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.

REAL VS. FAKE, AND WHO GIVES A DAMN?

The other day, my friend R. called to confess she was worried. She had recently purchased a set of long, flowing hair extensions. They were high quality, human hair and clipped in, so she could remove them at night. When she wore her hair in a ponytail they looked completely natural, even on the breeziest of days.

A little too natural, maybe.

“The trouble is,” she explained, “This new guy I’m seeing thinks the hair is real and keeps asking how long it took to grow it. He’s obsessed with my long hair! I just can’t bring myself to tell him the truth…”

“Has he tried running his fingers through it?” I asked, wondering how the passionate hair-grabbing ritual had been avoided.

“Only the ends,” she said. “I haven’t slept with him yet.”

It was a conundrum, alright. And it got me thinking, what are acceptable levels of fake in our modern times? Which crimes are unforgivable, and which are a non-issue?

FAKE POLITENESS:

We all know it’s good manners to be polite to people you hate at social functions. There always seems to be one person you can’t stand at a party, as though they have shown up just to annoy you. Your skin prickles as the afflicted shakes your hand… limply. Or worse, leans in for a sweaty kiss on the cheek that leaves your face wet. Disgusting. You are repelled by their proximity, but still you say “Oh, how nice to see you again!”

Being nice at parties, and “Yes, darling, it was wonderful!” are two of the biggest lies going. But still we do it, and I think it’s a necessary evil, just to keep the peace.

FAKE JEWELRY:

Absolutely acceptable. The great style maven Chanel used to mix the jewel-gifts from her lovers with costume pieces for an over-the-top effect. It was she who created the fashion of elaborate faux pearl-ropes. “Why would anyone wear a REAL flower?” was her analogy. “Fakes, darling.”

FAKE HANDBAGS:

This is another story altogether. While I was walking home from the hair salon the other day, I spied a street vendor selling fake Louis Vuitton handbags. I have always taken the stance that only wealthy foreign women and professional escorts buy Louis Vuitton – it’s not very cool, actually. But I was in the mood for mischief, so I bought a mid-sized LV knock-off for $30. I wanted to see if anyone would ask me whether it was real or not, and whether they would profess scorn or even give a damn.

I carried it around for a week and aside from some glares on the subway, the only person who said anything was my friend M., who sarcastically remarked, “Nice purse.”

“I’m experimenting for an article I'm writing,” I replied defensively, suddenly embarrassed by the knock off.

“Well, you have to carry it around, not me,” she said. “It’s not even the right pattern. If you want a good fake I’ll take you to Chinatown.”

I went home and retired the purse to my closet. The strap was uncomfortable on my shoulder, and my experiment was done. The moral of the story: fake handbags are an unacceptable alternative to the real thing. Buy a no-name bag over a faux-name bag.

FAKE BREASTS:

People are split down the middle on this issue. So many women are worried about whether they ‘have enough’ and yet there are long term side effects such as rupturing, capsular contracture, and rippling. I know a girl who had a car accident, and her seat belt permanently ‘crinkled’ and hardened her implant. How is this attractive?

At an uptown bar last week I was confronted by the issue more directly. A guy was passing around a SILICONE IMPLANT!

“Why do you have this?” I asked, incredulous.

“My girlfriend is thinking about getting them, and I wanted to carry one around to see how it felt for a couple of days,” he said. “I work for a company that manufactures them – want to touch it?”

I cannot describe the absurdity of seeing this clear plastic, circular thing being thrown around, bounced off of the wooden bar and squeezed to see if it could be burst open. My God.

And the conversations amongst the men: who likes them, who doesn’t, how creepy they are, but how hot it looks when a skinny girl has big boobs…

This is one issue that will probably never be clearly resolved.

FAKE ORGASMS:

Faking orgasms seems so 1985, so ‘When Harry Met Sally’. Should sex be about connecting and experiencing pleasure on a variety of levels, or is it simply a goal-oriented activity with a prize at the end?

I had an interesting conversation with some girlfriends recently, about who fakes it and when. One girl said that she sometimes tells her husband she is too tired to have an orgasm, and she is happy to do it, but could he please finish quickly? Now, this is a girl who spends days in bed at a time and physical exhaustion is understandable.

Another girl actually gave advice on how to fake it: “Scream a little, contract your muscles in a 3-2-1 pattern, and he will think he’s done his job, and then you can get up and go to a movie or something.”

I have heard some guys say that they fake it because their skin is sore and they are bored, or they have decided they aren’t really attracted to their partner (I guess men really are the new women?).

It seems that faking orgasms is thought to be a polite thing to do to stroke someone’s ego.
However, I think if the other person is not ‘hitting it’ you should not have to stroke anything at all.

FAKE HAIR:

Speaking from experience, it is socially acceptable to dye or bleach the hell out of your hair. I always laughed when people asked whether my platinum locks were natural, and if I was Swedish. The thing is, usually only someone under the age of 5 or over the age of 50 has WHITE HAIR! However, most women and many men color their hair and there is nothing wrong with that. The only rules are: Roots must be maintained meticulously and if you are blonde, you must use a toner and not let it get brassy.

Hair extensions vary. It’s a part of life for many ethnic cultures that have difficulty controlling ‘nappy’ hair. In this case, extensions are acceptable when they’re well done and look good. And there is nothing wrong with adding a layer of thickness if you don’t like you own texture, or to add some highlights/lowlights without a permanent commitment. But be forewarned, as in the case of my poor friend R., extensions can complicate your life.

