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

by Silkstone, Barbara

Doug, conscripted by a mutual friend, is sitting with me in “Chez-something,” a mucky little French restaurant that specializes in nuked seafood. The red plush carpet is as soggy as the salad. This latest contestant bears a strong resemblance to a chimpanzee with short bowed legs and long droopy jaw.

  I feel him assessing me. Men do that. It’s a “trying on for size” thing – an imaginary game they play out of habit and hormones. Women have their own version. I’ve been guilty of it more than once.

  The skeleton staff falls over themselves trying to avoid us. Doug and I are hung up in that dead zone between lunch and dinner. After some grumbling, a server grudgingly lays down place settings and a container of Equal packs as our authorization to sit.

  Doug cocks his charm and aims. He soon has a scotch and water sitting before him. I have a flat Coke.

  “Tell me about your book and what you’re looking for.”

  “I want to hear the guys’ side of love. What’s it like for a man to be in love today?”

  Doug swells up to his full sitting height. “You want to know about my love life? Like ALL the details? You’re not gonna directly quote me, are you? I mean ... I don’t want to start my social life all over at my age.”

  “I’m on a quest to discover the existence of true love.”

  “You’re asking me?”

  “Just talk. Say whatever ... free association. You’ll surprise yourself. Okay?”

  “Long term relationships are ninety-five-percent luck. Get it?” Doug doesn’t wait for my response. He’s one of those men who perform for his own amusement.

  Now that I have his attention, I open with my best shot. “You’ve been divorced for eight years, why haven’t you remarried ? Do you have a problem with commitment?”

  A knuckle punch to the stomach would have produced the same look on Doug’s face.

  “You’re a pretty fast worker.” He squirms in his seat. “I don’t think there’s any magic secret like communication. That’s all bullshit. It might be important, but it’s all mostly luck. The luck comes in the fact that as I’m growing and changing so is the woman. The luck comes in the fact that you both happen to be changing in the same way during the same period of time.

  “What happens is that at twenty-three or twenty-four years old you make decisions in life that are supposedly binding on you for the rest of your life. What you’re going to do and who you’re going to live with. You have no more mental capacity to do that at twenty-four than you do at thirty-five or forty. So I believe it’s all luck.”

  Doug holds a mouthful of the scotch, letting his cheeks fill out till he looks like an ape working up a wad of spit. “I know a lot of married people, but only five who’re truly happy. I think it’s luck because if it were a skill, it could be acquired. And if it could be acquired there would be so many more people in long-term relationships. I’m not sure I’m that lucky.”

  I’m pained to admit he makes some sense. I’m not who I was at twenty-five. But does that mean my first love wouldn’t fit me, today?

  The first drops of tepid Tallahassee rain begin as I make my way to the car. I feel as cold and wet as a frog’s belly. “Delusional,” the voice says. “A fool’s errand.” I slip behind the wheel, trying to muster enough enthusiasm for the drive back to South Florida.

  Mark slips in and out of my thoughts. I try to imagine what he’s like now. Is he carrying bruises like Doug or is he still that guy with the laughing eyes and sparkly smile? Would he care enough to put me first? Would I trust him with my heart?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “A man will rarely leave a woman unless and until he’s already found another one to take him in. It’s their nature.”

  ~ Mike, 48, married

  Case 466 / Dennis

  I’m at a real estate convention near my home in Florida. Between lectures, I sit in the lobby of the Convention Center Hilton, chatting with business friends. Men have shared with me for five years and I’m sure I now know too much.

  Feeling very sensible, very normal, I am suddenly aware of being watched. Paranoid I tell myself and continue my conversation. Being watched is a weird thing, eventually you have to return the stare if only to rest your curiosity.

  The starer lounges on a nearby sofa, looking as if he’s just stepped out of a luxury car ad. He flashes a smile, takes out a business card, and slides it across the lobby-sized coffee table that separates us. It feels like all eyes are on me for my reaction. The stranger sits there with the goo of awkwardness smeared over his face.

