Answer: Ask eHarmony for a refund.

After several months of sifting through knights in rusted armor, I decided to break up with my free online dating site and trade up to eHarmony. With the jaded keystrokes of a digital dating veteran, I poured over a new questionnaire, powered through another imperfect self-rendering—otherwise known as the “About Me” statement—and tried to select pictures that said I was “cool and approachable.” Then, I sat back and waited for a bite.

It didn’t take long: the fish was a 26 year-old UCLA alum who had won a famous award and had been featured on television. He appeared to be a slightly less processed version of Mario Lopez (minus the “Saved by the Bell” perm). He seemed driven, successful, and stable. I had just started wondering why I hadn’t plunked down the membership fee earlier until we started chatting via Instant Messenger, at which point I began wondering about eHarmony’s refund policy.

Out of the gate, the conversation was peppered with sexual innuendos (tacky, “How to Catch a Predator” style). I tried to ask him about his major and he returned by asking me what my sexual fantasies were—I drew a blank (or at least left the screen blank). To help move the conversation along, he suggested that one of my fantasies might include being locked in a room with several men.

ME: So you want to have an orgy?

HIM: No.

ME: You want me to have an orgy?

HIM: Yes.

ME: Because you want to watch?

HIM: Sort of. But it’s more than that.

Was he some kind of swinger or, if not, was he gay? If he was gay, why would he join eHarmony to meet women? If he wasn’t gay, why did he want to involve other men?

HIM: I’m a cuckold.

For those of you who haven’t read Shakespeare in a while, here’s a refresher. A cuckold is the husband of an unfaithful wife.  The modern day definition (which he took the liberty of forwarding during our conversation) has grown to include:

A man who gains sexual pleasure in the knowledge that his wife has made love or is making love to other men. Cuckolds are usually submissive, often have a small penis, suffer from premature ejaculation, ‘enjoy’ sexual humiliation and are rarely able to satisfy their wives.–urbandictionary.com

So where did that leave me? I was just trying to wrap my head around the concept when he offered to send me a picture of his friend with whom I could have sex.

One little problem: I joined this site to avoid sleeping with perfect strangers. Irony is a bitch.

The problem is that my addiction belongs to a very elite club: the dangerously casual variety (or casually dangerous depending on your perspective).  Other noteworthy members include: college potheads, semi-compulsive dieters, and Forever 21 shoppers (of which I am also a member).

I always knew I liked guys with rhythm, but when I tried to quit one cold turkey I realized it was more than just casual enjoyment. The last musician I dated—a fledgling rock star—nearly killed me.

ACQUIRING THE DRUG

It began where all bad things do…at a cougar-friendly bar in the valley. The patio was creating its own marine layer:  warm air from the fire pit was mixing with the cool California summer. Courtney and I were sitting on overstuffed sofas engaged in a gripping game of “guess that woman’s age from the back” when a cherry landed in Courtney’s lap…literally.

Two boys–one with reddish hair, the other with a rather round stomach–rushed over to deliver their most heartfelt apologies; they had been playing a game of toss and mouth-catch with drink garnishes and had missed. We felt an immediate bond with them because the group of us encompassed (almost) the entire under-thirty crowd at the bar. They had barely spit out the necessary syllables when a third male appeared: olive skin, cutting eyes, dark hair angled into a choppy fohawk.

“You recognize this mo’fo’?” Mike, the one who threw the cherry, asked us.

“No,” Courtney asked. “Should we?”

“Dude. Stop it,” the New Addition said.

“John’s in a band,” Tom, the round one, confessed bashfully.

“Seriously, man. Shut up.”

“Any songs on the radio?” I asked.

“Dude’s got more rock than a West-side crack house,” Mike said.

It is impossible to know where the truth ends and the bar lies begin.  However, the single music note tattoo behind John’s left ear seemed like enough evidence to accept the former, and to take him up on an invitation to attend a private concert after last call.

Tom volunteered his pad. His apartment was half-unpacked. Besides a queen mattress that took up most of the living room floor, one barstool and a guitar were the sum total of the room’s furniture. The kitchen contained an odd assortment of liquor, household cleaners, and wine glasses. No toilet paper in the bathroom; no hangers in the closet.

