Hidden-Hand
Don Juan
Hello again, comrades. I was recently reading an issue of Men's Health Magazine (September 2009 issue) and I ran into an interesting article. This is not just some 'run of the mill' article that is seen in most issues of this magazine. This article is a story about a AFC/Nice Guy who meets and befriends a 'Unicorn' (After you read the story you will know what I am talking about). I will not spoil the ending, but just know that you should take what this guy does to this 'Unicorn' and do the opposite. Without further waiting here is the story...
"I have three rules," she told me. We were standing outside, and a gentle mist surrounded us. I thought it was romantic. Just an hour earlier, at a bar, Maggie had pulled my head toward hers for a kiss while reaching into my lap and exploring. She noticed me squirming. This was a public place, after all. (Don't worry, all you Maggies I've actually dated; Maggie isn't her real name.) "Wow," she said. "You really pay attention to people around you, don't you?" "Um," I said. "I don't care when people watch," she said. "I think it makes it more exciting." "Um," I said again. What I thought was, "My poker buddies are not going to believe this!" I was on a second date with this stunning green-eyed brunette, a Broadway-dancer- turned-accountant who was sharing what I assumed were her sexual fantasies as she fondled my private parts.
Now, as we waited for a cab, I suggested we go out a third time. "We'll see," Maggie said.
"Um," I said, yet again.
That's when she shared her rules. "Number one," she said, "no pulling the hair.
Number two, condoms all the time. And number three, no human waste."
I have published three books. I once served as a visiting professor at the Oldest School of Journalism in the world. I know how to say, "Yum, this is delicious, may I have some coffee, too, please?" in Russian, and "I adore you, my little cabbage," in French. I did well on my SATs. About some things, though, I am the shop student who wandered into advanced-placement calculus.
We had sex on our third date. The next morning, I asked if she wanted to hang out that weekend. Brunch, maybe? A movie later? A walk in the park? Questions women had asked me over the years. Questions I had deflected, pretended to not hear, or weaseled out of responding to.
She would love to hang out, she said, but a friend was coming in from out of town, and she wasn't sure what they would be doing. I should go ahead and make plans, and we'd play it by ear. I have "played it by ear" enough times to know that the phrase does not signify strong affection. Which I, to my slight alarm, was beginning to feel toward Maggie.
"Of course you are," said Fredo, my most reliably Cro-Magnon poker buddy. "You almost got a hand job on the second date without even paying for it! Who wouldn't feel strong affection for that?"
Over the next few weeks, Maggie and I attended a yoga class together, and went out to dinner and breakfast, and held hands in public, and talked about family and friends and children and faith and work and books. She also mentioned that "really intense sex is important in a relationship." On our sixth date, when I told her I was happy we had met each other, she suggested we try a threesome. She offered to bring the other woman.
(This might be a good place to point out that I am fully conversant with theories about how the full, unashamed expression of female sexuality is supposed to be threatening to men; that a woman's raw, unfiltered desire, absent any kowtows to male power, is sup- posed to alarm men. This might also be a good point to mention that I want the woman I adore to feel free to express herself, unfettered by traditional sex roles or crippled by male insecurity.)
Of course I was terrified. But I have lately been trying to follow the advice of self-help books, our democratic leadership, and my shrink, all of whom suggest I not mistake my fears and darkest suspicions for anything like wisdom or even a semi-accurate assessment of the world. I needed to believe in hope, in a prosperous future. So she liked sex a lot? So she wanted another woman in our bed? So she countered my invitation to a romantic weekend in the country with a suggestion that we journey downtown instead, "where I know a really cute little shop with nice sex toys"? Why should a healthy, confident guy, secure in his manhood, be afraid of that?
Related question: Why wasn't I that guy? Would I ever be?
Maggie had a soft, tender side. She doted on her niece. She spoke with her parents every night. She shared her acupuncturist's and astrologer's phone numbers with friends. After sex, she hummed tunelessly as she drifted off to sleep, and in the middle of the night, sleeping and mumbling and humming again, she reached out to me, pressing her body against mine.
I did not tell my poker buddies about her tender side. That side is not as salient to guys as "near-hand job on a second date," or "former professional dancer" or "threesome." That's what I told my friends about. The closest I came to confessing my growing unease is when I mentioned to the guys that, on date six, right after the threesome offer, she had asked me to please not call her on the telephone, ever, "because I talk to people all day and I need some Me Time."
