How To
The Non-Expert: A Love Unsexy
Experts answer what they know. The Non-Expert answers anything. This week CLAIRE MICCIO answers a lovelorn reader’s plea for a suitable locale where true affection can found in this way-oversexed world of ours.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- Better Baby Names Bureau (The Non-Expert)
- This Is Not a Eulogy (Profiles)
- The Vanishing Date (Spoofs & Satire)
Also by Claire Miccio
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- The Non-Expert: Term Paper (June 3, 2005)
- The Non-Expert: 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover (May 27, 2005)
- The Non-Expert: Gypsy Cabs (May 20, 2005)
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Question: Where does one go to find love? I’ve searched high and low and all I seem to find is sex everywhere. It’s in the malls, on the trains and buses, and in cute little boutiques, restaurants, parks, government facilities, airports, etc. Should I look to the place I would expect it the least: a pornshop? Or should I just succumb to the sexually flaccid world of today’s culture?—Larry
Answer: Love is like a pair of glasses; you rip apart your room to find them and the entire time they were sitting on your face. It’s true: Look too hard for something and you’ll become blinded in your search. Every day, all across the world, people are discovering love in the very places you claim supply merely sex. This makes me wonder if you might be overlooking some basic signs of human tenderness—and consequently missing the love boat. To test my theory, I decided to hit up a few of the hotspots you suggested to see for myself if the world is as oversexed as you say or if all is full of love.
“Hi! You look hungry! Wanna have a bite?” I offer.
“No, that’s OK.”
“Doesn’t this make you think of David? I was in Florence not too long ago, and, while this is impressive, you really have to be under David to get the full impact of his body. Are you into art?”
“My mom’s waiting for me in Dress Barn.”
I feel discouraged when he turns and runs off, so I make my way to the Orange Julius stand. But then across the mall, through the window of the Dress Barn, I see it: a boy rushing into the open arms of his mother, possessed with words, probably of affection, and whispering them into her wide eyes. She fingers his coiled brown hair and you can tell he feels so much better.
It’s all so much; I can hardly swallow this warmth.
“Thanks!” I say.
“You’ve got nice teeth,” he replies.
“Thanks!”
“Are they real?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I get on?”
“Of course. It’s a public park.”
He doesn’t say anything but instead starts licking his lips like LL Cool J and takes off his windbreaker to reveal a tight wool sweater with Taz the Tasmanian on the front. I move my legs to make room for him on the tire, and the rope begins to creak. He’s not blinking and I’m worried that if he doesn’t stop licking his lips they’re gonna chap. I can read him like a book: He wants to weasel my 40.
“So, where are you from?” I ask.
“Ohio.” He gasps between licks.
“Um, whereabouts?”
“Cleveland.”
“Oh! I might go there this summer!”
“It’s really hot in the summer, really steaming—”
“Well then I guess I’ll just be another Cleveland steamer!”
He gulps. “Do you think you can handle it?”
“Oh, yeah, totally. I’m really good at packing.”
At that he raises his index finger as if he’s about to say something, and then jumps up and starts jogging toward town.
Have I sent mixed signals? I finish off the bottle and head home, feeling confused, hungry, and so awfully empty.
This doesn’t strike me as the type of place you could find love or sex. The only women here are waitresses and all the men look too happy to trust. I’m surprised anyone comes here at all. The menu is humdrum and Jimmy Buffet is blaring out of speakers in the ceiling. This kind of thing only teases assholes.
The hostess seats me in a booth next to a print of a group of sailors smiling in front of a submarine. My waitress comes over. Her name is Hazel and she looks absolutely frigid.
“Do you want to borrow my sweatshirt while I eat?” I ask.
“Oh, haha, no, but thanks.” There’s snow on the ground and she’s in shorts and a midriff.
“You look painfully cold.”
“According to the owner, this is called ‘ambiance.’”
“Your nipples are like traffic cones.”
“Yes, they could cut glass.”
“Is Vita the owner?”
“There is no Vita.”
“Who’s in charge of this clamshell then?”
“I’m not sure… the Clamshell’s been going through a lot of hands lately.”
“Are you worried about losing your job?”
“Not really.” She motions to the crowd of men at the bar watching football on TV. “A few times a night you’ll get a tip from one of these guys that’s lot bigger than you’d expect. Say, mind if I take a load off?”
I nod, and she plunks down on the seat beside me.
“I don’t normally do this but—we should hang out.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I get off in an hour.”
“OK, sure.”
When she gets up I can see down her shirt but it’s not like I haven’t seen that before. It’s been forever since I’ve just hung out with somebody. I feel really good and suddenly my mouth curves upward for no obvious reason. I don’t know; this could be love.
