A Woman's Survival Guide to Difficult Men: Real Guy with Real, Fictional Name
Chapter 10: Real Guy with Real, Fictional Name
NOTE: This story jumps back and forth in time. If you’re just tuning in, you may want to start with Chapter 7 for the full New York arc.
By the end of that summer in New York in 2001, I decided to give The Nice One in my building a chance. Jerry seemed genuine, like a man who wouldn’t let me down. He showed me what it was like to have a boyfriend again. He didn’t “complete me,” but he was kind. A good guy, clean cut Irish-American. He had a rockin’, athletic body from all the triathlon training he did during the day that he approached like a job, sporting Lycra half the day. He worked harder at this than Mike did at his medical sales job, from what I could tell. Mike didn’t react to my sudden change in horse, we didn’t even discuss it. In fact, I barely saw him anymore.
Unlike Mike, with whom I never left the building, Jerry and I held hands and went on dates. He met my cousin Norman, who lived in New York and had played piano for “Phantom of the Opera” on Broadway for the past thirty years. Jerry was the kind of guy you introduced to your family. We daydreamed about taking a trip together some day. I never quite believed we’d go through with it. Nor did I suggest that he come visit me in Los Angeles or continue the relationship long distance. In my mind, Jerry belonged in my box of New York memories, and I think he may have sensed that. At summer’s end, when it was time for me to return home, he ghosted me on what was to be our last night together.
Angry and hurt, I returned a teapot he’d loaned me by leaving it on his door handle inside a bright yellow bag bearing the name of my favorite store, Yellow Rat Bastard.
Subtle.
Months later, I received a postcard from Jerry with an apology. “I don't know why I did that. I guess I was sad to see you go and didn’t know how to deal with it.”
For me, it was the rare relationship during which I didn’t try to imagine a future together. He was present tense for me. Sometimes a lover is simply a soft place to lay your head for a while. Sure, there may be a component of validation involved in bedding a new man, but it’s also Picasso-esque. Meaning each new lover was an experience, a challenge, like a bullfight (his other favorite pastime). Unfortunately, Picasso’s love affairs often ended in similar fashion – someone got gored.
I adore men. I’m still friends with many of my former lovers. They inspire me, they turn me on. Throughout history females have had all the same urges and desires as men. We just haven’t been allowed to admit it. It’s OK sometimes to take a lover for no other reason than curiosity about where the road will lead, the sense of adventure it presents. Just keep your expectations in check.
In New York, I’d jumped back on the horse(s) and got my giddy-up-and-go back. For that, I’m thankful to the sexy strangers who, fortunately, did not murder me in my sleep.
Occasionally, when you least expect it, your port-in-the-storm lover turns into your significant other. That’s what happened with Dean.
**This is a work of fiction, loosely based on true events and written in the style of a memoir. Names and details have been changed.