Unwifeable(37)

I can’t even speak in coherent sentences, my sobs choke me so much.

“I feel so stupid,” I tell the ADA. “I said no, but I still let him do what he did.”

“No. Don’t feel bad,” she tells me. “One woman resisted, and he punched her in the face.”

It turns out he terrorized hundreds of women. I am one of the lucky ones.

Incidentally, if you’ve ever wondered how disassociation works, consider this: I only remembered stomach-churning details (“I want to show you a trick”) from finding my original reporting notebooks. When I went to write this, I still could not remember it, even though I had just typed up the notes.

Pain is a funny thing.

Giving my testimony to the lawyers after the piece runs summons up every shitty experience with men I have had over the course of my lifetime, and suddenly, I am drowning. I feel so much grief for myself and how much danger I put myself in. There is no denying it. I devalued myself so much, and I lost myself in the process.

Later that night, after meeting with the ADA, I attended some stupid publicist party with one of the Real Housewives of New Jersey. I think the one who flipped the table. It is held at the strip club Scores. A shy young bleached-blond girl comes up to me and asks if I want a dance. She tells me it’s her first day as a stripper. I see deep cuts on her arms that are probably not visible to most people in the strip club’s flashing lights.

“What are those?” I ask.

“I used to be really depressed,” she says, smiling at me with empty eyes.

I look at her, at the blankness in her expression, and my heart goes out to her in such a profound way.

“From one girl to another, will you promise me something?” I ask her. “You cannot tell these men about the cutting thing. Just say it was a car accident. You need to protect yourself, okay?”

She nods and proceeds to conduct her business. It’s like I’m getting a lap dance from my goddamned psyche.



* * *




THAT NIGHTMARE DATE is, thankfully, the extreme exception. You don’t end up getting legally deposed after most dates—or having to compartmentalize the trauma they inflict on you in order to move forward in daily life. (One therapist of mine calls these incidents “little t’s,” and I find that such a spunky way to talk about trauma.)

My dating is now kind of a job—and it becomes hard to even keep track.

Winning the award for most bizarre date during this time is the lawyer who after a nice night spent walking around the city suddenly leans over to give me what I expect to be a kiss—then he bites me on the cheek. Hard.

“Ow!” I say. “Jesus. That’s going to leave a mark.”

“So, what . . . you’re into tonguing?” he asks. “You’re, like, into regular Midwestern mainstream stuff?”

Another man is serial-killer-level honest after six or seven drinks.

“I’ll tell you exactly what I want,” he confesses. “My fantasy is to find a woman who’s indescribably hot, she’s a total babe, but then she has this one single flaw. Like a withered hand.”

I spit out my drink. Jesus.

“Yeah, you know,” he says. “Something that makes her just insecure enough so that even though she’s a total ten, I never have to deal with all that hot-girl confidence.”

Oh my God. Dating is so dark. Determined to put myself out there no matter what, I join the dating site Nerve with the username “ucanttouchthis.” Because “fucksalotofdoctors,” “cuttingmyselftofeelalive” and “witheredhand4u” are taken. The pickings are slim—in the sense that guys have names like “rebounding_withbaggage.”

But every few profiles, there appear to be some signs of life.



* * *




“GREAT SMILE,” READS the message from a man named Blaine, a spiffed-up blond who asks to meet for drinks.

“Thanks!” I message back, excited to have a new specimen to dissect.

I wish I could say I believed any of these online dating possibilities made me think true love was possible—but I’m a dating columnist now. My personal happiness comes last.

Blaine and I meet at the Library Bar, a swanky affair looking down on Manhattan. I stand up when he approaches the table. As usual, I am several inches taller. In this case, though, he is far blonder.

Blaine is a kind of New York dandy, with pink socks and a self-satisfied twinkle, which honestly, I would have, too, if I had his obscene amount of wealth.

He is a few years older than me, and he speaks with polite lockjawed disdain. I’m solidly middle class, and when I’m struck by condescension all I want to do is ruin that person’s day. It’s as if the lyrics to Pulp’s “Common People” are swimming through my brain.

Blaine is definitely not impressed by the fact that I write for the Post.

He asks me where I “summer.” I have never been asked this question before, so I imagine that he wonders if I return home to California?

“New York,” I say, straight.

He looks at me pityingly. We exchange numbers, but I do not ever expect to see him again.

When, a few weeks later, I get stood up by a motorcycle-riding Spaniard one night, I text about ten million guys so I can have an instant revenge date. One of the people I write? Blaine.