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.
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