The Adventures of a Love Investigator, 527 Naked Men & One Woman (22 page)

“It’s like something died but I’m not sure what,” I whisper. “I started this investigation naively thinking I could discover the source of the pure love a man has for a woman.”

I sit on the edge of his desk. He stands across from me, preparing for evening services.

“When I ask about love, married men tell me, ‘I still have things to do with my life. She doesn’t have any goals.’ Is that what it’s all about? Survival of goals?”

Father Paul nods, “In terms of our culture’s values, yes.”

I shiver.

Slowly he drapes a green and gold vestment over his shoulders.

“I asked all the men if they would be willing to die for the woman they love ... and none of them were ... willing.”

“Not
none
,” he says, patiently.

I reach for a tissue from the box on his desk. “Well, a few of them were ... would ... whatever.” Dabbing at my nose, I continue, “I thought that when you loved someone you would do anything for them, even die for them. Where did all the heroes go?” I tell him of the three-percent men.

One busy eyebrow shoots up. He’s impressed. A little buzzer goes off somewhere nearby, and I feel pressed for time. I climb off the edge of his desk. He motions me to stay.

I sit back down and continue, “When I interview a man who’s been happily married for thirty years, and ask him if he would be willing to die for his wife ... When that man answers that there would be no point because his wife has no goals ...” I stop to catch my breath.

The priest approaches me and puts his hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay,” he says. “There was a time, if you have asked that question in 1948, you would have gotten fifteen who would have said no, the rest yes.”

“The heroes in old movies were always willing to risk their lives to save their lady loves. What went wrong?” I ask.

He folds his arms across his chest. The vestments lay in a flap. “The answer is simple: Women’s roles were clearer back then. Women were to be taken care of. It was a man’s job to protect his woman.”

“Well, why did that change?” I stubbornly refuse the obvious.

“The roles have gotten morphed. That’s not a bad thing. We just haven’t come up with a set of norms that really works in equal relationships.”

“Was old fashioned love better?” I ask.

“Not exactly. Not if you’re talking about
the
family values agenda.”

We both smile at the hollow words.

Father Paul adjusts his sleeves and stands erect. “That’s always the easy way to do morality. It worked before, let’s do it again. But it’s no good. It doesn’t take into account the changes that have occurred in our society. We’re trying to drive a horse and buggy beyond the jet age,” he says.

“In reaching for equality, women went from being treasures to being disposables,” I say.

“It’s not that bad,” he laughs. “We’re in a position now where, whatever fad comes along, people jump on it. We use Internet social networking to push each other further away while convincing ourselves we’re drawing closer.”

“So what’s the answer?”

His eyes twinkle. “Right now our value is built around what we accomplish. That’s wrong. Commitment needs to be
the
value. The only safe place for our sexuality is within a committed relationship. Religions never really taught that sex was bad, they taught that promiscuity was bad, which it is. Sexuality
is
dangerous, because a person is extremely vulnerable in that kind of relationship. There are no barriers, it is the most loving act a human being can ever engage in. You have no defense. At that point you are physically, emotionally and spiritually open. We were created for intimacy.”

I wipe a tear from my soggy left cheek.

Father Paul continues, “All the other stuff we use as a replacement for intimate relationships. Most of the men you talked to probably didn’t understand what intimacy is. But they know what success is.”

I think of sports team manager Ben and his man-islands.

“Yes ...” The word comes out all blurbly.

Paul leans on his robe-holder, a podium of sorts. “Men want intimacy, they’re looking for intimacy,” he says. “They just don’t know how to do it.”

He moves to the mirror on the door and checks himself out, then continues to talk to me, adjusting his collar as he speaks. “What men do is substitute work, alcohol, success, or money for intimacy. Up until the ‘60’s women substituted children and keeping the house clean for intimacy. Now women can use the same substitutes that men use. Goals are a way to avoid intimacy. ‘I’ll love you later, first I have this
GOAL
to reach.’”

