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

by Silkstone, Barbara

  “I blame my career for messing up my search for true love,” he says. “My career allows my imagination to explode in all directions, including my love life. I’m attracted to playful women. I would love to be in love with a woman who was child-like. I think that has to do with losing a girl I really loved when I was in my teens.”

  “You’re looking to replace someone from childhood?”

  “Constantly. I keep writing child-like fantasy scripts for the ladies I meet. Then I fall in love with the stories I created and not the women. Very Pygmalion of me. I might look at a woman and assume she’s the woman of my dreams. Then I try to make her the woman of my dreams. I willfully ignore whatever doesn’t fit into the pattern and see only what does. I keep shooting myself in the foot over and over.”

  “Are you in love, now?” I ask.

  “I’m in the middle of a misunderstanding. The woman I’ve been living with for two years, she thinks we’re involved in a serious relationship. I think we’ve been having convenient, casual sex.” He excuses himself to speak to one of his assistants, a chubby twenty-something in sweats and running shoes.

  I stare out the windows, losing myself in the view. I think how easy bricks and mortar have it. All they have to do is stand there.

  Terry pops back in and settles into a long-legged director’s chair. “Where were we?” he says, bridging his fingers and stretching. “At this point, I’m holding myself in reserve. I’m not giving little pieces of me away. Not in my work and not in my personal life. Not anymore. I don’t trust my judgment.”

  “You’re not alone.”

  He looks stern. “I am not going to invest my emotion in the wrong place anymore. I’m going to save it for real love.”

  “But how will you know when it’s real love?” Give me an answer I can work with.

  “Good question. As children, we seem to know. Somewhere, in the growing up process, we forget how to love with all our hearts, in the forever way.”

  As I leave Terry’s studio and hit the subway back to Penn Station, I’m feeling lower than a garden slug and half as frisky. The idea of running off into the woods and never coming back is looking better and better.

  Man after man talked of being disillusioned when the woman of his choice turned out to have no identity, except the one he imagined for her. Was everyday love merely a case of self-hypnosis?

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  “If you give a guy a piece of candy and then pull it away and make him look for it, he’ll want it that much more.”

  ~ Frankie, 46, single

  Case/ 505 Frankie

  The roads are congested and the air is gray. I find Frankie’s bungalow just outside Atlantic City. Frankie has been on disability for seven years. A former state employee, he now spends most of his time renovating his tiny home. I’m pleased to discover that his wit is sharp, despite his claims of cabin fever.

  With his gnarly beard, flashing dark eyes, Barry White voice, and hickory cane, Frankie is a man at odds with the world. He presents a hard shell with what I guess to be a soft inside.

  His bungalow home is a two room affair, with kitchen and living room taking up 12 × 14 feet. I don’t see the bedroom. The total effect is cozy and not unpleasant. We sit at the kitchen table to talk. A black cat the size of an SUV makes a determined leap into my lap, while a golden retriever gazes up lovingly at her master.

  Frankie’s in the midst of describing his close call with commitment. “I wouldn’t call it smothering but it was getting too comfortable.” He moves to the stove, puts on a stainless steel kettle, and fiddles with two mugs each bearing a casino logo. “Lipton okay?”

  “Perfect.” I smile.

  He stands by the stove waiting for the kettle to boil, and then pours the water in both mugs.

  As he settles into his chair, he speaks, “I had to think about everything I did, before I did it. I didn’t want her to feel that I was leading her on.” He brings the mug to his lips but doesn’t drink. “I fear women that way. They’re vengeful.”

  I take that comment in as I blow on my tea. “Let’s say this same girl didn’t want to get involved, would she have been more appealing then?”

  “Oh yes.” The words sound mellow as they leave his lips. “It would have lasted a long time. She made it almost too easy. The relationship would have lasted longer if she had made me chase her. Guys like something they can’t get.”

  “Let’s pretend that you had gotten married,” I ask him. “How would she have kept you interested physically and emotionally?”

  He laughs. It’s a homey, textured sound. “She would be constantly coming up with new ideas. Not allowing us to get into a rut.”

  I look around his little cabin. “Hmm.”

  “She would always be setting some sort of goal. It would give us both something to shoot for. Goals keep a relationship stirring.”

  The “G” word again. “What kind of goals are you talking about?”

  Frankie leans over bringing his tea-breath within my range. “Not goals like adding a room or painting the house. Goals that make us both grow and stretch and become more than we were. That’s what life is all about.”

  “So that’s what you would expect from a long term relationship?”

  His phone rings, a jarring sound in the silence of the cabin. Frankie hobbles to the bedroom and speaks in a soft voice. “No, no. I can’t right now. I’ll call you back this afternoon.”

  I sip my tea, enjoying the guy-ness of the setting.

  He resettles in his chair, a strange look on his face. “That was her.”

  “Her?” He lost me.

  “My close call. She’s married now and has three children.”

  I give him my extra special love investigator look.

  “I don’t want to lead her on but I guarantee you, if I went out of my way, I could probably get her to come over here. She started calling me a few months ago.”