Mike poured several glasses of wine while Tom tottered around the room knocking over the contents of several boxes in search of a bong.  “Hey, dude,” he yelled, pointing to an overturned picture frame. “I was looking for this.” He turned it around to reveal a Gold Record.

GETTING HIGH

Meanwhile John picked up the guitar by its neck, positioned himself on the stool without looking back, and pressed the wooden body against his thigh. His fingers slipped along the strings with total familiarity. “Requests?”

I thought a moment and then countered: “What can you play?”

His fingers answered first, then his voice. I could feel a chemical reaction immediately: rushing, beating, falling. Six chords in, I surrendered to it. I was shooting up with a borrowed needle in the middle of the desert, but I didn’t care. For the next four hours I sat in shadowy darkness cracked out on velvet breath and breathless vibrations.

By the time the sun began to press its tongue against the window, I was lying next to him on the mattress. He was strumming John Mayer’s Your Body is a Wonderland, his crossed leg resting over my shoulder.  The group had dispersed in various stages of detox and disarray. Courtney lay asleep, exhausted from having to keep Mike and his uncontrollable foot fetish at bay. Tom was curled next to the bong he found wrapped in newspaper behind the mattress, the smell of weed still noticeable on his clothes.

“So what are you doing tomorrow night…tonight I guess?”

“I don’t know.”

“Coming to Venice. There’s a party.”

My mind was a jumble of melodies and emotions. At six, the boys sleepily escorted us down the elevator. John’s fingers grew lost in my hair, running along the base of my skull as we fell to street level. “So tonight?”

Outside the elevator door, flecks of morning sun washed over us as we kissed good night.

WITHDRAWAL

Two weeks, four days. It was beautiful, perfect…and done. The reasons it ended were more substantial than the reasons it began, but reason did not offer me any comfort.

I wanted him to the point my stomach hurt and my muscles ached. I wanted him more than I had ever wanted anything.  I could not fathom living without him—which was ridiculous considering I didn’t even know his last name. All I knew was his voice, the way he controlled wooden bodies and pressed strings.  And that seemed enough.

I wanted to return to the raw mix of motion and emotion that had been our fortnight un-love affair; my plan was desperate, I’ll admit. I would casually stumble into his concert and the mere sight of me with someone else would make him want me back. The only flaw: I didn’t know his band either.

HITTING ROCK BOTTOM

The only piece of real information I had, besides his name, was his cell number. I decided to narrow down his location by area code: Venice. I started Googling every combination I could think of: John musician Venice, John guitarist Venice, John West Los Angeles rock band. No success—for me, or the sea of Johns-in-rock-bands I had come across who had yet to make it. Then as a last resort, I decided to Google his whole phone number.

Fast forward three minutes and ten dollars: last name, check—thanks to a web site specializing in reverse searching of phone numbers. I was smug and horrified; I was a stalking genius.

However, I still couldn’t find his band. I set the paper next to the computer and got in my car. I was driving along Pacific Coast Highway, on my way to meet some friends, when I got a call from my mother wondering if she could toss out the paper next the computer. No I quickly said and explained why. She said okay and hung up. I was passing Barbara Streisand’s old beach house when she called me back. She had found a YouTube video I should see.

SOBRIETY

When I returned home I rushed to the computer. I clicked the play button and hoped for the worst.  It was him, playing drums on Travis Barker’s drum kit. Kill me now. He really was famous. Just to twist the knife a little deeper, I clicked on the link below to allow myself one last moment of self-pity.

No, wait a minute, take that back, not famous. Yes, it was the real kit, but he was not a real member of the band (it had been a photo op). The link below had taken me to a small website revealing his actual group (and the fact that they had just lost their last battle of the bands competition in LA). Victory! He was a loser! I closed the window and opened another. This is what I wrote.

Fag Hag. Queer Dear. Rainbow Catcher. What do we call her? She’s not his boyfriend, but are they really just friends? You’ve undoubtedly seen her. You might even be her. It’s dating minus the sex, plus honesty, plus fashion, minus cheating, plus pedicures, and if you’re lucky, plus love. But, it seems no one can quite define her, how it happens, or why it works. And while I don’t know what to call it, I know what it feels like to be her.

