The Adventures of a Love Investigator, 527 Naked Men & One Woman

by Silkstone, Barbara

  Each time Ben leaves his messages, I feel a strange sense of the familiar. In some way, his pursuit of me has to be my fault, or maybe it is just my overactive imagination. I decide to play out this hand.

  I meet Ben in a public restaurant ... just for coffee. Three people come over to thank him for the great job he is doing with the team. He beams and signs autographs.

  “I’m so glad you came,” he smiles. I can’t get you out of my mind. You must know enough about men to know what I really want. I’d like to get to know you better. My life is so empty.”

  I stand and lean over as close to him as I can stomach. “Your penis is hanging out,” I whisper. By the time he looks up again, I am gone.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Here comes the bride...”

  ~ Barbara Silkstone, Love Investigator

  I hug my daughter as she exits my house. I’m thrilled and honored that she has asked me to make her wedding dress. I’ve never made a wedding gown before but this is something that means a lot to her. She’s sentimental and loves the idea of having an heirloom to pass on to her daughters. How hard can it be?

  I look at the sketches and bride’s magazine clippings we’ve just reviewed. The dress will be a full satin gown with fitted pearl bodice, long lace sleeves sprinkled with pearls, an illusion top and a pearl band around her neck. The train will drop from a large bow at the back of her tiny waist. It should take me a year to make if I budget my time carefully, along with the interviews and a bit of commercial real estate here and there. I should be a perfect mess by next year. It’s close to three years since I started listening to men. I’ve lost myself along the way. It’ll be good for me to concentrate on something that shows progress. The interviews are like running in a dream. I feel as if I’m getting nowhere.

  I wonder if my daughter’s making the right decision. Is this the thing to do? Is he right for her? I can’t let my tainted judgment seep into her happiness. Marriages carry a less than fifty percent chance of survival. I’ve seen red flags in their relationship. Should I speak or just shut up and sew?

  The search begins for the perfect satin and the ideal lace. I feel like Rocky preparing for the big fight scene. The optometrist checks out my eyes for the job ahead. I arm myself with boxes of tiny pearls, white thread, and thin sewing needles. My daughter will be a beautiful bride with a one-of-a-kind gown. I’ve jumped from planes and backpacked alone through Europe, making a wedding dress should be easy.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Where do I go to meet women? Stop lights.”

  ~ Joe, 47, divorced

  Case 294 / Joe

  “Seducing a woman is not that tough, once you get it down to a formula.” Joe’s cat-like mouth spreads into a satisfied, feline smile. I can see that his teeth are perfectly white and probably sharp. He’s tall, muscular, with a lion-like head of sandy gray hair and a laugh that sounds like a roar. Joe turns me on – Joe turns Joe on.

  A private investigator for insurance fraud, Joe’s spilling his secrets as we sit in his office in a suburb of Long Island. The décor seems to revolve around his oversized – oversexed sofa. My instincts tell me that piece of furniture has seen more than its share of action. I shudder at the sight of pseudo animal skin pillows and the smell of expensive musk.

  “I used to treat seduction like any other business proposal. I would study the product, including its market absorption and history ... I would see how its stock was trading. Then it could be either a friendly acquisition or a hostile takeover. Like most men I tend to bore quickly after a friendly acquisition. It’s those hostile takeovers that would excite the hell out of me.”

  Joe laughs and it comes out a snort. He fixes his eyes on mine checking to see if I heard the embarrassing sound. I feel the urge to stroke him between his big amber colored eyes. The familiar scent of male insecurity breaks the surface of his slick patter. He leans back in his chair, fiddling with his Montblanc pen.

  “For most women, the dream is to be married and have a family. It’s part of their articles of incorporation. You just have to know that going in and use it to your advantage. Women are not subtle traders. They want to be taken care of. That’s obvious when you speak to a woman.” He smiles. I resist a hormonal tug. He’s trying to read me.

