The Adventures of a Love Investigator, 527 Naked Men & One Woman Read online

  “It’s fine, fine.” He waves her aside, gently.

  “Oh, I forgot your food,” she tells me off-handedly. “Be right back.”

  I shoot her my best glare just as Martin Scorsese steps between us and settles in the booth behind Kurt. Martin – Holy Cats! – Scorsese. I forget about the ditzy waitress and I forget about my food. One of the all-time greatest directors is breathing the same pickle-scented air as me. I bite my lip and try to concentrate.

  Kurt continues. “I know there are other women out there who might be more my physical type, you know, bigger women. I’m a big person and Annie is small. I think that you can have everything you want in life, but if your vision of what that is, is attached to some picture ... you’ll probably get disappointed.

  “There’s a certain distraction that I see in all my single friends. They could be twenty or forty, they could be sixty-whatever. They’re always chasing this elusive train. They never really get to where they want to get to in their lives because they’re always chasing this thing they don’t have. Even with sex, if you think sex is going to be this big ‘pay off in a relationship, you’re out of your mind. The payoff is in hanging in there. When you really start to build that friendship that can’t be broken, no matter what, that’s the pay off.”

  I feel my eyes sliding to the booth over his shoulder and force myself to look at Kurt.

  “Annie and I have the ability to create a new relationship every time it gets old. Soon we’ll be ready to have a baby.”

  “That’s great,” I say as I sneak at full-on peek at Marty. Someone in dark glasses has joined him. My imagination goes loopy. The new guy’s got jet black hair and high cheek bones. The air around him crackles with energy. What if it’s Johnny Depp?

  Kurt stretches one leg and tips back in his chair. “Annie and I need to change. We don’t want to have a kid built on the old relationship. It won’t work. We need more of a commitment, with a common thread that the relationship hangs on that allows us to swing and dangle without breaking.” I try to pay attention. What would Barbara Walters do?

  The mysterious stranger slowly removes his shades. He’s not Johnny. Darn.

  I return to Kurt and our interview. “Why have you lasted this long with Annie? Can you sum it up for me?”

  “‘Cause she was my first love, and you can’t replace that,” he says. The words are soft and sexy as they leave his lips.

  Kurt and I shake hands as I thank him for the interview. Marty gives me a questioning look as I stand to leave. Maybe there’s something familiar about me? Maybe he’s casting for a role that Goldie Hawn turned down? I hesitate thinking I could ask him if I might schedule an interview with him. And in that moment of my hesitation, ‘Not Johnny’ picks up the thread of their conversation. Now it would be rude to interrupt. She who hesitates loses Scorsese.

  Female heads turn as Kurt and I exit. It’s always nice to be followed by a hunk. Great for a girl’s ego. It beats wearing the latest fashions.

  Once on the street, Kurt heads right and I turn left. I do heel-kicks in the parking lot. Oh happy day. Annie was Kurt’s first love and they’re still in that magic zone.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Fasten your seatbelts as we begin to time hop.”

  ~ Barbara Silkstone, Love Investigator

  You’re wondering how I zip from the cancer-inducing environs of Sal’s apartment to lunch with a hunk in Jerry’s Famous Deli. After I choke down Sal’s coffee, which might also be cancer-inducing, he gives me a list of eight guys he thinks are willing to be interviewed. I call the first name on the list and trot out with my trusty tape recorder and a feeling of excitement. My project, my journey, is underway.

  The thought of sitting alone with strange men in their man-caves doesn’t frighten me, but I’m happy my first interview is in a public place. What does scare the bees out of me are the freeways. I sit behind the wheel of the little rental car and accelerate up the on-ramp into the mass of aggressive metal wondering if I’ll survive the notorious southern California traffic.

  The rules for the interviews are simple. I sign a one page agreement with each man promising to never divulge their names and to disguise their identities. Otherwise, I’m free to use anything they say. Their only obligations are to tell the whole truth and not hit on me. We agree to have no further contact after our meeting. My thought is if they know they have no future with me they’d be more likely to open up and get completely naked, emotionally.

  My interviewing uniform is a sweater, jeans, and black boots. I don’t want to look judgmental or shrink-like by wearing a business suit. And a dress of any sort might convey vulnerability. The men should be completely at ease in my company.

  The great interview with Kurt increases my excitement. He opens up and confirms my feeling that first love can’t be topped. This is going to be a piece of cake and a lot of fun. Well not so fast, frog eye. I don’t realize that my first interview is not exactly a pattern for how things will go.

  One interview leads to another and the eight willing men soon become eighty spread across the country. I feel a little like a cop who volunteers for a dangerous investigation – part translator, part emissary, part spy.

  I’m hardly qualified for such a critical task. I’m not a clinical psychologist or a self-help guru. I have no institutional pedigree to announce me. I’m simply a woman looking for answers, trying to find my way back to trusting men, to trusting myself.

  The lack of letters before and after my name allows the men to relax and speak freely, that and my promise of anonymity. I can be their wife or girlfriend or sister. But the good part is I’m not. I’m merely an unknown lady they’ll never see again.