Imagine: You’re with your straight friends on Saturday night at Privilege: you pay to camp out on Sunset in a tent, even though you try to convince yourself it is an actual building. You can feel the breeze through the flaps. Inside someone orders you champagne. The conversation lasts three minutes. You escape. Someone else comes over but their cologne is lethal and you run for the bathroom. You come out and two undersexed over-inflated P.A.’s ask for your name. You find your friends, get a stiff one and hope the bouncer will be more choosey from now on.  By eleven o’clock, you’ve all but given up when a man walks over. No outward signs of insanity. He’s not wearing his sunglasses at night. He’s doesn’t have an iphone strapped to his forehead. There is no visible ankle bracelet. No entourage.

He asks what you’re drinking. Vodka Tonic. You ask him what he does. He’s in “the industry,” but avoids specifics. He’s got a “new project” and another “in the works.” He’s from L.A. but doesn’t say where. You wonder if he’s really from the city, or the valley and just rounding up. He refers to everyone by first names, but doesn’t actually confirm who they are. You want to ask Steven the Director or, Steven your friend? But you don’t, because that would violate the faux casualness people in L.A. crave more than Botox.  You have another drink or two and so does he. Then, drunk McGee spills the truth. He’s a key grip and lives with his parents in Sherman Oaks. By midnight you wish you had tried E-Harmony instead.

Before long the “scene” starts to look like the scene of an accident, complete with yellow caution tape and flashing lights and you’re tired of crashing into people.

It could be days later or sometimes years, but eventually you meet him. Its nothing you plan, just something you fall into. He’s usually a friend of a friend, or that one guy you always walk past at work. You begin to talk to him. You do drinks and dinner. He always lets you pick the movies, he didn’t even argue when you suggested P.S. I Love You, and that’s when it all comes to a screeching halt. He’s gay! Damn it, you think. Of course he would be. Just my luck. But, now you’re involved. And now you must decide: date a gay man or kill a straight man?

Little by little, you stop going to the bars on Sunset. You find yourself at places you don’t know. The buildings are made of more than fabric and poles and you like that. You walk inside. A dimly lit hallway bursts into a long bar. Mirrors are everywhere, but somehow, the room feels no bigger than it actually is. The narrowness of the space forces you to touch the actual boundaries of it and each other.

You watch together as people enter. It is a delicious smorgasbord: gay, metro, queen, straight, and unsure. Makeup takes away the harshness of jaw lines. Men wear shiny black stilettos and pink crop tops; their abs are the envy of all the real women in the room.

People spill onto a sunken patio. The D.J. spins techno, electronic, and pop. The only labels are on clothing. Everyone is dancing: men with men, men with women, men with men who look like women and vies-a-versa. People are kissing. Is it two of the same or one of each? The darkness makes it hard to tell.

Here, between the street and the club, a thin wooden door is all that separates gender. On one side the rules are clear, on the other they exist only as contradictions. It is where a gay man can make out with a straight girl without being labeled straight; and that same straight girl can make out with another girl, without being labeled gay. It is both real and surreal, a place where a man can dress like a woman without actually becoming one. You can fucking love someone, without loving to fuck them. And somehow, this non-relationship feels more real than any real one.  Call it what you will: Fag Hag, Queer Dear, or Rainbow Catcher. I call it happy.

Although this blog does center on our own gains and losses, Courtney and I are not totally self-centered when it comes to love. Sometimes, we try to help other people find love, too. (This is especially true when helping someone involves a trip to a gay bar because these places are a straight girl’s wet dream: free vodka shots and shirtless men who compliment your outfit.)

In order to help Courtney’s shy gay friend—we’ll call him “Rob”—find someone, we decided to hit up FU Bar, a WeHo (West Hollywood) watering hole with a wide variety of, well, wildlife. We had been there under twenty minutes before our first prospect came ‘a knockin,’ a handsome man in his Botox 30’s (real age: approximately 42). He asked us about our friend and why we had come.

As we were talking, Courtney and I couldn’t stop stealing glances at the even more attractive go-go dancer behind him. His skin was oiled like a turkey out of the oven, tiny black suspenders holding every muscle in place—and did I mention bikini briefs? He threw over a few provocative glances, and while half of me wanted to believe him, the other half had to keep remembering that I was in a gay bar.

