A funny thing happened to me on the way to writing my latest novel, Queen Takes King, in which a 45-year-old finds herself single after her 25-year marriage disintegrates. I found myself single after my almost-17-year relationship disintegrated. And I needed to get ...
A date.
I was told by other single women over 40 who'd been in the dating pool longer than I had that there were "no men out there." And they didn't mean "no good men"; they meant "No men. Period."
I could have sworn I spied members of the male persuasion on L.A.'s mean streets, the Westside. That is, if you like your men hairless and sweating in yoga class, grunting through their vinyasas, dragon tattoos on their waxed calves, or perhaps speeding past in their silver BMWs, sporting Bluetooth sets, shaved heads, and glinting veneered teeth.
Somehow I managed to resist their pull.
Also, I couldn't get them to pay attention.
Meanwhile, on the libido side, things were getting desperate. I was getting close to shopping. Like online. I had women pull me aside and, in hushed tones, tell me about "the Egyptian" — a mysterious, swarthy Pan. The Egyptian was, they claimed, some kind of sensual magician. Numbers were pressed into my hand and texted from BlackBerry to iPhone. Women spoke wistfully of their dates, which weren't so much "dates" as "appointments."
I would have settled for a nonsensual magician at this point.
Suddenly, word got out: The Egyptian was taken. He'd found a girlfriend. The entire Westside could be heard sighing. Hip-hop yoga classes surged. Doubles tennis games became violent.
