Zen and Sex (4 page)

As I check my email, my eye gravitates to an advertisement: a picture of a really cute woman that definitely has that “look of love,” which she is sharing over dinner with her date (all I can see of him is the back of his nicely coiffed head). “You could be making a connection, right now,” the headline proclaims. The blinking hypertext link offers an invite to “Get started now” by clicking on “learn more.”

I ignore the enticing, yet pathetic ad and search through my emails, which are mostly garbage: people mass forwarding jokes, cute photographs of kittens playing with big dogs, trending YouTube videos and Nigerian scammers looking for investors.

Not one personal email in the bunch; not one of them inquiring about my welfare or sharing something of a personal nature. My eye returns to the warm smile of the model in the ad. I do want someone that gorgeous to look at me like that over dinner, over everything, over anything. She looks like she’s in love with that guy, like she really cares for him. I bet that he really feels cherished, having someone like her who obviously adores him entirely. And while I know that it’s an advertisement and maybe/probably they’re paid actors who just met an hour before the photo was taken…still.

Love like that does exist out there.

I just need to figure out how to find it. One day photo jobs and park benches aren’t working out for me and I’ve got three weeks to find someone seriously hot and adoring, so maybe it is time to get focused and more strategic about fixing my love life. Believing that match-making sites are just for losers, I have never really considered them as a way to meet worthwhile women before. Maybe if I sign up and only approach the drop dead gorgeous ones (all I need is just one to say yes, that they will go to a wedding with me), it will work out. I mean, really, what’s the big deal? If they turn out to be someone with some substance and not totally insane, maybe we can even take it past the initial meeting and get serious... but that would be a bonus.

I may have a great eye when it comes to other people’s photos but choosing the right photo of myself to use for a dating site, a picture that says all the things that I want it to say (young, hip, good looking, successful, confident, fun, ambitious, sensitive and romantic, working professional and all around, good guy) is a harder task than I could have imagined.

When it comes to filling out my personal profile, writing down all my likes and my strengths and my desires and dreams and what I look for in a mate…makes me feel like giving up. I hate talking about myself and I don’t give good interviews. When someone asks me to tell them about myself, I normally just clam up. I don’t know why, but to me, when I listen to myself talking about myself… it just sounds so much bullshit. So, half way through telling them what an amazing guy I am, I find that I cannot keep a straight face and I either burst out laughing or die inwardly of embarrassment and humiliation. So, even though I get a good start, it takes me till the next day to finish my profile completely.

I have just sent off a bunch of emails, to some carefully selected, especially attractive women, when Mike walks in the door.

“Yes,” he says, while fist-pumping the air. I know exactly what it means.

“You closed the last deal?”

“Top of this month’s closer’s club! I won a trip for two to Hawaii!”

It’s fun to see his excitement. He high fives me and does a Rocky Balboa victory dance.

“That’s great, Mike. Congratulations!”

Mike doesn’t waste any time getting to the kitchen and taking two of the good beers out of the fridge.

“I can’t remember when things were last going so well,” Mike says, handing me a beer.

“You deserve it,” I say but inwardly I am aware of some mixed feelings. I can’t seem to decide if I am happy for him or jealous of him; maybe it’s a little bit of both. Naw, in truth, I am mostly jealous, especially when he keeps gloating…

“This is going to sound real soppy, man, but I owe it all to Gloria. Being in love is like… you know the story of Midas? Everything he touches turns to gold, right? When you’re in love, that’s what happens. Everything just turns out right. And the shit that doesn’t? Doesn’t matter.”

“Kinda like being high all the time,” I add.

“Yeah. You know what I’m talking about. Don’t you?” he says, as if he’s really wondering.

“I’ve been in love, Mike.”

“Oh, yeah. Roxanne. Going to the wedding?”

“I’m still thinking about it.”

“Let’s hit the bars tonight. We can celebrate my deal and score you a hottie, what do you say?”  Instantly, I light up inside. Me and Mike hitting the bars together, just like old times.

“I’m in,” I say, “I miss the old days.”

