Sexless in the City

Sometimes reading romance novels doesn’t quite prepare you for a love life...

For this 30-year-old urbanite, love is always a misadventure: The Harvard Lickwit, Hippie the Groper, the 5% Man, and the Ad Weasel. These and many other men wander in and out of her life — but never her bed.

Friday, October 15, 2004

Earnestly seeking handbaggers

Blog readers, I regret I must report to you what is a sad, sad day in the life of Anna Broadway (pauses, looks away to carefully compose e-self). Some of you may recall my recent announcement of an offer that made Reader Frasier term me a “confident, ballsy lady who can boldly lead the Shock and Awe team on the Quest for the Chocolate Vagina or publicly offer herself up for handbagger swap.”

Said swap, I intended to report, was very gallantly taken up by none other than my very own Blogfather.
(Frasier to Anna: “Rather restores my faith in him; was wondering why he didn’t step in earlier. And who knows how things might develop with him. (After all, he is on the rebound!)” I told you he fancies himself my matchmaker.)
After some discussion of open bar, closed bar, no bar ...
(AB to Blogfather: “It’s going to be a Protestant wedding so, um, may be dry and religious (if that’s not redundant ;)). Still, the peeps are pretty cool, and the girl has not been known to hide her cleavage (generally a good sign of religious moderation ;)).”)
... all appeared to be set.

Well-made plans run amok
All, that is, until a recent wedding-themed blog entry that caused the first shadow of doubt to cloud the happy twilight of summer which my heart has recently enjoyed. A sudden rush of weddings was mentioned. And worse yet, a chili cook-off was announced, the very Sunday after my Nov. 6 wedding in DC (not mine, literally, of course — but you understand).

And then, this afternoon, the email sure to drive a stake into even the most resistant-to-meat-tenderizer of hearts* (Anna sniffs a covert sob into a most-unladylike handkerchief):
Dearest blog offspring,
I think I may have to rescind my offer for the D.C. wedding, withdraw my hat from what I’m sure is a crowded ring.

... Don’t hate the playa, hate the game!
(Anna dissolves into noisy sobs)

So this is it, then, readers: I may be well and truly doomed to not just a date-less wedding, but an empty dinner-table chair beside mine — the shame of a “Miss Anna Broadway and guest” RSVP whose bluff has been called (sniff, sniff).

Possible Plan Bs to choose from (just not Bill Murky)
Now, I can of course put it out to Craigslist (or hope one of the men who ogled my chest at last night’s party is reading this entry), but that would sort of compromise my reform efforts.** Maybe the church classifieds? Hm ... don’t recall noticing a personals section among all the roommate ads before ...

And I can’t go back to eHarmony or Soulmatch.*** People use that site for things like long-term relationships— not month-from-now wedding dates. Besides, all the guys I met were really weird. One Soulmatch dude from LA sent me messages in both Spanish and English far worse than that of Bush. Another guy (off eHarmony) exchanged messages with me a few times, then mentioned he was possibly coming to New York City for a visit — all the way from California. Now if this had been someone I knew, that’s one thing (I’d probably be excited, volunteer my tour-guide services, etc.). But when it’s some weirdo I’ve only barely gotten to know certain basic-but-mostly-useless facts about — and when he furthermore takes offense because I’m cautious and a little weirded out by the whole thing — that’s another story.

Bottom line: since my proposed e-dating club for unfreakish Jesus Freaks has yet to launch, and since other religious matchmaking services are out (at least in terms of wedding dates) I’m doomed. If only there was some sort of Christian Craigslist ... you know, like, Lukeslist (although that sounds too Star Wars) or Paulslist (though feminists would probably rage) or ... Godslist. That would be the perfect venue to find a wedding date consistent with my campaign to reform.

