The Importance of Being Picky

Posted by Lex Konrad in Dispatches | Jun 06, 2006

We were at Chris’ new lounge, down on the Bowery. Just the two of us, Leslie sipping at her scotch while I sucked down my gin. “We can go after I finish this,” said I, reaching out to stroke Leslie’s knee.

“Sure.” A young woman walked past us on her way out. “She’s cute,” Leslie said, as if she were commenting on the decor.

I sighed. “Eh.” It’s a people-watching game we play sometimes: one of us points out a woman and the other gives her the thumbs-up or the thumbs-down.

“What? You don’t think she’s cute?”

“Dunno. I’m not into blondes right now.”

“What are you into, then?”

“If I were to look—that is, if I didn’t leave everything up to chance the way I usually do—I’d probably look for a brunette. A tall, leggy, raven-haired beauty with, y’know, a proper ass.” I gazed off into the distance, then noticed the woman standing at the bar next to Les. “Like her, actually.”

“Who?”

“Right behind you, dear.”

Les snuck a glance over her shoulder. “Yeah, she’s hot.”

Les excused herself to go find the restroom. In the meantime I practiced leaning back in my barstool and appearing nonchalant. The raven-haired beauty turned around and smiled at me across the expanse of Leslie’s vacant seat. I immediately recognized her as the very same woman who’d smiled at me shortly after we’d arrived at the bar. I returned the favor, nodding slightly as if to say: “Your move, babe.”

She inched closer, leaning over the stool between us. “So is she your girlfriend or what?”

For the monogamous man the answer is straightforward: you decline the beautiful stranger’s invitation and then titter nervously, quietly cursing yourself over never having been approached by beautiful women when you were single. But for those of us who tempt fate the answer to this simple question is fraught with complications. If you answer “yes” without qualification she’ll likely assume the door is closed. If, on the other hand, you immediately launch into a discussion concerning the particulars of your dating life you risk coming across as a threesome-obsessed sleazebag. Which is not to say that I’m not a threesome-obsesses sleazebag, but there’s a time and place for everything.

And so, feeling a little bit like a time-traveler trying to explain my strange customs to the ancients, I took the latter route. “Well yes,” I said, “but we also see other people.”

I was prepared for her to douse herself in Bacardi 151, set herself alight and run screaming from the bar, but what I saw in her dark eyes was not fear but curiosity. “Like an open relationship?”

“Sort of, except we usually date other people together. The problem is—and this may sound strange coming from a guy—the problem is most women are just looking for a quick romp. It’s like ‘Oh I’ve never done a threesome before; gotta cross that off my lifetime to-do list.’”

She chuckled. “No, I can see how that would be annoying. How old are you, by the way?”

“Thirty-two,” I said. “And, if you don’t mind me asking…”

“I’m in my thirties,” she replied, beaming at me and licking her pouty lips. She must have been blessed with good genes, because when I first saw her I coulda sworn she was in her late twenties. The woman turned away and spoke with her blonde friend. I was about ready to write the whole thing off as a mildly pleasant conversation but then she turned back to me. Out of the corner of my eye I spied Leslie approaching us.

“And you’re not seeing anyone?” I asked.

“No. I just broke up with a married guy who said he was in an open relationship—evidently his wife didn’t agree.”

I laughed, slipping my arm around Leslie, and made the necessary introductions.

She continued. “Yeah, I was stupid to fall for that. I was in a relationship through most of my twenties and just moved to New York a year ago, so I feel like I have some catching up to do.”

“Nothing wrong with that. Now if you ladies will excuse me.” I left for the bathroom as the women started their own conversation. When I returned Leslie was already plugging the beautiful woman’s digits into her phone. Our companion had to take care of her drunk friend and so, after giving us each a kiss on the cheek, she left the bar.

“Funny how that worked out,” I told Les.

“Would you like to go home and fuck?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

More: Seduction | Dating

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