JUNK LOVE

Step right up,
and pick your poison!
No commitments required. No guarantees. But also, no guilt!
Kill your hunger or thirst for the moment with something sweet, something gooey and delicious. You’ll fall asleep with the feeling of satisfaction, only to wake up hungry again, but hey, that’s life, isn’t it?
If you’re not looking for something nutritious, you’ve definitely come to the right place.
Junk love. That’s what my best friend, Lydia calls it. A temporary fix for a lifelong problem, like eating cookies when what the body demands is a four-course dinner. Snacking when you should be eating.
Junk love available for the taking!
Here are some samples of what’s available out there.
Matthew Marcus, aged twenty-eight, brown hair, brown eyes, five-eleven, one hundred sixty pounds. Loves fast cars, loud music, and makes the most of every minute. Hates wasting time. Makes quick decisions, and either lives or dies by them.
Or, how about Jonathan Kitridge, d twenty-six, height about five-five, mental age, I’d say about thirteen. He has the attention span to match, so be careful. Thirty days, or ten dates, whichever comes first. After that, you’re on your own—literally. Watch your hearts!
James Todd Carroll, aged thirty. Likes classical music, books, long bike rides into the country. You’d better exercise before seeing him, both mentally and physically. You’ll need it. He’s fun, but he’s been bruised in the heart, so he’s not looking for anything permanent, just salve for the wounds. Don’t get your hopes up.
Anton Miller. He’s cute, cuddly, and perennially curious. Either don't sleep, or keep him on a leash, or you’ll lose him.
Greg Martin. You’ve got to be on your toes with him. He’s a PH.D. candidate and he drops obscure references into conversations. You know, about the original Latin names for the different species of butterflies. Now, butterflies are pretty, but who needs to know their original Latin names.
Kevin Locke. He’ll take you for a ride on his motorcycle. He loves the feel of the wind in his hair and the sun on his back. If you go with him, learn to pack light. You won’t be able to carry much more than the basic essentials of life. And buy lots of postcards to let the rest of the world know where you’ve been and where you’re going.
And hold on. It’s a long and sometimes rough ride, but it’s worth it just for the experience of the open road and the view of the desert on a summer night as you’re racing for Las Vegas at eighty-plus.
And then there’s Martin Michaels. Complete opposite. Likes the beach, and that’s about it. Spends any warm day looking for a free space in the sand, a good wave, and the right sun block. (Funny thing is, he never tans. He gets tons of freckles, but never ever tans.) He’ll spend hours in the sand at the water’s edge, making sandcastles, trying to make one the waves won’t eventually destroy.
Once, I think it was on our fourth or fifth date, we came back after three days, and one of his sandcastles was still there—until some kid kicked it down in his rush for the water.
He’ll eventually lose your phone number, forget where you live, and you’ll stop receiving flowers on a weekly basis. But he’s a nice guy if you want his number or address. I have them right here.
Robert Andrew Mitney. Small, about five-two. Energetic. If you’re going to keep up with him, you’ll have to run. He’s always in a hurry. To go to work, or to bed.
Likes old movies of the thirties, even the silents.
If that interests you, here’s his number: nine-five-oh-one-two-three-oh. And don’t be fooled by his answering machine. It may be a woman’s voice you hear, but that’s only his little sister.
McAllister: if you like getting breakfast in bed, this is your guy. Great cook! Waffles! Pancakes—to die for! And his
sweet-rolls! Yum, yum, yum!
Of course, he wasn’t worth a damned as a handy man. Couldn’t fix anything. When my car quit—something about the alternator—he just shrugged. Guess he missed that part of his youth. You know, the “I’ll fix it
If it kills me” stage. Screwdrivers, pliers, a simple monkey wrench, are just extra thumbs to Kevin.
But that wasn’t what separated us.
His wife did that trick. Called my apartment while he was there, said she’d had enough of the separation, and could they talk? Five minutes later, he was gone. No phone calls, no letter—not even a postcard or hint of apology. I mean, I knew about the separation, but I though he was moving on, entering a new stage of his life: post-Julia.
Guess not.
Well, he’s gone. Time to move on.