  The men are waiting with open arms, if not necessarily for me, for some woman, a surrogate everywoman, who will listen and learn. All I have to do is sit there. I give them the gift of being the center of the universe for the space of one interview.

  And I do find out – why we love who we love. I also discover in listening to other people, we often learn about ourselves. In the beginning, I have my work cut out for me with guy-gal communications being so gummed up. Many times I see the picture the men didn’t see and a few times I even encounter guys who seem to know the secret. I become a quick draw artist with the tape recorder, crossing demographic lines at will.

  The interviewees range from an eighteen year-old high-school graduate and short order cook, to a thirty-seven year-old film producer, to an eighty year-old retired business executive, married fifty-five years and the grandfather of six. I travel coast to coast and back again paying my own way and taking tons of time off from my career as a commercial real estate agent. I’m hot on the trail of true love no matter the cost.

  Businessmen, lawyers, doctors and judges, construction workers, car salesmen, private detectives, and exotic fish dealers, film directors, producers, writers, musicians, street hustlers, celibates, transsexuals, priests, rich men, poor men, beggar men, and thieves, they all open up to me. I figure it will take a year to interview 1000 men – one on one.

  I meet men who have sex with married women, and men whose wives have sex with other men. There are multiple generations within the same family and men who have only ever known broken homes. I listen to men who have no idea how to approach a woman, and men who have it down to a science. I discover many men who went to unbelievable lengths in search of love.

  And far from the strong silent stereotype that we’re trained to expect, this wildly different cross-section of American men invariably start spilling their souls before I even have time to hit the record button. I know it’s been a good interview if I hear – “I told you things I’ve never told a single person, not even my wife. Thank you. This has been very good for me.” I don’t smoke, but many times I felt like lighting up afterward.

  It’s an extraordinary experience. Never once does it occur to me I might be in any danger – physical or emotional. I keep a steady course despite wanting to strangle some of the men, some o
f the time. I laugh and cry with them – often in the space of a single interview – as I vicariously experience their joys and victories, and their dreams and nightmares.

  The results of my journey you hold in your hands, the characters homogenized and blended, disguised to protect their lives. For a single period in time these men have a woman with no strings attached focused completely on them. I have no excuse and no explanation for what they confess. I’m willing to listen and they’re more than willing to share. I’m not qualified to comment on their feelings. I’m just a woman who became a love investigator. All I can say is: this is what I heard – this is what I felt – this is what I perceived.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “This happens all the time. These girls will go out on my boat with me, take off all their clothes, make me have sex with them and then when we’re done, tell me ‘I’ve got a boyfriend, forget it.’”

  ~ James, 49, single

  Case 93 / James

  An Atlanta Singles Club offers a class in “How to Get Married in a Year.” I’ve been at this for a year and know by now where the more interesting characters hang out. The registration line is long and I feel breath on my neck. The hot air belongs to James. He’s successful, good-looking and driven to marry. He’s eager to be heard and quickly schedules an interview.

  The following day James and I are eating take-out at the coffee table in his living room. This real estate agent’s home is a pleasant brick ranch on a tree shaded street in Buckhead, a pricey neighborhood just outside downtown Atlanta.

  I look away as he forces another bite of sandwich, mayo oozing, and continues to tell me his tale. “This girl I had been dating for six months broke up with me and went back to her old boyfriend. As she went out the door, she asked if we could still be friends in case her relationship didn’t work. She wanted to keep me available while she ran off with someone else.”

  James swallows the mouthful of turkey sub that’s been choking his words and touches a paper napkin to the blob of white that clings to his lower lip.

  “She tells me, ‘I think you’re such a great guy. I want to be able to come crawling back to you in case this other thing doesn’t work out.’

  “This happens to me all the time,” he grumbles. “We start going out. We become intimate. Then the woman tells me about her past boyfriends.”

  He gnaws on the sandwich again. “One woman was in her early thirties. She said her ‘ex’ was an ‘older guy’ like me. I’m forty-nine. He shakes his head in disgust. “Old... And I’ve never been married. Can you believe it?”

  Initially, no, but I was in the process of re-evaluating my first impressions.

  He continues, “We went out for a couple of months. Things were going fine. I started talking about something we might do over the summer. We might go boating. And she just flinched. My intuition told me something clicked in her mind that she didn’t like when I mentioned that.”

  He’s having trouble swallowing and pauses to wash down the sandwich with a slug of Diet Coke. “I asked her what was wrong and she said her old boyfriend called her up. He wanted to get back together and she was going to give him another try.” The words fly in a torrent. He barely stops for a breath.

  I mentally rehearse the Heimlich maneuver, just in case.

  “I told her to call me if things didn’t work out with him. That was the end of it. I never heard from her again.”

  James looks at me for a response. I hide behind a bite of my pastrami sandwich as he races on. “And then I met another woman. I fell head-over-heels in love with this girl. She was separated from her husband and in the process of getting a divorce. I flipped out over her.”

  He swigs his Coke. “To make another long story short, she went back with her ex. I’m starting to get tired of all my girlfriends going back with their old boyfriends and ex-husbands.” The rest of his words are lost in another mouthful of turkey.