Meanwhile, our hopes to unite Botox with Rob died when Botox’s long-standing boyfriend of 15 years joined our circle. Luckily, we soon met two other men—one of whom had a definite interest in our “project.”  They could not have been more friendly, funny, or better dancers (as it turns out one was a back-up dancer and the other was a choreographer for an iconic musician).

As things were heating up with Rob and the backup dancer, Botox returned holding several single bills. “Here,” he said, gesturing towards the greased bird on stage. “Go give it to him.”

“What? No. I can’t,” I said in a mix of horror and laughter.

“Yes, you can.” He shoved one bill in my hand and the other in Courtney’s.

“It’s weird. He almost doesn’t even seem gay,” I yelled to Botox over M.J.’s Thriller.

“I don’t think he is.”

It was the wrong thing to tell two girls who wished that he really wasn’t gay. Courtney held the bill for a minute and then marched towards the stage. She waved it over her head and then confidently reached towards him, tucking the paper between his skin and Fruit of the Loom.

I examined my target and made my approach while the dollar was absorbing the sweat from my palms. I waited for just the right angle and then extended my hand. I meant to grab his skivvies, but he grabbed my hand instead. He bent down so our faces were a few inches apart. “Hi,” he yelled.

“Hi.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“What is it?”

“Are you gay?”

“No, I’m here with my gay friend.”

“Me neither. So, what are you doing after this?”

***

I could have gone with him. Half of me wanted to, but the other half remembered where I was. Knowing that I had lived out a tiny straight girl fantasy was enough: discovering that your gay friend isn’t really gay.

That single piece of luggage highlighted a difference between the sexes, a difference that no movement or committee or government can ever fix. Simply put, I was jealous because men need less. I was jealous because no matter how efficient or organized women are, they can never compete with the intrinsic minimalism of men and the freedom that it affords them.

Even the most careful women, the best packers, the least fussy travelers come with baggage: hair dryers, high heels, under-eye cream. No, you say: not all women need the trappings of store-bought beauty. Well, ask yourself when was the last time you heard an attractive woman described as “ruggedly handsome.” Even tomboys cannot get away with such minimalism: a box of tampons is still bulky.

Thanks in part to nature and in part to society’s concept of beauty, women are still the less free sex.  Even after winning the right to vote, semi-equal wages, and the right to hold open our own door, we are still tethered by that which adorns our bodies.  We are tangled up with it, physically and emotionally. Our self esteem, our very concept of femininity are somehow attached to those lackluster purchases. Perhaps it is an inescapable part of our biology—men leave things; women collect them.

***

The film ends with George Clooney taking yet another flight. The final scene contains the sadness of isolation, as well as a hint of relief (a subtle wink to fellow men) that he is still free—from both things and women. No affinities. No attachments. Even the title echoes Freud: men are able to get it “up,” women aren’t. Ultimately, it is a film that leaves women with one more piece of baggage to lug home—penis envy.

For those who need a bit of a refresher, Charlotte is a character from Sex and the City who in Season 2 Episode 14, crunched for time, naively booked back-to-back dates on the same night, only to have the situation blow up in her face when both men discovered her philandering ways.

Watching it for the first time as a freshman in college, alone yet again on a Friday night, I was jealous (to say the least).  While I was still having problems securing one date, Charlotte easily screwed over two perfect gentlemen with her lack of basic time management skills.  What a shmuck!  I furiously shook my fist at the TV and promised myself that I would always have the common courtesy to never double book when it came to my romantic schedule.

I’ve never had a single problem keeping this oath until the latest holiday season.  Somewhere between job applications and present shopping, visiting old friends on winter vacation and the 49ers losing any chance of going to the Super Bowl, and celebrating Christmas Eve with my family and Christmas day with Kelly’s, I discovered that I only had one free night the week of the 25^th.

