Athol Kay’s latest post counsels a couple whose work schedules make it extremely difficult to find private time together. He sums his advice up as “I’m advising you both to act like you are having an affair with each other. Find the stolen time together.”
This recalled to me Roissy’s game concept of the “secret world,” an emotional cocoon within which a man can construct a deep and exclusive connection with a woman.
A commenter identifying herself as Shannon Bradley-Colleary told the readership that she had done just that – feeling she should sublimate her latent passion for a music star to re-invigorating her own marital love life, she left a note for her husband to meet her at a hotel under an assumed identity. I clicked to her blog and found she had written a hilarious post on the “affair” called “How To Seduce Your Husband.” It is well worth reading.
The note told him to dress for-a-first-date (no orthopedic tennis shoes or white socks), to meet me in the bar at the Avalon Hotel at 8 p.m. sharp. I wrote that we would not know one another and could not be who we truly are. Also he should be cocky and entitled. And if he arrived before me he was to order me a Grey Goose martini straight up with two olives. Because that sounded like a drink Mrs. Robinson would have while smoking thin cigarettes.
Nice to see she has some awareness of what would be hot if she were to have an affair with a guy at the Avalon Hotel. Interesting how the female fantasy of meeting a guy in the night seems to involve a brash, debonair man in active seduction mode (as opposed to the more neutral and spontaneous meet-cute fantasy during the day).
But why wasn’t he looking at me? I whistled at him. He didn’t turn around. WTF? Was he deaf? Didn’t he see me? Waiters and busboys were falling into my cleavage never to be heard from again. My dress skirt was so short the concierge had offered to give me a full Brazilian wax. How could he miss me? Would I have to whistle again? Just put my lips together and blow?
Henry turned. Our eyes met. He looked at me quizzically. Wow. He was really going to go through with this. My heart melted. He approached. “Are you Crystal?” he asked.
Crystal? Crystal? That’s the best he could do? I hated that name and the bimboism it implied. Shouldn’t we be able to pick our own names?
She’s getting attention from every guy in the room, except the one she wants attention from.
Even as a screenwriter, she had a charming difficulty keeping up the shtick:
“So Crystal,” Paul said making himself comfortable on the couch next to me, “I feel like I know you already…. from your videos.”
Turns out I was going to be a porn star. Yes. A porn star. Completely ignoring Tina Fey’s advice that you should trust your partner during an improv I said, “I’m not in that business.”
“You’re not?” Paul’s eyes began to dart about confusedly.
I realized I was about to blow this whole thing, so I backtracked. I informed him I hadworked as an adult performer in my misspent youth, however, I’d been such a classy, intellectual porn star whose demographic was college-educated women who preferred erotica to misogynistic wham-bam-thank-you-ma’ams that I’d been able to create my own brand, turn it into a thriving production company that raked in so much money that I was able to retire early to Tampa, Florida (just pulled that one out of my apparently well-known ass) where I owned several properties including a baseball team.
Better than a secretly-wealthy-handyman story.
Paul had been born in Portland, Maine apparently, but his father was a blimp operator so they moved around a lot. In fact, his father piloted the first ever Goodyear blimp all over the country. Unfortunately Paul’s mother found out that his father had a girl in every Blimp port. They were known as “Blimpees.”…I had two sons from a high school relationship with a drug dealer. My boys thought I was their wicked, fallen, older sister.
In a predictable but exciting example of commitment psychology, they started to fill out the roles they’d created for themselves:
After a while a Henry and I became Paul and Crystal. We saw each other differently. We smiled at each other differently. I laughed at all of his jokes and didn’t reprimand him for eating mashed potatoes that would just add to the belly fat that was a widow-maker. When we touched across the restaurant table it felt as though we were touching for the first time. It was electric.
I think the best thing it did for me was allow me a certain distance with which to observe the man who is my husband. I remembered why I’d thought he was so adorable in the first place. I saw him through fresh eyes.
One way to look at this is that they are relating as lovers (people interested in each other), not as spouses (people bonded by mutual obligations). They are making an effort to be interesting to each other.
Her comment at MMSL fills in the ending:
“I can tell you this…the date ended in the back of our minivan parked on South Beverly. It was sublime.”
I had to get a cold glass of water after reading it.