Dating Files: The Man Who Mumbled Through Love
MAKING THE BEST OF WHAT’S AVAILABLE
I met LUST FOR BRAINS at a conference in Washington, D.C. He was accompanied by a plain-faced little woman with a sad smile and exquisite taste in jewelry. I referred to him as her husband, but she raised her eyebrows and said in a hoarse whisper, “we’re not married.” When she ran off suddenly to a nearby shopping mall he figured to be fair game.
LUST FOR BRAINS is foreign-born and seems to have acquired his limited English language skills from Dick and Jane. I am a total sucker for men with accents, but LFB’s accent is hard to love because he mumbles. Otherwise he was a good candidate. He likes to dine, dance, and go to the theater. He swims, plays chess, watches old movies. When he returned my level, businesswoman gaze with a leer, I nevertheless gave him my business card, and in retrospect, it seems my darkest, most desperate hour.
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AGRIBUSINESS AS FOREPLAY
LUST FOR BRAINS began phoning me soon after the conference was over, asking if we might meet at the local California Pizza Kitchen. He arrives carrying a nerdy-looking briefcase, wearing a shiny black suit and a white dress shirt without a tie, even though it’s lunchtime and everyone else in the restaurant is wearing Banana Republic.
He offers a perfunctory greeting, pushes aside the menu, withdraws some papers from the briefcase, and begins to tell me about a medical device for which he is seeking investment. He produces a demonstration model that looks suspiciously like a sexual enhancement device. I ask him to put it away immediately and he does.
LFB has been in the States for seven years, but not only has he retained the mumble and the heavy accent, he has a feeble English vocabulary. He sounds like Bela Lugosi would sound if he were hypnotized, transported back to his childhood, and asked to describe the restaurant. “This very nice, I like here, is beautiful, so good and nice.”
He begins a monologue about laser treatments for acne, then switches to wheat growing experiments in Oklahoma, but crop biotechnology has an erotic effect on him — abruptly he says he wants to “make sex.” He accompanies this assertion with an open smile and a generous sweep of his arm. The women at the next two tables seem unlikely candidates, so I guess he means with me.
The lunch is at an end. He accepts the bill from the waitress, who is not a fan, what with his unintelligible speech and his insistence on covering the table with papers. He pays readily, tips generously, and announces that he will come home with me to “make heads swim with sensuous” or something like that. When I explain that this is not going to happen, he seems mystified.
DALLYING FOR DOLLARS
You will be amazed to know that I accepted a second date with LUST FOR BRAINS. The theme of our second (and last) date is how desperate he is to end his relationship with Gina. At first he insists she is just a friend. Then he admits that he has been with her for 4 years. They live together, but they sleep in separate rooms. Oh, sure they do.
He feels trapped in the relationship, but he doesn’t want to end it. How do I know? Gina is extremely rich. I listen patiently to his disappointments and his assertions of resolve (“I should to have my own life soon”). Why? Because it is perversely entertaining, like listening to a couple fighting in a hotel room that adjoins yours.
THE MOVIE, AT LEAST, IS A WINNER
We go to see Slumdog Millionaire, which I have already seen twice but which is my all-time favorite movie next to The Godfather. He reaches for my hand and holds it mechanically in both of his, like a lab assistant transporting a specimen to the bio-hazard container. At the end of the film, I effuse about the directing, the music, the amazing appeal of the actors. LFB grunts in agreement. We walk to a restaurant he knows. He insists on a well-placed table and orders for both of us. During a lavish feast with some tasty wine we discuss his stock market successes and the current situation in Afghanistan. His observations are intelligent, but he is utterly lacking in charm.
LUST FOR BRAINS seems not to have a career, but has rather executed a series of jumps from one “opportunity” to another. I begin to wonder where his money comes from (besides Gina, of course). Listening to him mumble about “deals” in his strange, reedy voice I’m beginning to fear sitting with my back to the door. I’m afraid some Mafia wiseguys will burst in and off him for double-crossing a mob boss.
THE FACE CREAM REMEDY
The next evening he phones to say he is worried that Gina will be heartbroken when he tells her about his relationship with me. Relationship? One lunch and one dinner is not a relationship, I say, unable to keep the impatience out of my voice. “Dan pi zealis,” he says. I am not jealous. I am horrified and disgusted. I say goodbye (remembering to do it politely), hang up, and shudder with distaste.
Forty-five minutes later the doorbell rings. He is at the front door with a worried look and a jar of face cream (he’s an agent for a cosmetic company). I stand immobile in the doorway, unable to move. He seems to interpret my hesitation as brand loyalty, and he begins to explain why this product is superior to the one I use, extolling the anti-aging benefits of the cream without the slightest trace of irony.
Suddenly, he grabs me and gives me what I can report with all conviction is the worst, worst, worst kiss I have ever had in my life. How does a man get to be 65, father 3 children, and not know the first thing about kissing? It was like being kissed by an insecure but overheated gorilla. I don’t know how much detail you might really want, but let me say that it was not so much an attempt at deep kissing, but rather a sort of loose-lipped, saliva-rich slobbering.
I realize that he expects to end up in my bed (the face cream is an expensive brand). I must figure out a way to avoid this without damaging his manly notion of himself. LUST FOR BRAINS is a big man, and I don’t fancy being strong-armed into a compromising position. It is clear that I must leverage my brains to his brawn.
I blink fiercely and act extremely tired. I mention a 2 hour bike trip over torturous terrain (the 2 hours part is true). I deftly maneuver him out, but he turns, leers, and pronounces, “well, yes, if I stayed here tonight you wouldn’t get much sleep,” though it sounds more like, “wwll yss efal stee hr tunigh u wou gettub nu slip.”
He’s gone, his phone calls have stopped, and I am fully recovered. I no longer want to pour the blood of a rooster into a ceremonial bowl and mumble incantations.