Romance Is My Day Job (15 page)

Dangerous and Sexy Alpha Male Heroes Who Are Supposed to Have a Heart of Gold

The Romance-Novel Hero

Business tycoon Cutter Vance has a reputation for being a playboy, perhaps even driving women mad. His last girlfriend threw herself off a cliff, or maybe she was pushed. No one knows. Cutter lives on the edge and doesn't care whom he insults. In the boardroom, he is vicious, causing his employees to cower. Only his new assistant—the only one who's lasted more than seventy-two hours—suspects her boss has quivery Jell-O insides from years of neglect by his withholding mother (who died in a car crash). She learns that he secretly donates to children's charities, but when she confronts him on it, he turns her away with a brash word. Of course, he can't resist her and shows up on her doorstep with an indecent proposal—marriage in name only, which unexpectedly turns to true love when they kiss at the altar.

The Real-Life Versions

I accept Wife Beater's invite to meet him in a sketchy neighborhood. Maybe I am brain damaged, since there is very little about him that doesn't scream RED FLAG. In his profile, he looks totally cute in that raw, sexy way. I'm not sure if he has a job. “Self-employed” often means “unemployed” or “drug dealer,” so I try to be cautious.

When I go to meet him, I see he's wearing a wife beater and jeans, a tad informal, but maybe he's the Stanley to my Stella. Ironically, this is the wardrobe heroes often wear on the cover of romance novels. They are bare and primal, waiting to ravish the heroine. While I love my primal on the covers, in real life I like to see a shirt.

We go to a bar to have a drink.

“When you first saw me, did you get a sexual vibe?” he asks automatically. “Like in the first thirty seconds?”

It's like
Looking for Mr. Goodbar
, only real! It's all uphill from there. I summon my inner ice queen and somehow make it through dinner, then dash home and triple-lock my door.

By 2005, I've been online-dating for four years and am no closer to finding Mr. Right, but I keep trying. After reading
He's Just Not That Into You
(loving it but not taking it in as I should), I pursue Nathan the Spanker because his online personal ad is hysterically funny. He is very tall, is bald, and possesses an abundance of sexual charisma—the bald sexy guy who comes into fashion in New York around this time. They multiply in front of my eyes, and he is my fourth one in a row. We arrange to meet at an Italian restaurant in my neighborhood.

After a great first date, Nathan vanishes, as online dates often do. It's so typical that I don't get upset. He's
just not that into me
. Or, if you go by the romance formula, men need time to process their feelings of incredible love and devotion. I have work to do anyway, and the lessons of previous romances prove to me that another one will come along and true love is a low priority.

Just as I start to forget about him, he requests a second date. Because he waited so long to contact me, I am wildly attracted to him. Off we go to a spicy restaurant in the East Village on the stickiest day of the summer. At the end of this second date (which ends at 2:13
A.M
. in Union Square Park, amid a few drug deals, I'm sure), he walks me home.

“Have you ever been spanked?” he asks as we get within a couple blocks of my apartment.

“Sure,” I answer. Twice by my father for 1) eating the babysitter's chocolates, and 2) saying “fuck” at the dinner table when I was five. But I suspect he's talking about something else, so I conjure my trusty imaginary boyfriend, Jason. With Jason comes imaginary experience, so, yes, I have been spanked. A lot. Red welts on the back of my thighs, like, every day. Jason was born with a riding crop in his hands, and did I mention he comes from Cape Cod?

I know nothing about New York's S & M culture. It hasn't occurred to me, but I realize right then and there that this culture is real, not just in movies. I start to respect his interest in it. Why not? I really, really love knitting. The pleasure I get from finishing a hat is almost sexual (maybe not). I love knitting so much that I pulled a muscle in my back and had to go to physical therapy (and I kind of liked it).

Nathan is deep into spanking, an activity he shares with all his exes, who sometimes come over just for a paddle. Maybe everyone in New York City spanks one another and I've been living under my romance rock for too long.

Life is all about experimentation, which is what I tell myself the six months that Nathan and I date. It's never too late to learn new things, especially as you're edging closer to that scary forty-year-old milestone. The end of our affair is kind of ugly but perhaps merciful given we have
different interests
. As we start to unravel, I keep wondering how it will end but don't have the will to end it myself. I start canceling dates with Nathan because I can't deal with the inevitable, that I will be alone again, searching for more online suitors. Suddenly, Valentine's Day is coming up fast.

