I have dated losers of all stripes. Degenerate gamblers, pathological liars, cheaters, guys who can’t get it up, nymphomaniacs, older guys, younger guys, short guys, out of shape guys, steroid-pumping in-shape guys, musicians, baby daddies and waiters. I even had a brief affair with a Voice Over Artist. Yes, in a world where you can’t find a boyfriend, you have sex with a man who reads out loud – for a living.
Totally shockingly, in this vast, impressive portfolio of Y chromosome mediocrity, I have always ended up with the shit end of the stick. The common thread that weaves all these winners together (deep-seeded dysfunction aside) is the complete ambiguity that defined my relationship with each of them. We dated, often for months on end, but was he my boyfriend? I would be plagued with the flogging inner monologue of a quiz show – question after question after question. What was he doing when he wasn’t with me? How come he drinks so much? Why does he smell like Chanel No. 5 when I wear Stella McCartney? And where did all those track marks on his arms come from?
You know, typical pseudo-girlfriend type worries. Keep reading »