In high school I thought I was in love with a new girl who moved into my neighborhood. I’d watch through the kitchen window, waiting for her to turn the corner at the end of my street as she headed for school. I’d rush to the front door, wait about 30 seconds, and then casually head out. I would try to think of something clever to say to impress her because she had a great sense of humor and appreciated that in others. Danielle was as pretty as any girl at that age could hope to be. She was super smart but also willing to talk about the things most girls wouldn’t talk about. She’d talk about sex, about a guy she dated, about what he tried and what she tried, but for some reason it wasn’t “wrong” when she talked about it. If other girls mentioned sex like Danielle did – they were called slut, whore, etc. To make it worse, she smoked. Ugh. Disgusting. But Danielle had a coolness about her that made even smoking okay. Dare i say sexy? No, just fucking hot.
We lived only about ten houses away, so that made me feel a little extra close to her compared to the guys who lived elsewhere. We both grew up in the same city just outside of New York and moved out to the same suburban town, me about ten years before her, when our parents were able to get us out. That also gave us a connection.
I knew I was never cool enough for Danielle to be interested in me, but at least I had a friendship with her that put me at the top of a different list. She was someone who made you feel cool just knowing her and you’d do anything to impress her, but if she didn’t laugh or didn’t seem like she wanted to talk, I was crushed and thought for sure I did something stupid. I’d panic and examine what I might have done or said to steer things wrong. I dreamed about taking her out on a date or the junior prom, and of course she was the subject of those teenage masturbatory fantasies. Good, clean, teenage fun.
Now I’m 50 and have given up chasing high school girls. On Wednesdays. Instead, I talk to many women through blogging. Some I find, some find me. It starts with attraction, either by someone’s picture or writing. I must admit that sometimes it starts with me seeing a gravatar on someone else’s blog. Eh, it happens. Sometimes, I “follow” a woman’s blog. I read, comment, comment more, and establish an exchange. I make suggestive comments and see what kind of reaction I get. Some are positive, some ignore me. Some get too “personal” for blog comments, and it moves to e-mail. E-mail sometimes becomes pictures, the kind that you don’t post on your blog. Then it shifts to Facebook. And for those who haven’t figured it out, it becomes sexual, explicitly. Sometimes texting. Sexting. And more. I’m an awesome flirt, or as Marisa Tomei said in My Cousin Vinnyin the only accurate New Jersey accent on film, I’m “a smooth tawka (talker).” From my perspective, I know women. I know what they (not all, of course) like, or at least I know how to find out what they like and don’t like. I know how to lure them in and close the door, but it’s never locked. Jeez, that would be creepy.
Occasionally there are women who know exactly what I’m doing. They quietly laugh at me, and they rightfully dismiss me as a fool. There are some women who know what I’m doing and are thrilled, love the attention, and lock the door or at least try to. I’ve had my share of stalkers. And there are some women who I would not dare try, not because they’d laugh. I mean, they would laugh, but that’s not why I don’t dare. Some women are just waaaay better than me. They are so above my childish mentality that it would be embarrassing to even approach them in such a way. If you’re playing the bar game “Fuck, Marry, Kill,” they get “Marry” with zero hesitation. Don’t know the game? Ask me later. There are some women who aren’t pretty – they’re beautiful, and I’m not talking pictures. You look at them, inside and out, and you think about those television commercials in which a woman is walking down a street and guys’ heads are turning so swiftly they walk into trees, mailboxes, and trash cans. They trip over themselves just to get another look. Some women make you think, how does anyone have a conversation with them without being mesmerized? How do they even go through a supermarket without nine guys asking for a phone number? How are they not married by now?
And then you realize why, and it all makes sense. Because while here you have these amazing women who are just – just everything. Looks, brains, wit, smile, class, everything. Let me stress “class.” I hate to use a cliché, but they really are in a class by themselves. And then you have to remember, there can’t be very many guys out there who are good enough for them and are in that same “class.” I certainly am not. These women know, or at least we assume they know just how special they are. And they know they can wait for someone equally special to come along. But that’s when you realize two more things. First, you realize that you are not one of those guys. Second, it’s not “these” women. There aren’t that many. In fact, I can really only think of one.
ANSWERS TO THE FACT OR FICTION QUIZ
- Fact: Her dreams of conquering the blogosphere were pre-pubescent.
- Fiction: She never dated a bronie, but she did date an actor who looked her in the eyes one night, and asked, with his best dramatic face: Can I have you? It was their last make-out session. The actor went on to marry Katie Holmes.
- Fiction: Her first concert ever was Rod Stewart. [note from the author: not the Maggie May-era Rod Stewart, but the creepy crooner Rod Stewart... Barf]
- Fact: Her newspaper staff t-shirt motto? It’s not stalking, it’s journalism.
- Fact: Pepper was her pet hamster. Quoting Becca: I eventually sold it back to the store because it was annoying as fuck. Pepper died 2 days later, out of ennui.