Stella Dixon’s take on romance at the shore – where the odds are good, but the goods are odd.
I’ll never understand men who preface a kiss with a question. It’s a beautiful night and you’re standing under a Cape May moon. He looks into your eyes, and you into his. He leans in, you lean in. You pucker up and, instead of planting one on you, he asks if he can kiss you. Stop being so polite, you want to say, and make a move already. At times like these I don’t want a gentleman who asks permission; I want a cowboy.
Don’t get me wrong, nothing makes a man less of a man than forcing himself onto a woman. But now and then even the demurest of ladies wants to feel her loins trembling like the heroine from a Danielle Steele novel, and a timid guy just won’t get the job done. If I’ve been giving all the go-ahead signals, feel free to scoop me up like a bona fide James Bond. I can’t imagine 007 ever hesitating in a moment of passion.
I blame technology. Men never have to be so bold as to actually approach a woman anymore; they can send a text message, an email, or a wall post to gauge a reaction first. Face to face, without the buffer of cyberspace, guys freeze, straight-jacketed by their own fear of rejection. Paris may have gone to war over Helen of Troy, but I doubt he was any more frightened than a modern man caught without his cell.
Recently, waiting in line at the pharmacy, I locked eyes with the tall, handsome guy standing in front of me. I felt sure he’d strike up a conversation, but he bashfully turned his attention to his cell phone instead. Sick of meeting timorous men, I decided to force this one into a conversation.
“Come here often?” I asked him.
He flashed me an adorable, dimpled smile and, in between the tabloid aisle and the laxatives, he introduced himself as Ben. I was just about to pat myself on the back for making the first move, when the pharmacist interrupted our drug store connection.
“Birth date?” she asked Ben.
“1-16-91,” he told her.
That’s when I realized that the object of my pharmacy line affection was 19 years old. So I did what any other self-respecting gal would do; I pretended to text while he finished paying for his prescription, probably a jar of Flintstone Chewables, and left the store.
I guess I can’t very well chastise men for hiding behind technology if I’m going to do the same myself. And I’d be lying if I denied Googling a guy or two before a date. Perhaps I’m a hypocrite if I speak out against the role technology has played in altering dating dynamics. All I know for sure is that, after so many years of 21st-century dating, it can’t hurt to reflect and recharge.