THE SEARCH FOR MR. ADEQUATE
Part VIII
By SUSAN SILVER

“Party all the time!”

Among my single girlfriends, the topic of sex still comes up but not much else does ... if you get my drift. Two of my girlfriends in LA have given up on it completely. The fact is if you are not involved in a relationship, “sport” sex is not easy to find when you reach middle age. (“Middle age” assuming that one lives until 100.) The two quasi-nuns in LA don’t even want to date! But as for me, hope springs eternal though I have had a few non starters, relationship-wise, myself.

I went to a large business breakfast event and someone who really was not my type ... and you know in detail what that is from the last column ... was smiling at me in the elevator. I wasn’t interested. He then followed me to the buffet table and struck up a conversation. I was pleasant but eased away ... not interested. Then he came and sat next to me at my table and finally I thought maybe I should be more open so I engaged in polite but safe conversation. He, however, took out a list and told me these were the activities he was going to be attending in the next few months. A lot of theater, music, etc. And, he smiled ... “since I am a bachelor I like to take dates to them.” Oh, said I. Uh huh. Got it.

“So, which of these would interest you,” he asked. I swear to God. I had to pick one from column A and one from column B like ordering from a Chinese Menu. I picked ‘The Lion King’ since I am probably the only person in New York, other than he, and twelve tourists in parkas, who haven’t seen it. He wanted my number and I gave him the one from a non-profit for which I do some pro bono work and can check for messages. He then asked me three alternate dates from column C ... and I never heard from him again! I love not being called by someone I didn’t want to date in the first place, who pushed me into it but didn’t mean it. Wonderful. He’s probably going down list D of women in alphabetical order and hasn’t gotten to S yet.

Actually there have been more parties than usual. So, lately I have been out and about. But though the parties are nice and I get to wear some of my dressy clothes, I have yet to meet anyone datewise at any of them. Most people are ark-ready ... that is two by two. And what is really scary is that I haven’t even seen anyone I’m attracted to, or wanted to meet! And we’re talking hundreds of guys here.

My friend Stan had a fashion party to go to and invited me along. It was in the Village and not my crowd but after the second champagne and some little delicious caviar eggs, I started to have fun. There was music and I kind of danced by myself in a corner as Stan was looking for models, and a group of guys came up to me and started to dance. So there I was with five good looking young guys dressed as pirates. I told you it was the Village. And it was great to dance. When we took a break, okay okay, I was tired and needed to rest ... we started to talk. They loved my outfit (Note to self: destroy outfit) and told me about themselves. They were all in the “Adult Industry” and the one who seemed to dominate the group ... to coin a phrase ... gave me his name and his card with Website. They were going home to have an ‘after party’ and wrote down the address so Stan and I could come by. After two drinks I thought it was a good idea but Stan didn’t. And thank god for that.

The next day I told my hairdresser Joey, who is my combo shrink, friend and confidant as hairdressers usually are. He almost slapped me upside the head when I showed him the Pirate Captain’s card. He told me that guy is the sleaziest gay porn star that has ever been, and on the Website there were things for sale that he didn’t want me to ever know about. And he said he and every guy he knows on Fire Island wouldn’t be seen with that bunch. That’s how bad they were. Okay. One glass of champagne from now on. Never two!

At an election night party, I ran into a beautiful woman who, when she was first divorced a few years ago, started a business arranging very exclusive, high end “singles parties” for “mature” people. She held them in a borrowed stunning apartment of a bachelor she knew on Park Avenue. She invited only very attractive women over 40, yes I was there ... and successful men. At the first event, I met six guys! And had some interesting dates from it. The second party, I met three. At the third, there was no one interesting and she stopped giving them since there was obviously only a finite number of good men in New York, or probably the planet, and I think I’ve dated them all. She met someone at the first party and married him. (Someone I of course had gone out with once, actually a lovely guy, who just wasn’t ... you got it ... “my type.”)

The other night she told me I had to stop being so “picky,” make some compromises and introduced me to a woman who she said was, unlike me ... seriously looking for a mate. Someone who was treating it like “boot camp.”

“What do you mean?” I joked. “She puts them through an obstacle course?
I do that naturally but more on the emotional level.”

“No no,” she said. “See ... you don’t take it seriously enough. This girl has had plastic surgery on every part of her body, a whole new wardrobe and exercises with a personal trainer five days a week. And her smile is really really white, isnt it? It’s like a job, or a mission. You have to get up everyday and have a plan mapped out, work at it, refine it and execute twenty four/seven!”

You’re kidding! I’d execute myself first! “I just don’t want to work that hard to find someone,” I said to her, shielding my eyes from the brightness of the smile whose owner was fiercely “executing” all over an attractive waiter.

“Then you are not desperate enough!”

Right ... and that’s a good thing, isn’t it?

Just then, a guy I had actually dated for a while walked by with a lovely looking girl about twenty. I ducked behind a potted plant. Rob. Not scintillating, but sweet. A successful insurance broker ... ’nuff said. He was patient with me as I didn’t want to rush into a relationship, having just broken up with Love of My Life for the first of three times. Rob always brought me presents every time he came over. Little objects with butterflies on them, because they were my favorite, a fact that other guys hadn’t even noticed. He enjoyed doing favors, planning fun dates. He actually gave me six presents on my birthday ... all things I loved. And at first, the silences between us were almost encouraging. How we delude ourselves.

Isn’t it great, I thought, to be so comfortable with someone that you don’t even have to speak. Then it grew boring, because sadly ... guess what? Let’s all say together folks ... he didn’t have anything to say! The final straw in this brief mini-relationship was a dinner party. I had six of my friends, all bright, amusing, sophisticated, but not overwhelming or rude. Just sharp. Rob didn’t talk much ... and then he did. We went around the table and picked our favorite comedian ... George Carlin, Dennis Leary, Woody Allen were mentioned. Chris Rock was mine. And when it came to Rob, he said without pause, without hesitation. “My favorite comedian is Don Knotts.”

Don Knotts?! My friends said I paled — no, worse — I turned greenish. I got up from the table and cleared the dishes into the kitchen and said to my friend Lil, “I can’t date a man whose favorite comedian is Don Knotts. I just can’t. Please don’t make me.” Lil, being the good supportive friend hugged me and said,”No, you tried. You don’t have to anymore.” That was the end of Rob. For me. Obviously not for the young pretty blonde who probably doesn’t know who the hell Don Knotts is and is getting lots of presents ... perhaps even with butterflies on them.

Unlike the LA friends, I admit it ... I haven’t given up. Without making it a Desperate Search 24/7, I can just continue my life, can’t I?. There are a few black ties this week and next. And the holidays are coming ... so we’ll put on our pretty dresses, stick to one glass of champagne ... avoid guys dressed like pirates, have some fun and ... hey ... who knows?

Yet ... a little bit of teeth bleaching couldn’t hurt.

Respond to susan@newyorksocialdiary.com.