Chapter Eight

U.S.A—L.A.

Date #52—All shook up
in Vegas, USA

Weird, bloated stomach; indecisive and easily confused; tired and craving sugar…jet lag is the PMS of travelers, without the payoff of knowing you’re not pregnant.

But I was in L.A., low-fat, low-sugar capital of the world, and I was determined that it would be the inspiration for a new healthy me. I was going to get back in shape, eat properly, and start working out again. I’d feel and look better, as well as having more energy for my quest.

I was staying at the Best Western on Sunset Strip, much nicer than it sounds and incredibly central, especially as my first date was with a comedian called Lowell, across the road at the Comedy Store. My friend Lizzy had given me his number but suggested I catch his show tonight and ring him tomorrow if I liked him. I knew my Date Wranglers well enough by now to know I’d live to regret not taking their advice when it was offered.

Date #28: Lowell—Sunset Strip, L.A., U.S.A.

It was open-mike night at the Comedy Store: twenty-four comedians each with three minutes to be funny. Such rapid turnover meant that the audience never got to know or care about the comedian, but looked for quick laughs instead. Faced with such performance pressure, most comedians lost first their confidence and then their audience, whose wandering attention made them chat and heckle.

Watching the audience smell the blood of a dying comedian, then finish him off with brutal indifference, was a chilling sight, like seeing a gladiator fighting for his life in front of a jaded mob.

I missed Lowell’s entrance onstage: An Australian impersonator (he’d impersonated a swallow by holding the mike to his throat and swallowing) was asking me if the audience hadn’t laughed because they couldn’t understand his accent.

Instead of answering, I turned my attention to Lowell, who was a few moments into his act. He had an electric presence: Tall with a tense, sinewy body and short, dirty-blond hair, Lowell spoke with a deep southern drawl. There was nothing languid about him, though; his act was deeply offensive, performed with the furious belligerence of a drunk being bundled into a police van at midnight.

He did what virtually no other comedian had managed, though: He got the attention of the crowd. After telling one of the sickest jokes I have ever heard spoken aloud, his three minutes were up and Lowell stormed offstage to such howls of outrage and abuse that for a moment I wondered if stage-struck actually meant someone coming up onstage and punching you.

Although appalled, I actually thought he was a pretty good comedian, but there was no way in the world I was going to date him (and I suspect Lizzy knew this). I drank a beer and watched a few more of the acts, before deciding to call it a night.

Outside in the parking lot, a knot of spent comedians paced in distracted agitation, like a gang of street fighters licking their wounds after a violent clash. Lowell was among them. He didn’t know I was Lizzy’s friend; still, he caught my eye as I passed. “Thanks for coming,” he called out.

“I admired your act,” I said over my shoulder as I continued to walk.

“Really?” he asked, running to catch up. He walked a couple of paces ahead, then turned to face me. “It gets me right here,” he said, hitting his fist on his chest, arrogant yet clearly stung by the reception he’d just received.

“I thought you were funny,” I told him honestly.

“Really?” he asked again, his need for approval naked and demanding. “I thought it was a disaster.” He looked shocked, whether at his act or the audience’s response, I couldn’t tell.

“You’re original,” I said evenly, “You weren’t like the others. You weren’t trying to please, you stood out.”

Behind him, the strung-out comedians continued to pace, ebbing and flowing around each other as the adrenaline surge slowly abated. “Will you be coming back?” Lowell asked.

“Maybe.” I shrugged as I walked off. But I knew I wouldn’t: Funny was what these men did, not what they were.

Date #29: Brian—CBS TV Studios, Fairfax, L.A., U.S.A.

Brian wasn’t what he appeared either.

When I’d told Ellie about my difficulties in finding a date in L.A., she promised to find me someone and, sure enough, her friend Brian was coming on a TV Date with me.

I wanted to go on a TV Date to test a theory. As I see it, once you get past the initial mutually obsessed and introspective stage of a new romance, it settles into something cozier, and that generally involves staying in and watching a fair amount of TV together. Since L.A. is where most sitcoms are recorded, I thought watching TV on a date—or, to be more specific, sitting in on the recording of a TV program on a date—would be a good way to see if we were compatible.

Sadly, my theory went untested as there were apparently two CBS studios in L.A. and we ended up going to the wrong one.

