wearing pinstriped pants, which didn’t fit that well, but because they were black they were forgivable. He was tall and dark-haired, not handsome, but he had a spark of intrigue…because of his voice.

His voice: deep and brooding with a quality that could be likened to a growl. This man had one of the best voices I have ever heard. It was the kind of voice that narrates detective novels, the kind of voice that makes women surrender. The voice made up for the weak chin, yes.

After the show, a bunch of us went to some dingy pub around the corner to catch up. Under the influence of alcohol and hypnotized by that voice, I did not have my usual revolted reaction upon finding out that he was also an actor.

My experience with actors (and models) has always been unfortunate. But I found myself trying to justify it by thinking, “Oh well, maybe he just needs to express some creativity.” And if he was doing voice-overs, well, that was a fine living indeed.

Dom used the old trick of speaking in a low tone, which compelled me to lean in. This served to make him appear mysterious, to highlight the precise degree of husky resonance, and to make me feel closer to him emotionally due to the physical proximity. The leaning-in-close-trick served to make me think I might be attracted to him.

His brother worked on the Batman animated television series, leading to a discussion of comic books, which always wins me over. He told me that if he was a superhero he would be known as ‘The Dominator.’

“Because I can talk women into anything,” he said.

“We’ll see about that,” I said flippantly.

He used that voice to its full potential: “I always get what I want.”

He probably did, if he talked like that!

Yes, the voice outweighed the pinstriped pants. We made a date for Friday.

When we met at Raoul’s in Soho, the voice was as thick as I remembered, with some convincing lawyer-power attached to its rhythm. Unfortunately, he had also gotten a very bad haircut in the past day or so which made it hard to look at him directly. And he was wearing a dreadful pair of pinstriped pants, which were brown and orange. With a blue shirt!

“Would you like to go upstairs and have your tarot cards read?” Dom asked.

I declined. That was more of a third date type of activity. What if the clairvoyant predicted something romantic (as she was paid to do) that might heighten his expectations?

He ordered in French. He told me he was a Gemini, with two personalities.

By dessert, his racier side had come out and he was telling me about his last ‘open relationship’ and trying to get me to tell him my sexual fantasies.

I brushed it off and pretended I thought he was joking.

We were supposed to go to a loft party in the Financial District, in one of those cool, obscure buildings than no one can find without a detailed map.

When the DJ started to play some familiar rock remixes, Dom started singing along and shaking his ass like a character in Night at the Roxbury, complete with ‘air guitar.’

Now, I can understand that some men are moved by Guns n’ Roses November Rain. I can understand the adolescent memory of Stephanie Seymour in that wedding-dress-miniskirt with the garters is powerful.

But that doesn’t mean these men should SING at the top of their lungs. Dom’s impressive voice was suddenly miserably off-key – low voices should not pitch HIGH.

At first I thought it was a joke, but after several songs I realized I was simply on yet another date with a loser.

“Come on, A., get into it!” Dom said.

“No, thank you. If you want me I’ll be at the bar.”

He found me an hour later.

“Do you want to go to my place?”

“No, I have to get home.”

“Come on…you said you haven’t spend much time on the West Side.” He spoke low again, so I would have to lean in to hear. “I have a two-bedroom.”

“No, I’m good.”

We got into the elevator. It was one of those beat-up, unfinished freight contraptions. It was rather private. Imagine my surprise when Dom suddenly reached up underneath my skirt.

I pulled back. “What are you doing?”

“Come on, A., just give me a taste.”

A taste?

“Come on, you know there’s some serious chemistry going on! I want to taste you!”

I looked him dead-on. There was no trace of humor in his expression.

He took my index finger and put it in his mouth, in an attempt to cannibalize me. I was not impressed.

The elevator stopped.

“Sorry, honey - that’s the only taste you’re ever going to get of me,” I said, hailing a cab back to the East Side before he could say a word.

I vowed that from now on I would simply ask a low talker to repeat the words, instead of risking another momentary lapse of reason by leaning in to be audio-logically hypnotized by a smooth growl.

HOT FOR NERDS

I have always had a weakness for the guys who have thick black glasses, and I never minded if they were held together with tape. I never scorned the prominent noses, the crooked teeth, or the shoulder-slumped postures. Too much extra weight was not sexy, but I could forgive a tiny bit of softness in the abdomen, and too skinny was even better. A guy who looked like he might trip clumsily on a crack in the sidewalk made me weak in the knees. As a child, I was struck by the image of Joey Ramone with his dreadful frizzy hair, odd face and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. “That’s my kind of man,” I said to my friends, who laughed hysterically.

While M. and N. were obsessed with the sporty blonde, tanned alpha males who went on to surfing and rugby, I pined over the guys who were in the chess club and who excelled at mathematics. In high school, it was the guys who had all the music badges sewed onto their jean jackets, white skin betraying the fact that they just didn’t like to go outside much.

I adore nerds, but the kind of nerds who are secretly cooler than anyone else. The kind of guys who read so many books that they are half blind. The kind of guys who recite the song lyrics of Tom Waits, impromptu. Guys with heart problems in young bodies scant of muscle in that way that makes you wonder whether they will even live very long. Guys who collect comic books.

I had to go to Atlanta on business, which meant attending the DragonCon convention which is held at the Hyatt and Marriot hotels every year. It is an overwhelming event which mixes comic books, look-a-like-contests, role-playing gamers, underground bands and merchants who sell leather corsets and medieval face masks.

It is the kind of place where, when you walk down the autograph alley, you see such B-level TV stars as Lorenzo Lamas, or the blonde girl who played the daughter in “Too Close for Comfort.” They clutch their outdated 8x10 black and white headshots desperately, scanning the crowd in hopes of finding fans that will give them the approval they’ve been missing after obscurity predominated. Yes, at the comic book conventions has-beens are stars again.

But the comic book nerds I like would not be caught dead in the signing area (unless maybe a Star Wars actor was appearing.) My boys are right there in the frontlines, flipping through the crisp pages of the latest graphic novels. They are quietly conversing with their heroes, the writers and artists, and sometimes they are commissioning a sketch for $20. “I’d like you to draw Mary Jane from Spiderman but make her sexy” or “How about drawing me standing beside Catwoman with her claws are out like she’s about to attack me?”

And then I saw the world’s sexiest nerd. He was tall with longish wavy black hair, a pale complexion, and dark eyes. He had the requisite thick black glasses. He had the nonchalance of someone who does not know he is good-looking. He was wearing a Led Zeppelin t-shirt, which could have been taken for retro and black jeans. I was in LOVE.

I looked around to see whether he had one of those comic book girlfriends who are dressed in black goth attire with several tattoos and piercings. I have noted that a lot of comic book nerds prefer girls with dark hair, leaving me oftentimes wondering whether I should dye mine to catch their notice. Sometimes the indie rock guys liked blondes, but it wasn’t so common. The sexy nerd looked at me, then, and I felt oddly nervous.

True to cool anti-social form, he walked away without saying anything.

For the rest of the afternoon, as I made my rounds and conversed with artists I know in the scene, I kept seeing him. He regarded me with a disinterested expression that I knew was not entirely disinterested. But I knew it was up to me to make a move.

I casually strode up closer to him, and started examining a rare first edition of Sin City.

“Have you read that?” the sexy nerd asked casually.

