CHAPTER TWELVE
“You find yourself hanging on by your toe nails, waiting.”
~ Russ, 44, single
Case 332 / Russ
I’m beginning year four of my investigation and have exceeded the time I budgeted for this adventure. What was to have taken one year to wade through – one thousand men – is now way overdue with a little over 300 guys recorded, noted and time-stamped. Never did I expect strange men to open up to me like they did. They won’t stop talking. I’m free therapy. Walking away from the project is not an option. I’ve invested too much time. I’m not a quitter.
The wedding gown is almost finished. I have a permanent creak in my neck from bending over stitching tiny white pearls onto white lace with white thread. My eyes burn and my vision will never be the same. Making the gown is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It has allowed me too much time to think. I wonder what the odds are for my daughter’s happiness in marriage as I march through the steps as the mother of the bride.
Weddings are expensive affairs and my child wants her special day to be at the wedding pavilion at the Grand Floridian at Disney. I use the last of my savings to launch what I hope will be an odds-breaker marriage. I wonder what kind of wedding Mark and I might have had. He begins to sit on the edges of my quiet time and beg me to reconnect with him.
I meet Russ, forty-four, a former professional athlete, at his small ranch about thirty minutes outside of St. Louis. He runs a beverage distribution company from his home-office. A bit of a loner, he has yet to marry. This ex-football player is tall, with a work-out body, a flushed complexion and shiny brown hair. He has lively eyes and a genuine smile.
“You can’t enter into and out of a relations hip without picking up the bill,” he says as he opens the refrigerator. “Sure I can’t get you anything?”
I wave him off. He uncaps a small glass bottle of fruit drink and takes a swig.
“I’ve found out that as you go from relationship to relationship, if you have any kind of romantic involvement, you tend to apply the very things that were sore points in the previous relationship to the new relationship.”
“Is that what’s called baggage?”
“It’s more like unconscious programming. You’re only half-way sure you’re doing it. Let’s say you used to be with someone who liked dancing and you guys didn’t get along. So you just made sure that whenever you were in a situation where you could go dancing, you wouldn’t, because that would be giving in to her.
“You wind up with this power trip that eventually ends up with two people standing in opposite ends of the room not giving an inch for fear of pleasing the other person and then appearing weak.”
“I follow...”
“The next relationship you have, dancing doesn’t have that emotional baggage, so you actually encourage it. Let’s go out dancing. That’s how it goes in the next relationship – you ask to do the exact thing you refused to do in the first relationship.”
“So it’s a spite thing?”
“No... You tend to try to repair the mistakes of the previous relationship as you perceive them.” He leans in to me, as if a conspirator. “Because you thought, ‘I’ll fix her, we’ll never go dancing.’ But you know in the back of your mind you’re doing damage by doing that, which already means that relationship is over. But the next one... you’re gonna be a dancing fool.”
“So that’s a sign a relationship is ending? When you deny your partner things that please them?”
“There’s a point at which you know it’s dead.” He pauses making sure I’m with him. “It’s the point at which all the pluses suddenly invert and become minuses.”
He sits down at the table and locks his fingers together. “It’s when everything that was a reason for you to be friends is now a weapon to be used against that. Same goes for love relationships. And you can be really savage about this. You can form a perfect wall.”
I think Russ could be pretty fierce if pressed.
“You know you’re not going to give an inch. You always wait. You never do anything about it because waiting is a form of hope that some kind of extracurricular event will come in and solve your whole problem for you... like they die or they find someone else. Guys always hope to be saved from being the bad guy.”
He shakes his head. “Sometimes you have to wait years and years for that kind of reprieve. You can lose your mind in the process. It really is magical how sometimes you get to the end of your rope and your solutions appear. Sometimes you create them in your own mind. You can have an amputation or rot off from gangrene. One takes a long time and the other takes an instant. People always opt for the gangrene approach.”
I wonder if Mark is suffering from relationship rot. Maybe he needs me as much as I need him? After the wedding I’ll look for him. That will be my present to myself.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Marriage is about being best friends.”
~Kyle, 31, married
A hundred hotel rooms and a thousand lonely nights, I feel less confident and so much more alone. Do I have a soul mate? Did I lose the only one I was given?
I think back to my first boyfriend, Johnny. We were in kindergarten. He asked me to marry him. I said sure. The next day he produced a ring. His mom had taken him to buy it with his allowance. She thought we were so darling.
The following day, I lost the ring. It disappeared. I retraced my little sandaled footsteps for hours. But it was gone. I dodged Johnny’s questions about the missing ring by telling him it was too valuable to wear to school and was in a locked jewel box at home. It was a bit of a tall tale as the only jewel we had at home was a sparkly stone I’d found on the sidewalk.
I kept up the pretense throughout kindergarten and during the long summer when my little blond fella would walk nine city blocks to my house and beg me to wear the ring. The following year my family moved to another city. It was a relief to be free of the white lie of the ring in the jewel box. Maybe I can’t keep love. I find it easily but then it slips through my fingers.
