by Helen Hardt
How’s that for some serious mind-fuckery?
Is it any wonder courtship has been reduced to swiping left or right, followed by mad texting, a phone call, a dick pic, some sexting, a drive-by date at a coffee shop with multiple exits, and then, maybe, if you’re lucky, dinner and a hookup?
I keep reading the article.
“‘Serial daters aren’t clear about their intentions, which are usually shallow and self-serving,’ Chapman explains. ‘They lead people on and disappear when things get too intense for them. They are experts at breadcrumbing and ghosting, sliding in and out of DMs like a phantom moving through walls.’”
Is it me or is the Love Guru coming off as a little judgy? Maybe serial daters aren’t self-serving but self-preserving. Maybe they disappear because they’re not vibing with their date and they prefer to avoid the inevitable “Is it me? Is it something I did?” convo. Trust me, there is no right answer to that question. Don’t believe me? Let’s roleplay this shit.
“It’s not you. You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re awesome.”
“Then why don’t you want to go out with me?”
This is where you shift around uncomfortably, avoid eye contact, and try to think of an answer that won’t make them feel like they just took a bullet to the heart. So, you come up with lame-ass reasons they swat away like mosquitos.
“I’m still in love with my boyfriend.”
“Then why did you go out with me?”
Fail. Try again.
“I think we just need to slow things down.”
“But we’ve only had two dates.”
Fail. Try again.
You can’t tell them the truth, either. Not ever. Don’t believe me? Here are some of the truth bombs I’ve dropped on guys I didn’t want to see again:
You didn’t talk enough.
You talked too much.
You’re boring.
You showed up with spinach stuck between your teeth.
You mentioned your ex fifteen times—just over drinks.
You drank too much.
You didn’t drink enough.
You’re wearing dad jeans.
You have a dad bod.
You talked about wanting to be a dad.
I want to know what Mister Love thinks the best way is to tell a dude you don’t want to see him again. Not for a bootie call. Not for dinner. Not even for a FaceTime.
I go back to the article. “‘The serial dater is motivated by the thrill of the chase, the excitement of the first date, the exhilaration of sexual capitulation. Like any skilled predator, they move with devastating speed. They fall in and out of lust/infatuation/love before their prey even knows what hit them.’”
I let out a long, low whistle. The Love Guru packs a mean punch once he peels off his touchy-feely gloves, doesn’t he?
4
Stinger
I’m staring at two bronzed nipples and realizing I have the best job in the world. Adonis—his real name—greeted me the moment I walked into the lobby of the adults-only resort, a beaming Colgate grin on his swarthy face, a fruit-filled glass of sangria in his hand.
“Welcome to Mar de Cobalto, Senorita Donnelly,” he said, taking my carryon from my hand and replacing it with the sangria in one smooth gesture. “I will be serving as your personal attendant throughout your stay at the resort. Tickets, trifles, reservations, requests, whatever you desire. I am here to please.”
The living, breathing, three-dimensional Calvin Klein underwear advert has the tightest, tannest nips I have ever seen. I wonder if allowing me to draw a tank top on him with my tongue falls within his purview? He did say he is here to please and that would definitely please me.
In the eight years I’ve worked for Conceit, I have landed some choice gigs—cooking with Gordon Ramsey, driving a McLaren supercar 130 miles an hour on a racetrack in Dubai, soaking in a jacuzzi in an ice spa in Norway—but having a hottie with Insta abs offering to serve as my personal attendant is the best perk ever, even better than my Gucci Globe-Trotter.
Adonis retrieves my room key from behind a screen made of blanched and bleached tree branches, giving me some time to take in the lobby with its breathtaking view of the sea and a massive rock formation the limo driver called Es Vedrà. Yachts float at anchor on the shimmering horizon. A few dozen downward doggers are doing yoga on the beach. The cloudless sky blends into the sea like an abstract cobalt ombré painting. I take a sip of my sangria to be polite. I want to pour out the wine and eat the fruit resting in the bottom of my glass. Besides a handful of vanilla and pomegranate cashews I devoured in the limo on the way from the airport, I haven’t had anything solid in my stomach since yesterday.