“I’ve read A Dame To Kill For,” I said. “And The Hard Goodbye.”

“Did you like the film?”

“I loved it. It’s the best adaptation of a comic book I have ever seen.”

“Yeah it’s cool.”

Silence.

I noted that he did not have a Southern accent, which gave me the hope that he might live in New York.

“You from here?” I asked.

“No, I live in Chicago. I work at a comic book store, and I just like to come to these things to see what’s going on. DragonCon is weird though, all these Storm Troopers running through the lobby.”

“Yes, I can’t believe how many people are dressed up. And they walk so slow here, like they are anaesthetized by all the stimuli.”

“It’s the biggest event in Atlanta,” he said sarcastically. “Now there’s something for the locals to do besides eat.”

I liked his biting tone, which indicated he was probably cynical because he was too smart for his own good. I liked the self-conscious flush that was burning across his pale cheeks.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Tom,” he said.

When he shook my hand I had that familiar weak-in-the-knees sensation that indicated I was done for.

But he was quiet, as though we’d exhausted all possible topics.

“How long are you in town?” I asked.

“Tuesday.”

“Well I’m here until Monday night,” I said brightly. “I want to check out a few events but my schedule is quite flexible.”

I was hinting that I had three days to hang out with this sexy comic book nerd and see what might come of it. But I needed to see whether he was extroverted enough to make a move.

Tom smiled, revealing a crooked bicuspid. “I’m enrolled in games all day Saturday and Sunday though, so I’m pretty booked.”

Gaming? He was a gamer?

Hell, I loved comic book nerds but the guys who spent hours role playing with other anti-social guys, pretending they were wizards or warriors were beyond bizarre. I knew enough to quit while I was ahead, that he probably still lived in his parent’s basement, and he just wasn’t the right type of nerd for me.

“Have fun with that,” I said with finality, walking away into a sea of storm troopers.

CITY DATING: MEN WHO CAN'T COMMIT

Imagine a man so good-looking that a woman can’t help but throw herself at him. And it’s the blatant kind of throwing that torments her later if he refuses her advances. It’s the kind of throwing that, if she is successful in securing a phone number, leaves her elated by the possibility that she has met her future husband.

Imagine a man so good-looking that all the women wonder how, in the name of God, can he possibly be single?

That guy is usually six-foot-four with a lean, muscled build. His skin is pale and slightly ruddy. His hair is nearly black, and in fact, he is usually of ‘Black Irish’ decent. His eyes are his most arresting feature - blue or dazzling green, with thick lashes. His teeth are straight, and his mouth full and tender.

He has some job that involves telecommunication sales, which he never fully explains, but which gives him a company car and a decent salary.

So what’s wrong with him?

This is his pattern:

DATE ONE: He wears his best suit and picks the lady up in his respectable black car, which is always immaculate. He unlocks her side first, and closes her door gently. He has planned everything to the most accurate detailed degree. He always knows the best route to get anywhere in the city. He prefers the freeways, and knows how to drive with a calm skill that makes the lady feel secure. He does not curse at the cab drivers who cut him off. His choice of stereo music indicates good taste. Yes, this guy is smooth as hell on the first date.

He has made reservations at whatever restaurant is cool that week. The lady does not have to wait at all for anything she wants, whether it be water, wine or a martini. He pays attention to details, peruses the menu decisively and then orders for her. He takes charge. He is a man.

After several drinks, the lady is tipsy and flushed, and secretly fantasizing about name possibilities for their unborn children and where their weekend house will be located.

When he drives her home, she is half-hoping something is going to happen physically between them, but he is reticent and polite and simply kisses her on the cheek and promises to call. He does call, three days later, and the lady begins to trust that he is an accountable sort of man.

DATE TWO: He shows up  dressed in jeans and a buttoned-down shirt. He picks the lady up in the car which is still fastidiously clean. He has planned dinner at a more casual place, where they serve Italian food and the lady is a bit disconcerted to find that he slurps his spaghetti.

“Oh well,” she thinks, brushing it off because all of his other attributes are so lovely. After they are married, she can tactfully mention that he oughtn’t to slurp when eating.

He takes her to a nightclub. It’s a bit seedy, the kind of place that was hot five months ago, filled with bridge-and-tunnel types.

He is quieter than he was on the first date, and the lady attributes this to the loud environment. He orders a lot of Jameson whiskey shots for both of them, and the lady has a hard time keeping up.

He dances badly, a tall man with no rhythm, and the lady uncharitably wonders whether he is also terrible in bed? Then he smiles and she immediately feels guilty for such a negative thought. How could a man so handsome be lame at anything, bad taste in nightclubs and slurping aside?

She is concerned about his ability to drive, but at around 1 a.m. he starts drinking water, and after they finally leave the seedy club, she is not altogether terrified to get in the car with him.

He drops her off and kisses her on the mouth. It’s a bit sloppy and whiskey-infused, but not unpleasant. She is sure that if he were sober it would be more romantic.

The lady is thinking that if they get married, she will have a bit of work to do.

DATE THREE: It’s over two weeks later.  He was not as prompt about calling this time. The car is not as clean, there are fast food wrappers in the back seat. His face is a bit swollen, suggesting some kind of binge. He is unshaven.

He shows up wearing some kind of patterned  t-shirt and the same jeans as last time, except now they are dirty. His running shoes suggest that they will not be going anywhere with a dress code.

He is silent, even surly, in the car. He does not know where to take her. This date is not planned out the way the others were. There is something wrong, she can tell. He is walking with his shoulders hunched, his jaw is set, he forgets to open her door first.

“Where to?” is the only thing he says to her the entire drive.

They end up at some hideous tourist trap in Times Square, where he orders several whiskeys on the rocks. He doesn’t want to talk. When she tries to make conversation, he responds with curt answers.

“So what exactly do you do at your job?”

“Sales.”

“I know, but you never really got into it...”

“I don’t want to get into it.”

“Tell me about your college years.”

“Nothing to tell.”

“Are you okay?” she finally asks, even though she hates that question. “You seem different tonight.”

“Let’s get out of here,” he growls.

He drives like an angry maniac, honking at pedestrians trying to jaywalk and yelling insults out the window.

They make it to her house in one piece.

He says, “So are you going to invite me in or what?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve put my three dates in. I expect you to invite me in.”

“You’re drunk!”

He starts calling her terrible names, and she can’t believe this is happening.

“What’s wrong with you?” she yells. “Are you on drugs?”

“You’re a tease, that’s what’s wrong! I’ve spent over $300 on you, and you’re playing hard to get. Come on, no one’s this prim and proper!”

Declining to be further insulted the lady high-tails it out of there. Her dreams for a future are shattered by his Mr. Hyde monster coming out.

“Thank god I never slept with him,” she thinks, and telephones all her friends in an effort to calm herself down.

In conclusion, a handsome man like this New York City archetype will probably never have a hard time getting first, second, or even third dates. Maybe sometimes he will even get some action on date 1 or 2.

It’s the long-term emotional relationship that he can’t pull off.

RETURN OF THE BAD BOY

“I thought you were dead,” I told the bad boy over the phone. Remember him? He’s the same bad boy who went missing a couple of months ago. Frankly, I had written him off as officially missing, possibly dead at the hands of some vengeful druglord.

