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Recently in Salon Health & Body

Column
A terrible thing to waste
You do not need brains to go to the Harvard Brain Bank, only a brain.
By Mary Roach
[09/24/99]

Just say no to sex; just say yes to big bucks
Massive government funds pay for abstinence-only sex education -- and beach parties.
By Sharon Lerner
[09/23/99]

Urge
Johns and lovers
Why must she be a hooker in love?
By Tracy Quan
[09/23/99]

Can Viagra help save rhinos and tigers?
Traditional Asian medicine practitioners have been at odds with conservationists for years. But that's starting to change.
By Susan McCarthy
[09/22/99]

Column
Monkish secrets
A plain-spoken man of the cloth tells how he keeps himself from getting busy.
By Virginia Vitzthum
[09/21/99]

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This is when being single is monumentally depressing. After a long, crazy day I'm hungry and I really just want to go home, take off my clothes and nest. But there is no one at home to nest with, and no food, either, and the prospect of that silence is keeping me on the streets.

It's not just a matter of finding company. I have a friend who lives nearby, who I know is home this evening; there's always someone around in New York, or someone visiting, to share dinner. Sometimes this sort of casual dining experience is a solution just to kill time. More often these days, it's not. So I wander.

At Canal Street, I head east; it's an eerily quiet night, the kind where New York seems like a Hollywood set, waiting for the crew call. Out of nowhere, cops emerge and rush past me, three squad cars pulling over some New Jersey sport utility vehicle driver for God knows what. I think about crossing to avoid the confrontation, but heck, I'm a New Yorker, I can pass the fray.

All of a sudden, I hear footsteps from behind, but the cops are near me, so I'm not startled the way I might be on a desolate street. The pedestrian overtakes me; I am clopping along in three-inch heels, and I've been on my feet for hours, so I'm a bit slower than usual.

"I have to tell you," says the stranger, kindly, delightedly, as if he was admiring a nice floral display, or perhaps, a big juicy slab of steak. "You've got gorgeous legs."

"Thank you," I say, feeling like an exhibitionist in my bright red tights and gray mini-skirt. It is -- by design (and even though I'm short) -- hard to miss my legs. "Man, you are gorgeous. Won't you have a drink with me?" implores the stranger, eyeing me up and down. He is wearing a suit, a tall man, happy-looking, but not insane, and not, I don't think, drunk. I think about the offer. This could pre-empt my lonely night at home in a way that speaks to my sense of adventure. A drink with a stranger who likes my looks. But I can't deal with the energy a strangerly conversation takes right now; I really am exhausted.

"I really would love to, but I've been up since 5 a.m.," I say, already chastising myself for rushing to decline.

Blowing off a date proposed on the street is something other women would do, in the interest of safety and of propriety. I like to think of myself as different, living a sort of Erica Jong/Helen Gurley Brown/Harriet the Spy anthropological existence, specializing in deciphering the dark underbelly of men. (Thinking of it that way, I've learned, makes it seem less distressing to keep making romantic mistakes.)

"Let me have your card," I say.

Next page | A fat-cat lawyer, prowling the streets?