by Deanna Kizis
“I’m sure he’d really appreciate that.”
“Who the fuck cares what He Who appreciates and doesn’t appreciate? I’m sorry, but you don’t owe him anything. You could write about what a coward he is—”
FIRST-DATE FACTS
We surveyed women from New York, London, Chicago, Los Angeles—even Hong Kong—to bring you fresh info on first dates.–B.F.
The Stats
•25% of first dates lead to a second.
•25% of first dates lead to everything but.
•The most common cuisine choices for a first date are (in descending order): Italian, sushi, French, Indian.
•40% of women surveyed get intoxicated before their date picks them up.
•The average number of first dates a year for women surveyed is 4.6.
The Rituals
•“I wear good undies—just in case.”—CLAIRE, VANCOUVER
•“I never get a bikini wax until the third date because I don’t want them to get too used to it.”—ALISON, LONDON
•“If the guy comes to pick me up, I make sure I’m ‘finishing a phone call’ when I open the door. Not sure why, but I do.”—CHERYL, NEW YORK
•“I drink.”—DARCY, LOS ANGELES
“He’s not a coward. He’s just confused.”
She ignored me. “Wait—does he have a small dick? Can you write about that?”
“No.”
“Really.” She lowered her voice. “How big was his …”
“Kiki.”
“Spoilsport.” She laughed. “Look, I’m sorry. I know you’re depressed. But the Whip specifically asked for something funny-slash-true from you for the ‘Sex vs. Love’ issue so you’re going to have to come up with something, honey. Just think catharsis. Now. Tell me more about Finlay. Has he called?”
“Do I care?”
I sat at my computer for the next two days, trying to think if I had anything to say about sex or love that wasn’t down true or icky true.
On the third day, I sat down again, determined to write something if it killed me.
And I sat.
And sat.
Mmmmmm, bagels.
I was still sitting.
It dawned on me that I could have been a drummer in an all-girl punk band. I was pretty good at banging out beats on my desk.
Tap ta tap tap ta tappy tap tap. Tap ta tap tap ta tappy tap tap.
I hate him, I thought.
Tap ta tap tap ta tappy tap tap.
I miss him.
I hate him I miss him I hate him I miss him I hate him I miss him I hate him I miss him.
I ate him.
Har har.
I miss him.
HE’S TOO YOUNG FOR YOU AND HE’LL RUIN YOUR LIFE
A cautionary tale by BENJAMINA FRANKLIN, who knows
The night M. and I broke up, I cried in a way I hadn’t since I was a little girl. I was hyperventilating, sobbing so hard it hurt to talk, big gulps of air that choked, tears streaming down my face. I called my best friend to tell her what happened, and it sounded something like, “Ah cant be lieve he jus leh me walk a way ah cant be lieve its ov ver ah cant take it wha have ah done wah did he not wan to be with me wha did he say he loved me wha …”
And all she could say was, “Oh, honey, breathe. Oh, honey. Let it out. Oh, honey, breathe. You’re going to be okay. I promise. Just breathe.”
Eventually I breathed. But inside, I felt pretty much the same.
Breaking up with M. was my worst friggin’ nightmare. Think you have it bad? Try falling in love with a guy who’s seven years younger than you are.
I know. Right?
You probably think I just lost perspective. You probably think a mere child couldn’t possibly do that much damage. I know—I used to think that way, too. I met him at a party. He was cute (of course). I fantasized that he’d be the Justin to my Britney. (Before the hideous breakup.) That he wouldn’t be like all the jerks I knew my age—the ones who already figured out that when a girl’s pushing twenty-eight (or thirty, or fifty-nine) she’ll drop her underpants before he can say, “A dozen roses costs what?” My new boy was sweet. Unspoiled by heartbreak or cynicism.
“THINK YOU HAVE IT BAD? TRY FALLING IN LOVE WITH A GUY SEVEN YEARS YOUNGER”
And because I had more experience, I told myself that, like Janet Jackson, I had the control. That after I had fun with his twenty-one-year-old rock hard torso, when it was time to settle down, I’d breezily move on to an older, more sophisticated guy with whom I could steam Chilean sea bass and breed.
