The Hedonistic Pleasureseeker

I walked through Madison Square Gardens feeling a little bit confused and bewildered. I’d only been in Manhattan for about two minutes and I was already lost. First order of business: Buy a map!

The tourists were plentiful and it was a beautiful day for holiday shopping. Unfortunately this meant I was unable to hail a cab to save my life, so I had no choice but to hoof it in my three-inch stilletto boots while carrying my heavy leather overnight bag. Now I know why Manhattanites are more fit than the rest of the nation: They walk everywhere!

My mission was simple: Make my once-in-a-lifetime pilgrimage to Manolo Blahnik! However, first I had to walk the gauntlet of protestors separating me from my goal: I was the whitest person caught up in the NAACP’s protest against the NYPD, PLUS I had to endure a shouty throng of PETA protestors while wearing a fox-trimmed cream coat and rabbit-trim boots! Twenty four (count-em, 24) blocks later I was starving and my feet were killing me, but my spirits were high. The doorman unlocked the door and welcomed me. I had arrived at my personal Mecca.

I was about to push a boundary of mine: Today I was prepared to pay $500 for a single pair of shoes! Crazy, I know. I even had the cash to pay for them. It was such a simple desire, this yearning for an absolutely perfect pair of plain black Manolo Blahnik pumps. I’d been drooling over these shoes for years, and it had always been my dream to buy them during my next trip to New York. Unfortunately it appears every woman in New York, not to mention every out-of-town visitor with an expensive shoe fetish, has had the same yearning for the exact same pair shoes because the store has been sold out for three months! None of the other Manolos “sang” to me (was I ill?) so I left the store empty handed. It’s a good thing I did, because my clothes dryer broke two days later and I had to buy a new one for exactly the price of a new pair of Manolo Blahniks!

While sitting alone at a Thai restaurant eating my chicken with mango and drinking my tea I thought about another boundary I needed to cross: Spending a Saturday night alone in a public place, such as a bar, all by myself. Perhaps I could pull it off in New York City! I wandered around 5th and Madison Avenues visiting my favorite shops (Chanel, Dior, Vuitton, Tiffany’s, didn’t buy anything) looking for a nice watering hole at which to order an espresso martini. I was in an upscale area of town, so surely there would be somewhere safe and pleasant, and hopefully not too crowded! I walked to the Plaza but unfortunately it had just gone condo. I settled on Murals on 54, the restaurant attached to the Warwick Hotel.

I’m fully aware of my social anxieties and gave myself a little pep talk on the way in: Surely I would not die. Certainly everyone in this place would be nice! I walked up to the bar and ordered my espresso martini. Unfortunately the bartender didn’t know how to make one so I chose my fallback: Ketel One, up with a twist. I was going to be very, very drunk, but it was a long train ride home so no matter! I chose a seat at the end of the bar, close to the television. I looked around: Everyone was in their late 40’s or older and very elegantly dressed. Apparently I’d chosen well.

“Hello pretty,” said the man standing next to me. He was a tall and distinguished gentleman, perhaps in his mid-70’s, with a woman who appeared to be his wife. They seemed like a very nice couple.

“Hello,” I said, and then leaned back to give the woman a smile. “Hello!”

The woman was too short to look down her nose at me, so she just gave me the once-over, pursed her lips and looked away. Ooookay. I turned my attention to the college football game on the television. A few moments later I felt someone touching my hand. It was the man, stroking my sapphire ring.

“Pretty,” he said, as I snatched my hand away. Perhaps he was daft? “Your ring is pretty.”

“Thank you.”

He started stroking my arm. “You’re pretty.”

I left my drink on the bar.

Everything had gone smoothly; I hadn’t even gotten lost on the way to the train station! Still, I was feeling uneasy. My neck had broken out in cysts, my sign that my hormones were out of whack, my psychism was on high, and my temper was short. I was wearing a turtleneck to cover them up.

Something was off: I was feeling the same way that I’d felt the night before. Friday night I had gone to lay down to wait for Scorpio’s call because we’d planned to go out for a drink after one of his charity events. I had been feeling agitated because somehow I knew our date wasn’t going to happen. Sure enough, Scorpio had called within the hour to cancel, so I had gone to bed and entered a world of wild technicolor dreams instead.

