Editor’s Note: This story was originally published in 2015 and went on to catapult Jordan Nadler to local fame, both as a brilliant writer and the woman who got schooled on the importance of la petite mort. Like a timeless Kelly bag, it is now being resurrected for your pleasure. Please enjoy. 

“Do you orgasm every time you have sex?” asks my elderly Parisian gynecologist with a straight face and a heavy French accent. I wait for the punch line, but it doesn’t come.

“I’m a woman,” I state.

She stares at me blankly.  I guess I will have to elaborate:

“…No.”

She sits back in her chair, folds her hands, and nods gravely.

“Ah.”

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This post was brought to you by Chloé Montana Rash, a New York-based filmmaker who counts Palm Beach, Toronto, Paris, and London amongst her former residences. Chloe has excellent taste in food, terrible taste in men, and never discusses love on an empty stomach.

“You haven’t seen Woody Allen play the clarinet here before? I’ve been three times already. I need to take you.”

Ah, those five dreaded words: I need to take you. A new, exceedingly depressing, version of swiping right, sending a DM, and never following through with an actual date. When did it become so easy to “take” people places, without the actual intention of going anywhere?


My eyes fixed at the Madeline cartoon on the wall as you held my hand underneath the ledge of Bemelmans bar at the Carlyle. Your wormlike fingers bulged around mine, reminding me of the balloons in the mural in front of us. On some evenings, you would swap out your lion ring for your grandfather’s silver skull ring; he was a sailor who taught you how to ride motorcycles. I often pictured you on a Harley in one of your bespoke three-piece suits, usually burgundy, with that ring glistening against the handlebar. I had always been suspicious of men who wear jewelry. 

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Editor’s Note: This post is brought to you by Allie Dell, a Texas-based writer and marketing manager sifting her way through a perennial quarter-life crisis. An eternal romantic optimist, she is still determining if this quality serves her well. Hobbies include challenging her body’s caffeine intake limits and lounging in hammocks that don’t belong to her. 

“So, is he ‘The One’?”

If I had a dollar for each time I’ve rolled my eyes at this question, I’d be rich. Well, maybe not rich, but at least capable of affording a legitimate gym membership.

Up until recently, I was rolling my eyes because whichever Dude du Jour I was seeing at the time was nowhere near the potential-long-term-relationship spectrum. Now that I’ve met someone who actually warrants the “boyfriend” moniker, the question seems much more daunting.

As soon as someone – usually, someone who has little-to-no-business digging into the crux of my personal life – casually drops this little question bomb into our conversation, I feel the internal panic seeping in.  

“I mean… I don’t know if he’s The One, but we’re having a lot of fun together,” I respond. After all, isn’t that enough? But it never is, not for these people. They want concrete answers, like your love life is the subject of their weird science experiment or that you have access to some relationship crystal ball. Instantly, my mind starts to run...What if he’s NOT The One? What if I’m wasting my time? Should I break it off now to avoid learning he’s not The One too late?

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Sometimes, a small man can make a smart woman do spectacularly stupid things. They might even fall under the “crazy” moniker, but more on that in a bit. I call it being “dick sick.” I wish there was a nicer way to put it, but decorum has no place in this kind of romantic fuckery. In one of my more recent dating disasters, I was so dick sick that I’m almost ashamed to tell you the ways in which I let this sorry excuse for a man take advantage of my heart, my home, and my wallet.

Smoshua and I met on one of those “exclusive” dating apps where douchebags are pre-selected for you—not that I have any problems doing that on my own. His name was obviously not Smoshua, but it rhymes with it, so you do the math. Smoshua (Smosh for short) hailed from Sydney and fancied himself a musician-cum-clothing designer. (Granted, he turned out to be neither of those things.) Anyway, I did a little digging on Smosh when we first matched—a 21st century woman ought to Google all her sexual partners, I believe. Everything seemed to be on the up-and-up, save for a few rogue Daily Mail articles about him and an heiress he used to date. Then again, it was the Daily fucking Mail. Fox does better reporting.

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“He’s taking me out for dinner tomorrow!”

I leaped off my couch in the same animalistic way that my boyfriend does when Marseille scores. I had every reason to: one of my best girlfriends, known here as Loggy, was finally going to dinner with her Big Crush of 2018!

It had been a long time coming. You see, Mr. Big Crush happens to also be her colleague. Not a supervisor or subordinate, yet somebody she works with closely enough to place them in murky dating waters. They started chatting at her desk and between meetings, which then led to post-work happy hours, which then led to a three-hour pub lunch during one of the winter snowstorms. She was left with a crush that she harbored all through Spring. I was left doing a weekly evaluation of his behavior, which swung pendulum between friendly, mentor-like, and flirtatious, with no direct moves on his end.

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Editor’s Note: As somebody who can’t scrape up enough willpower for a 1-day juice fast, I’m always impressed by people who can sustain self-inflicted torture for extended time periods. So, when I heard that a friend was planning a bona fide Cleanse Trifecta, in which she simultaneously ditches sugar, alcohol and dating, I begged her to keep a journal. One month later, the report is in! 

Preparation

It’s all happening. I got my starter kit for this month-long cleanse called Isagenix, and now have a kitchen shelf stocked with powders and vitamins where Nutella used to be. It’s very depressing, but then I look at a photo of a friend lost 15 pounds on it – she looks great. I imagine fitting back into my old clothes… It will be worth it.

I take a deep breath, read the cleanse guide, weight myself and take measurements. FML, I’m a lot bigger than I thought I would be! Then again, I gain weight evenly, so I guess didn’t realize how much I had gained. Anyway, it is all going to be ok. In the next 30 days, I’m going to regain control of my body and my life. No alcohol, no sugar, and, in light of my recent dating history, no dating apps or men.

You see, I recently stopped seeing somebody and I’m still not over it. We were dating for 3 months and I ended it because I didn’t feel like he was ready for a relationship. Of course, I fully expected him to reach out a couple of weeks later to tell me I’m “the One”.. Well, that didn’t happen. Since then, I’ve been seeking solace in dating apps: Raya, Bumble, League.. I’m a junkie, and this addiction has to go too. I delete the apps and make myself a nice protein smoothie to celebrate.

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