  He looks sheepish. “I don’t mind talking to her, but when we get off the phone it is like ‘why did you call me?’ I haven’t seen you in twelve years, and you’re calling me to tell me you’re having your third kid. Why?”

  I wonder myself.

  “I told her, if her husband found out she was calling me, he’d go through the roof ... I would.”

  Frankie studies my face. He knows I get it.

  “You could say ‘what if ...’ to any girlfriend or relationship, but there are certain ones that are just there to haunt you.”

  I think of Mark and wonder ... would he call me if he were married? A question bubble pops over my head. “If she left her husband for you, would you marry her?”

  He looks at me, disappointedly. “Of course not, how could I ever trust her? I’ve only been involved in adultery once. It was great while it was going on. I went in with my eyes wide open but after it was over I felt like I was being stared at from above. I felt guilty because I knew that sure as hell I wouldn’t want that happening if I were the guy on the other side. That would send me over the edge. I think a lot of women go outside marriage to find relationships. But if the guy makes it too nice then suddenly his house is the house they’d rather be at.”

  “Do you think you could have gotten involved with that woman on a permanent basis, knowing she’d already committed adultery with you?”

  A worried look passes over his face. “That’s the thought that was just in my head. With the person I was with, yes. I understood her situation. She was getting mentally destroyed by her marriage. If she wasn’t married, I would have no problems dating her. I think she came to me because of what she was going through at home and mostly because I was someone she knew already. She would never go out and pick up a stranger.”

  I force the SUV cat off my lap in order to get the circulation back in my legs. The cat returns a few minutes later, determinedly snuggling into my thighs.

  “I believe in the seven year itch. At that point in a marriage they’ve had a least one kid and they’re headed down a differe
nt road and one of them is looking at what could have been. Most men screw up marriages. Once there are children, they feel permanently anchored. Men start feeling spiteful. Like, ‘I’m trapped.’ Now the attitude at home switches from ‘I’ve had a lousy day at work’ to ‘my life sucks.’ ‘I’d love to switch jobs, but now I have kids to support.’”

  I’m feeling judgmental. I can’t control it. “Aren’t we talking about living up to commitments? The children didn’t ask to be born.”

  “But remember, these guys are all my age now. They’ve slam-dunked themselves into a life and they’re stuck. They moved too quickly and didn’t plan. You don’t see me married yet. A good life comes from making careful decisions because you’re not the only one who pays the price if you screw up.”

  I have to agree. The idea of spending extended time with anyone I know creeps me out. Is it because I haven’t met the right person or because I lost him long ago?

  “So tell me about these couples who are your age.”

  He smiles. “They can’t see their way out. So the marriage is screwing everything instead of helping them along. Then the woman starts looking up ex-boyfriends because her husband doesn’t want to listen to her anymore and there you go. The marriage is dead.”

  “Tell me about breaking up with a woman,” I ask.

  “I became harder toward her because I preferred that she broke up with me. It wasn’t actually me testing how much she would take. I was actually hoping she wouldn’t take anything.”

  Hmmm. I stroke the massive lump of dark fur purring in my lap.

  Judging me to be safe, Frankie continues, “I tried to turn the relationship completely around by making it like she was putting up with me.”

  “Did she take the hint?” I ask.

  He scratches the dogs head scratching behind her ears. “Nope.” He continues scratching and chatting. “Guys dread tears. They’re killers. So instead of facing tears and guilt, a guy creates a strong justification for ending the relationship. He behaves like a shit so she’ll leave.”

  The nasty thought enters my mind that Mark may have made up the whole thing about his mother’s tears. Maybe that was his way of ending us. I’m not a very good witness to my own life. It’s time to talk to the man and fit the pieces together.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Six years of interviewing and I’m on a Delta flight returning to Florida, trying to digest all the emotional static. I put on ear phones and turn off the volume to block out the chatter of other passengers.

  Listening to all the guys talk about fantasizing a relationship and then turning off to a lover, I think back to when I was a little girl. I had a big bowl of green turtles. I loved those turtles through all the lonely days of childhood. I created a love bond with their hard little shells and button eyes.

  And then one day, five years into my turtle relationship, I came home from school ... looked at my little turtle buddies and was grossed out. I couldn’t bring myself to touch them. I gave them all away. Over the years I’ve discovered that love relationships are a lot like that. The gross-out comes when you least expect it. You never know when a romance is going to turtle-bowl.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  “Now and then, no matter how happy he is, a man likes a piece of strange.”

  ~ Chet, 51, married

  Case 509 / Chet the Cheater

  The idea appeared as I opened my sleepy eyes to the view of the lake from my bedroom windows. The night before, headlines had reported on yet another powerful married man and his sexual escapades. The thought occurred to me that the opportunity to delve into this part of the male mind might be right in front of me, I just had to ask. Christa’s love Chet is powerful in the way that only the filthy rich can be. He has a private jet and a yacht that can cross the Atlantic. If success is measured by toys, then Chet is my boy.

  I ring him up and he jumps at the chance to be interviewed. This is his kind of brag-fest. Again, I’m amazed at how easy it is for me to gain access to these men. Is it something in the tone of my voice? Or is it the appeal of being anonymous? Guys can be the phantom commentators on relationships and stay hidden.