I call Sal, he sits silent on his end of the phone.
“Maybe some people, like me, just can’t hold onto love. It’s slippery and rather than grab the slimy critter, we subconsciously let it slide away.”
He sighs a bi-coastal sigh. “Tell me about these guys. Are they good looking? Do they have a sense of humor like mine? Why are they getting to you? You’re never going see them again.” Sal continues to press me for silly scraps of details about the men. Why are guys always lining themselves up for comparison? Who’s got the best one-liner? Who’s got the biggest... feet?
Before he can hold me on the phone any longer, I hang up. It’s after midnight and I can’t sleep. I click on the recorder and start jotting notes. Is there a pattern here? I play tape after tape looking for sense in the words of hundreds of men. I don’t have to look at their names. The sound of their voices brings them into sharp relief. They are imprinted on my brain.
“What’s kept us together is I always treated her like she was one of my guy friends, not just my wife. She’s my best friend and I value that.”
~ Chuck, 55, retired business owner, married
“I married my childhood sweetheart. It has been an exciting relationship.”
~ Bill, 54 corporate CEO, married
“Mutual support without any distractions. We both really like each other’s company. I do believe that a lot of the successful marriages without children do work because there’s two people devoted to one another and not being torn apart by the trampling of little feet.”
~ Mick, 46, film director, married
“We never found it difficult to perpetuate our love for each other. We always wanted to be together.”
~ Hank, 83, retired, married
“Marriage is a partnership designed to enhance the quality of life for both partners.”
~Barry, 40, attorney, married
I find myself wanting what these people have and yet knowing it’s going
to be bad for me. Like a kid with a craving for Sweet Tarts, I dodge the fact that these scenarios are loaded with painful cavities.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“The sexiest thing about a woman?
Being able to laugh with her during sex.”
~ Alex, 44, divorced
Case 350 /Alex
We stand in a check-in line at the Delta desk in Hartsfield Airport in Atlanta. His name is Alex. As we start chatting, I mention the interviews. He’s immediately interested. “Do you have time for a drink?” He asks.
Is this a hit-on or an interview?
He reads my mind. “I’d enjoy being interviewed.”
Oh twist my arm. Here we go again, being forced to interview a nice looking man.
Alex and I settle into a booth at one of the bars. We both order cabernet. I pop out my recorder and we are officially underway.
Alex is a forty-four year old real estate investment counselor. I have a vague idea of what he does. Divorced for six years, he is actively searching for the right woman. His standards sound terribly high and unachievable.
Mr. Investment Counselor fixes his light blue eyes on me, his voice growing softer. “Funny, how one event can change the whole course of a relationship. At some crucial fork in the road, the thing you have with someone can become love, a love affair or a friendship.
“I was handling a client’s real estate and commuting between Chicago and Tampa. Through business connections I met this lady. The physical and mental attraction was there. I was just entering the divorce arena and looking for a quality place to dump my pain.
“About once a month I would find an excuse to come into Tampa. This lady and I would put in twelve to fourteen hour work days and then we’d grab dinner together. The sexual tension was building. Finally one night I couldn’t stand it anymore. I just said to her, ‘We both know we want to do this, let’s stop wasting valuable time.’”
I scoot to the edge of my seat, in order to hear him better. He has a funny expression on his face, his mustache is covering his lips and I can’t quite tell if he is smiling or not.
“She came back to my hotel room and we started kissing and undressing each other. It was all very passionate. There we were embracing in bed, naked and the fire alarm goes off. We were on the eleventh floor of this downtown hotel. I told her, let’s not rush... it might be a false alarm. We started slowly fumbling with our clothes, only she couldn’t find her skirt. She threw her blouse over her slip and hoped no one would notice.
“We walked down the eleven flights of stairs into the warm night. We worked our way over to the shadows where a collection of couples were huddling, hiding their heads. They were in the same predicament.”
I start laughing. Alex puts his hand on mine.
“Wait, it gets better,” he says.
“A loud speaker announces it was a false alarm. Okay. We hike back up the stairs, because we don’t want to go through the lobby.”
“The poor woman.”
“We get back to the room and resume our passion, a little more breathless than before. The alarm rings again.”
His mustache inches up and I can see he’s laughing.
“Stay put. I was sure it was another false alarm.” He pauses to sip the remainder of his wine. “It became hard to stay focused with one ear cocked for the sound of ladders at our window.”
I’m now squiggly in my seat from laughing at a scene I can only imagine.
Alex continues, “We never heard any ladders, but there was running in the corridors and people started yelling ‘fire.’
“We jump up again. The power was off and there were no lights. This time, we could barely find any clothing. She threw on my suit jacket and nothing else. I grabbed my pants as we exited barefoot. We came galloping down the same set of stairs which were lit only by the emergency generators.”
He blots his mustache with a napkin as he continues his tale, “We pushed the door open and came face to face with a television camera. It was only local television, but this was her home town.”