“Did you miss me?” he asked, with a cocky bravado that nearly made me forgive his suspicious absence. “I was in North Carolina with my cousins. When can I see you?”

The question was, would I consider seeing him again in spite of his suspicious behavior? I have to admit that I was instantly enamored again by his reappearance. He was a bad-ass, after all… disappearances came with the archetype of a shady character.

“I cannot wait to worship you,” he said, cackling like a madman.

So I let him worship me, on and off for a while, and at first I felt an odd tenderness for this mouthy, tattooed smack-talker. He amused me, with his interesting, slightly violent stories, and whenever I went to his tiny apartment there were semi-famous rock stars smoking on the couch telling their own crazy stories.

I also enjoyed the moments when he would hold my hand or kiss the back of my neck. I imagined myself as the moll to his modern-day gangster persona. He’d been in prison, after all.

But there was a major problem. He was completely unreliable.

“I’ll be downtown in meetings till 8, then I’m free – call me,” he would text message.

But at 8 p.m. when I called, his phone was off.

I would receive an apologetic text the next day: “Sorry, babe, my phone went dead and I got really drunk and passed out.”

The next time I saw him he said, “I can tell by your eyes that you’re furious with me.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m not the kind of girl who waits around. Don’t stand me up again or there will be hell to pay.”

He disappeared for another five days, and then called me from Beth Israel Hospital, begging me to visit. “I had a bad bout of tonsillitis – my throat closed up, I was on an IV but now I feel better and I’m STARVING! Please, bring me a Gatorade and a sandwich!”

How could I refuse such a cry for help? I waded through the hospital guards with Gatorade in tow, and went to see my grey-faced bad boy.

“I gotta talk the nurse into giving me some more Percocets,” he said when I walked in. “I love those things – I take them all the time with whiskey!”

He was wearing a blue gown. He smelled like dusty cigarettes and sweat. “Thanks for coming,” he said. “I really needed my bitch here with me tonight.”

His bitch? Wow…

We watched depressing television together and I started to wonder why it was necessary for me to be there as he spent a lot of time on his cell phone telling people about his dramatic hospitalization and I wasn’t exactly into crawling into his twin hospital bed to be close to him.

At one point, to my horror, he stuck his hand underneath his gown and rubbed it around his nether region, holding his fingers up towards the sky.

“This is potent manliness,” he said. “It’s toxic, man – I haven’t showered in 3 days! Go ahead, smell this!”

“Forget it,” I snapped, completely revolted.

He was obsessed. “You don’t care about me then,”

“Uh, maybe not.”

He started whimpering like a wounded animal.

We were interrupted by the nurse. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

He moaned. “Oh god, the pain is horrible. I can hardly swallow. Can I please have two Percosets?”

“Two?” She frowned. “That’s quite a strong dosage. Are you used to taking these?”

“Hell yeah, I take them all the time. Tonsillitis, you know.”

The nurse relented, and by the pure expression of bliss on my bad-boy’s face, I realized he was a total drug addict.

“What else do you take?” I enquired casually.

“I do a lot of Meth, actually,” he said, coughing lightly. “But I get the good stuff, not the street junk.”

“Doesn’t Meth leave holes in your brain?”

He laughed. “I warned you I was crazy. I like Percs mixed with booze and weed the best though – it’s the hardest stone.”

“Oh.” I suddenly realized why his complexion was grey.

He was released a couple of days later and called me to make plans to come and hang out at my place. I’m not sure why I agreed, as I was tired of broken dates and Gatorade runs, but nevertheless I did. This would be his last chance to be normal and impress me.

At 7 p.m. he text-messaged me to say he was having dinner with his parents and would be an hour.

At 8 p.m. he text-messaged me to ask my address, and say he was delayed for another hour.

At 9 p.m. he text-messaged me to ask whether I missed him and if I was hot for his body.

At 11 p.m. he text-messaged me to say he was on his way.

I responded with: ‘This is your last chance, you know.’

Two hours later, he had not shown up. He was only 30 blocks away.

In the end I realized that I never did crave him the way he promised I would. Despite all the boasts about his infinite powers of seduction and “potent manliness”, his efforts fell flat. I sent him a text containing some expletives and saying that I never wanted to see him again.

Of course, I did run into him downtown eventually, and he acted like nothing had ever happened. His face was swollen, he looked pale as death, and his badass charm had turned to pathetic, substance-addled weakness.

I walked away, feeling nothing, and vowed never to date another bad boy.

THE BAD BOY LIVES UP TO THE ARCHETYPE

I had never gone out with a ‘bad boy’ before. A lot of other types, yes - but never the give-you-a-run-for-your-money DANGEROUS guy with a possible past. I have overheard other girls talking about this type with a slight quiver in their voices: “I couldn’t resist. I don’t know what got into me”

The bad boy brings to mind images of John Travolta in Grease or Johnny Depp trashing hotel rooms in the 1990’s. Bad boys have limitless charm, and they are just unattainable enough to drive a girl mad.

So when a tattooed, shaved-headed guy boldly swaggered up to me at a nightclub last weekend, I was intrigued. He was adorable and edgy. He gave me THAT kind of a look, and complimented my ‘rocker girl style’.

He introduced himself with a beautiful name so distinctive that if I were to write it down everyone in New York City will know who I was talking about. He told me he was half Native American through his father, which piqued my interest because I am part Native on my father’s side also. Oddly, I could picture my father approving of this particular bad boy, with his ‘Red Power’ tattoo proudly displayed on his left bicep. I trusted him even though he was obviously trouble.

“You should let me take you out,” he said slyly. “I promise you won’t be sorry.”

How could I resist? I told him of my availability for the next week.

“You know we’re going to kiss, don’t you?” he said, running his fingers over my spine.

A thrill passed through me – no one ever talks to me with such bravado.

“What about my ten other boyfriends?” I teased.

“They’re boys, darling. I’m a man. No comparison.”

I was done for indeed.

He called Monday, and we made plans for Tuesday. He called Tuesday and said, “People owe me a lot of money, which I can’t get till tomorrow. I’d rather take you out tomorrow ‘cause I’m dead broke today.” I agreed, since I really wanted to stay in and work for the night.

On Wednesday, we decided to go to a movie and then have drinks on the Lower East Side, so he met me at Astor Place (on time), looking as tough as ever.

Do you know what it means to ‘talk smack’? I can’t describe it but I know what it is – my bad boy brother is famous for it. Anyway, this guy didn’t just talk smack, he knew how to talk tough in proper English which was most appealing, telling me about his shady activities in his past. He also spit onto the sidewalk a lot, a very masculine gesture that surprised me and affirmed that he was DANGEROUS.

We went to see ‘Maria, Full of Grace’ which should have been way more interesting than it was. After, we went to his friend’s wicked little bar 151, which looks like someone’s parents basement. The DJ played good indie rock, and the bartender/musician Joe doled out our poison. My date drank straight Jack Daniels, while I sipped on a vodka with a side of scotch. Everyone who came in knew him and seemed to revere him. I suddenly hoped he wasn’t a drug dealer.

I hung out with his friends while he repeatedly went out to smoke, and between cigarettes he talked a lot about his lineage, his art, and even his ex-wife. And the ex-wife’s new husband whom he and his cousins had beat up. I found him refreshingly candid.

