The Expiration Date – Breakfast Boy

I’m a sales manager in my alter-ego life and, like Pavlov’s dog, have been trained to respond to business cards. I was having breakfast with one of my employees a few weeks ago when I looked up and noticed a very handsome (and vaguely familiar) man sitting by himself nearby. He was smiling and nudging a business card to the end of his table, so I took the bait, wagged my tail, and approached.

“Is that for me?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, eyes twinkling in response.

As it turned out, I had seen this man before when I worked for another publication, but we had never spoken. After looking at his card, I recognized the name and the business.

Small talk ensued and I left the restaurant with my employee. Ten minutes later, my cell phone rang and it was Breakfast Boy.

As I listened to the conversation, I couldn’t believe my ears. I had just recently purchased a new phone, so I started shaking and maneuvering it to see if I could perhaps hear this man a little more accurately. Surely I had to be mistaken and was hearing him wrong.

But I wasn’t. Breakfast Boy went right for the bacon, or the kill. After that two-minute interchange, he invited me to his place for dinner in the Valley and said point-blank that he wanted me, at which point I politely told him that I wasn’t able to talk. Had I been alone, I would have definitely said more and it might not have been quite so polite.

By the stunned look on my face, my employee knew that something was up.

”Who WAS that?” she queried.

I could barely answer, but managed to utter a few words in response.

“WHAT did he say?” she asked. She had meandered over to the table at the restaurant after I had, to get a closer look at the man.

“Obviously this guy does this all the time,” I said, without giving her the gory details.

Now, I am a romantic woman, sometimes hopelessly so. And I do believe in love, or lust, at first sight (or bite, in the case of the Breakfast Boy). I do have healthy self-esteem, but this was the proverbial “throw ten pounds of you-know-what against the wall and see what sticks” routine. I could smell it a mile (or table) away. I might add that I had another voicemail from him waiting on my office line as well, trying again. I never responded.

Sometimes I would rather be wrong, bite my tongue until it bleeds, only see the best in people, but in this case I was right. A week later, a friend of mine called who told me that a mutual friend, who has a membership on a popular dating site, encountered the same individual online and that he delivered basically the same line with the same vigor (and lack of imagination). She did meet with him and was tempted to take him up on his offer, even though she agreed that he was bordering on crass as he candidly commented on her two most outstanding anatomical points and told her how many times a week he wanted sex. I have to add that this friend of mine is beautiful and very accomplished in her life, but finds it difficult to find eligible men in this town.

Breakfast Boy admitted to her that he loved women (duh) and that he plays a musical instrument. I secretly prayed to the dating gods that my friend wouldn’t succumb to his masculine wiles and become his next instrument because she is definitely looking for a long-term, monogamous relationship. But he presents well physically, is reasonably intelligent, and drives a nice car (?). And obviously, this modus operandi has worked for him in the past.

My little fingers started twitching and dragging the rest of my body to the nearest keyboard. At the risk of being dubbed the Dating Nazi and hated for being jaded, I gave in and wrote this article. A male friend of mine warned me that I might never get a date in this town again, but a journalist has to do her due diligence at whatever the cost.

Gals, shame on you for allowing this sort of thing. I know that there aren’t a lot of single men in this town, but come on. A guy who says he loves women (plural) typically does just that. He loves and wants us all. A man who is looking for a woman (singular) usually is (for how long is the operative question). If we say yes to a music man who takes all of thirty seconds to cut to the chase, we can be reasonably sure he will take equally as long to hit the skids and get right back on tour. If we encourage and support this behavior, things will never change. There aren’t many Warren Beattys out there.

Guys, guys, guys. Please remember that this is a small town. And women talk. We talk a lot. We share stories and try like hell (sometimes in vain) to protect one another. I commend you for trying, though, but change it up a little, ok?

And Breakfast Boy, I just hope you have time to read after all that strummin’ and hummin’.

* * *
I received an email from a very dear friend who read my column last month.

“Very fun reading, Robyn! I have to thank you—reading your articles may keep me single for the rest of my life…”

Now, I have to say that it isn’t my intention to keep everyone single. I do my best Jim Carrey impersonation when I’m alone writing this stuff and scream out, “SOMEBODY stop me!” Somebody, of course, being the man who appreciates my sense of humor and other quirks, and still thinks I could be the best woman for him.

And I wish the same for all of you. Sometimes it helps to know that we are all in the same boat together and can share a few laughs during the ride.

Copyright 2008 Robyn Justo