“Here's an idea. I read in the paper that it's more popular to go out the day
before
Valentine's Day. Whaddaya think?” he asks me on February 10.

My keen spidey sense tells me he is dating on the side. To add to his pre–Valentine's Day request, he complains of a pain in his . . . well . . . his spanker, and we wonder if he has an STD, which he would have gotten elsewhere. This prompts a quick trip to the doctor after the blade falls. It's easy to leave someone who orchestrates such a brilliant exit. There
was
someone else, but faking an STD was a bonus in case I didn't put two and two together. Never date someone who is leagues smarter than you are.

The Beta Hero (Who Cooks and Isn't a Tool)

The Romance-Novel Hero

In another life, pediatrician Brad Hanson was happily married and about to become a dad. No sooner is his daughter born than his sweet wife dies in a car crash on her way to meet him for lunch. Wracked with guilt, Brad must care for three-month-old Daisy and keep up his thriving practice. For two years, he mourns his wife's death, never noticing how his new next-door neighbor, Brenda, pines for him. The two strike up a friendship, with her bringing him casseroles, sharing meals, and babysitting when he's on call at the hospital. They listen to each other, and after a night of spilling their innermost woes, they kiss. Can Brad move on from his tragic past and risk his heart once again?

The Real-Life Versions

There are those online dates that go nowhere, but your hero is such a nice guy. He listens to you and contributes fascinating nuggets to the conversation, and you know he'd be a great partner . . . for someone else. Beta heroes (with an edge) are my favorite for real life, though at this juncture, I don't seem to be winding up with them. Then again, you never can tell who's going to surprise you and be the perfect match.

Beta #1:
Weird Haircut Lawyer is completely wonderful, but we have no romantic interest in each other. A year later, I find him and his new wife in the “Weddings/Celebrations” section of
the
New York Times
. I like to think that my role was instrumental.

Far-Too
-
Beta #2:
Still lives with his mother—not because she needs help but
because he never saw a reason to leave her
.

Beta #3:
Feeling that pressure to settle down, I date this sweet prince for nine months long-distance. If it weren't for my breaking up with him twice (over the holidays, cruelty itself), I might be Mrs. Beta #3.

But then the ultimate beta arrives. Ten months after Nathan, when it seems safe to go back into the water, I'm wooed by Barry the Teacher, that nice guy who screams Perfect Husband and Father Material. Handsome but not too much so, good job, virtuous, kind to his friends, kind to me. Not even remotely the type to cheat, treat me poorly on purpose, or vanish.

We get along well, despite our many differences. He likes doing things (why do I always find this person and not the couch potato?). His friends are mostly female. I work with all women, so I seek out boys as much as possible. He doesn't like my crappy TV choices. I'm not into bird-watching in Queens.

But we both agree that weddings are truly joyous occasions, and the best man's girlfriend could have an especially amazing time. That's me. After dating Barry for almost a year, he asks me to attend his best friend's wedding with him in Austin, Texas.

I am on the cliff, about to dive into the Land of Forty. This trip is an investment, one I hope will pay off. So it's with great pleasure that I arrange my schedule to attend the affair. How better to hint that I am ready to marry him? Barry has his imperfections: He is uptight, has intimacy issues, possesses a fleet of female friends who are nice but so obviously want to bang him, and he enjoys the attention a little too much.

Barry is the one who puts up pictures, reaches containers on the top shelf, and carries home Christmas trees for his friends. They are nice to me, too. I meet them all, and they never hiss or play vicious games with me. On the contrary, I am included in their activities: the hikes in upstate New York, the ice-skating in Central Park, the Easter celebrations, the museum-going, the long walks along the river, the Coney Island adventure, and the bowling—all with Barry's girl entourage.

His small apartment is cozy, filled with just the right amount of stuff. Barry teaches high school and is like one of those teachers you see in a movie—feverishly committed to helping young people learn, especially the illiterate student in the back who's been passed through the system. Affable, witty, and kind, he is an inspirational teacher and mentor. He even looks like a teacher, with his glasses and the earnest expression in his eyes.

On paper, he is a dream. Goes on the requisite two dates before leaning in for the first kiss. Drinks just enough alcohol. Has the earring and tattoo, which doesn't quite hide the fact that he is a square (but then so am I). I love this. It's so my speed.