We left at 4 and walked the cold dirty streets, me wearing his hooded sweatshirt under my coat, chilled to the bones. No one was around and he kissed me with all the boldness I would expect from a bad boy and it was thrilling indeed.

We talked on the phone over the next few days and arranged to hang out again that weekend. On the night we were to meet he text messaged me at 3:30 a.m. asking me to call him when I was done work, around 4.

Something odd must have transpired because I never heard from him again. Because we had not hung out enough for there to be any weird tension, and because we were both enthusiastic about meeting up again, I am rather worried that something has happened to him.

After all, if he’s pure bad-ass and prone to violence, he could be into all sorts of things I don’t know about. This intrigues me - the thought of this guy getting into a risky situation and having to go underground. But I really hope he’s all right.

In a strange afterward, I got the worst sore throat of my entire life three days after kissing him. He left his mark, all right. And I still have his sweatshirt.

Perhaps that’s what dating a bad boy is really about. You might not want the drama of marrying him and living the reality out on a daily basis. No, he’s the kind of guy you will always picture riding a motorcycle across the country, searching for something. You’ll think of him wistfully when you are settled down with your lovely, responsible husband, wondering what happened to your rebel without a cause. Maybe you’ll still have his sweatshirt tucked away in a drawer.

THE WEEK THEY ALL ROSE UP TO HAUNT ME

Ever have one of those weeks when you cry to the gods: “Why are you punishing me?!” A week when you run into every single person you never wanted to see again and you begin to believe that karma actually does exist…and maybe somehow you’ve asked for it?

I blame the confusing stop-start action of spring. A few warm days in February brought on romantic notions in the eyes of New York City men and women, but now we are back to the cold. The result: everyone is in a bad mood and seeking an outlet. It is exactly when our mood is at it’s worst that we run into ex-paramours.

Encounter #1: THE RELUCTANT ONE NIGHT STAND IS AN ADDICT

Once upon a time he seemed decent enough for me to go all the way with on the first date, although as you might recall, I later regretted it. I didn’t regret sleeping with him; rather, my remorse was due to the fact that he only called me one time after the act, bruising my ego.

He worked downtown and hung out on the Upper East Side. We had mutual acquaintances. On a dull Monday night, there he was – WASTED – with a bunch of Wall Street suits.

He looked at me lasciviously. “A.…hey…what’s up?”

Noting a slight white powder residue clinging to the faint beads of perspiration on his upper lip, some excessive jaw grinding, and embarrassing non-rhythmic dancing by the bar to a Britney Spears song, I realized he was far more of a party boy than he’d previously claimed. He was repulsive.

“What was I thinking?!” I whispered to M.

“That’s the loser you got all bent out of shape about?”

“He’s better looking when he’s sober!”

She surveyed him intensely for a moment. “Raise the bar, sweetie. At least he left his watch at your house so you got jewelry out of it. Too bad it’s only a $70 Kenneth Cole!”

TUESDAY: HOSPITAL BOY HATES ME

I had met Lucas in a record store. Every time I went into that same joint, I was worried I would see the medical research victim who I had briefly loved and then couldn’t handle.

I ducked into Virgin to get out of the rain. He was reading a book and chewing on lavender candy. I smelled that familiar flowery sweet before I even saw him, and felt a pang for a half second. His back stiffened as he saw me from the corner of his eye.

I decided to be mature and say something…but what was appropriate? Ask whether he was still doing the tests? Whether he’d moved out of the ghetto projects in Flatbush? Whether he’d ever written any of his script or if he was still slacking?

“I hope you’re well,” I murmured awkwardly.

He looked at me and I felt all the wrath of wounded pride. “Yes. I’ve moved on. Thank you for asking.”

This was a karmic annihilation. I had broken up with him over the phone, after all. There was nothing else I could do but slowly walk away, right back into the thundershowers.

THURSDAY: THE EX-BOYFRIEND LONG-DISTANCE PHONE CALL

C. and I are still close. We had become like brother and sister after being together for over 2 years. The spark was far gone when I finally broke up with him by leaving town for a new start in NYC. He was very sweet and supportive.

However, every time we speak on the phone it starts out friendly and C. always ends up crying. He’s the sensitive type. So when he called to update me on some stuff (he still has the apartment and gets my mail) it was comforting and then sad. “I still miss you,” he said. “I still wish we could have gotten married.”

After I hung up, it set me to thinking:

- Did I have issues with emotional intimacy?
- Why do I emasculate so many of my boyfriends?
- Why do they slack when we’re together, and then excel in their careers after we break up, leaving them new and improved for the next girl?

FRIDAY: THE FRENCH MODEL, POSING IN A NIGHTCLUB

Franck has become a running joke my friends like to bring up, an example of vanity intermingled with Euro cheesiness. His last few text messages had exhibited stalker tendencies and emotional imbalance, so I forbade him to talk to me again.

I dislike nightclubs, but my friends had dragged me out to a birthday bash. Lo and behold, there the French Model stood, in the center of the room, dancing with a very young girl who looked up at him with complete adulation. It was like a bad 80’s movie. He saw me and immediately began to sulk, turning his face from side to side to highlight the angles of his jaw.

“Oh Christ,” I said to R. “He’s MODELING for me in the corner of the dance floor! How gross!”

She laughed so hard she choked on the olive from her dirty martini.

Franck began making out with the 16-year-old, kissing her and looking at me as if to show me what I was missing. Again, I had to question my ability to judge character…how could I have ever spent time with someone this corny?

I had to endure my friends’ making fun of me for a full half hour after that, whereupon I decided to call it a night.

CONCLUSION:

The universal law of polarity was definitely applying to me. Maybe I’d had too many ‘ups’ recently…and needed a downswing. Regardless, I wasn’t taking any more chances on unpleasant encounters.

I didn’t leave the house for 2 days after that, using the excuse of heavy writing deadlines to get out of social commitments. I hoped that my week of running into exes was over.

EMASCULATING MY MEN BY ACCIDENT

I read a magazine article recently that stated “men are the new women”. How confusing! This insinuates that women are the new men…so does this make my boyfriend my girlfriend?

This epiphany came when I was dating someone recently. I really pursued this guy – he was gorgeous, soft-spoken, and intelligent (at least I think he was intelligent – he was very quiet). He never took initiative – I had to call and ask him to go out, I had to plan where we would go, I had to seduce him. We took a weekend in Connecticut, and it was me renting the car and driving along foreign highways, not really knowing where I was going but heading North. After three days, I was tired of calling the shots. Just once I wanted him to make a decision. Just once I wanted him to be the boy. When I told him I was having doubts about us, he was again completely passive and said ‘All right, if that’s how you feel.’ Wait a minute – wasn’t my ‘knight in shining armor’ supposed to fight for me, I wondered? At least a little bit?

I am confused. My friends are confused. The tables have certainly turned in the past 40-odd years since the feminist movement began and roles started to blur. Nowadays, we demand equal opportunity in the boardroom, but does this mean we no longer deserve a gentleman to hold the door open and pay for dinner? Does this mean we have to be the aggressors?

Today’s men complain about being displaced. They plead for emotional intimacy from their career-driven, non-committal girlfriends who need so much personal space that they won’t even stay overnight. Men are confused about what’s expected of them now that women make their own money and buy their own right-handed diamond rings that state: "I am my own wife!"