As my train chugged through Newark it occurred to me that my evening plans with Michael were never going to take place: He was going to cancel on me also. Two cancelled dates in a row! I checked the clock on my cell phone: He was supposed to have called with directions by now. I dialed his number. I might as well get it over with.

“Hello?”

“Hi.”

“Oh, did you get my message?”

I looked at my phone. No sign of any messages. “No.”

“Listen to my message. It explains everything.”

“Do you need to cancel?”

“Of course I need to cancel!” His store was in the process of being bought out by Duane Reade, they were liquidating, bla bla bla he had a terrible day (imagine the accent of a Brooklyn Jew), it was awful, just AWful. These were the same excuses he used to cancel on me last weekend, except last weekend at least he had called before I left for the train station! Why couldn’t my psychic insight hit me before I spent all that money on parking and train tickets?

It finally occurred to him that I wasn’t calling from home. “Where are you now?”

“On the train.”

“Oh.” He didn’t apologize but just went on with the excuses. I was so bored with them I can’t remember what he said and I don’t feel like making up any dialogue for you here. I cut him off mid sentence -

“Michael? You have a nice day.” I snapped my phone shut. I think he was still talking.

It was early in the week and I was eating lunch at my desk, talking on my cell phone. I was thinking about calling off my date with Michael and wanted to give him an opportunity to bow out voluntarily.

“But it’s Hannukah!”

“I don’t care. I want to see you.”

“OK, but I wanted to remind you, just in case your mother calls you up and expects you to be somewhere or do something.”

“She’s not like that. We don’t celebrate. Our family isn’t like that.”

“OK.” We hung up and I thought hmmm . . . another family on holiday strike. I liked it.

There was no point to refusing Michael’s offer because I had nothing better to do this weekend. Certainly I was not going to spend another Saturday night at home watching Sex and the City reruns! He wanted me up for the entire weekend but I told him I wasn’t available (I lied). Frankly, he doesn’t rate a full weekend of my time, not yet at least. We probably won’t even go out; more likely we’ll just stay in and test the chemistry, and if the sex is bad I don’t want to be marooned in Manhattan for an entire weekend! I told him I’d take the train up on Saturday morning.

Of course, upon reading this my sister is going to have a cow. What can I say to her but “idle hands?” Just look at them: They’ve caused me all this mischief! Bad, bad hands! Perhaps someday when I have a full-time lover, a posse, and/or an affordable hobby I will no longer have the time or interest to toy with this strange breed of men. Until that day comes I’m just going to collect my stories.

I’ll let you know if he’s better than HBO.

(I found this dress at Chateau Bizzare)

Michael had kindly ordered me a double espresso to get through the remainder of our evening, not to mention my long drive home. The conversation was flowing naturally and we’d both gone back to grinning like idiots. He sure was a mixed bag, this one.

“I like you,” he said.

“There is definitely some chemistry here,” I acknowledged.

“Listen. If we start seeing each other . . . I don’t believe in dating for months before having sex. I mean, all that time, and if we’re not sexually compa-”

“Second date.” I interjected.

“Wha - - ?” He grinned. “I’m impressed. In fact, I like how you think.”

“Come on, let’s be real. The only reason people go through all this in the first place is to find a lover. In fact, I’ve had to dump men after the first time because they were bad in bed. I can’t let a man waste my time like that. Especially if he lives in New York.”

All of a sudden Michael didn’t look so sure he liked the way I thought, after all. He squirmed in his seat. “Really? You didn’t give them a chance . . . you know, work with them?”

I played with my still half-full wine class. What a shame to dump out a perfectly decent pinot noir! “I can tell right away if a man is trainable, and if he isn’t there’s just no point, so why bother? Life is short, don’t you think?”

Now it was his turn to use the bathroom. The check arrived upon his return and he laid his credit card on the table. In the dim light I noticed the card was black, and had I not recently listened to Scorpio waxing poetic over the magic powers of the black American Express Card I wouldn’t have even known that I was supposed to be impressed.

(to be continued?)