“What old days?” Mike asks innocently, which makes me doubt my own memories: am I longing for a past that in my mind, seemed like killer fun but, in reality, and perhaps in Mike’s head, was pathetically barren?

In retrospect, we did strike out more times than we hooked up and even though I was having a blast, maybe it wasn’t so much fun for Mike?

One scene in particular comes to mind, not because it’s in any way spectacular but perhaps because it was common and maybe typifies our nights out together. We were sitting at the bar at our regular hangout, Casey’s. It was busy, maybe a Friday night and we were dressed to look cool but not so dressed up that people would think that we were trying to look cool. A hot chick came to order at the bar, the first of the evening, so we hit on her.

“Hey,” said Mike, with a breezy smile.

“Hey,” the hot chick responded, either not interested or playing hard to get, it was too early to tell.

“Heaven must be missing an angel,” said Mike and I think he may have winked at her, partly to let her know that he knew it was a cheesy line but mainly to show that he was trying, anyway. Better to say
something
than nothing at all, right? The hot chick mock puked and not in a friendly way, so I decided that I’d help Mike out.

“If I told you that you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?” I said, again in an overtly cheesy way.

“Would you hold it against me if I told you that you had shit for brains?” the hot chick responded, collecting her drinks and leaving. I wasn’t quite sure what the logic of her question was and I hesitated too long to deliver a more timely and more clever comeback.

“I’d hold it against you, period,” I said as she was departing but what should have been a zinger was delivered too late and too lamely to make any difference. Nevertheless, Mike and I laughed and high-fived each other as if we were the ones coming out on top, which clearly we were not. It was pretty pathetic, actually.

“I miss us partying together,” I say to Mike, “we don’t do that shit, anymore.”

As Mike’s cell phone rings, Mike holds up a single finger signaling, hold that thought, and answers his phone with unabashed enthusiasm.

“Hey, sweetheart! Yes! I sure did! Pack your bags for Hawaii, baby!”

I could hear screams of joy from the other end of the phone, as I wait patiently and suck down my beer.

“I’m going out with Martin,” Mike then says, giving me a smile and a thumbs up, “have a few brewskis.” In expectation of a serious night of drinking, I open the fridge to grab a couple more beers.

“Hold on,” I hear Mike say to Gloria. He places his palm on the speaker part of the phone. “Mind if Gloria comes along?” he asks as I hold aloft two freshly opened beers.

“No. Sure. Of course not. That’s great,” I hear myself say. When he takes one of the beers and turns around, I actually make a horrified face, I don’t know why, but it was as if now I was in a sitcom and the audience totally got it and was laughing hysterically at the scene. Except this isn’t a situation comedy; it’s my life and it isn’t that funny.

Okay, there’s no need to recap another fiasco night out with Migloria (Mike & Gloria). It will suffice to say that Mike did celebrate with Gloria and I did not score a hottie. I did manage to get nicely drunk without embarrassing myself, at least, I don’t think. Unfortunately, I spent too much money and, considering that I’ve lined up a swad of dates, one for almost every night this week, I really need to pace myself and stick to some kind of budget. I’m going to get me a hot wedding date!

3. Candid Dates

Tracy, in her profile, says that she’s twenty-three and in her online photo, she looks like a raving bombshell. I must have gotten her on a bad day as sitting across from me in the restaurant, she looks older and well, not so hot. She also looks like she didn’t change out of her office job duds; she’s dressed all conservative and her purse looks more like a briefcase (is it a briefcase?). As soon as we sat down, she took out a notebook and a pen and I’m waiting to see what that’s about.

I don’t know why I’m so nervous. She really isn’t my type, so it’s not like I care one way or another whether she likes me or not. Actually, that’s not true. I do care about whether or not she likes me and even if she doesn’t grow on me or maybe I do grow to like her, either way, I want to be the one to do the rejecting. Some part of me… a large part of me
hates
to be rejected by women. I’m pretty sure most guys feel the same.