I must admit that I unintentionally emasculate my boyfriends. They start off strong and emotionally stable, and then descend into a vague madness that turns them into a weeping, pleading mess. (Then again, I do gravitate towards the sensitive artist types.) I’ve had high-maintenance girly-boyfriends who have plaintively cried, “You don’t love me,” on a daily basis. If only I had a dollar for every time I heard, “You send my laundry out, but you don’t embrace me enough, A...”

Personally, I have always tried to mold myself into the type of girlfriend that I thought guys really wanted: a woman requiring very little emotional maintenance. I learned at an early age to take care of my own needs (unless of course, there is a sizable crawling insect in the apartment). I refuse to nag for even half a second. I would rather end it than ask him to change his core personality. I don't really like to cuddle. It’s true that I am guilty of squirming out of the death-grip, mumbling, "Please get off me." Public displays of affection are FORBIDDEN – I find it gross.

But I do fuss over my men to make sure they are eating properly and getting enough sleep, and I am good with home remedies if anyone has a stomachache. I have been known to make a late night pot of tea, and very soon they can’t live without my advice and soothing touch. I write a lot of love poems that immortalize my relationships and I’ve found that every guy secretly wants someone to write about him…the way girls date musicians so they’ll write songs about them.

I always thought I must be a pretty good girlfriend because no one has ever broken up with me. I’m always the one who leaves. But then I realized that I might have a slight problem with commitment that sabotages things. By playing out the more masculine role, I may be creating an imbalance that ultimately causes the relationship to end because at heart I am a woman who wants to have the door held open for me and to be taken care of in an old-fashioned way.

Are we sending mixed signals? We say, “Darling, please carry this for me, it’s too heavy…” and then haul the 30” television up the stairs ourselves if he takes too long to do it.

Our mothers fought so hard for equal rights that they almost took it too far, and though we are embarrassed by the stigma they left of burning bras and angry demonstrations, we took on their beliefs. We were raised equal to our brothers, we wore pants and climbed trees and prepared for college. We took the low-hormone birth control pill and learned to be in control of our sexual power. We watched our parents divorce, and swore never to be a victim, to never get hurt like that. And then, of course, we fell in love and had our first heartbreak, and we did get hurt like that. Then we vowed to never be so vulnerable again.

Underneath it all, I want a man to sweep me off my feet with his dashing manner and also be able to fix my computer. To leave me alone when I need quiet, and not berate me when I come in very late. To open my car door first, so I can then reach over and unlock his before we drive off into the sunset. I don’t mind being the boy, but I also want to be the girl sometimes. I guess they call that having my cake and eating it too.

HOSPITAL BOY (WHEN THE ONE YOU LOVE VOLUNTEERS FOR MEDICAL RESEARCH)

When my friends started referring to my new boyfriend as ‘Hospital Boy’ I knew there was something terribly wrong with the scenario… although I wasn’t yet ready to take off my rose colored glasses. The fact was, Lucas and I had not slept together yet, and I had all the heightened passion of unexpressed desire, which made everything appear so much prettier and more romantic.

After saying goodbye and declaring his love, Lucas had left on a Greyhound bus for New Jersey to undertake his first hospital study. He claimed that he was tired of working menial jobs and that by doing medical research studies he could actually have time to write his screenplay and eventually afford to buy film-making equipment.

“I feel uncomfortable leaving you so early on in our relationship,” he said sweetly. “I’ll text message you every day.”

While he was gone, I alternated between pining away for him and being repulsed.

My friend M had stronger opinions.

“So, what does he do?” she asked.

“Um...he’s a writer.”

“What has he done?”

“Nothing you could read…he’s writing a screenplay.”

“What does he do for money?”

I breathed in sharp. “He volunteers… for medical research?”

“What are you doing, Andrea?” she chastised me. “You need someone with a normal job.”

Reactions were mixed, ranging from incredulous laughter to genuine concern. My guy friends immediately dubbed him ‘hospital boy’ and told me I could do better. The girls were a bit more sensitive, though genuinely worried about my future.

“Won’t his sperm be affected by the drugs?” they asked. “Are you going to marry him?”

“Are you going to have to SUPPORT this guy?”

“Why doesn’t he want to work a real job? Sounds like an excuse for laziness to me!”

The study lasted for about a month, during which time I received regular, distended messages from Lucas, sent during different phases of experimentation.

‘The Vampires are sucking me dry – they take so much blood I am faint.’

‘They won’t let us go outside – I need fresh air!’

‘The animals are fighting over the remote control and I can’t get any sleep. Luv, I miss you. I hate this distance.’

It sounded horrid, especially since the group was largely comprised of recently released convicts. I pictured him in a scene from ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.’ When he was actually being let out, I felt like a prison girlfriend waiting for her guy to get out on bail.

“So, did you get any writing done?” I asked.

“Well…not the way I had hoped,” he confessed. “I couldn’t really concentrate with all those people around, bugging me.”

“Oh.” Suspicion suddenly weighed down my shoulders. Was he a writer after all?

Not only did I worry about his health (he was sometimes rejected as a test subject due to high liver enzymes and random complications), I increasingly found fault with him. He moved so slowly…it drove me crazy to walk with him down the street. He was always late – sometimes by hours. He didn’t know how to handle himself around my friends and would bore them by getting all New Age-philosophical in a strange way. And even though he was secluded in the hospital for weeks at a time, he didn’t seem to be getting much done in the way of writing. His goals were vague and he didn’t seem to have a plan for his life.

We had a fight one night after seeing a documentary about the Ramones. He wanted to go to this café where he practically lived, spending hours with one cup of coffee. I told him I was sick of going there and he got angry with me.

“In my experience, when a girl doesn’t want to go somewhere, she’s avoiding running into another guy! Do you have something else going on the side, Andrea? I’m always away, after all!”

I nearly killed him right there in the East Village.

Lucas went home for a few days to his mother’s house in Wisconsin. I pretended to be very busy when he tried to call, and my text messages grew more distant and infrequent.

“How could I think I was so in love and be so disgusted now?!” I lamented to Rhiannon. “I think I need to break up – I am starting to hate him!”

“Andrea, he’s not that great. He’s kind of weird, not tall enough for you, and have you ever seen anything he’s written? He’s a fake, trust me.”

Oh my god.

Lucas called me when he got back into town. “I missed you,” he started.

“I am having doubts about our relationship,” I said. “I don’t think I can handle you doing these studies. It disturbs me.”

“Well, I don’t want to keep working jobs that make other people rich!” he said, angrily. “Are you saying you don’t want to date anymore? You said you were in love with me!”

“What do you see happening with us, Lucas?”

“I want a future with you.”

“I feel nothing for you right now. I need some space.”

“Well, I am not the kind of guy to wait around,” he proclaimed.

I never spoke to him again.

Am I doomed? Will Hospital Boys and other weirdos forever plague me? While I have tried time and again to date ‘normal’ men, I always end up in the arms of some gorgeous artist who leaves me weak in the knees. It’s as though beautiful men have something terribly wrong with that I forgive because their eyes speak volumes of poetry, and their mouths are full and soft. It’s as though I attribute positive character traits to a man with a pretty face. Call it a cruel joke from the universe. My new resolution is to only go out with men who have day jobs…

WHEN THE ONE YOU LOVE DOESN'T WANT TO WORK

The burning question in New York City: ‘What do you do for a living?” Immediately people are judged and classified according to their answer, especially in a dating context. Being from the West, where everyone cares more about enjoying life, and where laziness is paramount, I have never thought of myself as judgmental in this regard as long as someone manages to pay their rent. I always took the stance that personality mattered more than anything. I’m a romantic - I dated slackers. Sometimes I felt a slight distress over lack of motivation, but I avoided thinking about it. Then I came to New York, where the men actually have careers…and my paradigm is shifting.