  Taking pity on him, I decide to rescue him from his numb-nuts attempt at cool. The ball’s in my court. I pick up his card and return my business card via the same coffee table path. He seems relieved. Not a word is exchanged.

  It takes two days for the slider Dennis to call me. “I made a jerk of myself, didn’t I?” he asks. No other line would have worked.

  “Major jerk.” I laugh.

  “I just didn’t know how to get your attention. You were listening to that guy sitting next to you.”

  Boys never really leave the playground, do they?

  We discover we share a few real estate contacts. Dennis suggests a business lunch. We agree to meet at an upscale out-of-the-way restaurant.

  He slides in minutes after I arrive, dressed to take advantage of his dark copper hair and green eyes. He’s a vision in fall tones. We share a table by the window overlooking the garden. It’s perfect from the crisp white wine to the creamy Alfredo sauce sinfully beckoning from the plate before me.

  Dennis and I seem to have a lot in common. He gets my off-kilter sense of humor and my taste for the outdoors. I’m no Twinkie, so I get suspicious when a guy shares all my interests. And I’m funny, but not that funny. I suspect I’m dealing with an Emotional Chameleon.

  “Dinner tomorrow?” He asks. I hesitate. How fast is too fast? I study his bedroom eyes, his well maintained teeth. He’s been available two nights in a row. Curiouser and curiouser.

  I have not yet mentioned the interviewing to Dennis.

  The second evening, Dennis ups the ante. We’re at a five-star restaurant seated in a dark corner. The lobster is not the only thing getting buttered. I pretend to eat it all but eat only the succulent seafood. I spit the compliments into my mental napkin.

  “You’re much too intelligent for me.” His eyes reflect the candlelight. “I’m not used to smart women.”

  “Uh huh.” I dip another morsel into the yellow sauce.

  “I’m thrilled that you share my interests. I mean I love to kayak, I love to backpack. This is amazing,” he gushes.

  His hands show no sign of outdoor games. I poke the lie. “Where do you usually kayak?”

  “All over. Do you like Chinese?”

  “Sure.”

  “How about I bring take-out and a video to your house tomorrow?”

  When he sees the expression on my face, he eases back to our interests. “We can share our kayaking adventures over egg rolls. How about it?”

  Two dates in one week, plus lunch, can mean only one thing, despite his claims of being unattached, there is a woman in Dennis’ life. I guess his woman to be out of town. Dennis has to cover as much ground as he can before she returns.

  The following evening, Dennis stands on my doorstep, carrying two bags of Chinese take-out and a bottle of wine. As I unpack the food, Dennis takes off his necktie and slides out of his shoes. He wiggles the toes on his left foot. You know... you have pearls in your carpet. He pulls two white beads from the bottom of his sock. Long after I’ve left the planet this carpet will be yielding its treasure of wedding gown litter.

  Ignoring his comment, I settle into my big leather chair facing the sofa and begin to share the tale of my interviews. Now that he’s trapped himself in my lair, I offer him the opportunity of a life time ... to be interviewed by me.

  An expression of gastric distress cramps Dennis’ face. “You want to interview me?”

  “I’d like to – just for the fun of it.”<
br />
  The food goes untouched. I excuse myself to collect my tape recorder and notes. When I return Dennis has slipped his shoes back on.

  “Let’s start with your last relationship.” I say in my interviewer’s voice. “What broke it up?”

  “Well ...” he hesitates. “She doesn’t know it’s over, she keeps coming back. She won’t leave me alone.”

  I consider getting one of those knee-thumping mallets doctors use. I could just reach over and pop a guy like Dennis on the head – right now.

  “You live together, don’t you?”

  His face falls, melting into a pile of unappealing wrinkles.

  “You think you’re so smart,” he says. He leaves without saying good night.

  I eat an egg roll and wrap up the rest for another day. There’s always another day

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Passive women tend to have quiet violence going on.”

  ~ Jackie, 42, divorced

  Case 469 / Jackie

  Sheila’s my long time friend and a fierce civil rights litigator in South Carolina. She calls with an interesting proposal. “How’d you like to interview a transsexual? Would that fit into your man-investigations?”