Little sparks of friction go off in my brain. Have I used work to avoid being close to someone? I think of Sleazy Steve. No. I was completely vulnerable and he trashed my trust. I mentally deny the use of substitutes. Not me. No sir. I was in the moment while he was in my purse. “Men tell me women are cruel now. They say women are tough and unlovable.”

“That’s how they perceive them. Women have discovered the guy-secret. The way to escape intimacy is to become goal oriented.”

I wiggle in my seat, wishing to be excused from what feels like a lecture.

“Why escape?” He asks. “Because intimacy is scary. It’s the point at which we let down all our defenses and take off all of our masks. We give someone the opportunity to say, ‘I really love you. I really take you to myself.’”

His words sting me. Sleazy Steve had the opportunity. I tried to be an oasis for him.

Paul steps in closer. “The painful part is when we do that and they go, ‘nope, not good enough.’”

So how does all this fit in with my quest?

“You okay?” He asks.

“Me? I’m fine ... well, not fine, but ...”

He leaps over my muddle. “So what are the alternatives? In terms of what you’re doing, you’re gathering base information that’s very special, because you are seeing men let down their guard. They’ re being intimate with you. Perhaps more intimate they have ever allowed themselves to be.”

My tears have been building, now they hit like a thunderstorm. The burden of carrying the personal feelings of five hundred men has become too much for me.

Father Paul waits while I have a cry. When I have finished blotting my nose and eyes, and wadding tissues in both hands, he speaks, “The next piece is to say, this is what we do about it. You’ve got a handle on the problem.”

“I do?” I whisper. “But I’m not qualified to have a handle.”

“Right now you’re trying to process a lot of emotions. I can only guess the stories you’ve heard.”

He pats my head. “Step back from it for a while. Rest. Breathe. You’re going to come to the realization that you do have it.”

“What’s
it
?”

“An understanding of love.”

“Me?”

“You’re on the right track. You’ll draw it all together. You probably have the answer already you just don’t realize it.”

I come away from the clergy interview confused and exhausted. My intimacy with five hundred men has left me in need of a soul scrubbing. If I have answers about love, I can’t see them.

“I remember being at her place one Saturday afternoon and watching her put laundry away... and it struck me how incredibly beautiful she was. It was the way she did it all – very caring, very delicate, very feminine. She was folding socks, and she was exquisite.”

~ Sal

I lean against Sal’s refrigerator and cradle a mug that advertises life insurance. I’m not a quitter, but I’m sure I can’t make it to 1,000 interviews. It just won’t happen. Not without me murdering at least one of these guys. The interviewing stopped shortly after Father Paul, that’s when I discovered the mini-exorcist voice that now sits somewhere behind my liver. Whenever a man says something flirty to me the voice repeats its silent bile mantra:
Bullshit. Bullshit.
It croaks just like a frog.

I stare at my coffee, avoiding the look in Sal’s eyes. True friends speak in a shorthand that doesn’t always require words.

“You’re not the same, kid,” he says.

“I was so naïve. I’ll never be that person again.”

“Maybe that’s good. I told you it’s a shitty world. Throw me some stats. Something I can compare myself with. Humor me. It’s a guy thing.”

“You’re telling me how men think? If I told you everything I learned, you’d be crumbled like ash in your own tray.”

Sal reaches out and swings his fist as if to clip me on the cheek. We both laugh.

“Okay, you can tell if a man will cheat based on his food cravings. A guy who loves chocolate stands a ninety percent better chance of cheating. He’s an endorphin junkie looking for the opiates and sense of well-being, produced by either chocolate or an orgasm.”

“Naw ...” My friend looks stunned.

“Or ninety-five percent of the men I interviewed said that the greatest gift a woman could give them was tranquility.”

“That makes sense.”

“What do you think guys said was the sexiest thing a woman could wear?”

“I know this one. My shirt. My business shirt,” Sal smiles proudly.

“You don’t own a business shirt, but yes, you’re right.”

“Gimme some real stuff,” he begs.

“Here’s what I know stat-wise. It’s hard to fit 500 men into categories that’s why I’m not sure if I’ll be able to squeeze them into a book. Let’s call this unprofessional profiling because I’m sure no expert, this is just what listening revealed.

