"So, who are you dating?"

"Nobody." I smiled when I said it and swallowed what was left in my glass.

Stephanie poured more wine and looked at me from across the table. She was waiting for an explanation.

"I don't trust my own judgment on the matter these days," I admitted. "So, I took myself out of the game for a bit."

Not like I have to tell you, but I don't exactly have the best track record with men. Worse yet, the ones I have never even written about may just be the saddest feathers in my cap. Among those, the Three-Minute Man and Disappointing David* in particular, left me questioning not only my decision-making skills, but my sanity as well.

"I’m not really one to entertain regret," I told her. "But, I've had to come to terms with my recent man disasters. And I think that it's better if I just don't for a while."

"What about…" She asked about someone I'd met a while back. Her tone suggested that hopefully, he was not one of those disasters.

"Never saw him again,” I said.

“What an asshole.”

I shrugged as though to say, Eh, maybe not.

I have never been one of those girls to adopt any sort of hardcore relationship rules; I was always too afraid of coming off as demanding and naggy or worse, needy. God, that’s such an ugly word. Needy. But the flipside is just as ugly. You get what you pay for, and the less you expect out of a man, well, the less you get.

And as for being ‘understanding’ about shady behavior? That’s really a crock of shit. I wasn’t being understanding; I was being hurt and disappointed and too proud to admit it. But damn if I didn’t appear to be the very model of a modern gal taking advantage of nontraditional relationships.

But when I found that, in the end, I was left with nothing more than a handful of unsatisfying three-month relationships and a couple of one night stands, I had to pull the breaks. I was bored with making the same mistakes and reopening the same old wounds. I was bored with myself.

Now, don’t misunderstand. I said a couple one night stands. I’m a girl with a healthy appetite for and attitude about sex, but I'm no floozy. Maybe I don't sport date because I'm not capable of it (I think my multi-tasking skills shut off when I leave the office). My preferred dating strategy has always been this: meet someone I like, try it out, and if it doesn't work… start all over again. Lather, rinse, repeat. I’ll admit that there’s still nothing I'd like more than to meet a nice man who'd come to stay for while.

But these days, I'm not open to meeting anyone. Not even the nice ones. I told Stephanie as much.

"I think that's fine – to focus on other things for a while.” She brought up work and writing and other things that deserve a bit of obsessing over. “Just so long as you're not closing yourself off."

"Hmmm.” I considered it for a split second. “Well, that's exactly what I'm doing."

* Not only has the name been changed, but just so you know, the moniker has absolutely nothing to do with sex. Ya big pervert.

I have never been one for picking up strangers -- in bars or anywhere else. But lately, it seems I can’t walk away from a night out without the phone number or business card of some new interest. Last week it was Elisa and Ingrid at Ben’s roof deck party. Last night, Penny at a charity function at Cipriani. Laughs were had, cards exchanged and plans made to get together “very soon.”

That’s right. I’m pickin’ up chicks. It’s Girl Dating, and right now, it’s giving the real thing a run for its money.

Girl Dating is everything I grew up thinking dating dating would be (you know, minus the heavy petting. Rarrr!). It’s breezy! It’s fun! It’s compliments and coincidences. I loooove your skirt, and Get out! I used to go there when I was a kid!

It’s laughing and eating and talking – about real life, the things that matter. Small talk gets abandoned even before brunch plans are made, and promises of, I’ll call you next week for drinks are meant and kept.

There’s even flirting. Women do that with each other, you know. It’s all for a different purpose, of course, but we still display our charms like peacock feathers, meant for enticing the other to like us even more.

As if that's even necessary.

These are smart, strong, gorgeous women. They have ambition, common sense and unbelievable flair. Were I meeting men of this caliber, I’d be head over heels, humming wedding marches and plucking the petals off of daisies in the classic, he loves me, he loves me not fashion.

So, where are the men that match these women in status, intelligence and looks? Oddly enough, I do not care. The big white wall calendar behind my desk is filled with hastily scratched notes: Drinks with Stephanie. Brunch with Penny. Elisa CD Release.