Brian picked me up from the hotel in his car and we made the short trip over to Fairfax. Tall, with short dark hair, huge blue eyes, and a body gymmed to perfection, my first impression was that he was cute…and gay.

Needless to say, I kept this thought to myself.

When we arrived at CBS and were told we were at the wrong studio, Brian was upset and apologized profusely: “Oh, Jennifer, I am such an idiot. I really wanted to see it, too.”

He looked genuinely disappointed but rallied quickly. He grabbed my hand and we raced from the parking lot to the scariest and most fabulous secondhand clothes shop I’d ever seen. None of the genteel manners of Help the Aged; people pushed carts around the racks, shopping here because they had to.

And in the shop I discovered that Brian wasn’t Brian and that he was indeed gay.

The Thrift Store had no changing rooms; instead about twenty mirrors were mounted close together on the long back wall. I modestly disrobed behind a stack of quadraphonic cartridges and a wall of Harold Robbins novels. Brian had no such hang-ups: A pile of clothes at his feet, he unselfconsciously stripped off in front of the mirrors (and a crowd of admiring young men). His stomach was so flat and his muscles so hard that, if lost at sea, you could have flipped him onto his back, gripped his nipples, and surfed to shore on him.

I stared at his buff body and blurted out: “Brian, you have the kind of body gay men would kill for.” Much to the disappointment of his audience, he stopped rippling his washboard stomach and looked sheepishly at me.

He held my gaze for a moment, then said quietly, “You know, don’t you?”

“Well…” My voice trailed off and I shrugged awkwardly (which, considering I was balancing on one leg, an apricot satin jumpsuit halfway up the other, was quite an achievement).

We left the clothes in a pile on the floor and went next door for coffee. Brian was a friend of Ellie’s, and also a friend of Marc, who apparently was the man I was having coffee with right now.

“Jennifer…” he said with a pained look on his face. “No question, I was going to tell you, I was just waiting for the right moment. You must be really mad at me, huh?” Marc went on to explain how Brian had had to work late, but Marc—his roommate—was a huge fan of one of the actors in the program, and had volunteered to come along instead. “We figured this way, at least you’d have a Date for the night,” Marc (aka Brian) reasoned wretchedly.

I’d missed my program and my Date was gay, but I genuinely couldn’t have been happier. To go shopping was always a treat, but to be taken shopping by a sweet man who knew where the best designer bargains in L.A. could be found…. in that respect, Marc really was my Soul Mate. Brian/Marc paid for the coffee and we went right back to our shopping. It was a wonderful date.

Dates #30–50: Speed-Dating—Redondo Beach, L.A., U.S.A.

I read in the in-flight magazine coming over that 74 percent of men know after the first fifteen minutes of a date if they are interested or not.

Fifteen minutes? That long?

Women know instantly if they are interested or not. Like playing a slot machine, in those first, dense dating moments, the tone of voice, content of conversation, appearance, body language, dress sense, height, and general vibe all spin around women’s heads until the barrels fall into place. They are then either predominantly cherries (put more money in and keep playing) or lemons (stop playing and leave the machine for someone else).

That’s why the theory behind speed-dating—twenty dates, each lasting three minutes—makes so much sense. It might be hard on the men—whether comedians or daters—but women can learn a lot in three L.A. minutes.

My friend Ian cynically accused me of wanting to speed-date just to get my numbers up, but I was genuinely curious. Though it’s less convenient than online dating—it’s at a set time and you have to travel to a venue—there are real advantages. A face-to-face meeting means you quickly discover if you like someone or not, plus you see straight away if there’s any chemistry between you, without feeling obligated or involved. You’ll also find out how accurate their profile is—in my early online days I spent two weeks having fabulous e-chats with Martin, before meeting up and disappointedly discovering he was in fact 10 Percent Too Small Martin.

So I went speed-dating.

 

As I arrived at a packed bar in Redondo Beach, organizer Styve (it’s L.A.) smiled with pleasure and relief at the sight of me. “Oh, thank goodness, another woman, we’re running so short.” I looked around the bar and sure enough, there were five little tables with a harassed-looking woman sitting behind each one, a swarm of impatient men surrounding them, checking to see no one exceeded the allotted three minutes and edging forward in anticipation of their own.

Part of me thought I should feel intimidated by the pressure and the incredible air of competitiveness that permeated the room, but instead I was delighted. L.A. is a social barometer for the rest of the world: Was this the future of dating? Single men outnumbering women five to one?