Except that’s not what happened. Here are the major plot points …
• M. started off bringing flowers, chocolates …
• I was easily seduced by such trivial gestures. And I didn’t just take off my panties—I gave him my heart.
• I was ambushed by my affections. My fling turned into love.
• I became obsessed with the younger guy. And I started to want to have a real relationship with the younger guy. But I couldn’t talk to the younger guy.
• This is when the younger guy became what he really was: a boy. One who didn’t want to be in a “serious relationship.” Who was terrified of getting “trapped.” Who, metaphorically speaking, started checking the Trojans for pinpricks.
• He left, without ever really explaining why—if he was so sure he didn’t want to be in a “serious relationship,” then why did he get so involved with me in the first place?
• My heart was broken.
• I’m still trying to figure out how the story ends.
I recently met a woman who’s married to a guy ten years her junior. I would have placed her somewhere around twenty-six years of age. Over dinner, I marveled that her skin was wrinkle-free and her frame model-thin. When she told me she was thirty-eight—and her husband was still in his twenties—I rejoiced. “What’s the secret?” I asked her. “How does your relationship defy the odds?”
Her answer chilled my soul. “Aging simply isn’t an option for me right now,” she said. “It took years to get him to commit. He broke up with me so many times, went out with these little girls, came back, left again. I never made a stink. And now he’s finally mine. So you know what I do?” Her eyes locked onto mine. “I spend thousands of dollars a year on facials, trainers, and sunscreens. I do Power Yoga, I’m on the Zone, I take three Spin classes a week. I can’t start aging until his hair falls out. Maybe when that happens, I’ll be able to finish getting my law degree.”
“IT TOOK YEARS TO GET HIM TO COMMIT. HE BROKE UP WITH ME SO MANY TIMES …”
Clearly this isn’t the answer.
Where is Mr. Right? Does he exist? I honestly don’t know. When I started my romance with M., I thought my experiences with other men would give me the upper hand, but I came out on the bottom. I thought at least, if it didn’t work out, the breakup with Junior would be less painful than the others, but it hurt more. I’m still hurt, confused, broken.
However, I do know this: When I go to bed at night, and those feelings—the why did he do this to mes and the what have I dones—come, I repeat to myself this one thought. No, make that prayer: The easy affections of a boy will be nothing compared to the love of a true man. Say it with me, The easy affections of a boy will be nothing compared to the love of a true man. All together now, The easy affections of a boy—I have to believe this, please, God, let it be true—will be nothing compared to the love of a true man. [[romega]]
Kiki turned out to be right. I really didn’t have anything better to do. So I went out with Finlay again. And again. And again. Each time I told myself he was perfect on paper, and chances were he’d leap off the page into perfect in real life. Besides, as Kiki constantly told me, everyone knows the best way to get over someone is to start seeing somebody else.
Each date was carefully orchestrated, I assume because Finlay thought this would impress me enough so I’d keep returning his calls. We did northern Italian, sushi, Indian, minimalist Califor
nian … On balance, each evening was fine, but not great. I still missed He Who.
Our fifth date was Franco-Moroccan, which, I discovered, I actually liked. The lights were low, the wine was flowing, and Finlay ordered some kind of pastry stuffed with chicken and dusted with powdered sugar, which sounded gross but was actually pretty good. I was all dressed up—decided making an effort was pivotal to my recovery—and fairly contented. Finlay’s not so bad, I thought, taking a bite of the chicken thing. He’s cute. He’s successful. He reads …
When he picked me up, Finlay told me he couldn’t contain his excitement anymore—he had to tell me that he “thinks there could really be something to build on here.” My stomach did a little flip when he said it. I hoped it was a good flip. I have to remember it’s okay to be happy, I thought. That’s what Nina was always saying, anyway.
