I’m hardly above a little female jealousy. I’ll admit, I enjoy the quick thrill surge when Boyfriend attracts come-hither glances and flirtatious hair tosses from some aspiring coquette - under the absolute predictability of human nature, nothing increases our appreciation of a possession more than seeing it coveted by others. But when any would-be temptress crosses the line, a baser, more raw instinct takes over and I’m consumed with the primal desire to lunge for the jugular before the challenger can suggestively uncross her well-heeled, freshly exfoliated limbs. The way I see it, I’m generally the friendly, domesticated neighborhood hound, and Boyfriend is the Oak in my back yard. Each morning I race to his trunk, and spend my favorite hours lolling in the shade of his leaves. I’ll welcome other dogs to stop and sniff his bark, and maybe even chase a few squirrels into his branches. But if any overstepping, flea-infested mutts lift a leg to actually piss on my tree, I’ll pull a Cujo and wrap my jaws around their windpipe before they can utter a plaintive yip for help.
It doesn’t help that single Manhattan women are their own unique breed of aggressive pooch - think miniature French poodle mixed with rabid Akita - or that Boyfriend’s extended single days resulted in various “pasts” with half the women below 14th Street. We’ll walk into a bar or (rarely these days) a club and I’ll do a quick scan of the premises for any a willowy blonde or curvy redhead lurking near the bar, ready to pounce from the brush with a “Oh my God, Boyfriend! How are you? It’s been forever, so good to see you! How have you been?” while ignoring my presence like a raucous fart in church. He’ll shoot me a few anxious looks to gauge my reaction (though by now we’re so used to the scenario, he knows I’m watching with wry amusement) and respond with abbreviated politeness, eventually sneaking an arm around my waist to interject, “Ex, this is my girlfriend Opinionista, O this is Ex.” The thwarted admirer and I will exchange arctic smiles and perhaps a flaccid, slightly-clawed handshake. Once it’s all over and she’s retreated to her corner of the ring, I’ll leave him alone for 5 minutes while I get a round of drinks, and return to find more of them crawling up his sleeve like fire ants on an abandoned popsicle.
But I realize that competition over men is a sabotaging, unappealing aspect of female interaction - we have enough problems in modern society, the least we could do is not fight each other over their source. So I’ve been working on supressing my Pit Bull urges and keeping my jaws shut. Though it isn’t always easy. The other night, we were getting ready to leave an over-hyped bar - you know it’s time to go when the place is filled to capacity with appetizing 20-year olds in constricting designer outfits and I Bankers waving Gold cards and $300 bottles of Stoli to impress them. We were headed towards the door when I realized I had forgotten my sweater at a table. As I walked back to the entrance after retrieving it, I saw two choice young sirens approaching Boyfriend from the right side - they were obviously amateurs, or else they would have flanked him from the start. Both wore the club uniform, satin empire-waist tops showing off cleavage pushed up enough to practically bang against their chins. The taller one was sizing Boyfriend up like a wounded gazelle on the open plain.
First Abrasive 22-year-old: (reaching up to lay a freshly-manicured hand on Boyfriend’s arm) “Excuse me?”
He turns around. “Yes?”
FA22: “Oh my God, I’m sorry, you look just like [generic movie star]! We totally thought you were him, that’s why we stopped you.”
Second Abrasive 22-year-old: “Yeah, you look just like him!”
Boyfriend (flattered in spite of himself): “Uh, thank you, I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
FA22: (smiling at her successful entree and tilting her head to the side in the classic neck-exposure move) “That’s ok - you must get that all the time, I bet you never have trouble getting into clubs, people must think you’re famous.”
SA22: “Yeah, seriously.”
B: “Um, not really I’m afraid.”
FA22: “Oh you’re just modest. That’s so cute. I’m Trisha and this is my friend Jen.”
B: “Hi, I’m Boyfriend, nice to meet you.”
FA22: (stepping in closer for the “Lean towards his ear to make sure he smells your real designer perfume” move) “So you hang out here a lot? This is our first time here, I totally love this place.”
Ok, this has been fun and all, but now my respectful penance is over and it’s time to assert some presence and halt this deeply profound conversation.
Me: (walking over and linking an arm through his) “Sweetie, I got my sweater, ready to go?”
B: “Uh, yeah, O this is Trisha and Jen.”
The taller one looks about as thrilled to see me as a vegan entering a slaughterhouse.
Me: (trying not to in any way resemble a mongrel with foaming slobber dripping from my blood-flecked jowls) “Hi, nice to meet you.”
The taller one turns and gives me the 2-Second Once Over, a move perfected by Manhattan women involving instantaneous assessment of the dollar value, style and fit of every item of my clothing, a flash summary of my ring finger, outfit, bag and shoes. Her technique is surprisingly good, it’s clear she’s been in the city for at least six months or so. In a moment we understand each other as only two women in this situation can.
FA22: “Uh, hi.”
Me: “I’m sorry, but we were actually just leaving. It was nice meeting you.”
B: “Yeah nice to meet you, enjoy your night.”
Without waiting for a response, I grip Boyfriend’s hand and plough through the crowd towards the mobbed entrance. I figure cordiality was maintained, no blood was spilled, so it’s an improvement.