  “What kind of car do you drive? What kind of job do you have? Probably the least important thing is what kind of person you are.” Joe continues. “Women are willing to invest their stock in you, and they’ll trade sex for financial returns.”

  There’s nothing quite as irresistible as a man in need of more rope. I sit quietly, letting him hang himself. The blinds are half closed and there’s no view except Joe. The air conditioner kicks in, battling the September heat. A drop of sweat teases down his brow.

  “Thing is ...” he pauses to wipe his noggin. “You start to tie the contest to the rewards. Like, it’s not worth it unless you have to do battle for it.” Joe’s assistant trounces in with papers for his signature. He grins as she exits.

  “Where was I? Oh yeah. It becomes the battle that’s the turn on and not the sex.” His eyes sparkle.

  I check my watch to break the contact.

  “I’m forty-seven, and I’ve been married and divorced twice. Why? If I got honest with myself, and I never have before, I lost interest ‘cause the contest wasn’t there. That doesn’t say very much about me does it? Seduction can become this game that takes over the entire way you think about yourself. You stop thinking of yourself as worth sex and affection, unless you did something clever to earn it.”

  Joe walks me to the door and shakes my hand in full guy-to-guy style. He’s not about to risk rejection by hitting on me. It’s clear by his discomfort that he’s exposed a lot more of himself than he intended.

  I sit in my car outside Joe’s office for long minutes reuniting with buried pain. I think of my second ‘ex,’ Sleazy Steve. “I warned you before we were married.” Steve’s voice still rattles in my gut. “Sex is just not that important. It’s twenty-percent of a marriage.”

  Married once before, I assumed sex was a part of “good night” and frequently came before morning coffee. Love-making was eighty-percent of that ten year marriage. With my history, I failed to grasp the truth of Steve’s insinuations. I thought he was kidding. I also thought I loved him.

  Steve would reject most actions that smelled like a prelude to sex. I honored my promise to marry him as I created excuses for his lack of desire: overwork, shyness, and his previous marital experiences.

  Superwoman that I was, I would vanquish his demons and free Steve, so he could enjoy a life of wedded bliss. Stupid. He had Kenneth, he didn’t need me.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Men won’t usually come out and say something if they can sneak around a bush and get you to think that’s what they’re thinking. That way they don’t have to be held responsible for saying it.”

  ~ Chase, 32, single

  Case 302 / Chase

  Chase, a male model, who could be the flesh and blood cover of a romance novel, settles his massive muscular body into one of my living room chairs. I bite the inside of my cheek, trying for a reality check. A professional student, Chase is on a sabbatical, pursuing a career as a photo mannequin.

  His Oxford education is evident, as he responds to my questions in a crisp modified British accent. “I grew up in South Africa. I won’t go back,” he reassures me. “I had no future there.”

  He allows the conversation to move to relationships. “When I’m feeling caged in, I get restless, nervous. If a man gets too much love, he starts to choke up. For me I’ve got to be able to be alone with myself and reflect. I don’t like being pressured.”

  Chase adjusts his long blond ponytail, which has become trapped behind those killer shoulders.

  At this point I want to throw myself against him and bury my nose in his chest, but I don’t. Three years into the interviews I’ve stopped dating completely and I’m getting hug-hungry.

  Chase smiles at me. He
’s reading my mind.

  I blush. I have to get that blush thing fixed.

  He continues, “I’m in a situation right now that is leading to permanency. I’ve been there before. She wants marriage. I don’t. If she would only let me come to those conclusions on my own instead of coming to me and saying this is what we need. We need a house, we need children.”

  “What would make you happy?” I ask.

  He laughs. “I need the time away to do my own thing. I need to go into my cave and relax and reflect. I will never ever live with anyone again when this relationship ends. And it will end, as she keeps pressuring marriage.”

  I picture Chase in his cave and Ben on his island.

  “For me I always know I’m in trouble if a woman I’m dating starts picking off the lint. Okay, now she’s getting serious. The next step is she wants to sew on a button. Now I’m in trouble.”