(I need information: Is this photo of Annie Sprinkle?)

The food at Nino Tuscany is amazingly good; I had the halibut while Michael ordered the salmon. We were chatty and chummy and getting on quite well, all things considered. He’d removed his hand from my thigh for now.

I was also a little bit drunk. Unfortunately (or fortunately, if one values economy) I can barely function beyond one ounce of alcohol. I’d only drunk about half of my pinot noir and found myself holding on to my seat for balance while waiting for our entrees. When our fish arrived I could barely eat it.

The topic turned towards sex and Michael was full of questions. “So tell me, what is going on with women these days? I don’t get it. Nearly every women I meet these days either tells me she’s bisexual or likes to experiment with threesomes. I don’t like that. I’m sure they think I’ll find it sexy, but to be honest, once a woman tells me she has a “girlfriend” I don’t even want to see her anymore. Is this some kind of new trend or something?”

I picked up my wine glass, remembered I was drunk, swirled it a little and set it back down on the white tablecloth. Now was probably not the time to bring up my sexual past. “So, what you’re telling me is that you don’t like to share.”

“No. I don’t. I think it’s disgusting.” I just looked at him, tipped my chin and batted my eyelashes (I’m good like that). Since I wasn’t volunteering any information he moved on. “And they’re all shaving . . .” he leaned over and whispered in my ear “their privates!!!! Why? I don’t know if it’s because I lost my virginity in the 70’s or what, but I like natural. Who wants to have sex with someone who looks like a little girl? It’s sick!”

Maybe it was the wine, but I was staring to wonder if I’d judged Michael a little bit too harshly earlier in the evening. Here was a man sitting next to me, railing against the Porn Standard! It occurred to me that he might just be the one single man left in New York City who didn’t expect ordinary women to act like porn stars.

“Do you really want to know why?” I asked him, and he nodded. He really did look genuiniely confused. “It’s porn. It’s so easy and cheap to get these days with the internet. Men watch so much internet porn these days they’ve started to expect their girlfriends to do the things they see onscreen, even (I lowered my voice to a whisper for his benefit) anal. The women you’ve been meeting are doing and saying these things because they think you expect it.”

“I don’t watch porn.”

“Really.”

“No. I mean, I’ve seen it, but I don’t like it; it’s gross.” He put his head in his hands. “God, no. I don’t want any of that. No shaved privates, no silicon breasts, no group sex, no anal. I just want normal. Whatever happened to two normal people just making love?”

Y’all may roll your eyes all you want, but in my drunken haze I was actually impressed. But was I impressed enough to forgive him for his earlier gaffes?

(to be continued . . .)

Michael is another Jewish man looking for his Shiksa goddess, a man who buys into the “JAP” stereotype and absolutely refuses to date Jewish women. I never really understood the Shiksa fetish, possibly because in my life I’ve never known a Jewish woman who was as vain, spoiled or materialistic as the urban legend dictates. Still, the Jewish men I know swear it’s the law: Jewish Women are Entitled. It seemed very antisemitic to me: Jewish men object to the stereotypes foisted on them (they’re moneygrubbing, sneaky, overeducated, underendowed, control the media, blah blah blah am I missing something?), but here they are indulging in the WORST stereotypes against the Jewish sisterhood. I wonder: Are they all just trying to piss off their mothers?

“So who have you been dating? Blondes?”"

Actually, I’ve been dating Russian and Ukranian women pretty much exclusively for the last ten years.”

“Really.”

“Not only are they tall and blonde and drop dead gorgeous, but they’re also . . . they’re happy to be . . . beneath a man. They’ll take a back seat and let you be the man. They’re . . . feminine. They’ll do anything to please you. Plus they’re great in bed.”

My eyebrow shot up. “I see.” (eyebrow down! eyebrow down!!!!!) “So, how did that work out for you?”

He shrugged. “Well, I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Honestly, when it comes to their character, are they really that different from other women? Seriously.”

“Yes. They make you take them shopping. Third date, without fail, it’s ‘Let’s go shopping.’”

I thought, and this is different than the JAP stereotype HOW??????? “Well, you buy their submission. That’s the deal. Cash for flesh. The traditional arrangement.”