Styve gave me a badge with my name and a number, pushed a clipboard into my hand, and told me to write down the number of any guy I was interested in. They would email me the results (like some kind of weird dating pregnancy test: Congratulations, Jennifer, you’re going to have a boyfriend) in a couple of days.

God, I suddenly realized, I hadn’t thought up a story; what reason would I give the Dates for being here? I didn’t want to tell them about my quest, as that would take the whole three minutes. But if I told the truth—I was here for two days and wanted to meet someone—even in therapy-hungry L.A., that was going to scream “relationship issues.”

As it turned out, I needn’t have worried: With so few women and so few minutes, the Dates did all the talking.

Date #30 told me Jesus didn’t mind us doing this and asked, which church did I attend? Date #31 was an analyst of something I didn’t catch because he muttered (his username was “no_talking”; I felt like replying “no_kidding”). Date #32 worked in defense: “I can’t tell you anything else until I get you security-cleared.” I asked Date #33 if he had ever been to one of these events before. “Last night,” he replied. “I’m ready to have children and need to meet my wife.” Date #34 was German and desperate to talk to another European. Date #35 was a sweet, lonely Vietnamese man: “I’ve decided I need to chill out and meet more people. It doesn’t have to be dating—I just want some friends.” Date #36 was a management consultant who talked about how much he enjoyed Nepal. “Why?” I asked. “They floss their teeth in the street,” he replied. I liked Date #37, though he shouted at 2 minutes 59 seconds, “I have two children,” as Date #38 dragged him away from my table by the chair.

I felt slightly overwhelmed by the time I’d completed Date #50 and couldn’t get away fast enough. Like being under the spotlight on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, I thought there had to be a less stressful way of getting the prize.

As I arrived back at the hotel, Lizzy rang from London to see how it had worked out with Lowell. I told her he was a little too intense for me, but he was completely laid-back compared with some of the speed-daters I’d just met.

We laughed about it and Lizzy commented: “Jennifer, this is the first time I’ve heard you sound really happy in ages. I was worried it was all beginning to get to you.” I hadn’t thought about it, but she was right: I felt excited and alive in a way I never had in Europe.

“For some reason, I found it really hard to get under the skin of the Dates in Europe,” I confessed, realizing for the first time that this was true. “I always felt like an outsider. Maybe because American culture is more like ours or everyone loves my accent here and wants to talk to me…. I feel part of what’s going on rather than just a spectator.”

It could also be that, rested from a spell at home and now with quite a few dates under my belt, I was more experienced at handling the “workload.” It had felt incredibly intimidating when I’d started out, but now there seemed to be a natural rhythm and order to events. It was easier to know what to expect and be prepared.

“You know, I actually feel excited to be here; in fact I’m even looking forward to dating. I don’t know that I ever did in Europe; there always seemed so much of it.”

We then chatted about normal stuff—how her baby Connie was, the fabulous pair of boots I’d bought on Rodeo Drive—before saying good-bye.

Although it was late, I felt really cheery and full of energy, so I popped next door to the House of Blues to catch Arthur Lee & Love. It was good, simple, loud fun. Talking was impossible; I smiled and shrugged at the guys who tried to engage me in conversation. Encoring with a scorching version of “Smokestack Lightning,” Lee removed his sunglasses for the first time and croaked to the audience: “Hey, ya’ll do me a favor: Love each other.” So different from the hard-nosed comedy crowd across the road, the audience cheered and danced wildly.

This felt like a good omen and I cheered and danced along with everyone else. Lizzy was right, I felt happy and flirty, and seemed to be getting chatted up like mad as a result. I can’t explain why, but for some reason I knew I was on the right path, doing the right thing. My Soul Mate was getting closer; things were going to change, I could feel it.

 

“So where are you stripping tonight?”

It took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to turn and see who in the Southwest Airlines check-in queue had just been asked that question.

It cleared one thing up, though: why so many big-haired, big-boobed, teeny-outfitted blondes were walking around L.A. airport. One woman wore a small (and I mean tiny) red T-shirt and red plastic shorts that covered just the top half of her bottom. As she bent over, struggling to lift her heavy bags onto the check-in scales, she oozed from her shorts like peanut butter out of a sandwich. The queue watched, helplessly transfixed, unsure whether we should call a porter or a gynecologist to help.

Thursday afternoon was obviously when all the strippers traveled to work: We were catching the Red Thigh to Vegas.