  He rests his open palms on his thighs. I force my eyes away. He’s aware of the effect he has on women.

  “I know this is probably juvenile, but I have a girl now, who’s made it clear that she loves me fully. I believe that she wouldn’t go off with anyone else, no matter who or what.” He shrugs. “I wish there was a little bit of excitement.”

  I feel my face screwing up with question marks for eye balls.

  “That would keep me there. Right now I know she’s mine. She wouldn’t stray when I’m gone away and that’s ... okay ... boring.”

  Chase tilts his head looking for a response from me.

  The cynicism is showing on my face. I feel like a very old soul at a day camp for boys. He reaches out and touches my hair. “You have a pearl caught...”

  I end the interview understanding a little bit more about the uncommitted. Chase has set the frame of his life to hold only one picture ... his own.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Love is a lethal form of self-hypnosis.”

  ~ Mitch, 42, single

  Case 319 / Mitch

  The interviewing has taken me to Boston. My Bean Town-based chum, Christa, jumps at the chance to join me in my melt-down. “I wanna hear ALL about the interviews,” she says.

  Christa and I are enjoying our Chardonnay, sitting patio-side at Stoney’s, a restaurant she frequents. I sip, she gulps. She’s downed two for my one glass.

  I tell her I’ve had enough for now. How much of the other guy’s pain can one love-investigator absorb? The world is much more selfish than I imagined. Disillusionment clogs my arteries. I shall die with a crusted heart.

  As dusk turns to evening, Christa and I watch office workers clatter down the pseudo-cobblestone street that runs in front of Stoney’s. Christa’s mouth is in gear, seemingly operating without the benefit of her brain. “My father once told me, ‘You’re thirty years old now. You won’t find a normal man out there who is single. The good ones will all be married.’”

  She signals our waitress while continuing in an appallingly loud voice. “My father advised that the only thing to do is to find an unhappily married man, get involved with him, and hang on.”

  I sat my wine glass down with a shaking hand. “Who’s to say the marriage is unhappy? The guy tells you and that makes it so?”

  Christa jumped to her own defense. “Let’s face it, the men out there who are single and over thirty-five, they’re all losers in some way.”

  I speak slowly, harnessing my anger. “So, like a street mugger, you locate an injured marriage and wait to hear those timeless words, ‘My wife doesn’t understand me’ – and then you pop him over the head and drag him away?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Is that what you’re doing with Chet?”

  “Don’t knock it. Chet’s worth a hell of a lot of money. His wife spends all her time with the kids. He’s lonely.”

  My silence is condemning. She’s looking for approval.

  “Chet tells his wife he’s out running every morning. He dashes over to my apartment and goes home feeling like a man.” She laughs.

  I try to remember why I consider her a friend.

  Two tables away, a guy peeks at me over his sunglasses. I smile blandly and turn away. Give me a break. I’m on leave from all men. He pays his check and exits directly past us. Bad move.

  “Yo. Darlin’. Come here and sit down. I’ll buy you a drink.” Christa throws out a verbal grappling hook.

  Poor guy. I slump down in the iron chair, a metal rail eating into my tailbone.

  For some foolish reason, the guy sits down at our table. He compounds his mistake by telling us he’s a lawyer. I can feel Christa’s body tense-up.

  “More drinks!” she hails the waitress. I switch to club soda, and lawyer Mitch orders coffee. From out of nowhere, Christa begins to attack his profession, his gender, and his perceived lifestyle.

  “A lawyer? Hah! All crooks,” she says.

  “I’ll get the check,” I interrupt. Christa ignores me, thinking Mitch an easy victim. Mitch makes eye-contact with me. I figure Christa’s going down.

  The professional litigator takes a deep breath and swings his verbal sword over this head. “Lady, you’re in serious need of counseling.”

  Christa parries with a weak counter-crack. “You too.”

  Mitch deflects her shot, swings again, this time swooping lower. “The guy that damaged you did a good job. Was it daddy?” He strikes Christa in her most vulnerable spot.