After dinner, Finlay asked if I wanted to see his apartment. I surprised myself and agreed. When we got there, I drank another glass of wine. Then he let me change into his pajama bottoms because I was sick of wearing what I was wearing. I was in an affectionate mood. I snuggled up to him on the couch and we talked and talked. Not the stilted chitchat we’d been doing on our previous evenings together, but real talk. He asked about the Mother, why she’d divorced my dad, how I felt about his endless surfing trip around the world. Whether or not I ever missed him. While I told him about my family, I suddenly realized I felt comfortable. Able to be myself. Free of worry about whether or not Finlay liked me, thought I was funny, thought I was pretty. I told him stuff about me—particularly about Audrey—that I never admit out loud, and Finlay was being kind about it, too. “It’s hard with sisters,” he said, putting my feet up in his lap and playing with my toes. “I know, I saw the battle firsthand.”
“Oh yes, the great sister war chez Finlay,” I teased. “The one where they used tampons as missiles and safety pads as armor, all so you wouldn’t be freaked out by femininity.”
“Good Lord, don’t bring that up.” He laughed. “What a conversational blunder.”
“It really wasn’t so bad.”
“What a relief.” Finlay lifted my foot and kissed my big toe gently. “Bless your little heart.”
I got up to go to the bathroom, and while taking a quick peek into the medicine cabinet (antibiotics, Kiehl’s products, several bottles of expensive cologne, and an old-style shaving kit—a mortar-and-brush thing—not the store-bought kind) it occurred to me that Finlay’s apartment was an adult apartment. Everything matched everything. The marble tub sparkled, the chrome fixtures glimmered, and there was a jar of rosemary-scented bath salts on a little shelf. I made my way back to the living room, where heavy mahogany furniture gleamed—solid, dependable. And then, I don’t know what came over me. I guess I was seduced by Finlay’s ability to give foot rubs and buy antiquated Mission-style furniture from Restoration Hardware and I proceeded to jump him. Literally. I ran across the room and hopped onto his lap like a cowgirl ready to ride her favorite palomino, grabbed him by the hair, and kissed him.
“Wait,” he said. Pulling back and looking at me in surprise. “Wait …” He took my hands down and placed them around his neck, and gave me a light, but sincere, kiss.
Which led to light, but sincere, sex.
In the morning I got up, got dressed, and got the hell out of there. Finlay was being ridiculously sweet—made me tea and toast for breakfast in bed, wanted to cuddle the morning away—but I couldn’t wait to get home, shower, regroup. Things were good, it wasn’t that. I just needed a little breathing room. He called in the afternoon, right on schedule. Said he wanted to see me that same night. Two nights in a row. Somewhere deep down, an alarm went off. It went to the tune of too much too soon, too much too soon. But I slammed my palm down on my internal panic button and said I’d love to. The other day at lunch, Nina had said something about how I was—for all my moaning and groaning about wanting a real boyfriend—emotionally unavailable and terrified of real intimacy, and that’s why I’d found Max so attractive in the first place. I was determined to prove her wrong.
That night I went over to Finlay’s and we ordered in Pacific New Wave. While we ate, we watched Austin Powers on DVD. It was extremely amusing—I love that movie. But then Finlay started with the kisses on the back of the neck. And his hands started moving under my blouse, where they lingered over the clasp to my bra and undid it. It seemed a little stagy—like he’d planned the whole thing in advance—and I was kind of into the movie. I shifted my weight on his overstuffed couch and said, “I really wish you wouldn’t …”
“Sorry about that,” Finlay said, sitting up and reaching over to rub my shoulders.
“Maybe not that, either.”
“That, too.” He took his hands away, sat on them in an attempt to make me laugh. Then he tried to kiss my ear.
It made me all squirmy. “That tickles.”
“Oh, damn it all to hell, Ben. What’s the matter?”
Finlay stood up in frustration and then, not sure what to do next, crossed his living room to get his Nicorette. “You know,” he said, struggling with the packet, “last night this didn’t seem to be a problem.”
“No, I know. That was nice.”
“Nice?” Finlay put a piece in his mouth, started chewing frantically.
“No, I mean nice as in nice, not nice as in, shit,” I said. “The genuine nice.”
“Be-e-en,” he said.
“What?”
He did it again, “Be-e-en.” It was a cross between a noisome whine and a cajoling niggle, three syllables long, and delivered in a sotto moan.
“What?”
“Don’t be like this.” He sat back down on the couch, and put his head on my shoulder like a puppy dog.