Who has time for real dating, when I’m spending my evenings in complete social comfort with people I already know I like? Don’t misunderstand me. I love men. LOVE them. They’re just so… complicated. And I will get back to that racket one of these days. Because if not… well… I mean, I can just see my future unfolding before me.

I’ll end up a spinster, dying alone with my cat… and more girlfriends than The Fonz.

Heeeeeey!

One night over dinner, talk turned to personality quirks. He had an almost obsessive-compulsive need to keep his house stocked with extra toothpaste and toilet paper. Dozens extra. I had time zones in my apartment. The only clock that was set to real time was the computer. The microwave clock had a five minute late cushion, and the bedroom was set an absurd 44 minutes ahead, so I could snooze freely in the morning.

“I’m never really fooled, but it still helps.”
“That’s stupid.” He sounded annoyed and I didn't like the way he was looking at me.
“What?” I asked not because I han't heard him but to give him a chance to recant, or at least change his tone. He did neither.
“That’s really stupid. You should set it to the right time.”
“It’s not stupid…”

I said nothing more, and instead turned my attention my plate, pushing pink salmon flakes around with my fork, while warning bells went off in my head. I’d only been dating John a few weeks, so I didn’t know him well. But Control Freak certainly wasn’t one of the labels I’d picked out for him. He’d been a perfect gentleman, lauding me with compliments, calling when he said he would. Sending flowers.

He was thoughtful and… obviously ridiculously uptight.

And so, a couple weeks later, when he broke things off and blamed an entry about an ex in my blog that he didn’t particularly like, I was none too surprised. Or upset. The man had called me stupid! If he wanted to know why I’d begun to act… cagey after that, it might have occurred to him that calling your date stupid wasn’t too smooth of a move. And maybe (just maybe) I’d written that post to test his mettle. You never know. Passive-aggressive is the new straight up. He’d said he wasn’t reading it – you know, to give me my privacy and freedom to write. But I’d had my suspicions that maybe (just maybe) a man that hung up on the numbers on my alarm clock would have a few other issues with my freedom of expression.

I won’t go so far as to say this man is going to die alone with an enormous collection of personal hygiene products. He had plenty of nice qualities. But he did break it off over email and refuse to discuss it when I phoned him. Which, amusing as that is, kinda makes a girl want to say (ever so civilly of course),

“This is why you’re forty and single.”

I had porn hair.

Glancing at my reflection in his mirrored closet doors, I remember thinking, “I have porn hair.” There was really no other way to describe it. I also remember wincing; knowing just what kind of pain and effort was going to be involved in undoing that mess. Friction had not been my friend. I rolled over.

Joe, I have porn hair.
You have porn lots of things.
Flattering.

We lay there, naked as newborn rabbits, staring at the ceiling, my cold foot against his warm calf, his hand resting on my ribcage. Candles flickered against the walls. The recessed lighting he’d installed glowed dimly against chrome hardware. In the ceiling. I looked closer.

That’s some pretty serious hardware for hanging plants.
Mmmmm… not for plants.
You don’t! You have a sex swing?

His hand slid off my stomach. He crawled to the edge of the bed and hung over, dragging a box from its hiding place. He did indeed have a sex swing.

You’re a bad Sex and the City episode!
C’mon! I haven’t even used the thing yet. I just thought it would be fun.
Jesus.

Suddenly, I felt like the prude in wolf’s clothing. Porn hair I could do. But a sex swing? I was not dating a man with a sex swing! And I wasn’t really, because the man who owns a sex swing is not the kind who dates. He is the kind to say, after a month or so, “I’m not ready for a relationship.” I knew it then at that moment. He got up to dress.

Standing in front of the closet, mirrors pushed to one side, his white boxer briefs glowed in stark contrast with his dark skin. On went the uniform. There he stood, a wolf in another sort of clothing altogether. I considered the swing.

My month wasn’t up yet. So I pushed aside the prude and I took him right back out of his uniform. There was no sense in wasting porn hair.