Ladies, would you like to know what men are really thinking? To know what really lurks behind their incomprehensible, often hurtful behavior? Would you like to know “what makes guys tick?”
Guy is a 38-year-old man living in New York City who has had several successful long-term relationships. Here, he offers what he’s learned. You may send your questions in to DearGuy@observer.com.
I met this man on the L train and he looked very nice, and wasn’t creepy at all, he was carrying a Kurt Vonnegut novel. He asked, so I gave him my number. He called that afternoon and we went to dinner the next night, had a really nice time, spent hours getting to know each other and laughing, he told me he was happy he met me, and he put his hand on the small of my back when we walked out of the restaurant. All signs were looking good! He asked me out for that weekend and we went to a party a friend of mine was having. He was very sweet, brought a bottle of wine, was charming with my friends and was very attentive to me during the party. He walked me home and we spent the night together. But he hasn’t called since. What should I do?
L Train Lass
My boyfriend and I have been dating for eight months. Recently, whenever we have sex, I hear a clicking noise, which turns out to be the remote for the VCR—he turns on a porn tape and watches it over my shoulder. It makes me feel ill, but when I complain, he says his last girlfriend always watched porn with him and loved it.
Any suggestions on how I can confront him without ruining the relationship?
G-Rated in Greenpoint
I’m 36 and my boyfriend is 35; we’ve been dating for two years. I notice sometimes that he sort of glazes over when he’s watching television. When the De Beers eternity-ring commercial comes on (you know the one, where they’re standing on the steps and the really good-looking guy tells his wife he wants to marry her all over again, and then the birds all sort of flutter up into the sky and it turns out her whole family is on the steps?), it’s like he doesn’t even notice. Do you think he’s trying to throw me off by seeming indifferent?
Ring-less in Red Hook
Sometimes on the weekends, all my live-in boyfriend likes to do is lie on the couch and watch TV. When I tell him that I want to get away for the weekend, for some quality time, he always says, “What are we doing here every day? Isn’t this quality time? It is for me. Maybe you don’t feel the same way about us, as I do.” He acts like I’m asking for the world, when all I want is to walk on a beach or in the woods together and hold hands. Any advice on how I can make him see things the way I do?
Bunkered-Down in Battery Park
I’m a 39-year-old who keeps herself in pretty good shape. I’ve been living with my boyfriend, who is 44, for three years. When I ask him where we’re going as a couple, he always shuts down and doesn’t answer. He says he loves kids, but isn’t quite ready to be a father because he needs some more therapy. I know I give him enough space—he actually spends a few nights a week at his old studio apartment that he’s trying to sell. I’m worried that I’m wasting the best years of my life with him, and he’ll never want to take the next step. What do you think?
Concerned in Cobble Hill
Sometimes when my boyfriend and I are in bed, I’ll try to snuggle up against him while he’s sleeping and he’ll push me away. Do you think this is some unconscious way of him telling me he’s losing interest in me sexually?
Miffed in Murray Hill
My Summer Sucks; How’s Yours?
Last Saturday night at Siberia at 4 a.m, a curvy, really short young woman was dancing my way. First she asked me if I was gay, then if I wanted to make out with her. I said, “Sure!” Then she said, “Just kidding,” and walked away. Then she smushed her boobies in my face. I froze, and she walked away. It completely killed my buzz, destroyed the evening. But in retrospect it was probably the highlight of my summer.
Sometimes when I see a picture of Liv Tyler, I wonder if that big rabbity smile has less to do with her new baby or thriving movie career, and everything to do with just being superfucking rich, being able to spend a month in Tuscany or Mustique for no reason and just laughing her ass off the whole time. I’m sure she’s always thinking, Wow, life just keeps getting better and better for me—every single day, another surprise. More money, more fame, one fun thing after another. I’m so ridiculously lucky, I think I’ll take a dump on $10,000 in cash right now then set it on fire. Why not?