Question: Where does one go to find love? I’ve searched high and low and all I seem to find is sex everywhere. It’s in the malls, on the trains and buses, and in cute little boutiques, restaurants, parks, government facilities, airports, etc. Should I look to the place I would expect it the least: a pornshop? Or should I just succumb to the sexually flaccid world of today’s culture?—Larry
Answer: Love is like a pair of glasses; you rip apart your room to find them and the entire time they were sitting on your face. It’s true: Look too hard for something and you’ll become blinded in your search. Every day, all across the world, people are discovering love in the very places you claim supply merely sex. This makes me wonder if you might be overlooking some basic signs of human tenderness—and consequently missing the love boat. To test my theory, I decided to hit up a few of the hotspots you suggested to see for myself if the world is as oversexed as you say or if all is full of love.
The Mall
It’s a sunny day and light is pouring in from the atrium, giving youth and vigor to the elderly walkers who lap like fish in a golden shower. There’s a line of teenagers at the Orange Julius counter and a girl walking 10 steps ahead of her mother, pretending she doesn’t know her. Slouched in front of Abercrombie and Fitch is a boy wearing a cocked ball-cap and what must at least be size 15 basketball shoes. His mouth is agape and his eyes glued to a poster in the window display of a blonde man standing erect in a field of rolling grass. The model’s stomach is cut like a hedge maze. I approach him from behind, certain I will discover love; nascent young men surge with it.“Hi! You look hungry! Wanna have a bite?” I offer.
“No, that’s OK.”
“Doesn’t this make you think of David? I was in Florence not too long ago, and, while this is impressive, you really have to be under David to get the full impact of his body. Are you into art?”
“My mom’s waiting for me in Dress Barn.”
I feel discouraged when he turns and runs off, so I make my way to the Orange Julius stand. But then across the mall, through the window of the Dress Barn, I see it: a boy rushing into the open arms of his mother, possessed with words, probably of affection, and whispering them into her wide eyes. She fingers his coiled brown hair and you can tell he feels so much better.
It’s all so much; I can hardly swallow this warmth.
The Park
After a few minutes of watching me try to open a 40 with my teeth, the man on the bench walks over to me on the tire swing and untwists it with calloused hands.“Thanks!” I say.
“You’ve got nice teeth,” he replies.
“Thanks!”
“Are they real?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I get on?”
“Of course. It’s a public park.”
He doesn’t say anything but instead starts licking his lips like LL Cool J and takes off his windbreaker to reveal a tight wool sweater with Taz the Tasmanian on the front. I move my legs to make room for him on the tire, and the rope begins to creak. He’s not blinking and I’m worried that if he doesn’t stop licking his lips they’re gonna chap. I can read him like a book: He wants to weasel my 40.
“So, where are you from?” I ask.
“Ohio.” He gasps between licks.
“Um, whereabouts?”
“Cleveland.”
“Oh! I might go there this summer!”
“It’s really hot in the summer, really steaming—”
“Well then I guess I’ll just be another Cleveland steamer!”
He gulps. “Do you think you can handle it?”
“Oh, yeah, totally. I’m really good at packing.”
At that he raises his index finger as if he’s about to say something, and then jumps up and starts jogging toward town.
Have I sent mixed signals? I finish off the bottle and head home, feeling confused, hungry, and so awfully empty.
A Restaurant
There’s a new restaurant in town called Vita’s Clamshell. It must be popular because I keep seeing a lot of people wearing T-shirts from there. They have a girl in a clamshell bra saying, “If it smells like fish, eat it!” I have a problem with that because everyone knows clams should smell like the ocean. If it smells like “fish,” then it’s not fresh seafood!This doesn’t strike me as the type of place you could find love or sex. The only women here are waitresses and all the men look too happy to trust. I’m surprised anyone comes here at all. The menu is humdrum and Jimmy Buffet is blaring out of speakers in the ceiling. This kind of thing only teases assholes.
The hostess seats me in a booth next to a print of a group of sailors smiling in front of a submarine. My waitress comes over. Her name is Hazel and she looks absolutely frigid.
“Do you want to borrow my sweatshirt while I eat?” I ask.
“Oh, haha, no, but thanks.” There’s snow on the ground and she’s in shorts and a midriff.
“You look painfully cold.”
“According to the owner, this is called ‘ambiance.’”
“Your nipples are like traffic cones.”
“Yes, they could cut glass.”
“Is Vita the owner?”
“There is no Vita.”
“Who’s in charge of this clamshell then?”
“I’m not sure… the Clamshell’s been going through a lot of hands lately.”
“Are you worried about losing your job?”
“Not really.” She motions to the crowd of men at the bar watching football on TV. “A few times a night you’ll get a tip from one of these guys that’s lot bigger than you’d expect. Say, mind if I take a load off?”
I nod, and she plunks down on the seat beside me.
“I don’t normally do this but—we should hang out.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I get off in an hour.”
“OK, sure.”
When she gets up I can see down her shirt but it’s not like I haven’t seen that before. It’s been forever since I’ve just hung out with somebody. I feel really good and suddenly my mouth curves upward for no obvious reason. I don’t know; this could be love.
—Published February 4, 2005