  “Is this person a man or a woman?” I’m immediately caught up in the possibilities.

  “Does it matter? I’ve just taken on a case against the county sheriff. My client is a guy who’s now a woman. Jackie was pulled over on a routine traffic stop. She was mid-way into her transformation dressed like a woman but carrying a man’s driver’s license. The deputies beat the punk out of her. The case has been tossed around in the courts like a greased Frisbee. Now it’s mine.”

  Ice tinkles in a glass. I recall how much Sheila loves her gin. The dusty memory of caring for her during her face lift flashes like a red warning sign on a highway at midnight. Some years ago, she coerced me into being her nursemaid while she recovered from having her face peeled away and repositioned. Sheila went into shock on the operating table and only after she’d come around did she confess to me and her surgeon that she drank more than her share of Beefeater – starting before breakfast.

  Still very dazed and with her head wrapped round and round in white gauze with two blood collector bulbs sitting low on either side of her head like droopy rabbit ears, she leaned on me as I walked her out of the doctor’s private clinic. “Take her home and make sure she doesn’t drink any alcohol. I’m holding you personally responsible. I would never have operated on her if I knew she was a drinker!” Shit. I didn’t know she was that bad.

  Sheila’s small but feisty as hell. Even in a drugged stupor she resisted my efforts to get her into the car. I clipped the seat belt over her lap avoiding her neck. Then I placed pillows around her huge white cotton head trying not to look at the blood bulbs. Not my thing. Driving ten miles an hour with the horn honking and the hazard lights on, we finally pulled into her garage. I eased her petite frame out of the car. She looked like a five foot Q-Tip.

  Fifteen minutes later, I tucked Sheila into her big satin-sheeted bed and positioned the bulbs as instructed. “I think I’ll get some smeep...” she mumbled and conked out.

  Moving like a spy in a bad movie I raced to the bar in her posh living room. I gathered up all the bottles and drained them down the sink. Quietly I moved through her kitchen cabinets emptying a case of gin. A large green soda bottle sat on the counter. I unscrewed the lid and sniffed. Gin! I was just about to pour that out when I heard a growl. “I want a drink.”

  I jumped two feet in the air and came down to face what looked like a demented rabbit with two bloody ear-bulbs.

  “The doctor said you’ll die if you drink. No alcohol.” I put my hands on my hips and tried to look tough.

  She came at me. “I’m gonna kill you if you don’t let me get a drink!”

  I stood my ground. No booze. The following afternoon she went through the DTs, which manifested itself in visions of giant spiders on the ceiling and walls of her bedroom. Years later Sheila confessed she would have shot me if she could have reached her gun.

  My tough little friend owes me big time. I take down the contact info and call Jackie.

  Thrilled at the opportunity to interview someone who has walked in wingtips and high heels, I arrive early for our meeting, set to take place at Jackie’s condo.

  She’s running late. I sit on the steps of her building, waiting and wondering, mostly about what she’ll look like.

  Jackie arrives twenty minutes later. She’s big boned with an angular jaw and blond hair done up in a pony tail. She wears a pink work-out suit with a low cut stretchy top. She appears bubbly and sad at the same time. “I’m so excited about this interview! It’s all I could think of all day.”

  As we enter her neat but sparsely furnished apartment we’re greeted by a black and white pug. Jackie drops her bag and scoops up the dog. She takes two bottles of Evian from the refrigerator and hands me one. She settles into a Lazy Boy and I take a sofa seat. “This is Sailor,” she says by way of dog-introduction as she fans herself with a copy of People. “The hormones still give me a rush every now and then. Sorry.”

  Not sure where to begin, I fuss with the recorder and note pad. I have trouble phrasing my questions. I feel off balance.

  “That’s okay. I have that effect on people.” She smiles. “I’ll tell you my story and when you think of questions, just pop in. Okay? I have some good thoughts about true love. I’d like to share them. And please ask me anything you want.”