Fairly early on, he pulled me into his arms and said those three little words (though I said them first during a bout of the stomach flu). A month after our Austin trip, he starts to backpedal, hinting that he isn't ready. That one-year anniversary approaches and I notice the fear on his face. I convince myself he just needs time. We are a good match—him with his height, nerdy glasses, and graying hair; me with the red hair, sagging under a too-heavy bag full of manuscripts. A cute middle-aged couple, that's us.

I don't regret most of my time with him, just the last six months. I could have passed the year anniversary on my own, rather than sitting next to his female friend and him during an Americanized performance of
Cyrano
(Jennifer Garner was fantastic!) on Broadway. Barry arrives with a bad case of hemorrhoids and is in such a lousy mood that he can't send me flowers.

We start seeing each other once a week, instead of twice.

One random day, I ask if he wants to go to Madame Tussauds wax museum. He agrees, though I sense his reluctance. This isn't on his approved list of activities. An hour before we're supposed to meet, I cancel because I can smell what's coming. I remind myself that only the week before he told me he wants to be with me forever and father my children. He comes over instead and we lie on my bed. I feel frustrated over this shaky future.

“So, are you renewing your lease?” I ask. It's the question I've wondered for months. Will he stay in his tiny cubicle of an apartment or are we moving in together?

He puts his hand on my inner thigh and breaks up with me.

I accept the breakup, just not the hand on my inner thigh. I am one pissed Bridget Jones. The second he leaves, I throw out everything he left at my place (including a $40 book about Hitler) and jump back into the dating pool.

March 2009

The romance novel of my life begins here, twelve years after moving to New York and going to work for Harlequin. I'm now a senior editor, managing a romantic suspense line. I've moved from the sixth-floor walk-up on the Upper East Side to a box in the Chelsea neighborhood of Manhattan. My life has improved drastically. Well, except in one area.

I'm sitting next to Superman for two hours on Amtrak, headed back to Manhattan after a weekend at his house near Albany. We've been dating for the past five months, and this was my first time seeing his second home.

Total disaster.

We met online last August. Newly brokenhearted from Barry the Teacher's vanishing, I searched for a hot rebound guy and found Superman. Not caring about rejection, I boldly sent him a note of introduction. By sheer magic, after landing in San Francisco for a Romance Writers of America conference, I checked my e-mail and found that he'd responded. Needless to say, I floated on air throughout the conference and did my job twice as enthusiastically. A month after this, Superman and I met in person and embarked on an ecstatic new romance.

Five months later, we're stuck. He never promised me a rose garden, but now we're not speaking at all. I'm confused. All I did was ask, “Where is this relationship going?” He's now about to break up with me. This will be my third painful breakup in a row after Barry the Teacher and Nathan the Spanker. I'm so startled by it all, I can't even eat the gooey chocolate doughnut I bought myself at Dunkin' Donuts as a little pick-me-up. And I can always eat dessert.

I thought this would be a romantic weekend. Instead, we went to his house, I helped him clean for his new tenant, and he took me to the Olive Garden. He said he loved how I “keep him organized,” which pleased me. Organization is my thing. The most beautiful man I've ever dated—resembling that superhero of my dreams—and he's slipping through my perfectly manicured fingers.

What did I do wrong?

I look down at the doughnut again, thinking I might eat it once we've finally and officially dumped each other.

I had so many fantasies about Superman. . . . Our beautiful children, his devotion to me, our continued appreciation of Judd Apatow movies and ice cream, the endless parading I would do on streets, showing off my
GQ
-model boyfriend . . . I feel too old, at forty, for this dating stuff now. Superman will just disappear—stop calling, stop e-mailing. In a year, he'll become a Resurfacer by contacting me and acting as if nothing happened. I love attention, so why wouldn't I let him come back? He's cute and amusing. We'll casually date once more, have sleepovers, and then break up again. It's the circle of life, as I've learned over the past ten years or so.

At least the scenery out the train window is beautiful: sun sparkling on the river, quaint towns, and the beginning of spring. This makes me smile. I'd like to live in the country someday, plant a garden. I'll save up for a house, go to suburban book clubs, and drink wine again. That would be fun.