There’s no middle ground with guys in their twenties. They’re either all about what they’re going to do with their lives or else they’re completely adrift. The ones that have goals are often workaholics looking for a mate to fill the missing piece that is the puzzle of their life. They want someone to cover their backs.

If they cross into their thirties without finding a career or the right woman, they can easily become jaded and bitter. They start making excuses for not locking things down. I told you about Mitch, the guy with the RAU’s –
Running Around Units.
He’s just making excuses because he can’t commit and the longer he waits the harder it’s going to be.”

Sal has an empty look on his face. “I identified with Mitch.”

I skip over his comment not wanting to allow him to join the ranks of complainers. “Younger guys fear not being able to make a woman happy. If a friend gets divorced, guys take it very hard. It’s an example of a contemporary failing to hit the happiness target. That’s why guys keep comparing and looking for what the other guy did wrong or right. Men can’t take failure in any form. Women are wired differently.”

“You think women can take failure better?”

“I do. Women are biologically designed to ebb and flow. Aside from true depression, most women have a bit of Scarlet O’Hara in them. ‘After all, tomorrow is another day.’ I’ve found men are more locked in the moment, at least my 500 guys are.”

Sal refills my coffee mug again. I’m going to need a potty break at this rate.

“When a guy gets into his thirties, if he isn’t married, he starts to push very hard to find real love. On the surface he couldn’t care less, but inside he’s very hungry for validation, and every rejection or dead end sends him into himself a bit more. And at this point he’s set in his ways and that makes it tougher. I think that’s why first love marriages do last. They occur before we’re locked into a formula.”

“I’m thirty-two and still flexible. I’m not that set in my ways.”

“Look around you. You’re on a treadmill and it never varies. No offense. Could you give up the cigarettes for a woman? Don’t tell me yes because I know better. If a woman came in here and wanted to make changes... like take down the horror movie posters or ditch the skull coffee mugs, you’d be offended. If she wanted you to join her going to church every Sunday or running in the park on Saturday ...”

He laughs. “Okay so I have
some
habits.”

“Then we get to the forties and those single guys have no more clue than when they were in their twenties. Those professional bachelors have lived for themselves for a couple of decades. They’ve watched their married friends lose themselves in unhappy wedlock and marveled at the few that had sustainable relationships. Single guys in that age bracket are angry at life and at themselves. They really fear commitment. Having a successful career and a happy family are what most men hope to have by the time they’re that age. If a guy’s not happily married, he may start cheating on his wife or buying flashy cars or other mid-life antics. He wants to jump-start his life. By the time a guy’s into his fifties and sixties it’s all about the way things were. He clings to his old music, old clothes, and his old pickup lines. He starts looking for his high school friends and recalling his glory days.”

“I’m getting bummed out,” Sal says.

“You? A big part of it is that it’s in our nature to imagine the ideal picture for our life. Then we frame that picture and we set about to find someone to fit in it. We remember a love that made us happy and we try to replace it. We bend some willing person to fit the frame. And in the end, when they no longer fit, we resent them for allowing us to squeeze them into the picture. We can be our own worst enemies.”

“Confess. Did you find someone to fit in your frame? There had to be one guy in that army of men you interviewed.”

“I’m not looking for a relationship. These were strictly interviews with strangers I would never see again. I didn’t create a package of imaginary qualities for any of them. There wasn’t a single one ... well one, but he was gay. When we meet someone, if we’re open to a relationship we’re willing to zone out all the obvious negatives.”

“Friendships are different, aren’t they?” Sal asks.

“Sure. When you and I first met, we didn’t decide we were going to be close friends. It took time.”

Sal nods.

“Were my first instincts about you right? Yes. But did I imagine a friendship and then shoe-horn you in?” I ask.

“I don’t think so.”

“Another reason romantic love doesn’t last is because we don’t cut each other any slack, not like we do with our friends.”

“Okay. But what about real love? Do you think it’s a unicorn?”