The trouble was that I had carelessly promised two different men I would go on dates that week without checking my calendar.  The first contestant on my own personal version of “The Bachelorette” was Dan, a 26 year old satellite engineer who I’d already been seeing for two weeks.  The second was Glen, a park ranger from Virginia I met while drunk at a club the previous weekend.  Although I barely new him, realizing how much my parents would disapprove of Glen for being 15 years older than me and decidedly not Jewish only made him that much more attractive.  But, that is a digression better suited for another post…

In what could only be classified as a Christmas miracle, I worked out a feasible schedule.  I would meet Glen at 7:45 for coffee in one city, and then excuse myself at 9 for “family reasons” in order to rush over to a different city to meet Dan for dinner by 9:15.

My Starbucks date with Glen was rather uneventful.  The only emotion I felt during our brief hour together was fear…of being late for my next date.  And for all of the pep talks I had given myself in preparation, I had definitely over-hyped the excitement from my elicit back-to-back date.  This wasn’t a sitcom; my two suitors wouldn’t cross paths to spice up the story line or boost the show’s ratings.

Still, I was proud when my date with Glen ended and I successfully left as scheduled and drove to my dinner rendezvous.  I was better than Charlotte!  I had a watch and I knew how to use it!!!

Walking out of my car towards the restaurant, I could spot Dan pacing the waiting area through the glass doors.  Dressed in a button down shirt from his tiring day at work, he was the most attractive I had ever seen him.  As I paused to study him, it hit me: I had already started to like Dan.

Glen never stood a chance and I was well aware of that fact before I even relented in giving that park ranger my phone number.  So, why had I?  And moreover, why had I placed myself in such a pointlessly stressful situation?  To sabotage myself.

I’m so accustomed to putting up with guys that aren’t worth my time, who I could drop at my earliest convenience, that I don’t even know how to handle someone with whom I could see having a future.  Somewhere in my subconscious, I tried to turn my relationship with Dan into something I could understand: one that completely failed.  But, no matter what stunts I pull, I can’t avoid the one obvious fact.

I’m really starting to like Dan.

We’ve had a long, long time to reflect on what we can do better in 2010.  So here they are, our resolutions for the coming year.  Hopefully, 2010 will be a vast improvement over 2009.  And if not, well…at least we’ll have more material for our blog.

Remember…

1.  Being single does not equal being alone.

2.  Never date people when discounts are at stake.

3.  Don’t drink more so that your date will become more attractive.

4.  Don’t drink even more so that you make out with said unattractive date.

5.  Listen to your gut.  The second time around with him will not be better.

6.  When it comes to what a man is willing to spend on you, there is a fine line between recession chic and just plain cheap.

7.  Don’t “Facebook friend” anyone that you’ve dated in case they read this blog.

8.  Be more aware.  Don’t find yourself on an accidental date…again.

9.  If you’re dating a guy with eyeliner and/or botox, you’re not dating him.  Trust us.

10.  Give love a chance.

Although it is a close cousin of the dreaded personal ad, (the only real difference is a higher word count) the online dating scene does have a few perks. For one, you can meet people without the risk of getting beer spilled on your new shirt. You can talk to someone without having to yell over a bad techno remix. You don’t have to spend money on new clothes, or hours getting ready. Your breath can be disgusting and it doesn’t even matter.

And who can deny the strangely seductive commercials? Deliciously average couples, oozing perfect imperfections—freckles, unusual smiles, and endearing accents—all subtly hinting at one thing: true love is acceptance, flaws and all. Add to that the ease and accessibility of the internet and you have a dangerously tempting proposition.

Last week I opted to give it a shot. After filling out a rather extensive questionnaire and an “about me” page, I decided to relinquish my fate to some higher power—the computer. It took exactly three matches before I started having doubts. All were IT guys. All enjoyed “coding” for fun.

I decided to take matters into my own hands. I grabbed my mouse and went out on the prowl.  I “winked” at a cute blonde who held a job in “Corporate America” but was, “not defined by it.” I responded to a message from a guy from Northern Ireland who coached six girls’ soccer teams. I received an inquiry from a fellow writer who asked me what I liked to write. As I started to respond, it hit me: Nowhere in my profile did I mention that I liked to write or that I wanted to be a writer. How did he know? And more importantly, why hadn’t I mentioned it?

