The New Yorker Gets Me Every Time

He was a musician and actor. Another set-up by a mutual friend. From the outset, I found him to be very intelligent, wildly funny, a talented pianist, and affectionate in a rather sweet way. What's more: he subscribed to The New Yorker. (I will overlook countless minor faults for this!) His self-effacing humor charmed me, as is often the case when it comes to that awkward, boyish demeanor. (Note to self: This is really something to work on - and get over!) What’s more, he owned - and lived in - a lovely condominium perched on the cliffs over the Pacific Ocean.

On the first date, somewhere between the declaration that he’d love to take me golfing and teach me some of the game and the goodnight kisses, he asked a curious question: “Would you still go out with me if I drove a limo?” Well, this is odd, I thought. I knew other women who ran in a crowd where their new suitors always seemed to have luxury-to-the-max cars…your Bentleys, your Ferraris, your Rolls Royces. What a refreshing twist from the macho bravado of many men who have such fine toys.

“Listen, I’m having a lovely time with you and at this point, it doesn’t make much difference to me what kind of car you drive,” I said...most likely as I was batting my baby blues in his direction under the moonlight and in the ignorant bliss that accompanies being clueless.

He dropped his gaze and scuffed one foot around in the sand atop the beachside cliff and sputtered as he searched for some way to let me know I had missed his intended meaning. He cleared his throat to gear up for clarification then continued: “I’m between jobs and I have something lined up that should be coming through any day now…but if doesn’t, I have a buddy who has a limo service and said I could pick up some work with him to tide me over.” He stopped and waited for my response.

"Oh! That kind of 'drive a limo'. As in you'll-be-the-one-behind-the-wheel-and-I'll-be-in-the-back-seat kind of 'drive a limo'," I teased. At least this artist would be gainfully employed. No worries. He wasn't moving in with me anytime soon. This quirky little detail seemed like a "no harm, no foul" kind of thing.

After those initial moments of confusion, the dating discovery process unfolded beautifully. We had fabulous conversations about everything under the sun - including favorite articles in The New Yorker. He serenaded me with his own compositions as we sat side by side at his baby grand piano. We enjoyed the same kinds of cuisine and he had a real flare for presentation when he cooked dinners for me.

We decided, mutually, not to hop in the sack right away but to allow some time for our romance to take hold. When we decided we'd had enough of that mature decision making stuff, we discovered that sex together was great. We did have one teeny, tiny little style difference that showed up a few romps in.

One evening, he stopped abruptly in the heat of a steamy moment of moaning, arching and heavy breathing and asked, “You’ll tell me exactly when you want me to spank you, won’t you?”

Spank me?! I think I was a toddler the last time I was spanked. I managed to find my way back from the shock of that moment (a moment so bizarre that it will exist forever as a freeze-frame image) to a pleasant ending of the story. Later, as I related his comment to a girlfriend of mine (yes, guys, we women do share stuff like this with our BFFs), she said, “Sounds like he’s watched too much gay porn.”

Unfortunately, as the relationship continued, we bumped into one more troubling little detail that we couldn't seem to resolve: he couldn’t sleep with me when sex was all over. As the relationship became more intimate, he became more distant. Yes, that charming “little boy” quality that hooks me (come on, I’m not the only woman that gets hooked by that, am I?!) ends up looking more like a mother issue when the chips are down. Not so charming after all. Nope. Not in the least.

I had to reevaluate the situation. So did he. He realized that he simply wasn't interested in a "committed relationship" even "as lovely as you are."

And me? I really didn't see a future with this emotionally-distant, limo-driving, spanking-obsessed artist. So he read The New Yorker. Pfft. There must be others out there.

The good news: no videotape.

Next.

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