Could we ever be satisfied? Or would we bitch about that too?

A reader commented last week on my column Fuck You, Carrie Bradshaw about how dating in New York City, according to her, had become somewhat of a crisis. She said that men in New York City were leaving her unfulfilled. She alluded to a belief that Sex and the City had changed the way men date; they want sex and they want out.

Although I disagree with her theory, it got me thinking about dating in big cities. I would suspect that the larger the city, the number of people who suck per capita would be larger. If that is the case, it stands to reason there are many men who would never make my to do list.

Even visiting a city the size of New York could make a girl’s head spin.

Not long ago I was visiting Los Angeles and after only four days got completely frustrated with the male race. I found myself with my best friend Annie at the Bodhi Tree, a self-realization book store filled with Buddha statues and self-help books. I approached the counter. The sales guy was a patchouli wearing pseudo hipster with a mustache and thick rimmed glasses.

“Do you have any books on why men are completely fucked?” I asked. (Don’t hate me boys, I do believe that women can be just as frustrating. I promise a positive ending.) Three silent blinks and a blank stare. “I’m not kidding,” I implored him. Five years out of Los Angeles never found me in a self-help book store, but there I was after only four days.

I wondered: Where exactly are these great men?

Is this city just filled with men who are leaving women dissatisfied? Of course it is. It’s a city. However, there is always a balance. There are good men in other cities too. I’ve seen them.

They aren’t holed up with the Amur Leopards in the Far East. They are not on the top 10 endangered species list. What are women doing to attract these less than par men? Are we settling? Are we looking to have a void filled? Are we making ourselves out to be whores?

I actually have my very own New York story about insecurities, settling and a man who thought I would be a lovely whore. So yes, I get it.

I was 22 years old and working at a club that had the toughest door policy in New York City at the time. His name was Gordon and he was a handsome anesthesiologist. He was probably in his mid-thirties, but when I was 22 everyone over the age of 26 looked 40 to me. He seemed normal. Normal was bad. Normal meant timid and very white bread.

Neither of these attributes was appealing to me at 22 years old. Every week he showed up at the club, like clockwork, one dozen long stemmed roses in one hand and big puppy dog eyes. I realized soon after that his puppy dog look was really nothing more than a look of desperation.

Gordon continued the flowers for close to four months, when I finally accepted a dinner invitation. What could it hurt, right? He was sweet, and I wanted to try sweet. We went on two dates, and when I realized that I wasn’t feeling the chemistry or the desire to continue, I felt it only fair to tell him.

We were sitting in his 5th Avenue apartment when I broke the news. His response was the last thing I would ever have expected.

Gordon looked me dead in the eyes; I was holding my breath waiting for a grand gesture, jewelry perhaps. It was just up his romantic alley to throw me a little blue box. Gordon wasn’t thinking blue box, he was thinking blue balls.

He asked me, in a very matter of fact tone, if I would consider dating him in exchange for monetary compensation. It made perfect sense to him. I was 22, which in his mind meant I liked money, and he had an excessive amount.

I flashed through my twelve second mental rolodex hit list of movie scenes where this scenario might actually be considered a good idea. The only thing I coud come up with was Pretty Woman, and having to fuck Richard Gere was not my idea of a fairy tale ending.

What exactly about me screamed whore? I wondered.

It’s not as easy as Flirt. Add Water. Stir. Fuck. Although that seems fairly honest. Hi, my name is ______.  I like french food, The Beatles, and I’d like to use you as my personal sex toy every third Tuesday. No other human, no shoes, no amount of love can fill that hole.

It is a sucking abyss.

If we don’t have that void filled before we venture into the dating/relationship world, we risk the chance of being misinterpreted, misled and certainly unsatisfied. In that state, we cannot possibly attract a true connection that is based on something other than hormones and a quick fix.

And if you happen to meet an anesthesiologist named Gordon and need a new car, play hard to get for at least four months.

(Questions on love, sex and relationships? This is the second installment of a sizzling new weekly advice column,When It Comes To Love. Ask me anything. Dig it or hate it, we’ll get through this together. Email your questions to Ronna at [email protected])

 

Editors: Anne Clendening and Lori Lothian

 

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