“Like what? I’m fine.”
His chin was digging into my neck. I tried to shift my shoulders into a more comfortable position.
“Be-e-en. Come on, now, talk to me.” He took my hand.
“About what?” I took it away to scratch my ear.
“Whatever’s on your mind. I’d like us to be friends. More than friends, but friends first and foremost.”
“There’s nothing on my mind.” I tried to shift my weight so I could look at him (or, maybe, so he would stop touching me) and I decided I hated his couch. It was enormous and I felt like I was being eaten alive by cushions.
“Just tell me what I’ve done wrong.”
“Finlay, you haven’t done anything wrong.” I got up and switched to an armchair. It was overstuffed, too, and my ass sank to the floor while my knees rose to my chest.
“Tell me what’s bothering you.”
I got up again and tried another chair. Nope, puffy as can be. Your grandmother’s kind of chair. Reminded me of the crap Jack was always buying—he’d sit in them and say, Now this is more like it! I got up and made for the ottoman.
“Ben!” Finlay yelled.
“WHAT?” I jumped. “Jesus Christ, you just scared the shit out of me.”
“Stop bouncing around like the three bloody bears and talk to me.”
“About what?”
“Ben,” he said. “Be-e-en. Be-e-e-e-en. Come over here and give me a kiss.”
Finlay was looking up at me expectantly, waiting for his kiss. I didn’t see an alternative—I didn’t want to start fighting with him already. And just yesterday, everything had seemed so promising. I didn’t want to lose that feeling. So I crossed the room and gave him a kiss.
“Another,” he said.
I gave him another.
“One more …”
Suddenly—scaring myself, Finlay, and probably half the neighborhood—I opened my mouth and I screamed.
I left in a hurry—didn’t even bother to put my bra back on, just left it dangling. I’m sure my hasty departure offended Finlay, but when I walked through my front door all I felt was relief.
My heart leapt when I heard I had three messages. It was irrational, but I couldn’t help thinking, Maybe …
&nb
sp; First was Ashton. “Yo Ben, where you at? Listen, I know I’ve been kind of an asshole, made you miss that Christmas party, then I went out of town. But things should settle down soon, and I have news. I’ll call you.”
Second message.
“Hi, it’s Audrey.”
Oh.
“I’ve been thinking …”
Good for you.
“That what you need …”
Is a lobotomy and an engagement ring from De Beers.
“Is a sister weekend!”
Come again?
“Jamie has to go to L.A. for business so I’m driving down with him on Saturday, and you and I are going to hang out all day Saturday and all day Sunday and just do ‘you’ stuff. No wedding planning, no bridal boutiques, no bridesmaids dresses, none of the endless stuff I have to do before my big day. A sister weekend devoted to my favorite sister!”
Oh fuck.
And finally … Finlay. Naturally. “Well that’s never happened to me before,” he said in a tone of mock offense. “Don’t worry about it, gorgeous. Am I moving things too fast? Okay, well, message received. We’ll take it nice and slow from here. Listen, I’m just calling to make sure you made it home okay … Okay? Call me when you get in. I hope we’re still on for that couples dinner with Kiki and Curtis tomorrow night. I’m quite excited! So call me. Doesn’t matter what time. Just call. Call me.”
The Mother phoned as I was drinking my first diet Coke of the day to remind me that since Aud was coming down—uninvited, might I add—I should probably clean my apartment.
“Hey thanks,” I said. “Terrific.”
Depression and cleanliness don’t go together—my place looked like a refugee camp. So I spent my morning gathering up empty diet Coke cans with cigarette butts stuffed inside, throwing away the pizza boxes, emptying ashtrays and wiping them out with a T-shirt Max had given me that I’d mistakenly kept. I had to stuff several pounds’ worth of dirty clothes, including the T-shirt, which I realized I couldn’t bear to part with, into the hamper. It was overflowing and the lid wouldn’t stay on, but I cleverly stacked magazines on top and it held. I even had to crawl around on all fours collecting dust bunnies with a paper towel because the vacuum cleaner was broken. I put a fresh roll of TP on top of the toilet and sprayed Lysol around. Done.