 

“You wanna see a show tomorrow, ma’am?”

The top-hatted ticket tout waved flyers energetically at the fiftysomething woman and her husband ducking into the air-conditioned sanctuary of New York New York to escape the searing heat of the Strip.

“We’re going to a wedding tomorrow,” she barked back in a thick Brooklyn accent. “That’s the biggest show there is.”

Las Vegas is famously both the wedding and gambling capital of America. You’ve got to wonder if there’s a relationship between the two. Apart from legalities (i.e., it’s quick and easy), why do so many people get married in Vegas? Is it because, a theme park in the middle of a desert and cut off from the rest of the world, Vegas brings out a what the hell impetuosity? Or having bet and won in the casinos, do people feel more prepared for the ultimate gamble?

And if relationships are a crapshoot, could I learn anything helpful from a professional gambler? How much was luck and how much was knowing and playing the system? I’d arranged to meet Chester through a third-generation Date Wrangler. Aware this could be a little dicey, we were having a drink in my hotel bar so I’d feel more secure on “home territory.”

The problem was that my usual hotel, the Alexis Park (cheap but really homey, with three swimming pools and huge comfortable rooms), was full at the last minute, so I had to stay at the Days Inn off the Strip.

It wasn’t a bad hotel; actually I grew incredibly fond of it by the time I had to leave, but it was threadbare and in a very iffy neighborhood. A dark bar ran the length of the lobby, a cluster of slot machines was behind it, and a large, basic diner was through an alcove off to the right. All was guarded by a one-armed maintenance man in his seventies called Neville.

The place was full of old people, all waiting either for the slots to pay out or the macaroni and cheese to be served up. Outside it was more lively. On the first night I was chased by a gang on chopper bikes. The second, I narrowly missed getting hit with a chain in a fight between rival chopper gangs. On the third night, a brawl between rival chopper gangs exploded onto the hotel porch where I was sitting quietly. The Days Inn was like an old people’s home in a cul-de-sac off Armageddon.

And it was here that Chester came for our date.

Date #51: Chester—Professional Gambler, Las Vegas, U.S.A.

Chester, a big man in his late forties with dark hair and an expanse of Desperate Dan stubble, and I sat at the bar. He immediately became engrossed in a poker game on TV and stayed engrossed for the duration of our date.

Poker is huge in America. Not only are the games televised (including a long-running series of celebrity poker), special wrist-cams have been developed so you can see the hands of star players and follow their progress.

Chester didn’t want to miss the big tournament currently under way and after several failed attempts to engage him in conversation, I resigned myself to sitting and watching with him. I set a two-drink time limit: If the program was finished and we’d talked by then, great; if not, I was going to my room to catch up on email.

The game wasn’t particularly interesting, but I found the intensity of the players utterly compelling. Chester did too. “Look at his hands,” he said, nodding up at the screen, “they’re shaking. That means he’s got a good hand.”

“Really?” I asked, impatience immediately forgotten. “How do you know?”

“You can tell a lot about a player and what they’re holding by their body language,” he replied, his eyes never leaving the screen. “See him stare at his cards, that means he’s got a good hand. When they stare at their chips, that means they’ve got a bad hand and they’re wondering how much they can afford to lose.”

This was what I had come for. “So that man tidying his stack of chips, does that mean anything?”

Chester didn’t answer immediately, lost in the game again, but then with distracted impatience snorted: “It all means something. If you’re going to gamble, you’ve got to study your opponent; you can be damned sure they’ll be studying you. Man who tidies his chips? He’s probably a real careful player: thinks things through, don’t take a lot of risks. Man who leaves them loose, he’s aggressive and harder to call. And look how they’re sitting: See the guy who just sat back in his chair? He’s about to fold, knows he’s out of the game….”

And sure enough, the man laid his cards down and the dealer swept his chips away into the center of the table.

This was fascinating. I had witnessed similar body language among the speed-daters. The mumbling analyst had leaned right back in his chair, whereas the management consultant/street flosser—presumably more confident of his hand—jutted forward, his face pushed quite intimidatingly into mine.

After the intense flurry of insights, Chester was silent again, engrossed in the game, acting as if we were two strangers at a bar (which, of course, we were). I took tiny sips of my warm beer, half watching the game, half watching Neville slowly clean the frayed carpet. Chester suddenly let out a big sigh. I turned back to the TV: The game had finished and Chester was slumped slightly, the tension he’d been holding for the duration of the game leaving his body.