  His cell phone rings a jarring computerized jingle. It’s a call from his office. He dispatches it quickly and we return to his problems.

  “Why haven’t you ever married?” I ask, leery of the temper I sense lurking under the surface.

  “I haven’t found the right woman and that gives me huge periods of real depression and loneliness. Maybe I’m too picky. I just don’t feel like my married friends can relate to me anymore because they have families there for them. I don’t and it’s extremely difficult to be alone in a world of couples. I sometimes get furious ‘cause I feel short-changed by life.”

  The thought of telling him that he needs to mellow crosses my mind. But I don’t know that for sure. I’m no expert. Just here to listen.

  “When I was thirty, I was just the most immature little puppy toad you ever did see. I’m a late bloomer. I wasn’t even close to being ready for any long term serious relationship. I didn’t have my shit together. Now I’m way beyond that. I do have my career, and my life, and my shit together ... if I could only find some willing woman to love.”

  Is love defined as someone who is willing?

  I have no words of encouragement. I think of my female friends and wonder if any of them would be ... willing?

  Mr. Real Estate Success Story gives me a hurting look. He has no idea why he’s still on the market. He’s appears uncomfortable with my clinical stare. “What?” He asks.

  An idea bubble forms over my head – this dude feels safe in picking up what other men lay down. He’s never “out there” risking commitment – not when the chances are excellent that the woman he chooses will return to the other guy. He’s looking to lose from the beginning. Wow. I’m getting good at drive-by analysis.

  James excuses himself and returns with a framed photo of a smiling woman – a digitally enhanced picture of a female in full war paint – lashes and cheeks professionally made up and big hair that might snap at a touch.

  “This is, or was Mina. She went back to her husband.” He places the picture on the coffee table, sits down, and stares at it as if willing it to life.

  “Once I fall in love it’s hard for me to fall out. It’s hard for me going in and harder coming out.” He looks at the ceiling, a glint of grease perched on his chin.

  Still staring upward, he speaks. “There is nothing I would like more than a monogamous relationship. I’m known in certain circles for being the biggest damn tom cat and the biggest heartbreaker playboy type, which is ridiculous.”

  I silently agree.

  He snaps back and makes eye contact with me. “You know, my boat’s docked at Holiday Marina on Lake Lanier.”

  Oh, oh ... Where’s this going?

  “Why don’t we just run up and take the boat out for the day?”

  “Thanks. I have another interview this afternoon. Besides, I like to keep a professional distance.”

  “Yeah, I get it.” His voice takes on a testy tone.

  I glance at the front door and fire my character defining question at him, “Would you die for the woman you loved?”

  “That would be kinda stupid,” he answers. Without a second thought, he eyes my pastrami. “Can I have a bite of your sandwich, since you’ve obviously stopped eating it?”

  I hand over my sandwich, icked at the thought of my DNA touching his mouth.

  “Well, thanks for the interview. Don’t get up, I can find my way out.” I feel the need to be on the other side of his door – now.

  Mr. Lonely follows me, continuing to talk even as I back down his driveway. In my haste, I forget to take the parking brake off. Creep.

  Shaken but not stirred, I continue my investigation, sorting through the men of Atlanta. I have twenty-seven more interviews set for the city that gave us Rhett Butler and Gone with the Wind.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “I would love to find a woman I could be weak with.”

  ~ Rick, 24, single

  Case 119 / Rick

  For two months I’ve made Atlanta my home base. I was even able to do a small real estate deal while I spent time visiting another
buddy. My guy friends love to hear my tales from the male underbelly. It makes them feel superior.

  I sit at a small sunlit table in a hotel restaurant on Peachtree Street. Rick, my latest interviewee, like ninety-percent of the others has been referred to me by a previous interviewee. I imagine I’m the best kept secret in guy-world.

  Rick is African-American, twenty-four, with copper colored skin and deep brown eyes. We have a short time to talk before the lunch hour crunch. We’re five minutes into the interview and I learn he’s from a good home that sat on the wrong side of the tracks.

  “When I came to Atlanta for my new job, I didn’t really have family or friends here. Everything I have is at home in Pittsburgh, everything I loved or that loved me. I grew up in a single parent household. I watched my mom work at least two jobs at once to support us.”

  He seems to be deciding how much of his story to share. “With me being in love with Aileen and her deciding to stay with her family, it was a very sad time for me. I really had to get into myself and stay focused on my reasons for coming here.

  “I was at a point where I could turn back or I could go forward. One of the reasons I went forward was Aileen’s decision not to come with me. It was clear we didn’t have a strong enough foundation. He speaks softly, hungry for intimacy of any kind. I prepare myself emotionally. These interviews have become roller coaster rides where I have no control over how long or how low they go. The lows are so low that they frequently derail me, emotionally.

  The waitress brings our coffee. Rick continues, “I want to accomplish the ability to buy time. So many people don’t get a chance to do whatever they’d like to do because they don’t have the time. That would have been my gift to Aileen ... time. A person who’s successful has the ability to make money to the point where even when they’re resting, they’re earning money. And that gives you the chance to grow, the time to love.”