The guys' reactions were uniform, though often monosyllabic. "Dude!" they shouted, or grunted. I received high fives and fist bumps. My friend Hank, a banker and a man who referred to women as "horizontal entertainment," feigned tears, hugged me, and whispered, "God bless you, son. You are living my dream. You're living all our dreams."
The third weekend of playing it by ear, I received a text message at midnight on my cellphone. "I'm in the neighborhood," she wrote. "What are you doing?"
I pondered for a moment what kind of message I would be sending if I, who yearned for more hand-holding and cuddling, invited her over. The moment was very short.
The next morning over coffee, I took Maggie's hand. "You know," I said, "I really like you."
She snatched her hand from mine, frowned, and straightened her back.
"What?" I said. "So you can tell me all about your rules on human waste -- which I still don't really understand and don't want to -- and throw group sex into the mix, but you have major trouble with me telling you I like you, is that it?"
"That's it," she said, scowling.
Maggie was wounded, I told myself; she didn't want to rush into anything. She wouldn't be holding hands with me in public unless she felt a special way about me. Her special feelings were terrifying to her. I was sure I could help her learn to trust again. To love again. I told myself things similar to what I suspected a lot of women had told themselves after I had reached out to them, undressed them, touched them tenderly, and then told them it would be better to play things by ear. (I had held hands with some of them in public, too.)
I didn't tell any of these things to my poker buddies, because guys do not admit to other guys that sexually voracious and emotionally distant former professional dancers frighten them. To lots of men, a former professional dancer who wants sex without intimacy represents something as magical and wondrous as a microwave oven that dispenses deep-dish pepperoni pizza 24 hours a day, and cleans itself and which, if you push the right buttons, dispenses sweet, cold, hangover-free beer.
I granted her plenty of Me Time. I didn't phone her, ever. (Even though, when I was with her, she talked to other people on her cellphone quite often.) I didn't make my e-mails too romantic. A month after we had started dating, after sex the previous night so vigorous that I honestly feared my heart might quit ("Why are you stopping?" she'd hissed. "Because I don't want to die," I'd answered), I sent her a message saying, "I kind of miss you." She responded, "That kind of comment gives me anxiety. Too soon. Too soon."
"She's like a unicorn, dude," Hank the banker said. "We all want to believe in them, but no one has ever seen one. You have! Be grateful."
"I have three rules," she told me. We were standing outside, and a gentle mist surrounded us. I thought it was romantic. Just an hour earlier, at a bar, Maggie had pulled my head toward hers for a kiss while reaching into my lap and exploring. She noticed me squirming. This was a public place, after all. (Don't worry, all you Maggies I've actually dated; Maggie isn't her real name.) "Wow," she said. "You really pay attention to people around you, don't you?" "Um," I said. "I don't care when people watch," she said. "I think it makes it more exciting." "Um," I said again. What I thought was, "My poker buddies are not going to believe this!" I was on a second date with this stunning green-eyed brunette, a Broadway-dancer- turned-accountant who was sharing what I assumed were her sexual fantasies as she fondled my private parts.
Now, as we waited for a cab, I suggested we go out a third time. "We'll see," Maggie said.
"Um," I said, yet again.
That's when she shared her rules. "Number one," she said, "no pulling the hair.
Number two, condoms all the time. And number three, no human waste."
I have published three books. I once served as a visiting professor at the Oldest School of Journalism in the world. I know how to say, "Yum, this is delicious, may I have some coffee, too, please?" in Russian, and "I adore you, my little cabbage," in French. I did well on my SATs. About some things, though, I am the shop student who wandered into advanced-placement calculus.
We had sex on our third date. The next morning, I asked if she wanted to hang out that weekend. Brunch, maybe? A movie later? A walk in the park? Questions women had asked me over the years. Questions I had deflected, pretended to not hear, or weaseled out of responding to.
She would love to hang out, she said, but a friend was coming in from out of town, and she wasn't sure what they would be doing. I should go ahead and make plans, and we'd play it by ear. I have "played it by ear" enough times to know that the phrase does not signify strong affection. Which I, to my slight alarm, was beginning to feel toward Maggie.
"Of course you are," said Fredo, my most reliably Cro-Magnon poker buddy. "You almost got a hand job on the second date without even paying for it! Who wouldn't feel strong affection for that?"