You’d think gambling or comedy would be fun jobs, but so far these were some of the tensest people I’d met. Was this how I’d seemed to people when I was working?

“The thing about gambling,” Chester explained, turning his stool to face mine for the first time, “is that it’s not a game at all: It’s a job. You’ve got to work at it and take it seriously. You can’t put it down to luck and go in unprepared.”

He was obviously very serious about it, as were all the people I’d met when it came to their professions. And where did that leave Love? Was I right to approach my Soul Mate quest like a job, or could you be lucky in Love?

“What about beginner’s luck?” I asked.

“Just that,” he replied dismissively. “It don’t mean anything and it don’t last.”

“So what do you need to play well?” I asked him. “What makes a good player?”

“Well,” he replied, blowing out a little more of the tension before taking a swallow of his whiskey and coke. “A good player has done half his work before he even gets to the table. Are you in the right frame of mind; have you set your limit; who’s the opposition?”

Although I could see parallels, so far gambling was about winning at any cost. I didn’t want a man at any cost, I wanted the right one. But being able to read my Dates would help me decide if I was on the right track.

“I know this sounds stupid, but is it always about winning?” Chester looked intrigued by my question, like I’d graduated from basics and made it through to the next—but still basic—level.

“You gotta think about what you want. I mean, obviously you want to win, but you gotta think about how much you want to win and how much you got to lose. You gotta set your limit and when you reach it, get up and walk away; never throw good money after bad.”

That made sense: I’d never set a limit with Kelly, I always thought I was in too deep to go back and if I just tried a little harder, gave a little more, we’d be fine.

“That must take a lot of control,” I said humbly.

“Playing is all about control,” Chester observed bluntly. “You don’t play angry, you don’t play drunk. It’s not just your cards you’re playing, it’s people. And at the exact same time, they’re playing you. You need a clear head to think through that, then imagine yourself winning.”

“Imagine yourself winning?” I repeated, perplexed. “Wouldn’t that make you overconfident?”

“Not at all,” Chester disagreed. “It’s called positive visualization, like being a runner: See yourself making it across the finish line, you pace yourself better, run a better race too. See yourself winning at poker, you make the winning calls. See yourself as a loser, you’ve not got the self-belief or determination to play well, no matter how much money you gamble.”

I was shocked to hear the words of the Love Professor echoed by Chester: Like yourself and you’ll win; think you’re a loser, and sure enough you’ll end up losing.

“That’s why none of these weekend gamblers got the first clue,” Chester said, showing emotion for the first time. “Gambling takes patience: Before you even sit down at a table you have to watch, study, and learn. You make all the moves in your head first; you can’t just rush in.”

Although I thought Chester was right about being prepared, I also thought he was being overly harsh. Weekend tourists weren’t professional gamblers, they were people enjoying themselves. And surely that was okay? Like all of us obsessed with our careers, Chester was assuming that everyone took gambling as seriously as he did.

“But surely most people coming to Vegas just gamble for fun,” I countered.

“Yes, ma’am, they do,” Chester agreed. “And there ain’t nothing wrong with fun.” And with that, he leaned over and kissed me.

I was absolutely not expecting this. I mean, not remotely. Not like when Frank in Holland kissed me and I wasn’t expecting it, because Frank and I had spent the whole day chatting and had got on really well. Chester had hardly even spoken to me, let alone established any kind of rapport.

Horribly afraid that Neville was watching, I grabbed the edge of the bar to stop myself toppling backward off my stool and slid sideways, away from Chester’s kiss. He smiled good-naturedly. “Sometimes you just gotta take a chance,” he said.

In a fluster, I got up and thanked him for his time. I didn’t say what I really wanted, which was: “Oh, so suddenly now you believe in luck?” It seemed when it came to romance, even professionals forgot the theory and followed their hearts (well, one of their organs, anyway).

 

The next day I thought about what Chester had said. The body-language tips had been useful; so had the one about setting limits (though I had learned this in Paris). What I found completely invaluable were his comments about positive visualization. This was one step on from the Love Professor’s like yourself philosophy: It implied that once you liked yourself, you should then imagine what the lovely new you wanted and deserved.