Adonis gestures for me to follow him. We walk across the lobby to a glass elevator. The doors slide open as we arrive as if we are ballerz in a rap video. In my head, scenes from Post Malone’s Saint Tropez vid flicker. The Mar de Cobalto looks like the sort of place Postie would use as a backdrop for one of his videos. I can see him pulling up to the lobby in a shiny white Bugatti, diamond-encrusted Rolex Daytona on his tatted-up wrist. We step into the elevator and Adonis jabs the down button.
“The resort has a hundred and fifty two-story suites situated in self-contained whitewashed homes, each with a private swimming pool. Mar de Cobalto has a lap pool, lounge pool featuring twenty-foot waterfall, state-of-the-art fitness center, holistic spa, four restaurants, three bars, a private bitch, and a seventy-foot yacht available for charter.”
Adonis speaks in a calm, measured voice that reminds me of an ASMR recording I listen to when I have insomnia. Antonio Banderas reading Don Quixote—except Antonio doesn’t pronounce beach as bitch.
“I understand you are here on business, but if you find you have time, and would like to book a spa treatment, dinner reservation, or space in a fitness class, please press the A on your telephone. It is your direct link to me.”
“I will. Thank you.”
The elevator doors slide open, affording us a view of a blue-tiled swimming pool framed by palm trees. We step out of the elevator onto a covered walkway. A warm breeze blows off the sea, carrying the scent of coconut suntan lotion, saltwater, and tropical flowers. A lock of hair has come undone from my high ponytail. The pale strands float in the air before getting stuck on my recently glossed lips.
Adonis waves the card key over the magnetic plate above the door handle. The lock emits a muted beep-beep-beep and then a click. He pushes the door open and steps aside, allowing me to pass.
The suite is super luxe and reminds me of a spa I visited in Bali. The sitting room has a low-slung, modern sectional upholstered in white fabric, whitewashed walls, and teak floors. Behind the sectional is a screen made of the same blanched and bleached branches I saw in the lobby. The far wall is made of sliding glass panels that are open to a private terrace and swimming pool. The suite even smells like a spa—eucalyptus, ylang-ylang, and cedar.
Adonis places my room key on the table beside the sectional. He grabs the television remote and gives me a down-and-dirty tutorial on how to navigate the features that allow me to order room service, watch a pay-per-view movie, check the resort calendar for daily events, or send a message to the front desk.
“This is from Señor Chapman.” He gestures to a gift basket on the coffee table. It’s wrapped in cellophane marked with red Xs and Os. “He asked me to confirm your meeting with him at five this evening in the conference room in the business center.”
Adonis leaves with a bow.
I tear the cellophane off the basket and look at the goodies inside—a box of chocolates, a heart-shaped stress ball, a T-shirt embroidered with a small x and o, a folder containing information about the week’s workshops and mixers, and autographed copies of Ian Chapman’s books Land the Man and Fill Your Love Bank. I kick off my shoes, tuck Fill Your Love Bank under my arm, grab the box of chocolates, and head to the pool.
By the time Adonis returns with my luggage, I’ve tossed my jacket over the chaise lo
ngue, rolled my pants to my knees, and am dangling my legs in the pool. I’ve murdered the box of chocolates and left the blood-red wrappers strewn about like a confectionary crime scene.
Adonis carries my luggage up the stairs to the bedroom and returns with a travel-sized bottle of sunscreen with the hotel logo on it. He hands me the sunscreen, and I hand him a generous tip. He bows and leaves. I change into my bathing suit and stretch out on the chaise with Love Bank. I’m on chapter seven and have filled the margins with notes and questions when I get the feeling someone is watching me. I look around, half-expecting to find Adonis waiting with another glass of sangria, when I notice a muscular hottie in a black button-down standing on an upper balcony looking at me. There’s a fluttery feeling in my stomach like I’m a silly teenager who has just spotted her crush at the mall. I’m flustered and flushed. Should I wave? Should I pretend I haven’t noticed him? Am I giving side boob lying on this chaise?