And then there’s Plan C (still not Bill Murky)
Alas, dear readers, since no such venue yet exists, I am forced to reiterate my plea to you. If nothing else, maybe you can send me PayPal donations to fund the purchase of an inflatable wedding date? The upside is, it would certainly lead to most-entertaining photoblogging. And if donations were great enough, I might even be able to spring for a bonafide digicam.**** But on the off chance that one of you is actually prepared to embrace this once-in-a-lifetime chance to be Anna’s date at a DC wedding the very weekend after our nation’s election, let me enumerate certain benefits:
  • Should you journey with me from NY to DC, you’ll find the Chinatown bus service a most reasonable $35 (round trip).
Now, I’m assuming international readers such as Frasier cannot contemplate such a trip at all, but since I have many readers beyond New York, consider advantages for you. New York is a major destination and on some airlines (such as Jet Blue) a fairly affordable weekend jaunt. For such guests, the Anna Broadway handbagger tour package could include:
  • accommodations on the futon in our living room (famously recovered during New York’s 2003 blackout, and subsequently fitted with a brand-new futon pad smartly covered in sturdy, wine-colored canvas) OR housing with one of Anna’s wealthier friends (should you prefer more space, privacy, etc.) OR one of the many fine hostels, hotels and homeless shelters this city provides
  • most meals home-cooked by Anna’s infamous hands-that-also-write-blogs (note: meals taken in the kitchen wherein Anna perfected that dairy-free cinnamon recipe)
  • unlimited, personal tour-guide service provided by the intrepid blogstress herself
  • amiable road-trip conversation during both the to- and from-DC bus trips
  • introductions to an eclectic group of New Yorkers (aka, my friends)
And finally, guests could enjoy the exclusive Sexless tour of the city:
  • visit the church where Anna has met many a stalker
  • scope out the Lower East Side surroundings of Burlesque Bar
  • pound cheap Dos Equis at the famous honky tonk where the porn-career-that-wasn’t was launched
  • stroll the Meatpacking District sidestreet where Anna and Best Friend took in public masturbation
  • visit the lawn where Anna suffered that famous sprained ankle, trying to show off sexy, “athletic hustle” for the Captain’s benefit
  • frequent the Starbucks where Anna met Leather Daddy (guests might even get to meet the man himself and — with luck — the Big Guy)
  • snap a picture with the desk from Anna’s famous days as a stripper
  • take yoga at that center where the celibates wear orange
  • walk the hallway through which reverberates sounds of Anna’s neighbors having sex (if you’re lucky, you might even get to join Roommate and I in determining whether or not she’s faking)
Hey, with an offer this good, I’m sure available weekends will go fast. Don’t delay to book your trip today! And if you’re up for handbagging November 6th, please, please, please let me know before I break down and lower my standards.

An ongoing aural assault
One last matter. As mentioned above, our ground-floor neighbors are proving to be rather noisy. Just tonight in fact, around the normal dinner hour, I was distracted from a nap by the sounds of moaning across the hall. I’m pretty sure it’s the same girl my hapless roommate has heard (first moaning in fine theatrical performance, then shouting in post-coitus argument), and tonight we discussed our suspicion that she’s more than likely faking it — at least the drawn-out, very-imminent-orgasm shouting part. Following tonight’s experience of just-how-thin the interior walls are (though of course the exterior walls are so thick that no one but Verizon customers gets a cell phone signal), I’ve decided that next time a soundtrack is called for. You know, some strategically blasted music that sends a sex-appropriate message.

At first I thought to dig out my Nine Inch Nails CD and play “Closer” — but Roommate thinks this would just encourage them. My second thought, however, is to play the bitter celibate card (maybe I can find some at the yoga center). On that wonderfully eclectic mix CD my gmail-craving reader made is a gem of a song whose singer warbles: “Are we ever gonna have sex again?”

But now, readers, I put it out to you: any other tunes with which the roommate and I can appropriate retaliate? I await your suggestions ... and Anna Broadway handbagger-trip bookings. ;) No By-by-buy for today; put your pennies toward my tote-a-date fund; unless you surprise me, looks the Sexless fake-a-thon (e.g., last week’s Katz’s adventure and cinnasoy experiment) may carry on into November with experiments in fake-man dating.

*Mine being, as well known, considerably less tough than that.
**Not that swearing is required behavior for wedding attendance or part of good-date etiquette ... or that my reform was limited to swearing, but still.
***Which I was, of course,
only trying out for strictly research purposes. I mean, come on. Internet dating? Me?! Nawww...
certain readers not to be named (or, either, their notoriously governed, large state) have dissed my photophone pics.