He said nothing, and just looked at me, so I continued.

“I struggle with that.”

Still nothing.

“I struggle because just like most women I love pretty girly things. I love clothes, I love jewelry and perfume and makeup and I swear I have almost 200 pair of shoes. But for the most part, I bought them myself. I love receiving gifts from men as much as any woman, but if a woman wants to be treated as an equal partner in a relationship she needs to give up the cash-for-flesh exchange. I struggle with that, because the presents are the fun part.”

Did I perceive an imperceptible nod, or did I imagine it? I must have imagined it. He put an arm around me stroked my thigh. “You are all woman,” he said. “Just look at you. You’re what every man wants.”

I smiled sweetly at him. “Excuse me, I have to go to the ladies room,” I said.

“Don’t be long.”

Michael lives on the Upper West Side, not the Upper East Side as I had presumed, which apparently means something though I’m not quite sure what. If you live in Manhattan please clue me in: It means he’s more liberal, right? God/dess I sure hope so, but he says he listens to Bill O’Reilly, which scares me, frankly.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

His gravely low voice was getting to me. He was a good looking man (that’s Tony Bennett to my left; Michael looks a little bit like him) and we had a certain amount of chemistry: On a scale from 1 to 10 I’d give him a 6 or a 7. He also sounded just like my very first love from high school! While drinking our wine and chatting about nothing I was having flashbacks about the thrill of love in a simpler time.

It also occured to me that this was the first time since my first love that I’d dated someone who didn’t own a car.

Michael comes from money and has been in the small family pharmacy business for most of his adult life. Right now he’s in a major transition, liquidating his stepfather’s store and retiring at 51. It’s been an emotional time for him and for the life of me I can’t fathom why he is dating at all, let alone paying a matchmaker thousands of dollars to find a life partner! He took the time to explain: He said he was looking for purpose, for meaning. Perhaps it were time he settled down, got married, maybe had kids.

This concerned me. “Did J. (the matchmaker) tell you that I don’t want any more kids? Is this all right with you? Because I’m done, finis, through.” I made a “safe!” motion with my hands and shook my head.

“It’s not that important to me,” he said. “I mean, if it happens it happens, and if it doesn’t it’s no big deal. Stepchildren are fine. But I really do think I’d be a good father, because I like kids.”

“OK, I just want to make sure, because getting married and having kids are not on my agenda. Don’t get me wrong: I’m not opposed to marriage, and I’d do it for the right reasons, but it’s not my objective. Did she tell you this?

“Come on; every woman wants to get married.”

“But I’ve been married. It’s OK, I already have the commemorative T-shirt. I’m not in a hurry to do it again.”

He paused, then took a different approach. “It’s hard for women. I mean, sometimes I feel sorry for them. I mean, well look at you, I’d never guess you were forty. You look in your early thirties, tops. But most women, once they get to forty they know they only have a few years left.”

My eyebrow shot up but I said nothing.

“I mean, you’ve got about 10 years to get married, and after that . . .”

I didn’t tell him my mother married for the third time in her early 50’s, to the retired VP of a bank no less. Time and genetics have been as kind to her as they have been to me. Barring accident or illness I don’t need a man to pay my bills, plus my dating life is far from over in any case. I was, however, insulted on principle: Did he think the sands of time didn’t shift for men? Did he actually believe that rubbing my nose in the obvious (that to men, women are consumable/disposable commodities with limited shelf lives) was an effective dinnertime seduction technique? Didn’t he know that we usually get tired of men’s stupid shit long before men lose interest in fucking us?

I twirled my wine in my glass. “Maybe by that time I just won’t care.”

“Of course you’ll care.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Every woman wants to be able to retire . . . to travel . . . ? He looked at me hopefully.

“I can do both without getting married.” Technically this was true. I didn’t say that at my present rate of savings I’d have to wait until I were 70 years old or even older, especially if inflation or the costs of health care worsen.

“True. But wouldn’t you rather do it with a partner? Have somebody to grow old with?”

