It's a dirty thing to have big breasts. It's a beautiful thing to have a gorgeous face. When men look at a beautiful face, they want to fall in love with you. When they look at a pair of big breasts, they just want to fuck you. Women who get boob jobs to get men interested in them should really be getting face-lifts, nose jobs, cheek implants or some other kinds of facial surgery, if you ask me. So, this is all to say it is difficult for me to have a romantic interaction with a man for the first time.
I met the last guy I dated because he called my apartment by mistake. This has actually happened to me twice. Wrong-number dalliances. Yes, it's odd, but easier than the regular way. There is no physical scariness. Only a "happy accident" that feels like magic, a "meant to be" thing. This has become the best way for a girl like me to meet a man. He just calls by accident and if I have the time or inclination, I'll chat him up. Neither one of us has to put ourselves out there in a vulnerable way. When we meet in person, he already has a grasp on what I'm like, I have an idea of his personality and then it's up to physical attraction. It's truly a fabulous and safe way to meet men. I strongly recommend it. But it only happens once every five or six years.
In that arena, the men are usually attracted to me. I am usually not attracted to them?but last time I was. He was a British guy named Luke who had a cool accent. That always helps in these wrong-number dalliances; an accent is good. He was also a writer, so we had something in common. We had several conversations over the course of two weeks when we finally decided to meet in person. Interestingly enough, Luke turned out to be fat. Very fat. The fattest guy I ever went out with. But I was still hot for him. And proud of myself for that. A trail of muscleboys lay in my past, so I was excited at the prospect of not being as superficial as I thought.
My relationship with Luke did not last long because I think I slept with him too soon. He had pictures of these gorgeous ex-girlfriends all over his living room. Girlfriends he had before he got fat. I remember walking in and out of his apartment not giving a shit who they were before I slept with him. But walking from his bedroom through the living room the first night we had sex, those same pictures made me crazy jealous! I couldn't walk past them without wondering who these women were! Why were they still up after we slept together? What was this? His wall of trophies?
I started thinking that I wasn't hot enough for him. Not hot enough for the fattest guy I ever slept with! Our relationship completely fizzled out.
My therapist is a man. He is well-respected in his field. He is an MD, PhD, wears DKNY suits. After I told him of my Luke fiasco and dating troubles, he told me that I needed to buy The Rules. I couldn't believe someone of his stature and gender would suggest such a thing. But he told me someone had to. It might as well be him. I protested by telling him that I don't play games and I'm not a girly girl and that book had nothing to do with me.
But like anyone who hits bottom and wants to change, I not only bought The Rules, I bought The Rules II. After hours of sniggering at the suggestions of wearing black pantyhose, short skirts, always wearing makeup even if it's just to walk your dog around the block, I reluctantly started doing these things.
Actually, I am breaking a rule by even writing this piece because no one is supposed to know when a "Rules Girl" does The Rules. But it is inherent in who I am to break rules. I am shifty. I wish I could say they are working and I have men falling all over me, but what The Rules does not cover is flirting. As my therapist says, "Before you can do The Rules on them, you have to learn to flirt. Entice them into asking you out. Then you can torture them." So in a way I am back to where I started. Unless I have another wrong-number dalliance, I have no one to do The Rules on.
I am astounded that I never learned to flirt, because I made a living as a stripper for three years. But I guess that was in the world of make-believe where the trolley goes through the Holland Tunnel and I am dancing in some bar in Jersey named Wiggles for King Friday. A whole other story in a whole other world. A world where my breasts seemed small next to the swollen globes of the girls dancing next to me. A world where money fueled my courage to approach a man, bat my eyelashes and coyly smile at him while wearing next to nothing. A world where flirting consisted of me wearing a g-string and bending over in front of a man?with my ass flush in his face.
That is not my world now. And for that I am thankful. But I have often said that ex-strippers are like war veterans who need to relearn how to act in everyday reality. We need training seminars on how to dress in public, how to dance at weddings without touching ourselves or shimmying too much, how to walk in flat shoes, how not to get furious at the beach when men are staring at us and not giving us money. These sorts of things are important for an ex-stripper to learn to reintegrate into society. All that, and flirting too.