More pretty landscape along the Hudson. But even this doesn't erase the gorgeous problem sitting next to me. I can't even muster words.

In a romance novel, the weekend away cements the love bond. Usually the weekend away is an accident—the hero Jake Hunter's grandmother is having bypass surgery and he needs his assistant, the lovely Cassie McBride, to come along so that his billion-dollar business will stay afloat. Only she can help him. Naturally, all the stress over Grandma—the woman who raised him after his parents died in a car crash—compels him to repeatedly remove her clothes and his clothes. There's no Olive Garden in sight. Unbridled and constant sex ensues, followed by emotional intimacy and surprise pregnancy and marriage proposal (that doesn't happen
because
of the pregnancy, but who are we kidding).

Superman and I started out as Jake Hunter and Cassie McBride. Our Chemistry.com chemistry was immediate, and he is Mr. Alpha (which I love). Superman wears dashing suits to work and probably does fly over skyscrapers and rescue puppies and kittens from the subway tracks. The man never sleeps, which makes me suspect that he fights crime at night. As time passes, though, I note we are on different wavelengths. We don't exactly fit. Also, he displays no interest in my life (which in Jake Hunter–speak means he's secretly in love with me, but it's too painful for him to communicate this).

I need to wake up and stop sniffing Sharpie pens. The romance of this relationship is mostly in my head.

In a novel, it's so easy, because Cassie and Jake literally run into each other. She is walking too fast with a stack of papers and rams into his hard chest; he stops her from falling by grabbing her shoulders. They both feel the electricity of attraction running up their arms (rug burn?). He just happens to be the boss (and there's a large conference-room table on which their love child will be conceived). These two lovebirds can't help but meet.

In real life, you have to make the encounter happen. I think about the stack of Brenda Novak novels sitting on my bookshelf, waiting for my perusal. She's one of my favorite romance and suspense authors, to the point where I can barely talk to her at conferences. Her editor slips me her books, and I've hoarded them for the perfect emergency time when I can lose a weekend with her stories, a bag of Cheetos, and some Kit Kats. I will recover this lost weekend with Brenda.

My mind sifts through memories of ecstatic times with my past Jake Hunters, though none resembles the intensely driven, likeable heroes of Novak's stories. Nevertheless, my dating history contains a few dizzying love scenes. Some passionate kisses, but not under a full moon—more like in a sketchy park at two
A.M
. with Nathan, outside a deli with Barry, under scaffolding on a rainy street downtown with Rich but Still Worried About Money, all colorful in their own ways. There are a million restaurant moments, awkward silences, and great conversations that go on forever. So many apartments, some furnished, some not (See Charles the Brit), some messy (Nathan), some freakishly clean (Superman). An array of wardrobe preferences, from the grunge look to gorgeous custom-made suits. Some flowers delivered at work (Barry, Superman, Vanisher #342 who skipped out right before my birthday—I wound up secretly dating his brother) and the occasional present, just because.

The Jake Hunters I've experienced tend to have non-damsel-rescuing jobs. They mostly worked with numbers, but not in the glamorous Richard Gere–in–
Pretty Woman
way. Many of them had side passions, such as music (I saw a lot of shitty bands), bird-watching (oy), food (with finger bowls), skiing (love the gear, hate the falling down), and hiking (a little afraid of heights). They each showed me entertaining sides of themselves. With Barry, I went places that had trees and slopes. With Nathan, I learned about wine and
macarons
. Superman taught me to enjoy stupid guy movies and unapologetically eat a pint of ice cream in one sitting. Gunther helped me appreciate classic movies and the finer points of filmmaking. Thanks to Zack, I started the healing process and immersed myself in simple pleasures. With Craig, I started to appreciate my life as a gift. Chris inspired passion in me, and he was that alpha male in many Harlequin novels.

My real-life heroes had imperfections, too, which I appreciated since I'm, well, a tiny bit neurotic myself. There were nervous ticks, bad haircuts, eating-with-the-mouth-open stuff, hygiene issues. On the page, Jake Hunter has no bodily functions, so real-life dating was a rude awakening for me, especially French kissing (WTF?) and eating in front of a guy. With my three-dimensional suitors, I got used to their long vacations in the bathroom.

