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.
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