When I met Lucas, I swore it was love at first sight. I met him in Virgin Records – where he was working. I was as nervous as a teenager, making sure I paid for my CD’s at his till. He had a beautiful face: almond eyes with thickly starred lashes, chiseled cheekbones, full lips, a slight spattering of freckles…and dreadlocks. I am a sucker for this type, with a leanly muscled frame and quizzical stare.

I was trying to fit a lot of shopping into a couple of hours. My hair was in a messy ponytail, I wore glasses, I was not dressed up or wearing make-up. In fact, I was hoping I would not run into anyone I knew. But here I was confronted with someone I wanted to impress.

We stared at one another – a distinguishable heat in that exchange made him bold.

“You’re pretty,” he said quietly.

Now, here I was looking my WORST. It was not about my appearance, obviously – it was the subtext. It was too much for me. I mumbled something non-descript, blushed furiously as I paid for my merchandise, and left the store.

My friend M. was waiting outside. “What’s wrong?” she asked, noticing my irregular breathing pattern.

“I think I just met my match!” I said dramatically, recounting the exchange. “If I don’t go back in that store and give him my number I will regret it for the rest of my life,” I said.

"I’ve never seen you like this,” M. said suspiciously. “Go back in, but I want to see who this guy is.”

We went back into the store. I quickly wrote my name and number on a scrap of paper. I went up to his register. He looked puzzled, as I handed him my digits.

“I think you forgot something,” I said. Then I left, noting that his name tag read ‘Lucas’.

For the next twenty-four hours, I burned with a Romeo-and-Juliet fever. I was literally heartsick. I ignored the fact that he worked in a record store. I romanticized an entire future together. I lost my appetite. I told all my friends how I was dying for him to call me.

When a number I didn’t recognize showed up on my call display the next evening, my palms began to sweat. I called him back immediately.

“I was really surprised when you came back to give me your number,” Lucas said in a serious tone.

“I couldn’t help it,” I confessed. “This really isn’t like me…I just felt we had a strange sort of connection.”

We discussed the weekend and made vague plans. I was going with my friends to Bryant Park and asked him to meet me there.

“I’d love to. Call me when you are on your way,” he said.

I met Rhiannon and some of her friends around nine. Ridiculously nervous, I told everyone about this ‘love at first sight’ feeling. I could barely drink for the butterflies in my ribcage.

Two hours passed. Lucas still hadn’t showed, and I was a wreck. I called him.

“I’m coming from Brooklyn,” he said, “I won’t be long.”

Two hours later, he finally showed. By then, my nerves were shredded. Okay, so he had no concept of being on time…but here he was, in the flesh. He wore jeans, sneakers, and a vintage-looking plaid suit jacked which was rather ugly, but he was so gorgeous I didn’t care.

I introduced him to my curious friends. Then, it was like no one else was in the joint, as we narrowed in and found we had the same tastes in reading, writing, and art. He walked me home. I was dizzy.

We were inseparable for a few days. He was very reticent with the physical aspect of things. He liked to hold my hand or put his arm around me when we walked (he didn’t want to pay for cabs), and then after much deliberation he finally kissed me. I noticed he was a slow mover in general. It took him fifteen minutes to hand-roll a cigarette. But I didn’t mind, after all the dates I had gone on with men who tried to grope me after one drink.

I didn’t mind terribly that Lucas worked in a record store, even though he was thirty-two. Or that he had a degree in graphic design which he wasn’t using. Or the way he was vague when I asked him about his creative projects. He said he was a painter, but that his mother had all of his artwork back in Wisconsin. He said he was a writer, but then seemed to spend hours nursing a single cup of coffee in an East Village café without producing anything. Often I walked along St. Mark’s to catch the subway train, and I would see him standing outside the café, smoking and reading a book. He never seemed to have any money, and I usually had to pay if we went out.

I choked back my critical thoughts. He was lovely. He was quiet…maybe there was a reservoir of secrets under that dreadlocked brain? Maybe whatever mysterious project he was working on was so amazing that it would astound the critics when finally unveiled?

A storm began to interrupt my fantasies when he told me of his new master plan: volunteering for medical research for money, so he didn’t have to work at the record store anymore.

“What?” I was incredulous.

“These things are called studies. People make a lot of money doing it. Then I’ll have time to write my screenplay and make my film. I’m tired of working to make other people rich.”

I must admit to being slightly repulsed.

He looked up at me with those almond eyes. “I’m going to be gone a lot. I’ll have to live in the hospital for several days at a time. I hope this won’t be a problem. I travel to Jersey for my first study three days from now.”

“What are you testing?”

He looked uncomfortable. “It’s a premature ejaculation drug which they are testing as an anti-depressant.”

“Oh. Are you depressed?”

“Not really. Look, I really want to take things to the next level with us. Will you wait for me, till I get out?”

What could I say? His skin smelled of cinnamon, his kiss was delicate. On the one hand, I was ready to overlook this bizarre scenario as long as he truly seemed to have some sort of larger ambition. Hadn’t the director of El Mariachi volunteered for medical research to make his film? If Lucas actually wrote his screenplay in the hospital, then it wouldn’t be so bad. He assured me it would be a temporary thing, and perhaps I could smother my intuition for awhile and just enjoy the lovely things about this man who didn’t seem to want to get a real job. Perhaps. But what if he never wrote anything at all and it was all talk? Artists are notorious for spending more time talking about their projects than producing them, after all.

What if he was lazy? Although I am enjoying the torment of dating, I also want to be practical and think about settling down in the next few years. I need to respect my man as a provider, who will pull his weight and work as hard as I do. The father of my children can’t work in a record store for minimum wage, let’s face it. Or possibly carry genetic deformity poison in his sperm from being a medical research victim. Really, the more I think about it, the creepier it gets. Am I torn because of mere infatuation, or am I in some kind of love, and what am I willing to forgive at this phase in my life?

I have not yet reconciled this issue in my head. He isn’t allowed phone calls in the hospital, so our only communication will be through text messaging. It’s sort of like dating a prison inmate. I suppose I’ll have to wait until he gets out of the hospital to see how I feel…which is going to be two weeks from now.

THE RELUCTANT ONE-NIGHT STAND

I did something unlike myself recently and I am having a hard time coming to terms with it: I slept with someone on the first date. Even worse, it’s looking like a one-night stand.

I know this isn’t shocking in our modern times for a woman in her twenties. It does happen. Sometimes people don’t even go to dinner first – they hook up without pretense, unabashedly fulfilling their needs. But I tend to be the girlfriend archetype, and I only sleep with people when I am in some sort of relationship.

My parents’ strict moral codes still haunt me. My mother would kill me if she knew. Even though I have needs, I am not supposed to be that kind of woman. I remember her scorn for easy girls in our small town, and the admonition that I had better never be one of them, fooling around in cars with boys. I didn’t even kiss a boy until I was sixteen. I have always gone from relationship to relationship, sex with love.

