women may not like’ means ‘I hide the fact that I’m a misogynist by buying flowers—cheap ones—controlling where and when we eat dinner—which means cheap—and I drive a late-model truck that I drive as if it were a penis.’”
I relayed all of this to Kevin. I knew he was shaking his head as he wrote back. “Don’t let this get around, Frances, but I’m about to break the Code of Silence from the Captain Midnight Society. He is an insecure white dude who cries when he doesn’t get his way and threatens suicide when you break up with him. And by the way? I drive my truck like a penis. Some things are male even if you have chintz curtains.”
• • •
At least the Caucasian cuddler was, well, taking note of the craigslist heading “Woman Looking for Man.”
“What’s the most expensive pair of shoes you have and what color is your favorite in shoes?” another man wrote. “Do you wear heels?”
For a giggle, I replied with a picture of my most gorgeous Cydwoqs, which could be described as Dolly Parton cowboy boots meet one of the elven princesses from Lord of the Rings . His response was a chagrined admission of a fetish. Would that scare me away?
I yawned. Amid so many photos of willies green from camera flashes in bathrooms, a guy into Jimmy Choos was a Dobie Gillis of normality.
Who knew how fascinated men could be with women’s fashion? I certainly hadn’t imagined we’d be comparing clothes until I read, “I would like to meet for a fun nite [sic] of me getting all dressed up for you, nothing else. I am a regular guy [and I] have all my own clothes, make-up, etc. [I] do have a picture.” *
As I continued deleting, I amassed some maybe-obvious rules of courtship that, abetted by the decoder ring a couple of Ovaltine proof-of-purchase seals will get you, should save time.
Delete all emails accompanied by photos of a man’s weenie—especially if he has taken it himself, and especially if he took it in the bathroom mirror.
Delete all emails cribbed from bad pop songs (“hi really I wanna know you”).
Delete all emails written in textese (“why u so board [sic]? do u want 2 talk on the phone?”).
These deletions are called for because they break the first Rule of Courtship:
If a guy is too lazy to spell or punctuate, your relationship is already over.
I kept digging. Finally, a responder named Sol asked what kind of man would dispel my boredom. I took Daisy for a walk while I thought about that and ended up writing back, “Someone literate, with an imagination who follows through; someone who will be patient in coaxing me out of a self-imposed isolation I’m finding hard to break. Someone amusing.”
That was a fair answer except for the line about following through, which means, from too much experience on my part, that phone sex * is all very well, but living it is better than imagining it.
“Let’s meet for coffee on Saturday at 4,” Sol wrote back. “Meet me in Bleecker Street Park.”
One of my perversions is that whenever someone sets up a date with me, I automatically want to cancel or change it.
“I don’t feel like going into the city,” I told my therapist, Dr. A-Cigar-Is-Not-a-Cigar.
“Just do it,” he advised. “You need to get out and meet new people.”
“Can we make it five?” I emailed Sol.
“No,” he wrote back.
So I put on four o’clock coffee date clothes, reassured Daisy I’d be home soon and set off for the Village.
It had been years since I’d been this far west of Seventh Avenue, or maybe it was the glittering May light and almost-summer heat that made the walk from Christopher Street, through a street fair among the fashionable shoppers, kaleidoscopic. I began to get excited for a walk-and-talk with window shopping and making up stories about people. I hoped Sol would have sized up this gem of a day exactly as I had. I sat on a bench and looked at my watch. I had ten minutes before I could expect him to show up, so I turned my
I relayed all of this to Kevin. I knew he was shaking his head as he wrote back. “Don’t let this get around, Frances, but I’m about to break the Code of Silence from the Captain Midnight Society. He is an insecure white dude who cries when he doesn’t get his way and threatens suicide when you break up with him. And by the way? I drive my truck like a penis. Some things are male even if you have chintz curtains.”
• • •
At least the Caucasian cuddler was, well, taking note of the craigslist heading “Woman Looking for Man.”
“What’s the most expensive pair of shoes you have and what color is your favorite in shoes?” another man wrote. “Do you wear heels?”
For a giggle, I replied with a picture of my most gorgeous Cydwoqs, which could be described as Dolly Parton cowboy boots meet one of the elven princesses from Lord of the Rings . His response was a chagrined admission of a fetish. Would that scare me away?
I yawned. Amid so many photos of willies green from camera flashes in bathrooms, a guy into Jimmy Choos was a Dobie Gillis of normality.
Who knew how fascinated men could be with women’s fashion? I certainly hadn’t imagined we’d be comparing clothes until I read, “I would like to meet for a fun nite [sic] of me getting all dressed up for you, nothing else. I am a regular guy [and I] have all my own clothes, make-up, etc. [I] do have a picture.” *
As I continued deleting, I amassed some maybe-obvious rules of courtship that, abetted by the decoder ring a couple of Ovaltine proof-of-purchase seals will get you, should save time.
Delete all emails accompanied by photos of a man’s weenie—especially if he has taken it himself, and especially if he took it in the bathroom mirror.
Delete all emails cribbed from bad pop songs (“hi really I wanna know you”).
Delete all emails written in textese (“why u so board [sic]? do u want 2 talk on the phone?”).
These deletions are called for because they break the first Rule of Courtship:
If a guy is too lazy to spell or punctuate, your relationship is already over.
I kept digging. Finally, a responder named Sol asked what kind of man would dispel my boredom. I took Daisy for a walk while I thought about that and ended up writing back, “Someone literate, with an imagination who follows through; someone who will be patient in coaxing me out of a self-imposed isolation I’m finding hard to break. Someone amusing.”
That was a fair answer except for the line about following through, which means, from too much experience on my part, that phone sex * is all very well, but living it is better than imagining it.
“Let’s meet for coffee on Saturday at 4,” Sol wrote back. “Meet me in Bleecker Street Park.”
One of my perversions is that whenever someone sets up a date with me, I automatically want to cancel or change it.
“I don’t feel like going into the city,” I told my therapist, Dr. A-Cigar-Is-Not-a-Cigar.
“Just do it,” he advised. “You need to get out and meet new people.”
“Can we make it five?” I emailed Sol.
“No,” he wrote back.
So I put on four o’clock coffee date clothes, reassured Daisy I’d be home soon and set off for the Village.
It had been years since I’d been this far west of Seventh Avenue, or maybe it was the glittering May light and almost-summer heat that made the walk from Christopher Street, through a street fair among the fashionable shoppers, kaleidoscopic. I began to get excited for a walk-and-talk with window shopping and making up stories about people. I hoped Sol would have sized up this gem of a day exactly as I had. I sat on a bench and looked at my watch. I had ten minutes before I could expect him to show up, so I turned my
Similar Books