  She settles back and hugs Sailor. “I think I always knew I was born into the wrong body. I was the middle son of a career Marine. My dad was a hard person, but that had nothing to do with my gender problem. I knew from the first time I could talk that I was not me. It was like I was playing a role and couldn’t get into character.”

  Teetering on a thought blade of cold steel, I watch this six foot woman with big breasts and graceful movements.

  “Debbie is my wife. I mean... was my wife. I don’t think I could ever love anyone the way I love Debbie. I don’t think I want to.” Jackie dabs at her tears. “I remember the first day I saw her. We were twelve years old. She was wearing a denim jumper and pink blouse, her red hair was long and curly, and she smelled of lavender.”

  I try to visualize Jackie as a twelve year old boy – falling in love for the first time.

  As she dabs at her tears she says, “I married Debbie because I loved her. I thought marriage might cure my gender issues.”

  A wave of dizziness sweeps over me. Bingo. I understand my own confusion. Women listen differently to other women. My radar isn’t making the adjustment for Jackie. She’s speaking from both genders.

  “Debbie and I know we have to break the tie completely. It’s been seven years and I still fight my need for her. We talk every day.” Jackie’s voice cracks, it’s a sorry sound. “I can’t remain in her life. I have to disappear from her world.”

  “Are you sure you have to do something that drastic?”

  “I do. I’ve dated some people and they start to get close to me and I can’t let them, because Debbie’s still here.” She points to her chest.

  “In order to move on with my life, I have to let my wife go.” Jackie sighs. Sailor leaps to lick her tears. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t have to do what I did. My pain was so powerful. In order to do the things that we did, you have to truly love each other. Debbie knew my life was pure hell as a male. She cried with me and for me.”

  I experience another emotion-wobble. Do I feel that strongly about my own sexuality? Or had I taken my girlness for granted? Do I need to be a woman to be me?

  Jackie continues, “It’s been a horrible loss. Before my surgeries, I was in an institution twice because I tried to commit suicide. I just didn’t want to live as a man. Debbie loves me so much, she let me go but I can’t seem to leave.”

  “Tell me,” I whisper.

  “I tried to be what my family expected. What my employer expected. What it said on my birt
h certificate. We got married very young. I know I was running away from the confusion and into the arms of someone who truly cared about me. Debbie and I were married for fourteen years. We raised two beautiful children. I wish it hadn’t ended this way. Now I realize I would rather have Debbie than my sanity.”

  I could swear her dog is crying. This is harder than I imagined it would be.

  “I want to get on with my life. In order to be able to get into any kind of relationship – I have to give Debbie up.” Jackie weeps. “Besides, I’m keeping her from her life.

  “If I ever love again, I want to be able to crawl inside that person. I want them to be able to crawl inside me. So, even if I tell them my deepest, darkest secret, I know my secret will be safe.”

  I notice that Jackie doesn’t mention a gender-direction for her love.

  She continues, “Men are much more superficial in their feelings. I don’t necessarily think it’s their fault. I think we’re raised that way.”

  Jackie just flipped sexes. I try to keep up.

  “I dated this one gentleman. He was fun to be with. I found myself saying – wait a minute. Are you supposed to feel this way? I can’t get it right. Sorry about the tears, my body doesn’t produce hormones, so I take pills all the time.”

  I’m feeling her pain. What must it be like to jump tracks, while your life is chugging along? To voluntarily amputate a part of your body?

  “Debbie was my first love. She will always be a part of me. I just don’t know if I’ve found the right spot for her yet. Your first love is the cornerstone of your life.”

  I think of my own first love. Mark is lodged just behind my smile.

  Jackie continues “Men need to feel needed. They may complain about it, but deep down they need to be needed. I’m not needed any more.” She grabs another Kleenex in her over-sized hand.

  “We all have our own closets to clean out. One of the things that helped Debbie and me get through this was we trusted each other to clear out our closets and not worry that somebody’s going to get a hold of the bad stuff and do something with it.”