  With no real estate clients to work, my time is my own. I meet Chet in his offices on the highest floor of a tower overlooking the Charles River in Boston. The view is to die for, with tiny sailboats bobbing in the sunlight and lush trees in shades of green, red and gold.

  Chet’s an evil looking man with a super-tight face lift and blue reptilian eyes. His arrogance allows him to be immediately at ease discussing his adventures outside his marriage. He doesn’t look for reassurance that I won’t use his name and takes it for granted that he can squash me like a bug if I betray his confidence. We exchange multiple sarcasms and then settle in for some questions and answers.

  I ask about cheating.

  He corrects me. “It’s not cheating. I just want sex from someone other than my wife. If I never went off course I wouldn’t be who I am. Men get involved in affairs because they crave the excitement. They’re no longer satisfied at home but they lack the balls to end the relationship.”

  “So you admit to lacking the cajones?”

  “I’m saying most men. Not me. I have no reason to end my marriage. Most men don’t think of the consequences of their actions. They want to remember what it felt like to feel desirable. A man’s self-image is largely attached to his sexual prowess... that’s just how men’s heads are wired. But they don’t think about the fallout. I do.”

  “So affairs have no meaning.” My mind is on Christa who sees her future in this guy. She asked for it.

  “Affairs come and go as you need them. There’s no fear of failure and no need to continue seeing that person. It’s like what we’re doing right now except we have our clothes on. You and I will never see each other again, so I can let you see sides of me that I’d keep hidden from someone I cared about. We’re being a lot more intimate than I ever could get with my wife.”

  With nothing to lose I ask him about Christa. “Where’s that going?”

  He snorts a laugh and avoids answering.

  After an uncomfortable interval of silence I move on. “Which comes first the chicken or the egg? Does being powerful and wealthy lead to risky behavior or is the love of risk what leads to power? Just speak for yourself.”

  “That’s easy. I don’t know why they keep batting that question around. I’ve never met a successful person who didn’t take risks. Risks are what keep our hearts pumping. I know I can’t get caught and even if I did no one would believe it. If someone pointed a finger at me, they’d be condemning themselves.”

  “Don’t you ever feel anything? Guilt? Remorse?”

  I’d like to say he fiddled with his pens or some other human trait, but he remained still as a stone, completely in control. “Am I ever sorry? No. It’s stupid if you admit it when you get caught. There’s an old joke about the guy getting caught in his secretary. He says to his wife, ‘I’m not having an affair. Are you going to believe me or your eyes?’”

  “Deny and keep denying? Do you think your wife knows about your affairs but doesn’t let herself believe in them?”

  “I’m saying it’s all financial. She’d lose everything including her identity as my wife if she complained. And I’m not about to give up the game. It’s like gambling. You get away with it the first time and you’re hooked. You just have to compartmentalize it. It goes here.” He points to the back of his head.

  “Tell me what these women get out of it – in your opinion.”

  “Wedding bands are like fish lures. Anybody tell you that? Most women can’t resist hitting on a man wearing a ring. It’s a competition thing. They want what the other woman has only they don’t want it for keeps. Not usually. They just want to take it from her even if she never finds out.”

  Out comes the question... “Would you die for the woman you loved?”

  “You can’t tell me any man answered yes. He’d have to hate his life a hell of a lot.”
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  I leave Cheater-Boy’s office feeling nauseous. Now I know I can’t make it through one thousand men. I need to put me out of my misery and soon.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  “The average marriage lasts six to eight years.”

  ~ Judge Whit, 60, divorced

  Case 510 / Whit

  Whit’s clear-cut features, a gift from his Cherokee ancestors, hide the fact that he has just crossed into his sixties. I study his face looking for signs of cynicism. Judge Whit has the sad distinction of divorcing eight hundred couples every year. Single for twenty years after an eighteen year marriage, Whit has three grown children, all married. With my usual nod to verbal foreplay, I start the interview.

  “Judge Whit, you’re an authority. Why don’t marriages last today?”

  He sighs. “It’s a sad subject. In one sentence, people are not willing to sacrifice for each other anymore, they’re too self-centered.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “Materialism,” he says flatly.

  “That’s it?”

  He nods. “Statistics tell us that most divorces stem from financial problems.”

  I’m surprised and say so. I thought it had to do with cheating.

  “I see this very seldom. I know the statistics say 40% of married people have extra marital sex, but there are a lot of people that, even if adultery were an issue, don’t bring it into the court room.”

  “Really? This is news.”

  “The average marriage lasts six to eight years. Now this is a generality, but eighty-five percent of the divorces in the United States are caused by money.”

  “Is there a cure?”

  “If women were given the opportunity to be more of an equal partner, the divorce might not happen. Women are basically better money managers than men.”

  The judge and I share conversation and a glass of chardonnay. We are in the media room of a mutual friend, somewhere east of Baltimore.

  Whit studies his glass, watching the sunlight bounce through it. “If you get married for lust, that will die.”