Ashley Wilkes. Don’t tease him about anything related to Gone With The Wind. No, he’s never dated anyone named Scarlett. No, he’s never even visited the South. And no, he has absolutely no curiosity about the book or its mythology.
He’s heard it all before. Hates anything to do with the Civil War. In fact, hates anything about war. He’s an ardent pacifist.
Visit his home, and there are picket signs in the closet. (Found them when I was looking for a sweater to wear to one of the recitals we went to.)
If you give him a spin, just steer clear of politics and war, and you’ll do just fine. My philosophy: don’t ask him about his politics, and you won’t have to tell him how vehemently you disagree with him. Keeps the peace that way. Besides, he won’t be in your life for long. Politics will come up sooner or later, no matter how hard you try to avoid it; a simple innocuous remark will be the death knell of the relationship. Teasing, he can handle. Comparisons with the character, for which he’s named, he can tolerate, but political dissent, NEVER.
Taymour Watson. Indian by birth. And I mean the nation of India, not the Native American. Even though he’s lived here most of his life, he’s still a staunch believer in the caste system, and he likes to pigeonhole people.
If you’re a lawyer, if you’re a political figure—no matter how small—you are, in his eyes, untouchable.
Women have their place in Taymour’s world—in the kitchen, in the bedroom--where they’re harmless and powerless. So, beware.
And keep your claws hidden, till you really need them, to regain your freedom. Taymour’s funny, and warm, and protective, but the boundaries of the world he’s bringing you into grows smaller and more confining by the day.
Alex Carter. Absolutely no fear! I’m telling you, this guy must have ice water for blood in his veins!
Hang gliding—he did it in the Mojave Desert, and the Grand Canyon. And he has the pictures on his walls to prove it.
Deep sea diving: thanks to technology, he has photographic evidence of his exploits, plus the gear stuck in an unused closet.
Rock-climbing: I did that with him once. There’s nothing like rappelling down a rock face, with your weight in another’s hands to instill trust. If he lets go, if he slips, I’m dead.
I got cuts and bruises I expected.
But I guess the will I wrote up before the trip was unnecessary after all.
Speedboat racing! He’s done it on numerous occasions. Won some trophies, some victories, some second-place finishes, a few honorable mentions.
He’s even traveled cross-country on horseback! Through the deserts, over the Rockies—through the worst snow in a century—and beyond, to the Mississippi River, where a pair of state police cars blocked a major bridge so he could ride across without fear of being struck by some careless driver.
Hot-air balloons! We won an amateur ballooning race in Colorado a couple of years ago. I had no clue what to do, but I learned—quickly.
So, if you want to spend time with him, you’d better be a fast learner, and a firm believer in his philosophy of “DON’T PANIC!”
White water rafting? He’s done it, many times, many rivers. He thrives on the adventure, the chance to see new places, testing his limits all the while.
He even took me up for a skywriting trip. It wasn’t till I was up in the air, and started paying attention to the moves of the aircraft that I realized he had a plan.
After he finished writing his message, he landed the plane, tipped my chin up with his right index finger, and made me read his message: WILL YOU MARRY ME, KATHLEEN?
And I’m not ashamed to say I didn’t chicken out. Well, not exactly. I said, “No,” without flinching.
I guess I surprised him, because he never knocked on my door, or called me, again.
Everybody has their faults, their flaws, their imperfections. Mine is that I’m not ready for permanence.
And why is that a flaw anyway?
At least I know this about myself, and freely admit it. If, and that’s a big “if”, you want to hang around for more than just a junk-food attraction fix, keep your finger off the C-button, step back, watch me try, watch me fail, watch me succeed, watch me learn, and hopefully grow.
Someday, according to Lydia, I’ll outgrow this “fixation,” this “fantasy life.”
But don’t hold your breath.
With this little black book, and its line of successors, with my long hair and blue eyes, my passion for bright colored dresses, I don’t think I’ll be tamed—not any time soon.
Do you know this about yourself?
Are you secure enough to acknowledge that you’re a junk-love fan, an aficionado of temporary treats, and games?
How many of you have little books like this, filled with pages of names, phone numbers, addresses, date preferences, flowers or no flowers, perfume likes and dislikes, dress or pants, conservative or freewheeling?
Come on now, confession time!

Copyright (c) 1998 by the author