Jesus, Marlow! Pull it together. You’re not a fifteen-year-old girl at her first school dance. You’re a sophisticated twenty-eight-year-old woman who’s looking snatched in a Versace bikini. Thank you very much.
I roll onto my side, facing away from the hottie, arch my back, and let my bootie pop a little. I can feel his gaze on me. I like it.
That’s right, baby. Look at my cake, because I’m serving it thick like Entenmann’s.
“You’ve a chocolate wrapper stuck to your shoe.”
These are the first words Ian Chapman says to me.
A week of research, a notebook full of clever questions, and a chic new sheath dress were supposed to set the tone for my rendezvous with the Love Guru. Confident. Hard-hitting. Instead, I shuffled into the conference room like a vaudeville clown, dragging a red foil wrapper behind me.
He’s smiling at me. A wide, white toothy grin that defies the stereotype of the orthodontically-challenged Brit. His eyes sparkle like an up-and-coming model smizing her little heart out for the camera. He is money in his impeccably tailored Windsor check sports coat, monogrammed button-down, and dark jeans. I pull the chocolate wrapper off my shoe and return his smile. I don’t know what I expected—a hippie-dippie Scot with a thick brogue, maybe. Instead, I’m picking up Kingsman in bespoke oxfords.
We exchange pleasantries and then get down to it.
“In a recent interview with the New York Times, you said singles are lonelier, but less likely to connect than any other time in history despite the technological advances that have made the world a smaller place. Why is that?”
“We have become addicts.” He leans forward and rests his arms on the conference table. “We are addicted to the quick fix. The twenty-four-hour news cycle, UberEats, video on demand, instant messaging. Technology has conditioned us to expect immediate gratification, but you can’t order a soulmate the way you order a pizza. It doesn’t matter how many dating sites you join. You’re not going to have a meaningful relationship if you’re only willing to invest the time it takes to swipe your finger across the screen.”
Kristin would be happy to know I suppressed my automatic gag reflex when the Love Guru said the world soulmate.
“Some might say swiping allows singles to separate the wheat from the chaff.”
“Finding a love connection isn’t like winnowing grain,” he says, rolling the R in grain ever so slightly. “Separating the wheat from the chaff. That idiom suggests swiping on a dating app is sorting the valuable from the worthless. No human is worthless.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you met some of the guys I’ve dated.” I chuckle.
He doesn’t laugh. He just stares at me through slightly narrowed eyes, as if I’m a brainteaser and he is trying to find hidden objects.
“Are you able to determine someone’s value merely by looking at him?”
“I’m able to determine whether they are worth my time.”
“How?”
I shift. In my mind, I see the Road Runner standing beneath a cliff with a boulder teetering on its edge. I feel like the Road Runner. I shift again. “I read it takes one-tenth of a second for someone to judge another person and develop a first impression. In one-tenth of a second we can determine someone’s approximate age, race, gender, mood, and physical characteristics. Their posture, hygiene, body movements, and eye contact are clues that help us determine their self-esteem.”
“What if one of your clues is a red herring?”
“Like…”
“Like a chocolate wrapper stuck to the bottom of a shoe.”
Fuck. I knew the ghost of chocolates past would come back to haunt me. That thud? Yeah, that was the boulder falling off the cliff and crushing my argument. Props to the Love Guru. He’s definitely wily.
“I dig what you’re saying. The wrapper stuck to the bottom of my shoe could indicate I am scattered, distracted, hurried.”
“Or that you just like chocolate.” He grins.
I laugh. “Guilty.”
“If we dismiss someone solely on their profile picture or dating bio we kill the magic before it happens.”
“The magic?”
