From The Greatest City in The World

There are well over three quarters of a million single women living in New York. Not to mention those who are already in a relationship or soon to be out of one, that are game; if they don't say, I don't ask. If you get creative, you can multiply that by considering online dating. You can feel adventurous suddenly and book a trip to your native land, where women are just eager to meet foreigners coming to this ravished nation –from anywhere they may stem, let alone those who come from the most advanced civilization, certainly the most prosperous and economically viable nation on earth… the cream of the crop, the good old United States of America.

Take into consideration that I stand six feet one inch tall, am semi-built, easy on the eye, with a sex appeal that’d make me like a mundane version of… oh, I don’t know who, but did I mention I am fashionable and just as equally important smart and yet not nearly as egotistical as I sound? But you probably already knew that since I am so well-versed. Perhaps more importantly, I am in the prime of my life –neither too young or too old, ripe for the competition, even have some money saved, steady work and whenever I walk into a bar, I know how the hottest chicks feel like: all eyes in the room directed in their direction, libidos aroused, whisperings running rampant around, heads slightly tilted and turning everywhere.

Early on in our formation we find that, yes, we are part of that select breed of the human spectrum considered beautiful. It happened to me when I was young, always heard my mother say I was quite handsome, but even Millhouse’s (from the Simpsons, particularly the part where Millhouse wants to impress Lisa) mother says that a lot. How did I actually start to believe my own hype? I really never did, in fact I feel, like most beautiful people, that I am not all that much, that I am just slightly above average. But one day, when I was twelve years old, I walked into a junior high school in a childhood neighborhood, and the man greeted me and asked if I was such and such person. I was astounded, did not know the man, and he said he was a friend of my mom’s and that she had said that he’d recognize me when he saw me.  Accordingly, my mother had told him that when he saw the best looking guy there, that’d be me. It took me years to assimilate the idea that I am, after all, a good looking guy. Nowadays, there’s hardly any doubt of it in my mind. Sure, like all lookers, I am well aware of my own aesthetic limitations, but that’s another story altogether.

And so, why is it that an appealing male in the prime of his life, living in the most productive land on earth, solvent and disease-free, has any emotional dilemma tonight? Why is it that we get fixated on a singular mating target, when there are hundreds, if not theoretically thousands, of fresh meat out there? When does having a whole lot of something suddenly mean nothing when you yourself have mental scarcity? It may well be that I am either not nearly as good looking as I set myself out to be or I’m just being downright cynical about it. Sure, you may have what it takes, but that’s hardly all that’s needed. Because just as you’re sure of yourself, so is the other hundred guys who read your manuscript and have adopted your donned-one ways. And so, I decided to be more than just another pretty face, and I was successful at it: I started exercising more than ten years ago; I am in respectable shape, added loyalty and sarcasm to the overall mix. I don't do what people tell me to do, I don't think twice before putting someone, especially a woman, in their place, if they step out of line. That adds, more than looks, character to your personal aura. You have a way with girls for quite sometime now, ever since you, out of boredom, decided to google the simple yet illuminating question: "What do women want?" 

It turned out that, no one knows, and it turns out that, it doesn't really matter. What matters most is your mission in life, said some David Daida -or was it De Angelo? Anyhow, I took a quantum leap in personal desirability: out of curiosity, I learned and practiced, over and again, those traits that women find more appealing in a man: confidence, discretion, loyalty, patience, body language, rapport, among others. I found that if I gave too much attention, I got none, and mind-boggling as it was, it turned out to be that as I became more and more immersed in my own experience, my own goals and ambitions, my life... that I automatically became more and more attractive to women. It always surprised me how us men obsessed over them yet rarely, if ever, took the time to find out anything more about our sexual counterpart, the female gender, other than her anatomy. I found that I was being girly in my projection, and that having been raised by a lonely, desperate woman had made me so. Then I stumbled upon the principle of taking charge and being accountable, therefore I could no longer blame mom for my shortcomings. At every turn, I faced a straight like an arrow shot at greatness and I always found some clandestine alley where I'd wander off in yet another existential turnaround. What I wanted mostly was, to know what older men knew before I got to be, well, old! And I guess I succeeded at seeing that it didn't really matter what made me more, because it stemmed from insecurity, therefore the very question of self-worth is in and of itself a crystal-clear predicament that our envisioned path has been rerouted, or that we went for a walk and found ourselves at a crossroads or, worse yet, at a dead-end. 

Why am I here, debating whether I should go looking for her -or not. I should either look for her or abandon the very thought of it for something far more precious and cool: a night outing in the most amazing city the world has ever seen. That is New York, not Los Angeles. And so when, out of the purple moon, Connie called to ask if I wanted to go to L.A. and I jumped at the very suggestion, I guess what I wanted more than anything in this world was the opportunity to see my youngest son again, never mind L.A. is more than five hours away and I hate flying, I have flown more this year when I have been estranged from my son than in any other of my life so far. No, the girl I should be looking for does not have a child of mine and I thought it was more than coincidental of Connie to mention that she'd want to go to L.A., when just recently my dearly beloved absent girl friend of mine, the one that I should be looking for, mentioned something about missing L.A. I took it as her saying that New York hadn't been all that great ever since I left the picture. So, I left it at that and gave her a Like on her status. But phoning, or texting her, on a Saturday, no, no, no... that's a no-no in my book. 

I ought  to throw the book like I have done with her. I ought to go with the opposite of what I know-it-would-work and start practicing the less than appealing, more humane neediness that permeates from within, and just get it all over. Nothing would make a girl run faster than finding out that, on a night such as this, it is her who is in your mind and that you'd rather watch mindless movies and listen to music you'd never get to hear with her for now, because it reminds you of her. That the city, the greatest that ever lived, New York, the one I fell for even before the plane that brought me landed, isn't nearly as attractive and wholesome as it used to, and that a local bar infested with regulars and very few thrills makes me more at ease and together than anything just because it's only a few blocks away from where she'd be sleeping tonight. It just boggles me that there is some unknown technique that would land me her, just not in shape, body or form, and definitely not tonight.