A Woman's Survival Guide to Difficult Men: ...You Can Make Out Anywhere

Chapter 8: ...You Can Make Out Anywhere

Photo by ian dooley on Unsplash

Mike became my on-the-regular “Sex and the City” guy for a few weeks. Each week, we’d come together to watch the show… and then we’d come together. Our living rooms doubled as bedrooms, which made it convenient.

I needed companionship and validation wherever I could find it, so I found this arrangement relatively satisfying. It filled my basic needs. But it wasn’t a relationship. We never left the building to go on an actual date.

Katie checked in with me each Monday. “How’s your ‘Sex and the City’ buddy?”

“It’s fun,” I’d say. “Makes me feel desirable. That’s about it.”

My officemate, for whom I spared no detail, found our arrangement highly entertaining. She lived vicariously through my adventures. After a few weeks, I admitted, “I think it’s fading out.”

I hardly ever saw him anymore.

Mike was “only the tip” of my New York experience. I was a single woman living and dating in New York while filming other single women living and dating in New York. I had to keep myself together for them. Truthfully, in my down time, I was floundering as badly as they were.

I was lonely and reeling in all the wrong men, then fretting about whether or not they liked me. The first man to express interest triggered a Pavlov’s dog reaction in me. If he made me feel good enough, lovable enough or desirable enough, I’d sleep with him and wonder what my first name sounded like with his last and how many kids we would have. I obsessed about not screwing it up. It felt like real life would start once I found my life partner. With all that time and energy, I could have been working toward my dreams: making movies, writing a book, producing the next Oprah show, winning an Emmy. At the very least, I could have spent the time building capital or buying real estate (or working on six-pack abs).

I often took the subway to and from the office and various locations, usually hauling a tripod and my gray JanSport backpack jammed full of call sheets and location releases. The subway smelled of urine, spilled coffee and cigarette butts, populated by homeless dudes and panhandlers. I always felt relieved when the train arrived.

One afternoon, I settled into my seat with camera gear piled on top of my lap. I wore my summer production get-up – cargo-style mini skirt, tank top and flip flops. A twenty-something, handsome man looked over at me. In his adorable Australian accent, he asked if I was in the entertainment business.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m producing a TV show and heading to a shoot right now.”

He nodded and followed up with a flurry of questions about Hollywood and my work, and then he said, “I’m Liam. Maybe we could meet up later.”

He was cute, seemed nice. Had friends in Los Angeles, people maybe I knew by five or six degrees of separation.

That accent, though.

“Sure,” I said. “Here’s my number. I’m off at 2:30.”

At 3 that afternoon, I stood in Central Park under an elm, my flip-flops sinking into the grass, wind blowing my ponytail and the leaves of the tree. He turned up with a guitar slung over his shoulder and a blanket under his arm. He was taller than I remembered, but we’d been seated on the subway before. Now I could see, not only was he dark and handsome, he was tall too. The Holy Trinity!

We sat in the shade as he played his guitar and improvised a song about our meeting un the subway then sitting in Central Park. Obviously, I was taking this kid home with me. He was about five years younger than me, six-feet-two, and dead sexy.

It was Sunday, so I lured him back to my place to watch “Sex and the City.” Using this show as sex bait was both ironic and ridiculous – and weirdly effective. We got to re-enacting the show well before it was over. Liam was another baby daddy to an accidental pregnancy. What was it with these guys? At least I was on the pill.

“The baby’s six months old and his mother’s not altogether a sane person,” he said. “I don’t want to stay with her, but I won’t abandon my kid.”

“That’s noble,” I said and nodded approvingly while thinking: Ever heard of birth control?

It wasn’t until the morning when he got up to take a shower that I noticed his tattooed torso. Flames and bold tribal designs covered his back. They were powerful and strange. Who was this man? I felt a little excited, dancing on the edge of stranger danger. I had bedded a rando I met on the subway like a true New Yorker (well, the ones I saw on HBO). He was tender and sweet and just what I needed. On sabbatical from looking for my next Prince Charming, Liam was the sexy troubadour filling the void.

He kissed me lightly at the door and left. I never saw him again. That morning, I lay back in bed with the sunlight streaming in my window and believed I’d learn one of the best lessons about rebounding: Have fun, and absolutely no expectations. Use a condom. And never look back.

*This is a work of fiction loosely based on true events. Names and details have been changed.