RELATION SHIPS Suddenly Single

SCENE FROM HIGH SCHOOL, SENIOR

year: friend Jimmy and I are driving around Dallas in my parents’ convertible. The top is down as we cruise Forest Lane looking for ways to break the boredom. Hormones narrow our choices as a carload of girls, all bubbly and blond, stops beside us at (he light. 1 feel an elbow in my ribs, Jimmy encouraging me to make contact. My mouth feels dry as I search for the right words to bridge the distance between us. But the words don’t come. I’m frozen by the fear of making a total jerk of myself.

Jimmy groans with sexual angst. “They’re gonna get away,” he whispers. “Say something.”

“You say something,” I counter.

Suddenly the light turns green and Jimmy’s eyes glaze with a seething desperation. Frustrated, he stands tall in the convertible, tosses his head back, and lets loose this loud, visceral scream, primal enough to cause the dogs in the neighborhood to go into spontaneous heat. I slither low in my seat, too embarrassed to look, hearing only the screech of tires trying to make a quick getaway.

Twenty years later, the memory of that scene on Forest Lane still haunts me, heightening my fears about meeting women. Suddenly single at thirty-eight, I must again cast myself on the ego-infested waters of the Dallas singles world. My married friends tell me disease is killing the singles life; “a new monogamy” is replacing casual sex with safe sex, carousing with cocooning. “Why, even Hugh Hefner got married,” they argue.

Challenged by their moral vision, I recognize that traditional ways of meeting people still exist-through friends, at work, etc.-but I wonder whether high-tech encounters such as personal ads or video dating offer less intimidating alternatives. I begin my search for the singles life with trepidation in my heart and a condom in my wallet.

THE BAR SCENE: Bright lights, fog machines, loud music. Dance floor packed. Alcohol tempering rejection. I remember why my history with singles bars is less than stellar. I close down in these places, become judgmental. In my life, I’ve only picked up one woman in a bar, and that was in another city after I’d medicated my fear of rejection into oblivion. Tonight, I caution myself to keep an open mind as I stand in line at a club on Upper Greenville. It’s Ladies’ Night; young women in their twenties, traveling in packs, wearing big bouffy hair, Day-Glo colors, and Madonna-like bustiers-underwear worn as active wear. The men come in all ages: carefully graying business types and ruddy-faced yuppies freshly pumped from their Nautilus workout. I mill about with the crowd, Corona in hand, feeling sexually helpless and seventeen again. I’ve read Psychology Today; I know it’s the woman who makes the first move, and it makes me uncomfortable. Just thinking about it.

Strange. An attractive blonde in a red leather dress seems to be smiling at me, dancing alone, but in my direction. I slam my Corona onto the bar and summon my courage. It won’t be rejection, I assure myself. This is journalism. Swallowing hard, I make my approach. “You look like you could use a dance.”

“I don’t think so,” she says, bobbing away in time to the music.

It’s nearly one o’clock and someone introduces me to Stu, a fairly unassuming regular who speaks body language fluently. I point out my red-leather blonde, who’s now surrounded by three men, and ask Stu how I could have misread those signs. “You’re too academic for her,” Stu laughs. “She only wants power and money.”

With only one hour left before closing, people hurriedly connect, and disconnect, in noisy desperation, frantic they might go home alone. The disc jockey makes an announcement. Jerry Jones, owner of the Dallas Cowboys, has just arrived with several players. Instantly, the force field in the room shifts, as nubile women are magnetically drawn toward the Cowboys.

At two o’clock, I watch the crowd and try to discern if anyone has coupled for the evening. Most seem to leave with whom they came, but there, ten feet away, stands Miss Red Leather, handing her phone number to some equally blond football player.

With my chance of meeting someone in a bar as likely as replicating cold fusion in my kitchen, I grow mindful of an old Woody Allen line: “Sex for sex’s sake is an empty experience. But as far as empty experiences go-it’s one of the best.”

GETTING PERSONAL: Over-educated, thirtysomething writer, struggling to be me and get paid for it, huggable, bearded, not Bohemian, enjoys film, theater, and brunch, threatened by great outdoors and long-term relationships, seeks woman 25 to 35, independent yet feminine, who exudes warmth, joy, and dynamite measurements. Emphasis on inner qualities. Photo a must.

