Page 25 of Single-Minded
“Well, that’s easy,” I say. “If you can turn forty-seven into three, I can certainly boost my number up by a couple.”
“I don’t screw around with that crap, because I’m in politics, where everybody sleeps with everybody, and since I work seventy hours a week, everyone I sleep with is in politics. Plus, I don’t give a fuck.”
“So to speak.” Sam laughs.
“Padding your résumé isn’t going to help you here,” Darcy says. “Not if your number is thirteen years of sex with one gay man. Right now you’re clammy with the stench of desperation. You need to get out there. Have sex with someone who likes women for a change. Get under somebody, get over it, move on with your life.”
“Ugh,” I say, exasperated. “I don’t want to date. I mean, sure, I want to meet someone, fall in love, get married—preferably in the next six months, so I can have a baby and get my life back on schedule. I don’t want to date.”
“I hate to burst your bubble here,” says Sam. “But unless you want your great-uncle Ferdinand to arrange a marriage with someone from the Old Country, dating is how that whole love/marriage/babies thing is accomplished.”
“So you’re saying that I have to have sex with two men, and then I’ll meet someone and fall in love, get married, cut to babies and happily ever after.”
“Yes,” says Michael.
“No,” say Sam and Darcy in unison.
“That’s only part of it,” adds Sam. “Everybody knows there are nine men you have to date before you meet the One.”
“Nine?” I ask. “I thought it was two. How did it just go to nine? I need to date eleven men? That’s insane!”
Michael checks his phone for the third time in the last minute and a half.
“Just go,” I say to him. “I’ll take care of the cleanup.”
Michael looks elated, but demurs, “No, that’s not fair. I’ll stay and help.”
“We’ll do cleanup duty,” says Sam. “That hot Cuban guy may not wait all night.”
“Thanks,” says Michael, off his bar stool in a flash. He gives me a quick peck on the cheek. “You’re a trouper, I’ll give you a call tomorrow,” he says, and then he’s out the door.
“There are nine guys you have to date before you meetthe oneyou actually fall in love with. Just sleep with two of them and you’ll be all set,” says Darcy. “It’s mandatory, like leveling up in a video game… The bad boy, the quarterback…”
“… the foreign guy, the tantric sex guy, the sensitive artist…,” adds Sam.
“Don’t forget the lead guitarist, the Master of the Universe, the fireman, the guy who’s so pretty but dumb as a brick, with a body that’s just so unreal it makes you cry—he’s generally a male model, or maybe a personal trainer,” says Darcy.
“It took me ten years to get my nine,” says Sam. “You’re thirty-one, so it might take you a little longer.”
“Thanks for the reminder,” I say, tossing a cocktail napkin in her direction.
“For a second, I almost forgot that I’m old and practically undateable and that my eggs are all dried up.” I turn to Darcy. “How long did it take you?”
“Hmmm, it took almost my entire sophomore year at college,” Darcy says. “About seven and a half months.” Sam stares at Darcy with her mouth open. “You know me,” Darcy laughs, “I’ve always been a bit of an overachiever.”
“The fish,” adds Sam
“What the hell is a fish?” I ask.
“The fish is that perfect, amazing guy it can never work out with—you know,a bird and a fish may fall in love—but where would they live?… So the fish is your total dream guy, he’s smart, he’s handsome, he gets all your jokes, he loves to talk, he gives you a nine-hour orgasm and then makes you homemade chocolate chip pancakes and serves you breakfast in bed—but he lives all the way across the country and neither of you can move, or he’s married, or next in line for the throne, or he has a terminal disease or something…the fish.”
“I need to meet someone right away, if I’m going to have enough time to date the guy, plan a wedding, get married, and have a baby before I hit thirty-five. I don’t have time to date nine inappropriate guys.”
“Sure you do,” says Darcy. “Otherwise, how else will you know exactly what you want when you find it? Besides, the Universe doesn’t just drop the perfect person in your lap, it makes you work for it a little.”
“The Universe dropped Michael in my lap, and he was the perfect guy.” I realize what I just said the second it comes out of my mouth, and Sam, Darcy, and I start cracking up.
“Yes, he was perfect except for the fact that he’s gay. But other than that…” Darcy roars. She picks up the bottle of wine on the counter and refills all our glasses.