  Stunned, she starts to cry.

  I secretly cheer for Mitch. Christa asked for every bit of this psychobabble. Ah, the savage singles. I knew there was a reason why I stayed away from these places. A diversionary tactic is needed. I use the only one I can think of, I pry Mitch off the scent of blood by telling him about my book.

  He appears to like the change of topic. “Hey, I’d give you a great interview. I’ve got some really strong opinions. I might piss you off.”

  “I may not look it, but I have been pissed off before. I expect it’ll happen again.”

  One week later, I find myself sitting at a conference table in the offices of one of the larger law firms in downtown Boston. It’s 7 p.m. and the building is deathly quiet. The panoramic windows offer a view of Boston and the harbor. I am supposed to be impressed. I am.

  This counselor’s a big man, about six four and slightly on the heavy side. All in all, he’s easy to look at. He wears an expensive suit and a tie with little law books all over it. I’ll bet he has the requisite red suspenders underneath his jacket.

  Mitch starts off defensively. I decide not to cut him any slack. “You’re forty-two and you’ve never been married, how come?” I check his dark brown eyes for a reaction.

  He leans back in his chair, smug. I notice the beginning of grey hair around his temples.

  “Men come with a certain number of inborn RAU’s,” he says, laughing at the expression on my face. “Oh, that’s ‘Running Around Units’. A man can’t marry before the RAU count drops below manageable terms. Guys who wait to get married are having too good a time, if they were honest about it.”

  He waits to be sure I’m following and then continues. “It’s like being in an amusement park with a tremendous number of rides. At different times you get to take a different woman on each ride. You might want to take one woman on ten rides or maybe twenty rides. You don’t risk as much, except health wise.

  “But it gets old. It reaches a point when instead of being excited about going on a date, it’s oh god, now I’ve got to get to know somebody else all over again. In years past, it was ‘Wow – how exciting – a first date.’”

  The lawyer watches how I process this little gem. He decides I can handle more. Mitch sees me as a professional, an equal. If he only knew I’m paddling as fast as I can to keep up.

  “Marriage is tough. It means different things to men and women. There are some women who want to stay at home and have kids and be June Cleaver. There are some women who want to be the wizard of Wall Street and probably most women want both and resent the juggling.”

 
He stretches his long arms and moves his head first left then right with a slight cracking sound. “To me the most ironic part is that I know very few educated men my age who want their women to stay home and take care of the babies. They expect them to go out and work.”

  I say nothing. He waits.

  He gives up. “I feel very strongly about that. I would not marry anybody who would not work. And if the day ever came where she said she would stay home that would probably be the day I consult a lawyer.”

  If I dissected Mitch, I’d find dollar bills in his gut.

  The Counselor thumps the table with his expensive ball point pen. “From personal observation of friends and relatives, the woman who does not work outside the home brings very little to the marriage. I don’t know what she can bring except country club gossip, soap operas and the children.”

  The recorder runs out, I flip the tape.

  He continues, “Women who don’t want to work have no choice but to live off their husbands and that breeds resentment. Her time is filled with what?”

  I feel my insides turning flip flops. Is Mitch the standard for today’s bachelors?

  He continues, “The bitter irony comes very often in a divorce when the very factor that made them easy to marry – their lack of career – is what costs the husband hundreds of thousands of dollars in alimony payments. So the very thing that attracted them to that kind of woman in the beginning is what kills the marriage in the end.”

  I want to lay my head on the conference table and disappear into the wood. I am happy for the women Mitch didn’t marry. “Where does love fit in your rules and regulations?”

  He gives me a smarmy smile. “Love, Grasshopper, is a mind-game we play with ourselves.”

  I carried the cold chill of Mitch’s words back to my empty hotel room. That night I dreamed of Mark. He lay beside me holding me to his bare chest. That was something we never did as teenage sweethearts. We were going to wait until marriage – a marriage that never came. A lost time that couldn’t be recaptured. Or could it?