The idea of reducing my life to five lines of ad copy and going public with my passion has always seemed a tad desperate. For years, the personals have seemed little more than typeset graffiti, the classifieds for kinky encounters: Bored and bashful executive seeking bisexual couple for afternoon frolic. Some light typing required.

But of late, personals are losing their sleazy connotation as mainstream Dallas singles go shopping for love. Many perceive the personals as safe, protecting their confidentiality and placing them in control of whom they meet. More ads than ever are asking for “drug-free,” “disease-free,” “commitment-oriented compatibles.”

As with most advertising, an immodest amount of puffing is expected. Heights are stretched, weights are lightened, the word “attractive” loses all meaning.

Before I submit my own ad to the Dallas Observer, I show it to Nancy Stokes, a Dallas assertiveness trainer and lecturer on the “How To’s of the Personals ” Nancy agrees to critique my ad:

Over-educated, thirtysomething writer: Good hook, she says; the first three words must catch the reader’s eye. Since like attracts like, you should attract a lot of artsy, whimsical women.

Straggling to be me and get paid for it: It’s honest. Cuts out gold diggers and women looking to be taken care of.

Huggable: Careful. Words like “hug-gable” and “teddy bear” are often euphemisms for “fat.” Avoid blatant words like “sensuous” and “sexy”-they attract prostitutes and perverts.

Threatened by great outdoors and long-term relationships: “You’re driving away more serious-minded women ” Nancy warns me. “People using the personals today are interested in upping their level of relationship readiness.”

Emphasis on inner qualities. Photo a must: Women like a sense of humor. But if it hides who you are or what you want, Nancy says, cut back.

I decide against running my ad, unwilling to up my level of “relationship readiness.” I ’m also not ready to tackle the most dreaded of mating rituals, “the blind date*-a must for all serious shoppers.

VIDEO DATING: “In a time when commitment is more important than ever…” So begins the promotional video for Great Expectations, the nationwide video dating franchise that has successfully extended its reach into the hearts, minds, and pockets of Dallas singles. Prominently displayed on the wall of G/E’s posh North Dallas offices are photos of newlyweds, splices of video bliss, each couple silently pitching a message to the membership. “This, too, could happen to you!”

When I ask Elizabeth Samara, a bright-eyed G/E counselor, if the people who join are a bit desperate, she looks appalled. Desperate? Not at all. “They’re busy professionals who don’t have time to look for dates,” she says. But members must take the time to view each other’s video, and mutually consent to an introduction before phone numbers are exchanged. If there’s no match, members receive a computer printout reciting one of the sixteen generic rejections.

Although G/E talks about qualifying its members, money and marriage seem the only two obstacles. There are no background checks. No AIDS tests. No verification of anything except credit card numbers.

When G/E’s owner makes me promise not to print the prices of her memberships, I wonder if it’s simply because they’re so expensive. Later, a current member tells me that, at times, the price varies depending on the needs of the membership.

Once inside the tropically decorated video library, I make selections and view self-conscious singles answering scripted questions from an unseen interviewer.

As I watch this marriage of romance and technology reducing destiny to a TV screen, it’s obvious that something is missing. Gone is the chance encounter, the opportunity for love at first sight, the magic of knowing instinctively that you’ve met the right person. I decide video dating is not for me.



IF THE TOOLS OF THE INFORMATION AGE HAVE been enlisted in the service of love, why are so many singles still having trouble meeting? My married friends, ever content, shaken only by weekend shortages at their favorite video stores, claim singles don’t know what they want. And yet, it seems, whether in the superficial encounter of a singles bar, the printed pages of the personals, or the clinical pursuit of high-tech mating, most singles just want to feel connected.

The other night, I drove down Forest Lane again, hoping to recapture some of the innocence that made two close friends try to connect with several blond strangers one spring evening twenty years ago. And I wondered if my friend Jimmy’s approach to meeting girls wasn’t a hell of a lot more honest-and just about as effective.