Jerry Seinfeld’s always got that “Yeah, I sure hit the jackpot, didn’t I? You caught me, guilty as charged!” look, too. He’s like, Wow, gulp, I really did it and now I don’t have to do anything for the rest of my life. I got my health. My sports cars. Hot wife and kids. Huge triplex in the Beresford; $50 million country house. The future’s looking real good, just wide open and I’m only 45. Think I’ll buy another Porsche today, take a dump inside, then blow it up.
It’s not your fault my summer’s sucking, Jerry and Liv. Odds are, you’re probably having a pretty miserable one, too.
I want to drown those spoiled brats on Upper West Side screaming “le-mon-ade!”, which they didn’t even make—their South American maids did. I’m also getting tired of the chipper health-club guys at Reebok Sports Club who say “Enjoy!” when they hand me my locker-room key.
My cat shat on my brand new white couch the other day.
This summer I hear all these people yapping about “friends” and “old friends.” Friends, friends, friends, friends. That guy on his cell phone at Blockbuster saying he was going to “visit friends in Amherst.” I yelled at him, “You think anyone wants to hear your conversation? If I get a call in here, you know what I do? I go outside, O.K., maybe you should do that! Idiot!” Felt so good.
I also loathe this new breed of flier distributor: young good-looking Colorado-looking blondes. Lower than crack hookers if you ask me.
And what’s with all the perfectly lovely lady butts destroyed by huge hideous green tattoos on the top of the ass-crack? Fast-forward 20 years from now, honey. Ain’t gonna be pretty.
Just got one of those e-mails from someone who says he’s got a new job and here’s his new contact info. I might hit reply all and say, “Hope you get fired again!”
And please, no more wedding invitations. Funerals are infinitely much more meaningful than the union of two kids who’ve been screwing each other for a while and want to get paid for it now, before they get divorced in five years.
This morning I realized I have a much worse noise problem on my hands now than I did when I had a fat bald Irish jackass living below me, who threw loud alcoholic idiot parties in his backyard. He’s gone, thank God, but in his place is a Great Dane which has been barking nonstop. Been fantasizing about poisoning it. There will be quiet here one way or another.
Burial at sea sounds better than sprinkling my ashes all over some peaceful “scenic view” type of spot.
What else sucks? Sandals and flip-flops and the dudes who wear them. Actually, dudes in general are bothering me lately—just get out of my sight, O.K.? With your haircuts and skinny jeans and dumb-ass Che Guevara T-shirts. Steer clear, don’t talk to me, no offense but I prefer the company of women and my cat Scoopie.
Working out hard for two weeks straight and going from 203 to 209—that sucks. Being part of the mob at Whole Foods sucks—all pleased with myself that my avocado roll and tuna fish and chicken wings cost only $18. Wheee, what a deal, having a great day now—thanks, Whole Foods.
Not having a huge spread in Mustique and getting to scuba dive with a couple of skinny browned Mustiquian babes every afternoon sucks. Then drinking fruity drinks with Keith Richards, Bowie, Iman, Felix Dennis, European royalty. No, I bet that’d suck, too.
It sure sucks that all the people I disliked growing up are now phantoms. I have no idea where they are, barely remember their last names, so I couldn’t even hunt them down. And they’d probably be all nice and friendly—they’ve grown, evolved. So have I.
There really is no such thing as revenge, is there? However, no matter how friendly and repentant they are now, I bet I could find a way to injure both Bruce Tarbox (who in 1984 urinated into a Pringles can then poured it on me while I was asleep) and Kenny Mack (who in 1976 kidnapped me, forced me onto a baseball field and threatened to beat me up if I didn’t return fly balls all afternoon; sounds fun in retrospect but at the time, terrifying). Kenny, I hope you’re having a rotten summer. You too, Bruce. Numbskull.
I’ve decided that if I ever have six months to live and am suffering in a hospital, I’m not going to be the selfless strong one, inspiring everyone, full of wisdom. No, I’m going to be a royal pain in the ass.