“You’re right. We do form first impressions. The magic happens when we discover our first impressions were wrong. The person who looked so serious is actually a laugh. The vapid pretty boy has deep thoughts. The player wants a committed relationship. Swiping kills the magic before it has even happened.” He leans back in his chair. “The flip side of that is social media. Social media creates false magic. We read someone’s pithy comments in two hundred and eighty characters or less, and we think they’re always pithy. How many people are actually living the life they portray on their Instagram feed? We filter our thoughts, actions, feelings, and selfies.”
Social media hate. I’m here for it.
“People use filters whether they are looking for a date on the internet or in some old-school way, like in a grocery store or at hot yoga class. Though, I would argue it’s hard to filter when you’re twisted into an unnatural position in a room with fifteen sweaty people.”
He laughs again.
“Do you think everyone wants a long-term, committed relationship?”
“Yes. Have you ever heard of Abraham Maslow?”
“No.”
“Brilliant psychologist and philosopher. He wrote A Theory of Human Motivation, which, in essence, states that all humans have basic needs they strive to satisfy. Socialization and mating are two of those basic needs.”
I want to ask him if mating has to be forever and ever, amen? Is it natural for two people to mate and remain monogamous for the rest of their lives? We have many friends throughout our lifetimes. Why not lovers? I am afraid the interview will get lost in the fog of soulmates.
“In Fill Your Love Bank, you wrote all people can be put in one of four categories with how they approach intimate relationships. The Avoidant, who is uncomfortable with intimacy; the Anxious, who fears loss of connection; the Fearful, who has a combination of traits from the Avoidant and the Anxious; and the rare beast, the Secure. Is that right?”
“It is.”
“You claimed you can determine which category a person belongs to and why in ten questions or less.”
“Yes.”
I tilt my head and look at him through narrowed eyes.
“Would you like a demonstration?”
“Me?”
“Who else?”
Bring it, Love Man. “Okay.”
“Are your parents still married?”
“No.” I lean back in my chair. “My father divorced my mother when I was eleven years old.”
“How did you feel when they told you they were getting divorced?”
“Two years before my parents got divorced, we spent Christmas holiday in the Swiss Alps. I had been skiing before—Aspen, Vail—so I thought I had mastered the bunny slopes and was ready for a blue square piste, an intermediate slope. First run, I fell flat on my back, hard. One moment, I was confident, flying over the snow, and the next I was staring up at the sky, con
fused, embarrassed, and unable to get my breath.” I remember the snowflakes stinging as they landed on my tear-filled eyes and the whoosh in my ears as more experienced skiers raced by. “When my mother told me my father had left us, that he had packed his bags, and wouldn’t be coming back, I felt like I did that day in the Alps, like someone had knocked the confidence and wind out of me.”
Fuck me, Freud. That’s some heavy stuff to lay on a light-filled Love Guru.
Ian reaches into his suitcoat pocket, pulls out a hankie, and hands it to me.
“I don’t need—” A fat tear plops on my notepad and I realize I’m crying. I take the hankie and gently dab under my eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t know where this is coming from. I’m not usually this emotional.”
Ian reaches across the table and places his hand over mine—a brief, warm expression of sympathy that causes fresh tears to fill my eyes. What in the hell kind of Charlie Manson head-trickery is this Love Guru practicing? I’m not a crier. I don’t get misty-eyed at sappy love songs or weepy while watching commercials that shamelessly attempt to tug at the heartstrings with images of warm family gatherings. Machine Gun Marlow—that’s what Kristin calls me, because I can destroy a sentimental advert or love ballad with a spray of sarcastic comments, riddle the fantasy with bullets of reality. That commercial that follows a grandfather and his granddaughter from childhood to adulthood, where all of her milestones are marked by Gramps giving her a candy bar? That’s a glimpse into the making of an obese diabetic with a mouthful of cavities.
“Tears are proof that there is a well of emotion inside you. Shedding tears is proof that you are brave enough to be vulnerable with another. Never apologize for being vulnerable.”
Vulnerable? Me? Marlow Donnelly? Not bloody likely, Scot. I blink back the tears while I fold the hankie into a neat square and then hand it to him with a flat smile, gaze direct, chin lifted. “Next question?”