I thought about it for a minute. Obviously, combining assets with a partner would enable me to retire ten to fifteen years earlier than planned. I’d done the math about twenty times and even had it pointed out to me by my financial planner, who actually had the nerve to suggest that marriage be a part of my retirement plan. Still, I knew the benefits of marriage would need to outweigh the costs of having a man underfoot. Having been-there-done-that I knew the costs were high, so this hypothetical mystery man would have to be a really, really good deal.

I sighed. “Of course. I’d like to have something that sticks.”

“Me too,” he said. “I just want something to finally stick. We all do.”

(to be continued . . .)

He was taller than I had expected: A Russian/Polish Jew with high Slavic cheekbones and a gravely voice. The matchmaker had said he looked like a young Tony Bennett and I could see the slightest resemblance, but would I call him Tony on my blog? A Russian Polish Jew named Tony? I couldn’t see it. I’d call him . . . Michael.

(Irving Fields still tickles the ivories)

We were at Ninos Tuscany on the Upper West Side, and it seemed everyone knew Michael. This was apparently “his” place, and as he walked into the building he encountered the piano player, Irving Fields of Bagels and Bongos fame, and gave him a big hug. Then he leaned over and whispered in my ear: “Ninety one years old and still playing!”

We took our seats in the dining room, ordered two glasses pinot noir and chatted briefly about inconsequential things. The restaurant manager caught his eye and suddenly we were surrounded by four waiters and whisked away to a more romantic table, a banquette where we could sit next to each other. Michael was pleased. “Is this service or what?”

We settled in. I took off my jacket. We were both grinning like idiots.

“I’m glad you came.”

“Me too.”

(to be continued . . .)

I was surprised and a little frustrated to discover that the reason it took so long for me to get to Manhattan had nothing to do with distance and everything to do with the backup at the Lincoln tunnel. All the same, I arrived to my blind date with almost an hour to spare.

Ah, but what was I wearing? I was still having body image issues, so I decided to bury the pontoons the best I could under a Spanx girdle. My other plan was to cover everything up with a pretty burgundy velvet jacket. Unfortunately for a November day it was awfully warm, almost seventy degrees, so I ended up carrying it.

Underneath my jacket I wore the same dress I wore on my first date with Tex, just this LBD I bought on the Victoria’s Secret website. I wore sheer black hose (despite the fact that no sensible New Yorker wears pantyhose anymore) because my own legs are too white in the winter to pull off that barelegged look. A pair of Donna Karan ankle-strap pumps, like these only in black, completed the ensemble.

After several hours in my car I needed to pee like a racehorse, so when I reached my destination I rushed into the hotel across the street from where I parked my car. It was the Helmsley Park Lane, very elegant and very crowded. Two doormen greeted me kindly and followed me with their eyes as I made my way to the lobby. I felt as though everyone were staring at me. I hunched my shoulders a little, held my bunched-up jacket close to my chest, and scuttled into the ladies room like a roach. So much for remaining inconspicuous . . .

When I passed the mirror I discovered the reason people were staring at me: After four hours of driving, my carefully straight-ironed hair had refashioned itself into something spectacular! Horrified, I fished out a comb and managed to get it to look a little bit better, something similar to what this fine woman is sporting here. Still way too boofy, but I knew that wetting it down would only make it curl and perhaps frizz. This was the best I would be able to do for tonight: 1980’s Big Mall Hair. I was the perfect suburban New Jersey ambassador!

I checked my cell phone: I still had 45 minutes to kill. Perhaps I could walk downstairs and have a drink at the bar? No; the very thought of it made me want to die. Perhaps I could just have a seat in the lobby? No, because someone might approach me and try to pick me up, and I might just die. Perhaps I could just go chat up the doormen? No no no no no; they might not like it, and I might die. So here’s something I’ve never told y’all before, except for that one time I wrote about being shy and a little socially retarded: Although I’m happy and comfortable when I’m around people I know and trust, send me alone into a social situation and I will suffer from anxiety bordering on the clinical.

Consequently, instead of taking the supposedly deadly risk of interacting with a complete stranger, I wandered around the conference rooms. They were completely deserted, which is another way of saying they were perfect. I found a sofa, made myself comfortable and stared at the clock on my cell phone. Then I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Welcome to my private little Hell.

(to be continued . . .)