The Routine

Thank you to my dear writer friend, "Nicholas Woods" for giving the ladies a glimpse into the minds of many men. As promised, I have protected his true identity, but will offer up that he is a wonderful and sensitive soul who had done very well with the ladies and can make the most delicious meals! Enjoy! We want contributions from all of you!

-----

The Routine

by Nicholas Woods

I have a friend who keeps a small notebook of all his dates. He's been single for forty years, so yes, if you're a woman in LA, there's a good chance your're 6 degrees from a name in this notebook, if not listed in it yourself. What's more scary about this notebook is that next to each name is a number. The number is not a reference to time, or a scale on which to measure beauty. Instead, it is a simple monetary figure: Susan: $80, it will say. Or Tara, $210. Curious, as you might be, I asked him why?

"It's all economics, man. There are two cliches in dating that are true." He said, sipping an oversized can of Fosters, Australia's worst beer. "Men want sex as fast as possible. And women, though they may also want sex, want to extend the courting process in order to be adored." Is it that simple? "Yes," he said without hesitation. "The easiest way to show your adoration is to spend your money on them. It's not just that, but it's certainly the starting point."

I nod, withholding any opinion in hopes he'll further bury himself, but his argument begins to pick up pace.

"Look at the foundation of modern marriage. The tradition basically boils down to a woman saying, if you really love me, drop $15 to $20k on a ring which represents the fact that you were willing to basically go into debt to be with me! Marriage is an institution, yes. But a mental institution."

I opened a can of Australia's worst and take a swig. "That $20k ring means I own her sexual organs." I swill at least half the can.

"Now when I meet a girl," He continued, "I keep track." He opened a page in his journal. "Leslie. Went on three dates with her. I picked the first place. We met for a few drinks and saw a band, it cost me about $80. At the end of it, we kissed a little bit. Was it worth $80? Well, not so fast, cause $40 of that I spent on myself; I got a nice buzz out of it and heard a great live band. So was it worth the $40 ii spent on her? I would say yes. She was interesting, had a great smile, and smelled like jasmine. On our next date, she picked the restaurant. Bill was $150. When it hit the table, I waited, like I do, to see if she would go for her pocket book. She didn't. I mean, didn't even pretend to. So I paid. With a smirk on my face. And she smirked back cause Leslie knew the deal: I pick up the check, she dry humps me in the car for a while. Fair trade for a second date. On our next date, we went to dinner and hit a club and danced. Cost me about $400. We ended up at her place, and did just about everything except have sex. Totally wonderful. And totally worth it. I work hard for my money. I want to spend it wisely. Our next date is this weekend. I'll spend what it takes for actual penetration."

I belched, and called him a cynical bastard. But he didn't apologize. Not even in the slightest. As a matter of fact, he went through his list of women he'd spent money on that he didn't ask out again. He'd spent $190 on Laurie, and she wasn't able to say so much as thank you. She was crossed out. $245, on Jill, who was boring, and could kiss for shit. $510 on a girl named Kirsten, who he never even kissed. She was a model, so he admitted it was a long shot, you should always have one in your portfolio.

He never calls the ones he crosses out back, but if any of them were to find out why, I wonder what their reaction would be. Do women assume men are going to pay for everything on each date? What's the exchange if they do? There needs to be a little bit of good faith here. If there's no connection, wouldn't it be right to pull out your wallet and split the bill? It does free you of any implicit obligation and leave for a resentment-free dinner. You're wallet is right there in that massive Fendi bag by your side. The one the last guy you were with bought you to show you how much he adored you.