by Felicia Sullivan

They stand where they always stand – dead center at the bar, in clear view to see and be seen. The air of pretension hangs heavy as one hand drapes the shoulder of another and the words “killer bag!” are whispered loud enough for everyone within thirty feet to hear. They shift uncomfort- ably from one manicured foot to another; scarlet toes are scrunched together by a thin periwinkle leather strap. One of them leans over and expertly bandages herself with a clear plastic Prada Band-Aid. Another expertly slings her bejeweled, ruby-sequined handbag over her shoulder.

It is mid-December and I just got slapped in the face by a glitter baguette while attempting to flag down the catatonic bartender draped in a black scarf and hip huggers. My friend Katie nods and points to my nose where a cluster of glowing dots formed an expensive freckle. I sigh and tug at the sleeves of my merino turtleneck. A sea of peroxide surrounds me with no lifeguards in sight. Their backs gleam under the fluorescent bar lights, their orange tans are striking against their tank tees that seem to be painted on their backs. In the bright lights, I believe they have dusted matching body powder on their shoulders. Katie and I sigh, clutching our over-priced drinks, knowing that even on the Lower East Side there was no escaping the bland photocopies of the characters on "Sex and the City."

This evening is the breaking point. After draining my wine after several quick gulps, I overhear one blonde squeak, “You are so Samantha! You ain’t no Charlotte!” I tap Katie’s glass and eye the door, desperate for escape.

Katie rolls her eyes, “They’re deciding which characters they most resemble.”

“Oh, you really have got to be kidding me,” I reply.

“I kid you not.”

“We’re outta here!” I say, and we plop our half-filled glasses at the bar and happily greet the frigid gust of air that slaps us in the face as the door from Guernica slams behind us.

The first episode of "Sex and the City" opened with Carrie noting that New York was a city where women did not have breakfast at Tiffany’s and women had affairs they wanted to forget. I waved my hands in the air for finally a show would depict how it is both physically and mentally draining to find intelligent life forms in Manhattan and parlay the slur of drunken conversation to an actual coherent first date. Midway through the season, my forehead wrinkled in confusion. I did not saunter home every dawn. I did not haphazardly toss my $1500 cheetah print Dior bag on the floor. I certainly did not entertain multiple orgasms which would have made for post-coital re-enactments. I have lived in New York all of my life and this was definitely not a representation of my life or those of my girlfriends. Perhaps they should have entitled the show "No Sex in this City." However, a show detailing trips to Banana Republic sale racks in our constant quest to find affordable leather pants, and the constant tirade of the illogical ratio of apartment price versus square footage would not earn any of us critic’s choice awards. Friday nights resemble herding of cattle: we squeeze ourselves into densely packed bars, and scold one another like grade school teachers, “Hold on to your buddy’s hand!” Five drinks in, we realize our dating selection consists of men who either brag about being investment bankers or those who scowl and despise investment bankers. These discrepancies from "Sex and the City" would not be a ratings darling.

Desperate for a refreshing change of pace, I began to frequent art gallery openings, bars in the East Village, book readings and signings, various friends hosting cocktail hours. The conversation remains the same although the venue varies as well as my degree of patience. For years, I was optimistic. Throughout college and a few years after, I upheld the "Field of Dreams" mantra: If you build it, they will come. Now I have come to the bleak conclusion that construction has been delayed, indefinitely.

Once, numbed by red wine served in plastic flutes, I over- looked all the warning signs of disaster and amicably agreed to release one of my alternate numbers (in fear of possible uncomfortable stalking situation) to “James.” I received a phone call three days later and after stumbling through the awkwardness of post inebriated conversation, we both decided on a first date venue.

We dated for an excruciating three months. The dates consisted of me keeping my eyes open during the date while he ranted on whatever happened to be on the news prior to his leaving the apartment on our way to the date. I was gauging whether I could successfully enter and maintain a plastic relationship, since all attempts at meeting someone who wanted to know the "real" me had flopped.