“The news?” I ask.
He nods, “We foolishly repeated these gymnastics one more time. If you’re counting that’s sixty-six flights of stairs. When we finally got back to bed, there was nothing we could do but laugh.”
He smiles, “That’s when our relationship turned from a would-be affair to a great friendship that has stood the test of years.”
Alex settles back in the booth, ignoring his wine. “We never consummated the physical side, but somehow that’s okay. I love her intensely, as my friend. Somehow I have this feeling that the sex has been better in our minds, than it could have ever been in corporal form. But we’ll never know that.”
Sometimes, imagining is good enough. After all, it’s all I’ve had for over twenty years.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Every relationship is in your mind.”
~ Vince, 43, single
Case 387 / Vince
We all want what we can’t have, including me.
I spot him across the lobby of the Peabody Hotel in Orlando. Outstanding.
Vince and I met briefly two months earlier. I remembered he was good looking in a virile, rugged, stubble-strewn way. I’d been through hundreds of interviews and I secretly hope this guy is a keeper. He has hazel eyes and softly chiseled features. Over six feet tall, Vince is lean and athletic, and best of all he has a long pony tail – a particular weakness of mine.
A television producer, Vince is temporarily based in Orlando. He is forty-three and unattached.
I wasn’t sure he would remember what I look like, but he does. He strides across the lobby, the fountains splash, and the piano plays. He breaks out a killer smile.
Vince takes my hand and looks down at me. My eyes start batting as if they’re possessed. “Perhaps you may not want to interview me,” he says. “I have something to confess.”
Another bitter man who doesn’t feel he can be objective? I nod, ready to reassure him.
He looks at me and shrugs. “I’m gay.”
The dispassionate professional part of me speaks. “That’s okay.” The woman part of me silently whimpers.
He looks relieved. “Good. I was really looking forward to this.”
“Me too.”
Vince and I settle down, side by side in an alcove off the main lobby. The overstuffed chairs are comfortable and the lighting is dim. We have our privacy. I pull out my recorder and note pad.
He describes his life traveling to produce shows around the globe. A dozen or so countries a year, this producer life sounds lonely and not so glamorous.
“When I start working on an assignment with women it’s pretty much, they’re curious. They want to know if I’m available. There’s a lot of interest shown,” Vince says.
I can’t imagine.
“The ones who are not involved with somebody make it pretty plain that they’re interested, not in an objectionable way, usually.”
He stretches his lean legs. I do the same.
“Nice boots,” he says.
“Thanks.”
“I said not objectionable, but actually I have been called at two in the morning.”
“What could they possibly say at that time of night?”
“They say, ‘I couldn’t sleep and I found myself thinking about you. I thought I’d call you.’ Or they might knock on my hotel room door and say something like, ‘I’ve got a joint. Do you want to smoke?’”
Vince looks at me, studying whether I am okay with his story... so far.
He continues, “On the job I’m on now, one woman makes it obvious that she wants to go out with me.
“You know, a lot of people are looking. People want to be with someone. It’s normal – only natural. As long as it doesn’t become too much, that’s fine. I understand.”
“You are so compassionate.” The flowery words slip out. I bite my lip.
His eyes remain fixed on me. His hands rest on the arms of the chair. “There ar
e those few incidents where I have found it intrusive. It could almost come under the heading of sexual harassment. And because of my preferences, it comes with no encouragement whatsoever.”
He smiles.
“I can be as flirtatious as anybody else in a social situation, but it happens without any encouragement. I find, on the whole, women are almost always interested. It’s not my ego.”
“Were you ever interested in women sexually?” I ask. Inquiring minds want to know.
He sighs. “I had girlfriends up until the age of nineteen. But it wasn’t for me for whatever reason. Nobody knows why. It was alright. I enjoyed it at the time. I used to go backwards and forwards at one time.”
I can’t unlock from his eyes. I’m drawn in and want to stay there.
“But then slowly it filtered out.”
I think about the Prime Directive from Star Trek. Something about leaving the planet as you found it. Vince is gay and he must stay, I mumble to myself as I pull away from the Peabody. Why are all the good ones gay? Maybe Mark was gay. Maybe that’s why he didn’t fight harder to keep me.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Risk my life for someone else ... Why?”
~ Gary, 46, divorced
Case 391 / Gary
The hug thing is building up inside me. I’ve interviewed close to 400 guys and I feel colder every day. My nightmares are visions of courtrooms filled with men. I’m sitting in the witness chair while men crunch lemon drops and talk endlessly of their losses.
Something snaps inside of me, I can hear it. I feel the need to do something rash, to put myself at risk, to cleanse all these crocodile tears I’ve been collecting.
Desperately needing to be alone, I travel to the mountains of Tennessee with the desire to get control of something in my world. The interviews are leeching the joy out of me. I need a straight shot of adrenalin.
The Adventures of a Love Investigator, 527 Naked Men & One Woman Page 5
