Prince charming's been scared off

There was an interesting book review in the Atlantic about how young women aren’t saving for their retirement in the same way that men are. The book proposes, that as women take control of their finances, it’s an admission that the knight in shining armor is not coming and we have only ourselves to ensure our rescue. Hence, many women are reluctant to give up that fantasy in the form of investing in their 401K. I mean, never mind you want to create a nest egg that both you and your knight could share—but I guess that would be an admission that there is a flaw in your hero, and the fairy tale ending becomes more DreamWorks (Shrek) than Disney (Sleeping Beauty).

So in my quest for my knight, a dinner companion, hell, even someone who I don’t have to drink five martinis with in order to be their company, has left me kissing more frogs than I could imagine. Just when I get to the brink of my frustration, and I am relieved to see the semblance of a form of royalty emerge where I lay upon my kiss, I wake up and next to a warty toad. I thought he was a prince because of last night’s combination of alcohol and endorphins, as well as desperation to believe in something. I think I am getting close to that admission of defeat, but the healthy one. On par with those women who begin to deposit money into their 401K for the first time at age thirty. I mean, I have to be prepared when my prince and his horse both show up infected with hoof and mouth disease.

In my drunken social experiment that I pulled with my friend James last night, both of us so emotionally shot from the week’s events, that we needed to be reminded of the depths of depravity of the human condition. We posted an ad on craigslist, “Fuck me on Daddy’s Dime”, the tale of a rich hot ivy educated ex-Div I lacrosse player who wanted to be treated like a slut. Asking for pics, of course because she, doesn’t “fuck uglies.” Within, literally, three minutes we received about twenty responses. And as we pounded more beer, the emails kept coming. We got the requisite dick pics, and of course the ugly fat guys who wank in their basements. But that is standard. I expected the freaks to come out of hiding and proudly send me a head shot along with a dick pic. But what really got me, were the responses from guys who my mom wished I dated. The clean cut guys, smiling broadly while fishing with friends, or at the beach with their family. The “normal” guys sent over snap shots of themselves on vacation and at celebrations as they don’t need the cover of grainy web cam pics.

But, let’s think about that one for a moment, shall we? Men, with their tanned faces, smiling broadly into the camera, resembling family photos that you yourself own, proclaiming Ivy degrees and the coinciding jobs in finance, are trolling Casual Encounters and responding to an ad titled, “Fuck me on Daddy’s Dime.” These “catches” write emails telling me how they want to use their dicks in my (plural) orifices, and one randy over zealous chap offered to use my chest as a commode.

Fucking freaks.

But that’s what throws me for a loop. Honestly, if I met any of these clean cut guys who responded to the ad in a bar or at a friend’s dinner party, I would definitely accept an invitation for dinner from them. With casual encounters offering a glimpse into their seemingly normal minds, it appears that it’s more difficult to spot the guys who will secretly think about giving you a chocolate milk enema, as you trail off on a tangent about why American welfare reform policy doesn’t address the root cause of poverty—lack of access to social networks. Not only do I have to think about how I am going to woo members of the opposite sex, but now I have to be on guard and be on the look out for signs that they are worthy of being wooed. As if dating isn’t anxiety producing enough.

And our neurosis doesn’t stop at wondering if the guy who just picked up the dinner tab is secretly into sex clubs like Le Trapeze or trolls craigslist casual encounters after he drops you on your door step and kisses you goodnight. Even my friends in non-craigslist affected cities still find dating harrowing.

Take my friend, Jessica. A perpetual single girl, she resigned her desire to find mr right. “It’s either the freaks or weirdos who like me!” she would exclaim after creepy guy number forty-seven hit on her at a club. She gave up. Predictably, not long after giving up, a friendship took a turn for the romantic and she finds herself in a relationship. “This is one of the healthiest things I’ve ever been in!” She is quite proud of herself to snag such a great guy and to also have sex on a regular basis with a penis connected to a body as opposed to a remote control. This isn’t the only first that Jessica has experienced because of this relationship—she’s also recently filled a prescription for valium.

“I can’t explain it. When we are together, things are amazing, I know he likes me. It’s only where we are apart or haven’t spoken for a few days, that it somehow starts to go to shit,” Jessica confided to me. “I feel crazy when I’m not around him, what happens if he finds someone else? If in that time period we are apart, he stops being interested in me?”

It’s a common phenomena that I have been seeing with a lot of my friends, and myself included. Perhaps as products of the cell phone generation, we haven’t been able to develop our emotional self-sufficiency. And any that we learned prior to the mass-marketing of cell phones, we’ve forgotten. Modern technology has not only stunted our athletic prowess but our emotional growth as well. When I am in a crisis, I reach for my cell phone and scroll down the list of my phone book, looking for someone to call upon in my hour of emotional support need. When confronted with a relationship, the kind that consumes your thoughts and mood for the day, not only do we need immediate emotional gratification but we need it from the object of our intimacy, the counterpart to the relationship. When we are forced to go without that, anxiety occurs, meds are consumed, and the switchboard lights up—looking for anyone to act as a pacifier until the real deal becomes available.

“That fucking jerk was supposed to call me three hours ago…wait a sec.” The incoming phone number is checked, “Hey, that’s [insert guy’s name] on the other line. Thanks so much for listening to me!” As the tear is wiped from the cheek. Sniffle. Smile. Do everything, to prevent him from knowing that you just went through a touch of the crazy.

Press call waiting button to go back to the guy.

“Hi [insert guy’s name]! Oh, I was supposed to call you back? No worries, it was just a mis-communication. But hey, I am actually at a gallery opening with a friend,” walking into the Korean deli to buy a diet Snapple, “can I give you a call back later tonight?”

By kissing all of those frogs, it’s hard to disconnect their lingering slime upon our lips with what we see before our eyes. . So even if the prince does emerge, we stand in disbelief, unsure if the person there is really him or a warty toad, yet another result of the combination of endorphin high that lust brings and our own pathetic desire to believe in something. Until we know for sure, we continue to run back through the forest, consulting other stories, and trying to figure out which ending this tale will bring.