Dating Without Novocaine by Lisa Cach

“Or fashion. You ever notice how when something new comes out, you swear you will never wear it, and then six months later it’s in your closet.”
    â€œUnfortunately,” I agreed.
    â€œThen there’s similarity,” Louise went on. “Age, race, ethnic background, educational level, social status, family background, religion.”
    â€œI can see that. Less to argue about,” I said. “Less to get adjusted to. And if you got involved with the person because they lived close by, you probably have a lot in common already.”
    â€œSocial status?” Cassie asked, turning away from the monitor. “You mean, like class differences? Where are we, India?”
    Cassie was maybe the one person I knew who I could imagine being equally comfortable in the company of a drug addict who had dropped out of middle school or a middle-aged society matron from the West Hills. She was so firmly in her own world, the relative positions of others could not shake her.
    There were times I hoped I would grow up to be like Cassie.
    â€œAnd last but not least,” Louise went on, “physical attractiveness.”
    â€œHoo-rah!” Scott said.
    â€œOh, stop it,” Louise scolded. “You’re not nearly the animal you think.”
    â€œHa. What do you know?”
    â€œYou’re a ‘nice guy,’” I said, feeling wicked. “You’re the type that women like to have as a friend.”
    â€œKee-rist! Thanks a lot! Could you be a little more insulting?”
    I gave a toothy grin.
    â€œWhen’s the last time you had a checkup? Maybe it’s time for some dental X rays.”
    â€œDon’t be mean.” Memories of hard cardboard edges poking my gums filled my mind, and the heavy weight of the lead apron on my chest. The smell of alcohol, the taste of the latex-gloved fingers against the edge of my tongue…
    â€œThe thing about the physical attractiveness,” Louise said, “is that we go for someone as attractive as we think we can get without risking rejection.”
    â€œThat must be why handsome men are so terrifying,” I said.
    â€œI scare you that much?” Scott asked.
    I snorted.
    â€œCome on, Scott, you’re the same way,” Louise said. “I’ve been with you when you’ve refused to approach a woman because you thought she was too beautiful for you.”
    That was interesting. I never thought of Scott thinking himself not good enough for anyone. Who wouldn’twant a good-looking guy who was a reliable provider? What did he have to be uncertain about?
    â€œYou know,” I said, “you see rich, ugly men with beautiful women, but you never see a rich, ugly woman with a handsome man. Never. The closest you get is a famous, rich older woman with a young guy, but even then she’s got to still be looking pretty good.”
    We looked at Scott.
    â€œWhat? I didn’t do anything.”
    â€œGuilt by association,” I said.
    â€œI thought I was a ‘nice guy.’”
    â€œSo you’d date a woman less attractive than yourself?”
    â€œThat’s not a fair question.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œBecause if I answer honestly, I’ll sound like a pig.”
    â€œWhat’s unfair about that?”
    â€œYou already know the answer. Everyone knows, you don’t need a scientific study to prove it. Guys are visual. We want someone good-looking, if we can get her.”
    â€œAnd even if you can’t,” I said, beginning to get steamed by the injustice of it. I hated caring about my appearance as much as I did, I wanted to believe it didn’t matter, that it was inner beauty that counted, but every time I almost started to convince myself of that, something came along to say I was wrong.
    â€œI saw an interview on TV,” I said, “with some guy who said his only intimate relationships were with prostitutes, because the women that he found