As for sex, who am I to complain? Sometimes it was great. Sometimes it wasn't (Jake Hunter never takes Viagra). Real men are very sexy—and human, especially if an ex or a dead mother is plaguing the libido. I could relate to this, since I'm haunted by events in my past, too. A bad moment will flash in my mind and I'll have to go “somewhere else.” On the outside, I may be hitting all the right notes in the love story. Inside, I could be a mess. Romance novels don't always examine the complexities of swapping bodily fluids—or even mention these fluids.

But enough comparison. Only half an hour left on this train with Superman. It's hard not to keep looking over at him, because when am I ever going to date such an Adonis again? I'm a little embarrassed that I can see myself married to him, mostly because we'd lead separate lives and come together to watch Judd Apatow movies—not a bad life. Some marriages are made on less. I went out with physical perfection and several “soul mates” and none of them worked out. Do I have to start over again?

That nagging voice urges me to take a few weeks off from dating and then get back on those sites, the way I always do. There will be hours spent watching television, editing my beloved books, impulsively buying makeup at Duane Reade, and crying while playing computer solitaire. A month will go by and I'll get the urge to meet someone new.

But I can't envision another date or boyfriend. I don't want to. These heroes are almost repulsive to me. Maybe I need a serious break, like forever. This crazy thought enters my head:
I don't ever have to date again.

No laws will be broken if I stop dating. No one will mourn my love life. My family has long given up on my walking down the aisle and procreating. I don't need to find Mr. Right. Not now, not next year, not ever. Maybe it's time to love my forties as is.

I can return to my own schedule, no primping or carving out those three hours for dinner, packing overnight bags, answering texts and e-mails. The idea of a break used to make me anxious with thoughts of how there's not a lot of time left, what Mom will say, who will go to parties with me. Now the idea of free time makes me giddy. What a relief! I can knit all the time and run for my own enjoyment, not to look svelte. No more hiding that I love
The
Real Housewives
(and the Kardashians).

I should be sad to lose this gorgeous man. A part of me is. And for the last leg of the trip, I try to tune out sleeping Superman, only faintly wishing that he'll say, “Let's stay together, Patience. Romance does exist. You're the prettiest and most interesting woman I know. We belong together.”

This would be nice—a hero who tries to woo me back into love—but usually this hero reactivates his dating profile immediately. Superman can't possibly be dateless for long. I will savor these last few minutes. I steal glances at him, snoring away openmouthed as the train whisks us along more breathtaking vistas. Even in deep slumber and with a hint of drool off the side of his mouth, he is hot. Thick fisherman's sweater. Jeans. Perfect hair. Towering over me even in a train seat.

I hope I'm dodging a speeding bullet and not giving up the fight.

As the train comes to a stop, Superman's eyes open and he stares straight ahead. I like to think he's in agony also, over the disastrous weekend, what he could have done differently. Maybe he'll have second thoughts and come back. Romantic heroes do that after the I-can't-live-without-her montage.

We walk side by side up the escalator, each carrying our bags.

“Which way you going?” he asks, hair adorably mussed from the train ride.

“That way.” I point toward the Seventh Avenue exit. He, I know, is heading toward Eighth. The message is clear. We are going in opposite directions in Penn Station and in life. He walks closer to me, gives me a quick kiss on the lips, and speeds away to the other end of the station. That's it. No fuss.

On the walk to Chelsea, I can't even summon the will to cry over another failed romance. Sandra Bullock would wail like a banshee—and she'd look so pretty. This time I'm not going to wail (and I know I wouldn't look as good while I was doing it). This time I'm completely stoic, no tears, no whimpering, no self-pity. Just tired . . . and excited about my no-dating policy. Romancing Superman was fun. Every heroine should date a gorgeous god.

The minute I return home, I put up my feet, order my favorite takeout—cheeseburger, fries, cookie, no salad—and start Brenda Novak's creepy romantic suspense novel
Watch Me,
which happens to be my new theme song in life. I relish this alone time and settle in to live the “single girl” cliché: television, cats, junk food, books that help you forget where you are.

Maybe there is one weak moment when I smell Superman's shirt, the one he left, the one I washed, starched, and ironed myself. But that's it. I'm done with romance, let alone love.

Two hundred and twenty pages of a Harlequin romance don't cover these kinks. From now on, I intend to soak up my independence. Cassie McBride would totally do this, too.

I throw the gooey chocolate doughnut in the trash.

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