I booted up my laptop and reread my Soul Mate Job Description:

…old-fashioned enough to want to feel “ladylike”…someone who makes me smile, lets me read them bits out of the newspaper…tells me interesting things I didn’t know…you’ll believe that life is short and you should make the most of it…sense of fun and adventure essential.

God, whoever he was, he sounded lovely. I concentrated on the job description and imagined us together: making each other laugh; arguing about politics; getting lost in exotic countries; curling up in front of the TV. I smiled, a little sadly, wondering if I would ever meet him, then remembered I liked myself and was meant to be positively visualizing him. He was out there and I would meet him. I would.

And suddenly I realized I actually believed it. Not because I was meant to, but because, in my heart, I truly felt it.

 

The next morning I came downstairs as a couple of other Days Inn-ers—Earl and Rhea—were heading off in a bus with their friends to renew their wedding vows. They were going to the famous Little White Wedding Chapel and, seeing that cute Briddish gal, asked if I wanted to come along. They’d been married fifty years and clearly relished each other’s company (in a teasing, mock eye-rolling way). Rhea looked lovely in a peach-colored silk suit, Earl resplendent in an “If it’s got tits or tires it’s gonna git you into trouble” T-shirt.

Known as the Wedding Queen of the West, over the last forty years Little White Wedding Chapel owner and marriage aficionado Charolette Richards had married everyone from Judy Garland, Frank Sinatra, and Joan Collins to Britney Spears and, umm, Blue Oyster Cult. Staff included ex–chorus girls and a vast array of impersonators from Sammy Davis Jr. to Dean Martin. And, of course, Elvis. I got separated from the party after they decided to hire a stretch limo and do the wedding as a drive-through. Trying to stay out of the heat, I got chatting with Roseanne, Charolette’s second in command, instead.

We retreated to the cool of the staff room, and a piece of wedding cake was pushed into my hand as Roseanne told me that 25 percent of all the ceremonies were renewals. I found this, and everything else about the place, really uplifting. The room had the atmosphere of a feel-good musical: Sammy Davis Jr. laughed and spun as he showed another Sammy Davis Jr. how to do a complicated move. Flower arrangers danced around the huge fridges that kept the blooms chilled, as Elvis teased and serenaded, begging them “Don’t Be Cruel.”

“Is he practicing?” I asked Roseanne.

“Oh no,” she replied cheerfully. “He just loves to sing. Once he starts, he don’t stop.” With newly married couples popping in, bursting with happy tears and heartfelt thanks, it was an emotional and joyful atmosphere. Before long I had told them about my quest and we were swapping stories and advice about love and marriage.

It was a wonderful day. Everyone hugged and kissed me good-bye, as Dean Martin prepared to drive me in a stretch limo to the Bellagio. The wardrobe mistress—a tiny Italian woman, choreographer to Michael Crawford in Barnum, with the unquestionable authority of a Sicilian Godmother—walked me to the car. “You wanna know the secret to a successful marriage?” she asked, poking her finger sternly into my chest. She hand-tailored fairy-tale wedding dresses and had herself been married fifty-three years, so I said yes without hesitation. “Meet the family,” she said in a tone that brooked no argument. “Because when the sex is all gone, the family will still be there.”

 

When I got back to my room, Frank had emailed from Holland:

i was wondering where on earth you are at this moment, wich number of date you are dealing with, and…how many guys you have been kissing untill now. am i still the one and only lucky lips?

Although I had had a few kisses since Frank, he’d been the most fun, and I emailed him straight back, reassuring him that he was still the #1 Kisser.

For now.

 

I loved Vegas. Everything about it: my iffy hotel; the crushing heat; the incessant tackiness; the relentless beep of the slot machines. It should have been repellent, but it was the opposite. Apart from the chopper gangs, everyone was really friendly, and the tack was so well done, wandering around the imaginative air-conditioned interiors of the hotels and casinos was a real pleasure.

 

Over the next couple of days, I dated Elvis (Date #52) (real name Dean Z.), who had mesmerizing turquoise eyes and a pompadour as high and solid as a well-baked loaf. Sadly, he was too young, at just twenty years old, but he was gorgeous, clever, and extremely interesting. He’d been Elvis since he was three; his grandfather had been a drummer in the fifties with a big-name British performer.