Over the next few weeks, Maggie and I attended a yoga class together, and went out to dinner and breakfast, and held hands in public, and talked about family and friends and children and faith and work and books. She also mentioned that "really intense sex is important in a relationship." On our sixth date, when I told her I was happy we had met each other, she suggested we try a threesome. She offered to bring the other woman.
(This might be a good place to point out that I am fully conversant with theories about how the full, unashamed expression of female sexuality is supposed to be threatening to men; that a woman's raw, unfiltered desire, absent any kowtows to male power, is sup- posed to alarm men. This might also be a good point to mention that I want the woman I adore to feel free to express herself, unfettered by traditional sex roles or crippled by male insecurity.)
Of course I was terrified. But I have lately been trying to follow the advice of self-help books, our democratic leadership, and my shrink, all of whom suggest I not mistake my fears and darkest suspicions for anything like wisdom or even a semi-accurate assessment of the world. I needed to believe in hope, in a prosperous future. So she liked sex a lot? So she wanted another woman in our bed? So she countered my invitation to a romantic weekend in the country with a suggestion that we journey downtown instead, "where I know a really cute little shop with nice sex toys"? Why should a healthy, confident guy, secure in his manhood, be afraid of that?
Related question: Why wasn't I that guy? Would I ever be?
Maggie had a soft, tender side. She doted on her niece. She spoke with her parents every night. She shared her acupuncturist's and astrologer's phone numbers with friends. After sex, she hummed tunelessly as she drifted off to sleep, and in the middle of the night, sleeping and mumbling and humming again, she reached out to me, pressing her body against mine.
I did not tell my poker buddies about her tender side. That side is not as salient to guys as "near-hand job on a second date," or "former professional dancer" or "threesome." That's what I told my friends about. The closest I came to confessing my growing unease is when I mentioned to the guys that, on date six, right after the threesome offer, she had asked me to please not call her on the telephone, ever, "because I talk to people all day and I need some Me Time."
The guys' reactions were uniform, though often monosyllabic. "Dude!" they shouted, or grunted. I received high fives and fist bumps. My friend Hank, a banker and a man who referred to women as "horizontal entertainment," feigned tears, hugged me, and whispered, "God bless you, son. You are living my dream. You're living all our dreams."
The third weekend of playing it by ear, I received a text message at midnight on my cellphone. "I'm in the neighborhood," she wrote. "What are you doing?"
I pondered for a moment what kind of message I would be sending if I, who yearned for more hand-holding and cuddling, invited her over. The moment was very short.
The next morning over coffee, I took Maggie's hand. "You know," I said, "I really like you."
She snatched her hand from mine, frowned, and straightened her back.
"What?" I said. "So you can tell me all about your rules on human waste -- which I still don't really understand and don't want to -- and throw group sex into the mix, but you have major trouble with me telling you I like you, is that it?"
"That's it," she said, scowling.
Maggie was wounded, I told myself; she didn't want to rush into anything. She wouldn't be holding hands with me in public unless she felt a special way about me. Her special feelings were terrifying to her. I was sure I could help her learn to trust again. To love again. I told myself things similar to what I suspected a lot of women had told themselves after I had reached out to them, undressed them, touched them tenderly, and then told them it would be better to play things by ear. (I had held hands with some of them in public, too.)
I didn't tell any of these things to my poker buddies, because guys do not admit to other guys that sexually voracious and emotionally distant former professional dancers frighten them. To lots of men, a former professional dancer who wants sex without intimacy represents something as magical and wondrous as a microwave oven that dispenses deep-dish pepperoni pizza 24 hours a day, and cleans itself and which, if you push the right buttons, dispenses sweet, cold, hangover-free beer.
I granted her plenty of Me Time. I didn't phone her, ever. (Even though, when I was with her, she talked to other people on her cellphone quite often.) I didn't make my e-mails too romantic. A month after we had started dating, after sex the previous night so vigorous that I honestly feared my heart might quit ("Why are you stopping?" she'd hissed. "Because I don't want to die," I'd answered), I sent her a message saying, "I kind of miss you." She responded, "That kind of comment gives me anxiety. Too soon. Too soon."
"She's like a unicorn, dude," Hank the banker said. "We all want to believe in them, but no one has ever seen one. You have! Be grateful."
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