But first-date sex has now officially happened to me and I am tormented.

I had met Chris once before, through friends. He had thick eyebrows set over piercing blue eyes, a shock of dark hair, and a full, adorably shaped mouth that formed a mischievous grin. He was taller than me. The interaction lasted a couple minutes, and I felt a pang of attraction then thought nothing more of it.

I met him again recently, as he came into my late night hangout.

“We’ve met before,” he said smoothly. “My friend Alan sometimes sees your friend R.”

Chris was dressed rather corporate, which surprised me, and I remembered that he worked on Wall Street. Was I actually attracted to someone with a normal day job?

We had a pleasant conversation and he told me he had recently broken up with his girlfriend of one year whom he had lived with. We talked about relationships, because I had once lived with a guy and knew the perils of dividing up the furniture.

“Are you all right emotionally?” I asked.

“Yeah – I’ve been waiting for it to happen for months. I’m just relieved now.”

Somehow, Chris charmed me. I felt very attracted to him, and he was able to carry on an intelligent conversation.

“We should hang out sometime,” he said, writing his number on a bar napkin and taking a swig of Grey Goose on the rocks.

I called him the next day, so that he would have my number. He said he would call me after Christmas with his family.

On Sunday the 26th he called me and asked what I was doing later. I had planned to go see The Aviator later that day by myself, and invited him to come along.

He called exactly when he promised. He arrived exactly on time to pick me up, and we went to a place called Nessa on Second Avenue. We talked about his career, and he asked a lot of questions about being a Creative versus a Type A person.

“I think I have a creative side buried somewhere,” he confessed. “Sometimes I put gel in my hair and spike it up and then my boss gets mad at me and tells me to tone it down.”

I really liked this guy. We communicated well, had a similar sense of humor, and he was absolutely gorgeous. He drank three Jack Daniels with Coke, and I was on Vodka/Soda. It was amusing going to a movie slightly inebriated.

During The Aviator, I was aware of his hand on my knee, and I was glad I had worn fishnet stockings. I rarely like being touched on a first date, but I took an unusual pleasure in the warmth of his closeness.

The film was long and it had started snowing. We got into a cab.

“Should I go back downtown?” he asked.

“Why don’t you come inside and I’ll make you tea,” I said, feeling like we had more to talk about.

Now, I will admit I thought we might make out a little. By inviting him in, I never planned to go all the way.

We curled up on the couch with hot Sake. I don’t remember the entire conversation, but I do remember him telling me that he tends to bury his emotions.

“If I am upset, I always know if I just go to sleep I will feel better the next day,” he said.

Then he leaned in and kissed me, and it was just the right pressure of mouth upon mouth. He did that neck-kissing thing that leaves women swooning and completely undone.

At one point I told him he should go home. “We have to stop, okay?” I weakly insisted.

“Okay…I promise we won’t take it too far. But the couch is uncomfortable. Let’s just go hang out in your bedroom for awhile.”

What could I possibly say? A fever of desire washed over me, and I was hot and cold at the same time and then things progressed and all of a sudden he was asking whether I had protection, and I went against my moral code and succumbed.

It was wonderful. If it had not been wonderful, I would have resented him, but instead I felt incredibly contented.

We spent a few minutes talking. I am not much for cuddling up after love, and I didn’t mind when he said the inevitable: “I guess I should go…I have to get up early for a dentist appointment. We should hang out again. That is, if you want to.”

I almost choked. Of course I wanted to! This gorgeous man was looking at me with killer piercing eyes and I was feeling so close to him in that second I would have promised the world.

I kissed him on his way out the door.

“I’ve never kissed a girl with fuller lips than mine,” he proclaimed. “Your mouth is dangerous.”

Upon returning to straighten up my bedroom, I noticed he had left his watch on the side table. I smiled. It was obvious he planned to come back for it at some point. I sent him a text message to tell him he’d forgotten his watch, which he did not respond to.

After going to see a matinee of the Nutcracker Ballet, I called Chris. “You forgot your watch.”

“Yeah, I got your text. Thanks. Hey, I am feeling a bit unwell after the dentist, and I just woke up. Can I call you in an hour?”

I waited. He never called back. “Well, he did go to the dentist,” I said to myself, making excuses and ignoring the sick attack of conscience brewing in my ribcage.

I called R. and told her about the date.

“Be careful,” she warned. “Those guys run in a pack and are emotionally unavailable…Alan hurt my feelings so badly I couldn’t get out of bed for a week.”

I forced myself to go to bed without calling him back that night. Indeed, I held out for an entire 24 hours before phoning him again.

“How are you feeling?” Yes, I hated myself in that second.

“I’m okay…I guess the dentist really knocked me out.”

“You probably needed to sleep. Actually, Chris, I need a partner in crime to go downtown to this event tomorrow if you’re free…”

“Well, I have plans with some buddies from college. My nights are all booked up this week. Maybe we can do something in the daytime tomorrow?”

The DAYTIME?!?

“Look, I’ll call you later tonight when I get back home,” he said.

HE NEVER CALLED!

But we had tentative plans, so the next day, I sent a nonchalant text mentioning I was going to the Museum of Modern Art with a group if he wanted to come along and explore his creative side. He never responded.

I immediately fell into an imbalanced, depressed emotional state, obsessed with the fact that I might have blown everything by being EASY.

I called a beloved ex-boyfriend, who I am able to discuss such things with.

“Good for you, A. You needed to get some action, and he probably did too if he just had a break-up.”

My friend, who I'll refer to as 'Reiki Master' had different advice. “He’s a demonstration, a sample of what you want, from the universe. Mr. Right will come along…this is just foreshadowing.”

“Sleeping with someone right away never works,” M. said harshly. “You need to learn the game here. New York men are brutal. Fuck and run. Go back and listen to that old Liz Phair song and you'll get it.”

Instead, I began to play Nick Cave’s torch song ‘She’s Nobody’s Baby Now’ over and over like an anthem… mourning the fact that at one point in my life, men did actually love me.

After two weeks, I am still obsessed with the fact that I haven’t heard from Chris. What does this mean? Was I just a rebound fling? Did he get back together with his ex? Is he afraid of falling into another relationship? Or is it simply game over now that he’s had me?

I’m starting to understand where my mother was coming from…

HE WAS OBSESSED WITH PING-PONG

Ping-pong is a newer story, a little heartache from last month.

I'd noticed him one time before we actually got together. He was tall and gorgeous, with slanted pale blue eyes that gave him the look of a pale Eskimo. Please note that I am allowed to use the Eskimo since my great-grandmother was of that bloodline... and it's a prettier word than Inuit, Eskimo kissing and all.

He was dejected and did not notice me, but the second time I saw him, I made certain that he did. Our eyes locked, and we regarded one another like two cats.

I found out he was not Eskimo - he had fairly normal Caucasian parents and was from California. However, it was not some vague ethnic origin determining this man's uniqueness, but rather, his obsession with ping-pong.

He actively played in tournaments, and was planning to open up a pin-pong venue so that his fellow obsessives would have a place to play.

As much as I tried to resist, I slept with him the first night we hung out.

"I'm not one of those guys who gets weird after sex," he insisted, as part of his case to coerce me.