Rob (Date #53) was nearly as good-looking as Anders without being as scary. He was determined to prove I could have gone around the world without leaving Vegas. So he took me for drinks in Venice, dinner in Paris, a stroll around the pyramids and the side streets of New York, shark-watching on the Mandalay Reef, and finally drinks again, this time in Morocco. Rob couldn’t sit still for two minutes, and long-term I would have found that too distracting. But we laughed and teased each other, and at the end of the night, he stole Frank’s title.

 

Betty’s Outrageous Adventures was a funky, lesbian social club in Vegas. I’d found them on the Internet a while back and had been in regular email contact with their president, Nanc, ever since. She seemed lovely and I was looking forward to meeting her and the other Bettys (Date #54) at one of their regular picnics out of town:

We tend to sit around and chat, and often run off to hike because the area is so beautiful and less hot than Vegas. Feel welcome to come along. I would love to hear about your travel adventures.

Nanc picked me up from the Days Inn late the following morning, with another Betty called Elizabeth. We set off in her four-wheel-drive for the mountains, forty minutes outside of Vegas.

In her mid-thirties, Nanc was pretty, blond, and petite but also incredibly gentle and kindly. We all felt a little awkward and Nanc was at pains to make me welcome. Elizabeth, on the other hand—late thirties, slim, and very fit-looking—was a nonstop acerbic wit from the moment she opened her mouth. She was a tough and successful journalist and grilled me relentlessly as we drove through increasingly heavy rain to the mountains.

It was a brilliant drive. Not just because we were all single, so the subject of my journey was close to our hearts, but also because Nanc and Elizabeth—naturally—responded to everything from a lesbian perspective. It was a completely fresh angle for me to consider my position from.

“How do you know if they’re your Soul Mate if you only have one date with them?” Elizabeth demanded.

“Oh come on,” I retorted, really enjoying sparring with her. “Where’s your sense of romance? Have you never just looked at someone and known they’re The One?” She grudgingly admitted she had; I confessed in return that it made me uncomfortable and perplexed when men expected me to sleep with them on the first date.

“But they’re men,” Elizabeth snorted, “that’s why they’re dating you. And they only have one date, what else do you expect them to do?”

Lesbians have different priorities than straight couples, Nanc observed gently. As she spoke she kept her eyes firmly on the road, by now bouncing with huge hailstones and illuminated by the piercing forks of lightning flickering ahead. “First and foremost, we want friendship,” she continued. “If that works out, the next priority is a long-term partner. Some, but very few, lesbians feel sex is their most important priority; it’s way down the list.”

As Elizabeth and Nanc fell into a conversation about one of the Bettys for whom sex was a priority and the mess she was in at the moment, I considered Nanc’s statement. Those weren’t just lesbian priorities: I was sure they were most women’s. They were certainly mine. I knew I wasn’t gay, so where did that leave me and my search? Trying to meet my Soul Mate in a situation where our priorities were polarized.

But now wasn’t the time to be introspective. We had arrived at the spot for the Bettys’ hike and picnic. On the side of a steep hill, staked by huge, shaggy pine trees, twenty-three lesbians sheltered in a five-woman tent as hail and rain thundered all around. Grabbing our potluck contributions, Nanc, Elizabeth, and I splashed through the mud and sprinted toward the tent.

It had been erected around one of those outdoor wooden picnic benches, and any surface not taken with huge bowls of tuna salad, white wine, or chocolate cookies had a drenched Betty sitting on it. Nudging our way into the shelter was like squeezing into a lesbian elevator: There was not one spare inch of room.

Under these circumstances, it was incredibly easy to make friends, and—as at the Wedding Chapel yesterday—we joined in the laughing and storytelling that were already well under way. Hearing the reason for my journey, Hettie and June, a couple in their sixties, wished me luck in my search. They were Soul Mates, June told me. Not that I needed to be told: As the Love Professor had predicted, they mirrored each other’s body language and unself-consciously finished each other’s sentences.

There was nothing cringy or schmaltzy about them; sitting huddled in the pouring rain in their soaked hiking jackets, they looked like they were made for each other.

“We’ve only been together three years,” June confided. “But our entire lives were leading to our time together,” Hettie added with conviction.

June smiled and squeezed Hettie’s hand.

I smiled too and told them both about Chester’s positive-visualization theory. “Yes.” Hettie nodded thoughtfully. “You’ve got to believe it will happen, but just as importantly, when the moment comes, you have to be prepared to take that leap of faith.”

I hugged them both, touched by their story and acknowledging the truth in Hettie’s advice.