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.

Thursday, August 11, 2005

A correspondence conundrum

Best Friend coined this phrase a while back, to describe the men who don’t call when they say they will — or just stop calling. They don’t get over you, they don’t get hit by a taxi or suddenly join the Marines ... they go to the Island of Lost Men.

We’ve had many such casualties to that place over the years. Francophile Filmmaker, definitely (though I barely noticed his departure), the Funny Man, 5% Man and so on. Jose no Dinero was definitely one of those casualties ... until Monday.

Monday, when he mysteriously responded to an email sent to him nineteen months ago. The email I sent in response to a charmingly long and rambling phone message he left from the airport en route to, well, his country. The phone message he left in response to my phone message left in response to ... well, nothing, actually, except his silence for the week after we exchanged peck kisses and phone numbers.

But you see, his hotness was so great, and his eligibility so blue chip (hell, he even told me the primary reason he lives in New York is to find a wife! This from a former pro-soccer player, no less [fans self]) ... that I simply couldn’t let things go at that. (Control issues? Me? Nevah ....)

So ... when it turned out text messages from Best Friend were mysteriously not making it to my phone, what was a level-headed girl to conclude but that her phone was in the midst of serious malfunctions? Serious malfunctions which, surely, prevented her from receiving voicemail notifications.

And what if Jose no Dinero had actually called? What if the silence was not based on actual silence on his part, but the malfunction of my phone?!! I wouldn’t want him to think I was insensitively blowing him off, after all. Not after talking and sharing pizza until 3 a.m. Not after bonding over burlesque. Not after exchanging a fairly chaste peck kiss!!

So, readers, I did the only honorable thing possible in view of my phone difficulties. I called him up, explained that my phone was malfunctioning, and therefore any messages he might have left for me had probably — gasp — vanished to the cruel caprice of technology.

Of course I got his voicemail. But my message was enough to prompt his rambling phone message, in which he left his email address, to which I send sent my rambling and whimsical message ... to which he responded with silence, for the first nineteen months.

Even he acknowledged the oddness of such a message as he sent Monday. But hey, as his signature reminds, “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

The question is, readers, what am I to make of this? Is he more desperate than ever in wife-seeking? Has he learned a few secrets about that girl he let get away? And then there is the most pressing question: what am I to write? Do I keep it strictly professional, yakking about his business? Fill him on the latest with my sis (whom he met)? Remind him that I keep in touch with the Comedian, the bud in whose documentary short he has an appearance? Inform him of my book deal? Or keep it short and casual?

The possibilities are endless. I just might have to wait 19 days before I hit on a suitable reply.