So I gave in, believing we were embarking on a true relationship.

And it felt like that in the beginning. There was no tension. The next morning we talked about our dreams and ambitions, and he told me he'd been having an affair with a married woman. Someone he worked with.

"Oh," was all I said. With him, I could be the non-judgmental liberal artist.

But feminine vanity prevailed, and naturally I expected that once he surrendered to my charms, he'd let her go.

He was always busy and tired, so tired. Always on the verge of canceling plans. Always so apologetic if he did.

I received frequent text messages that said, "Miss u" and 'Ur so sweet." So I thought we were perhaps a bit further along than we actually were.

Then he disappeared for a whole week.

Had he lost a ping-pong tournament? Sustained an injury? Had a bout of panic when he realized we were getting close very quickly.

Now, this was a guy who claimed to be so into our 'relationship' that he offered to go to the clinic with me for STD testing so we could validate our love via unprotected sex.

Just when I gave up on him, he finally got in touch with me, and I had no choice but to call him out on his flaky behavior.

"Let's meet," he said, "I want to explain in person."

When I met him, he said that he just couldn't give up the married woman. He told me that she was much older and he didn't want a monogamous relationship with her, but that he was very confused. "I like you so much," he said. "Your creativity, your ambition...:

Ever the liberal artist, I had compassion for him. And I felt a tenderness that I hadn't felt in some time. We kissed furiously on the street and he walked me home, and everything seemed fine.

"We don't know what this is yet," I declared. "I like you too. Let's just see what happens in the next few weeks."

For a moment, that was enough.

He left clues, whether subconscious or deliberate, I could never be sure. He told me about a newspaper article about his company and the scandals of his business partners. A famous actress was mentioned as being an investor in the new ping-pong club.

I realized then that she was the married woman he couldn't give up...and that he had to continue sleeping with her to get the funding he needed for his business.

My blue-eyed darling was just another New York playboy.

It ended fast. It doesn't matter who said what... in fact, the ending was not even cohesive. All I know is, he told her I existed. And even though she's in her 60's (and still hot, granted) the jealousy rose up her spine like a serpent and he had to choose: money or love.

Since he was always broke, of course he chose the money.

THE FRENCH MODEL

I saw him leaning against the railing at a hot downtown nightclub, an enigmatic elegance in his demeanor. Tall, lean, with dark eyes…he looked quite attractive in the dim light.

He was talking to a high maintenance girl with implants, a visible weave, and long red nails over by the stairwell. I felt a pang of regret: Why do those trashy broads always get the sexy boyfriends?

But then the girl went away, and he was left standing alone, staring at me. I realized he was not actually with her.

He stood and watched me for about 10 minutes. At one point it looked like he was going to leave, so I half-smiled.

This was the only invitation he needed.

“Hello, nice to meet you,” he said in a thick European accent, “I’m Franck. I would love to take you to dinner sometime.”

“Where are you from?” I asked, straining to understand him.

“Paris. I live there till six months ago, then I go to L.A. Then I come to New York two months ago. I stay in Brooklyn, but I want to find place in Manhattan.”

“Why are you here?” He was so pretty I forgave his terrible grammar.

“I am a model. I will make more money in New York.”

“A professional model?”

“I am 33. I have been model since I was 15. I work with Jean Paul Gautier long time.”

“That’s the only job you have ever had?”

“Yes. I will work 10 more years then retire and buy a place on the beach, have kids.”

“Oh.”

He wrote down his cell number, and took my information.

Immediately the next afternoon he started text messaging me: Nice to meet you, beautiful. I want to see you. Kisses. Good luck.

Due to snow, I didn’t see him for a couple of days. We went to Cafeteria late for tea.

Instead of sitting across from me, he sat beside me on the bench, putting his arm around me.

“You’re a nice girl,” he declared. “I could take you home to meet my mom. You are my baby now.”

Was this for real? I felt a bit strange – although I have worked as a model, I have never dated a model. I didn’t know whether he was intelligent or not because of the language barrier. But he was hot, so it didn’t really matter if he was dumb. He seemed sweet…and simple, a contrast to all my recent guy drama.

He tried to take me out to a couple of nightclubs where he ‘knew people’ but they were either closed or closing so he put me in a taxi, kissed me good night nonchalantly, and sent me several text messages thereafter.

Their content seemed to always follow a template:

Nice to see you.

Nice to meet you.

I have appointments today.

I book job.

Are you feel ok? I miss you.

U my princess.

U my baby.

U my superwoman.

Kisses.

I want to make massage with you.

Good luck.

Okay, I admit to thinking the text messages were a bit dumb, but he was consistent and at least he was attempting to communicate with me.

He came to see me at work, and if we went out he sat beside me on the seat. He gave me a tiny medallion necklace with the symbol of the goddess-like Marianne on it (the feminine embodiment of the French republic). He told me he never knew his father but it didn’t matter. He said his agent wanted him to go to the clubs so that clients could see him, and that he was hoping to make a lot of money in this cold hard city.

He kissed me, and I felt like I suddenly understood what French Kissing actually meant. It’s a far cry from the typical North American tongue-ramming move.

“I want to sleep with you,” he whispered.

But I was not at all ready to sleep with him.

He gave me his comp card and emailed me tons of photos without his shirt on. I was enjoying the feeling of having a trophy boy in my life, but I didn’t really know what to do with him because here he was declaring his love without really connecting with me mentally. The text messages continued to come with rapid fire, several times a day.

We went to see the film Closer.

“Let me make massage,” he whispered in my ear, and beckoned for me to sit on his lap.

Oddly, I complied. We were in the back row after all, and I had never sat on someone’s lap during a movie.

“You’re my baby,” he whispered every half hour or so, his arms around me.

I was starting to feel uncomfortable and I was getting suspicious of him. I was beginning to hear bad things about him around town – how he tended to screw girls over once he got them into bed. Was he so into me because I was a challenge? How could he profess such adoration without knowing anything about me?

I decided almost overnight that I was no longer into the French Model.

I faked sick so I could have a few days to think about how to break it off. The text messages got disproportionately desperate:

U don’t love me anymore - I miss u - if u have someone - let me know kisses princess

Is there someone else?

Why you won’t text me?

What you do last night? You not text me back? Is there someone else?

He sent me a series of bizarre emails asking for his JPEG model photos back, if I didn’t want them anymore. Guess this guy didn’t quite have a grasp of digital technology.

What? Was I dealing with a potential stalker here? We had hung out 3 TIMES!

Following his lead, I sent him a text saying I needed my space and I wasn’t interested in a relationship with him.

He replied:

U hurt me. U just show me I’m nothing but u want be friend. Thank u. Don’t worry for me I understand this is New York. Good luck.

I don’t understand u decision. I never complain. U always busy I wait for 1 month I pass to see u in different place. I was happy to meet u now I’m sad u my bad news.

Why now I never make u drama because u focus for u writing never. Maybe u love someone else. Good luck. I confirm Louis Vuitton, 4 days shooting.

Repulsed and a bit freaked out, I wrote back that I didn’t appreciate his aggressive behavior and not to contact me again.

“Well, A., you did sit on his lap at the movie,” my friends joked.

I learned a valuable lesson. A pretty face does not a suitable boyfriend make. In future I will let the trashy broads have those types of guys…and I am burning the French model’s comp card.