She called me a couple of days later with a conclusion to her story.

“I fell asleep at his house, and the next day he said he really wanted to see my hair down. He GRABBED my ponytail as though to take out the elastic. I instinctively screamed and slapped his hand away and yelled, ‘I have hair extensions, okay?’ Afterward, he took me home and was being weird in the car. The last thing he said is that he supposes all women have something FAKE about them. Can you believe it? He is so over!”

Maybe the key to acceptable levels of real vs. fake is to have a cavalier attitude, and if someone dares to ask whether something is real, sigh impatiently, shrug nonchalantly, and admit nothing…unless you are in the mood to confess.

THE 'I-NEVER-MEET-ANYONE' LAMENT

Every day I overhear city dwellers lamenting that it’s impossible to meet people. How can that be? Droves of beautiful people roam the streets: models with chiseled faces, artists burning with creative angst, slick stockbrokers with Wall Street assets. Obviously the problem is not that there isn’t anyone out there, but that it’s hard to initiate contact. Some people think an introduction by a mutual friend is the answer…

A few years ago, a new acquaintance named Carolyn insisted that because I was tall and blonde, my genetic structure would appeal to her friend Philip. “He’s 6’3”, wealthy, generous, gorgeous, and a total jetsetter,” she said. “He finds it hard to meet his type. I think you’d be perfect.”

“Not interested,” I replied (I am now brunette).

“He’s going to Japan on Sunday. Maybe you could go along. Do you like to travel?”

“I would never leave the country with a stranger.”

“Come on,” she pleaded as though it were life or death. “Just meet us for dinner tomorrow. He’ll pay, and if you don’t like him, no problem.”

Some perverse impulse inside me drove me to go. And besides, I needed some new writing material.

I met them for drinks at 10 p.m. at Babraluc on 64th and Lex. Several people were standing outside smoking, but it seemed to be a higher end place. At first I didn’t know if they were actually there, since I couldn’t see Carolyn. I called her cell phone and she was in the restroom. “Go ahead to the table, it’s in the back on the left. Philip is sitting with a couple of blondes,” she said. I was wary, but there was no turning back.

Philip was easy to spot, surrounded by two ladies with varying shades of pale hair. It felt like I was auditioning for a movie role. I would be cast as the ‘dangerous platinum dame’. The blonde on the left was Swedish and dressed entirely in pink; the blonde on the right was Russian and reminded me slightly of Marcia Brady. The Russian was already wearing Philip’s jacket and had her hand on his knee.

Philip had acne scars, long limp hair, a beard, a high, trilling voice, and was about 40 lbs. overweight. He was wearing a pink shirt and a pink and grey paisley tie, and appeared to be over 45. He surveyed me like a new suit in a store window. “Order whatever you want,” he said with a blasé flourish of the hand.

I order a scotch: McCallum 25. Neat.

The Swede was sweet and bubbly, into astrology and goddesses. She started coughing and couldn’t stop. I sensed she was feeling a bit rejected by Philip. Every now and then the Russian flashed us a dazzling, triumphant smile, proud of her seduction skills. Carolyn seemed to be playing the role of Madam. She tried very hard to spark a conversation between me and Philip. “Andrea’s a writer, Philip likes to go camping in the jungle…” but I was concentrating on soaking it all in too much to really talk, and Philip was fixated on making travel plans with the Russian.

I wondered whether she got a commission. I also wondered if anyone else at the table finds this scenario absurd.

Philip and the Russian girl started making out at the table. Meanwhile, Carolyn ordered a ton of food and when Philip refused to eat because of recent dental work, she ingested his portion. At this point I should mention that this woman was painfully thin – her thigh is about the size of my arm. Half way through a mouthful of white fish, Philip leaned over to her and warned her to stop overeating. “Watch the booze too,” he snapped, “I don’t want you to have another episode!”

Episode? Again, I seemed to be the only one who found this strange. Carolyn confesses that she is on seizure medication. I asked whether she is hypoglycemic. “Something like that,” she muttered. I realized at that moment she was certifiably insane.

She then put her hand on my leg and asked me whether I was into girls or guys, what my interests are, and whether I liked Philip. I said, “I like guys and I like to read books a lot, but I don’t like Philip.” I squirmed away from her grip.

She shrugged. “Philip doesn’t do long term relationships anyhow.” She asked why I agreed to come and meet them, a bunch of virtual strangers. I felt as though I was being psychoanalyzed.

“As a writer, I like to have a variety of experiences from which to draw on,” I said. “I like to study human nature. I’m collecting stories in this city of extremes.”

At that point I decided I’d had enough weirdness for one night, and excused myself. Philip slipped a $20 into my hand for the cab, proclaiming that, “It’s what a gentleman does.” Carolyn asked if we could hang out next week. (No thanks.) The Swede was coughing uncontrollably, and the Russian told me, “You seem nice. Maybe we could be friends.” Sigh.

I’ve reached the conclusion that a supposed set up through a mutual friend can be as creepy as anything else. And what if the reason everyone sings the ‘it’s impossible to meet anyone’ blues is because it really is impossible to meet anyone?

INTRODUCTION

I'd intended to start at the beginning...but then I realized it doesn't really matter where the beginning is. Whether I met them when I was still naive and hopeful, or whether they tore through my apathy is irrelevant.

Lost lovers. The ones who affected me the most were the ones who initially repelled me, almost as if my heart knew it would hurt later, at the inevitable end...