One evening, three months and a day into the relationship, I decided it was over. I do not know how I came to this decision, I just realized, I needed to end this. We sat in Tutta Pasta on Bleecker and after several glasses of Pinot Grigio, I waved away the bread plate and the garlic and oil accompaniment that oddly resembled castor oil with a dash of pepper. The waiter, clearly distressed, scurried away with his head bowed, as if my decision not to eat the pesto was a personal attack on the restaurant. Various lip prints on the wineglasses were neat, a perfect curve of my lower lip etched on the glass. The ones in front of me disturbed me. I craned my head, Linda Blair-style, and squinted towards the street, desperately searching for familiar territory. Nothing. I turned back and my head began to involuntarily bob up and down; lower lip curled to meet the indent in my chin and I cackled, the glass-shattering pitch scrambling from the base of my throat accompanied by a series of randomized snorting and sharp intakes of breath. James, my date, whom I always believed to be secretly gay, was not pleased. I recalled our first date, an off off Broadway version of Peter Pan and James clapping furiously, his body arching forward in an exaggerated fashion while I sat next to him and scowled.

He cut into the veal, fingers gently massaging the flatware. I leaned over and shouted; “They kill babies to make that you know.” My shouting was followed with traces of Pinot Grigio still warm on my tongue. Several specks of my saliva decorated his freshly ironed oxford shirt. He pretended not to notice while frantically attempting to finish his meal. I found his uneasiness fairly comical.

“Really!” James squealed. He opened his mouth wide, gray morsels wet on his tongue. I almost cried “Bambi” through- out the restaurant. But instead I leaned over and whispered “Close your mouth for Chrissakes, this isn’t the Discovery Channel.”

“I wonder how many endangered species formed what you dare to call an outfit,” he scoffed.

“Whatever,” I replied and waved for the waiter, who had expertly maintained a low profile in the bathroom and escaped my incessant finger snapping.

“Perhaps you should attempt at opening the menu,” he said angrily. “This is what one does in a restaurant. You might want to make the giant leap.”

“This is about the gay comment the other night at your parents, right? I’m feeling it, right here,” I said, pound- ing my chest a bit too hard. I attempted to adjust to the glaring light and tap the bottle, nails scraping at the label, glue collecting under my fingertips. I am almost convinced I am narcoleptic except that my disease conven- iently surfaces six glasses of wine into the date.

“I am not gay!” James said. Bits of chewed fish land on my plate. He waved his hands back and forth in the air as if protecting himself from the onslaught of bees. Then he slumped back in his chair and sighed, defeated, as if this conversation had come up with every woman he has ever dated. I could barely make out what was left on his plate, only the collection of five glasses that surrounded it. They take up more room than the entrees. Somehow this image reminds me of every date I’ve ever had, and I too, lean in my chair, exhausted.

“At least order a salad,” he said, almost pleading. I shook my head no. The sooner he finished the dinner, the sooner I could break up with him, and the sooner I could run home and reheat some leftover pasta. James's nose gently brushed against the veal; globs of alfredo stained his tie. With a shaking hand, he maneuvered the rigatoni around his plate, gathering any remnants of chicken and sauce under the edge of his fork. The other hand was buried in his hair, motion- ing strands of curls to fall in front of his face. He started to pull the curls over his eyes and exhaled.

“You’re sick!”

“Listen, I do not like you. I actually believe I never liked you. I am just testing to see how long this relationship would go before one of us kills the other. Could we get another bottle?” I yelled to a passing waiter, spitting, once again, Pinot Grigio at James.

My friend Zarine tells me that I will meet HIM (in all caps, naturally) while folding laundry or while I am reading a book on the subway. I reply that I pay the Chinese Laundry to put extra Downey in my sheets and I pretend to sleep on the train. I’ve taken the approach of ceasing the city-wide search. I refuse to give in to the pathetic Carrie wannabes that seem to have sprouted across Lower Manhattan like gangly weeds. I will not adorn an animal print bag. I will not squeal. I dress to impress myself and I make it a point to go out to enjoy time with my friends. This helps alleviate the pressure somewhat. All this planning, analyzing, discussing, lamenting, is exhausting. I would rather focus on other things. And perhaps one time when I slug my dirty clothes on my back to the laundromat on Spring Street, I will find him while folding my Old Navy pretty pink underwear with the dancing cats. He no doubt will be reading Hemingway. He will blush when I spy that all of his boxer shorts have his name in neat cursive sewn in. And we will giggle when we see how the pen marks have faded when he had attempted to scratch it out.