Maybe I feared that no one would want a starving artist on their shoulder? Perhaps, I did not want my profile to stink of empty promises? However, when I visited the musician/composer’s page and noticed that he conveniently left the favorite music section blank, it began to make sense. How could a composer neglect his deepest inspirations? How could a writer deny that she wanted to write? It seemed odd, given that we all joined this site to get to know each other; yet, the only details we were willing to share were the insignificant ones.

The significant, by default, is whatever is too precious to say.  It is the burning, gaseous center around which all other trapped particles orbit. Although it is shapeless and intangible, it is also finite; so, we guard it. It is easy to give away the details that never belonged to us, the bits we collected or attracted over the years, but it is quite different to suck away a bit of the center because on some level we know it will never fully be ours again. It might seem strange, or even selfish, but we hold back our essence in order to have something left.

I always knew there was false advertising in personal ads (and their cousins), but I assumed it would be exaggeration, even straight fiction—not omission. I was counting on the kind of lie that I could detect, not the kind that could slip through the cracks—or, rather, the lines. It seems, for most of us, the real false advertising is to put up a profile at all, to create an expectation of disclosure, when in reality the most we are willing to disclose are a few unanswered questions.

The stars were scattered and abundant, seemingly reflecting my thoughts.  The cold weighed on me like the week’s problems, and I considered escaping to the cozy familiarity of my bed.  I nestled my hands back inside my sweatshirt pockets, unsure that it would make any difference.

Around me five boisterous male friends ecstatically let out resounding yawps as they trekked onwards towards the unknown, anticipating the excitement of streets softly glowing by lamplight and neglected buildings crumbling into shadows.  I marveled at my companions’ unwavering certainty, their faith that darkness could make the familiar new.

More friends, more voices.  Much like a snowball precariously rolling down a mountain, the collection of acquaintances expanded as we ambled together along Bancroft Avenue.  I quickened my pace in an effort to break free from the overbearing pack.

Then I felt it—a spark, a sudden jolt to my pulse and a fleeting moment of warmth.

Slowly and unsteadily, I turned my head to come face to face with an enigma.  Tall and upright like the surrounding skyscrapers, but perhaps more fragile; the biting wind, which had left the other edifices untouched, had left trails of raw, pink skin along his cheek bones—cracks in a white foundation.  It was unclear if these were merely superficial imperfections, or evidence of deeper structural inadequacies.

I hesitated.  Would this feeling turn out to be a charade, nothing more than the Sirens’ Song luring me in to their dangerous landing, only to have my heart smashed up against the rocks of rejection and cold indifference?

Or…Maybe this was no enigma at all, but rather a man who too was hoping to uncover something magical in the promising hours ahead.

“Hi,” I  stammered.  “I’m Courtney.”

I took my hand out of the comfort and safety of my warm pocket and extended it towards him.

However, according to one man at the Edison bar, I am just that. After demonstrating his own conversational shortcomings and humorless repartee, he had the nerve to call me “boring.” I don’t advocate name-calling but, if you must, at least make it accurate. He mistook the suffix. He should have called me “bored.”

Someone once told me that 90 percent of what you say does not come out of your mouth. Why then did this guy have such trouble reading my body language? Arms crossed. Eyes glazed over. (Anything more obvious and I would have rented a sandwich board.) This was not code for “try harder,” unless, I could have amended it to say, “Try harder to be more interesting.”

The truth is: this guy never stood a chance. I was over him after the first sentence he uttered. He engaged in my biggest bete noir when it comes to introductions. Allow me to set the scene:

I am standing at the bar holding a drink. A dark-haired man approaches.

Man: You need to loosen up.

K: No I don’t. But, thanks anyway.

It comes from the genome of accusatory lines including “what are you afraid of” most popularly invoked by high school boys in the backseats of cars. It is always an amateur move. It is always equal parts cheesy and uncomfortable. Mostly because the people who use it presume to know what’s best for you without actually knowing you. When I hear this line from a guy, I know he’s got nothing. He puts me on the defensive and demonstrates that he is desperate. His whole night could have been different if he had started out with a question like, “So what do I have to do to get you to dance with me?” Or, better still, a simple “hello.”

The bottom line is that rudeness is never the way to a girl’s heart (unless you are playing the irresistible bad boy, which I will save for another installment). However, it is an excellent way to remain alone.