Maybe I need to go somewhere to study women.
It was such a strange thought, but after it came to me the first time, I couldn’t shake it. I’d walk around campus or my house, thinking of Karen or how I was striking out right and left with other women, and it’d come bubbling back up from wherever it came from.
It was, by no means, the voice of God. I’m not trying to say I had a Joseph Smith, Book of Mormon kind of experience. Nor could I say it was like Kevin Costner in Field of Dreams. If anything–and maybe this is stranger than both of those–it was the voice of this motivational speaker I’d met a few years earlier, who I’d later emailed one night when I was high and desperate for some kind of direction in life. I told him that I didn’t know what I wanted to do with myself, that I really didn’t have any passions except “girls.” And how do you do anything with that?
At this point, I didn’t even care about doing it on a cerebral level. I needed the insight, myself.
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I hit send, thinking this was a completely sane thing to email someone at 1:30 in the morning, until I realized, 10 minutes later, that it was a completely insane thing to email someone at 1:30 in the morning.
Surprisingly, because I guess he’s a vampire, I received a response in less than an hour. And when I saw it arrive in my inbox, I felt my face get flush. How could you send someone that? Your only passion is girls? What’s wrong with you?
Reluctantly I opened it and found that he took my question 100 percent seriously.
“If girls really are your passion,” he wrote, “you should go somewhere, or just sit somewhere, and observe them. Study them. Then write it down. There are a lot of guys who might want that kind of insight, ya know?”
He ended by thanking me for reaching out, and saying that, if I was interested, he’d love to continue coaching me. “It’s just $100 for six, 30-minute sessions,” he specified. Then added that he was no longer accepting checks.
I never responded.
◊♦◊
Now, two years later, I kind of wished I had. What did he mean go somewhere to study women? What exactly would I be looking for? At this point, I didn’t even care about doing it on a cerebral level. I needed the insight, myself. And that was before the guy next door began asking if he could use my hot tub.
It came out of nowhere. I’d be using it, and he’d come out on his stoop, or walk over to the fence in my yard, peer over and ask, “Hey, do you mind if I join you? I hurt my leg and would love to soak it.”
I never really knew how to respond to this. I wasn’t direct enough at the time to say, “Hey, I’m just trying to enjoy The Poisonwood Bible, if that’s ok with you.” But I also wasn’t passive enough to say, “Sure! Come on in! That’s not weird at all!” So, in true introvert fashion, I went with something that didn’t make sense at all.
“I’m good!”
Truthfully, I was bewildered by his nerve. Prior to the hot tub requests, he’d randomly showed up on my doorstep, asking if I could help him with his writing. He knew my name, and the fact that I was an English major; and when I later relayed the story to my roommate, Josh, wondering how a complete stranger knew so much about me, Josh said, “Well, that’s because I told him.”
“You did what?!”
Apparently, the guy had shown up on our doorstep the day before, asking if he could use our hot tub. When Josh told him it wasn’t working, the guy pivoted and asked, instead, if Josh might help him with some writing. “He told me he was looking for an editor,” Josh shrugged. “So I told him, ‘You’ve come to right place, because my roommate Chris is an English major and would probably love to be his editor.’ And then I told him to come back tomorrow when you’re home. I also gave him your phone number. So you might get a call soon, too.”
◊♦◊
Whether or not our neighbor had any other intention than what he stated, the whole hot tub situation seemed to put out an invisible signal to any and all of Nashville‘s most eligible bachelors. Josh and I would go to bars, our regular dives around town, and guys would come up to us and pinch our butts. They’d say how much they loved our blazers or would tug on our J.Crew rep ties—asking us why we were wearing them. “Is there a special occasion?”
I changed my wardrobe, began working out, joined the rugby team, anything I thought might increase my chances of getting a girl to say, “Who’s that? Meow.”
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It’s something I’m used to now. Even with a wedding band on my finger, I’m still approached by men at bars or parties—or their female friends, who say things like, “Hi, I’m Sandra! I’d like you to meet my friend, Steven,” before turning and waving Steven over. It’s a completely normal part of going out, but in 2009, it was an entirely new experience for me. I drove myself crazy, trying to figure out what I was doing to attract so much male attention, and what I needed to do to attract the same kind of attention from women. I changed my wardrobe, began working out, joined the rugby team, anything I thought might increase my chances of getting a girl to say, “Who’s that? Meow.”
And yet, nothing changed.
◊♦◊
One night, a black BMW pulled up alongside Josh and I as we were walking home from the bars. The driver-side window and rolled down and a guy in his late twenties, early thirties leaned out and said, “You guys want a ride?” There was another man in the passenger seat beside him.
“No, we’re good!” I said. “But thanks.”
The driver nodded and sped off down the street.
A minute later, they pulled up alongside us again, apparently concerned we’d misinterpreted their question.
The driver leaned out.
“You two wanna fuck?”
And in the middle of declining, I heard the thought once again: Maybe I need to go somewhere to study women.
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Photo: Getty Images