“Did you get many responses from your posting?” I ask her, mainly to get the ball rolling but also to do some research as to what to expect from the dating site. I am wondering what the usual response to these kinds of email dating inquiries. I sent out a ton of “introductions” but only got a handful of responses.

“You wouldn’t believe the number of candidates,” she says, almost wearily.

“Do you mean candid dates or candidates?”

“Oh, that’s good. I should write that down,” she says. I wasn’t trying to be witty but maybe I scored my first bon mots of the evening.

“What’s your last name?” she asks.

“You’re taking notes?”

“Do you mind?”

“I really don’t think I’m going to say anything that memorable. This is a date, not an interview, right?” My delivery is self-deprecating and hopefully, humorous.

“Is there a difference?” she asks, completely deadpan.

“Is there a difference between a date and an interview? Seriously?” I grin at her.

“Think about it. What’s the first date all about?” She is totally serious.

“Finding out if there’s going to be a second?” She actually frowns.

“I have questions about you. You have questions about me. We go through our life histories, right? Where are you from? Where did you go to school? What music do you like…? Just like an interview. Except, less formal.”

“And you want to bring the formal back into dating?”

“This is my seventh first date in like, ten days. I need to keep track of who’s who. All right?” she says, kinda huffy.

“Of course.” I say, while still thinking what really to say. This isn’t working out at all but what am I going to do? Cancel dinner? Nothing disastrous has happened so far so I still may be in with a shot. Maybe if she’s happy with my answers, she’ll loosen up a little; we’ll get to know each other, have a few too many drinks and end up back at her place?

I shouldn’t judge her too soon and besides, her intensity is kind of a turn on. Maybe she’s used to having her own way with guys and she just needs to be challenged. If I answer all her questions, like a willing “candidate,” how will I make an impression on her?

I wonder what she looks like without the glasses and the regulation office clothes? If she, literally, let her long hair down and tussled it a bit, she would look ten times hotter. I could bet money that she’s a raver beneath the sheets.

“How many years of college have you had?” she asks. Oh, please, I groan inside.

“Don’t you think that there’s more going on, something of greater depth, than just exchanging facts about each other’s lives?”

“Such as?”

“Well, the stuff you can’t quantify…the chemistry between two people, the connection they make.” She writes something down in her notebook. Is she recording the conversation or writing down comments about me?

“The longest-lasting relationships are those that share the most common interests and the same philosophy of life. Opposites may attract but they don’t last. People of like minds make the best lasting relationships. It’s a proven fact.” I see her lips moving but the words coming out don’t seem like their hers, at all.

“Did you major is psychology?”

“I read a lot. I’m a massage therapist.”

Again, she makes more notes in her notebook and I’d kill to know what exactly she’s writing about me. Even if she is only a massage therapist (which completely throws me, as I had taken her for an office professional of some kind), something bothers me about her whole theory of attraction. If what everyone really desires in a partner is someone that thinks like them, does the same things that they do and wants exactly the same things in life, then we are just secretly looking for a carbon copy of ourselves…in the body of the opposite sex. How creepy is that?

Could the entire notion of finding one’s soul mate be a simple case of looking for ourselves in another body? Is the “soul mate” really just the best approximation of ourselves that we can find? Now that I think about it, I guess I’ve always felt most comfortable with a woman who shares the same or similar interests as myself and basically thinks along the same lines. I have had attractions to women that I considered very different to myself. It’s true that although there was definite attraction and chemistry, we never made it past a few dates, either because we didn’t communicate very well or, despite the good sex, we didn’t particularly like each other.

Maybe Tracy is right (the studies do prove it, after all!). If so, I should narrow my search down to women that best resemble me. I wonder if that includes similarities in the looks department, as well, although that sounds a tad freaky? Wasn’t it Narcissus that was cursed to fall in love with his own image and eventually died as a flower or something?

“I’ll be right back,” Tracy says and heads off to the bathroom. I nonchalantly pick up her notes and try to make out her handwriting. Out of nowhere, Tracy reappears and after giving me a disapproving look, grabs them back and takes them with her to the restroom. With that one act I know that the evening is blown. Whatever chance I had with her is irredeemably gone.