So I type the URL in and click on “Bay Area,” while my blonde half-horse, half-dog, trundles on over and parks herself at my feet with a heavy sigh. She’s probably counting down the hours until it’s time for a swim in the San Francisco Bay, her internal doggy clock permanently calibrated to the rhythms of our day. I scratch her ears, then pet her head.
I start the Craiglist search with the Personals section and type “trophy husband” into the search bar. Hmm. Only one post with “trophy husband” in the whole Bay Area?
“I am 50 years old and am a successful stock trader. I am looking for a younger guy to share my good fortune with. Send a picture for mine. Be between 18 and 30 years old. I often travel to Europe, Asia, and Moscow on business and would love to bring you along. Must not have hang ups about being showered with gifts and being a trophy husband. I am a bottom as well.”
This is it? The lone ad for “Trophy Husband?”
I soldier on and try “boy toy” this time, and it returns several options. I tap open the first entry because it boasts a promising subject line: “Young guy looking for assertive older womam.”
So the young guy didn’t exactly spell woman correctly. But let’s hear him out.
“Extreme satisfacktion for the rite woman. Hansome male seek to belong to the woman who need to have nothing but the finest at her cummand. If your fantasy is to be in the company of a beeuutiful, intelligent and discrete, sexy man than you is getting warmer.”
Our public education system is much worse than I thought. After all, is it really that much to ask for one’s potential next mate to be able to make a noun and verb agree? The answer, evidently, is yes. I try the next entry.
“Let me be your boy toy. I will obey your every order and serve your every wish.”
At least his grammar is correct. And his writing has a nice rhythm to it, so I click through to his photo.
Ouch.
I am just going to pretend I didn’t see that.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I remind myself that I am not a prude. I am not a priss. I am not weirded out by sex, or sexy people, or public displays of affection. But I am pretty sure – and I wouldn’t have known this before because I have never seen one – that I am not into penis piercings.
So I move on to the next entry, trying my best to un-see what I just saw.
“I have a job, my own place in the city and am clean and well-kept,” the next one writes.
What, like a lawn?
I hit the home button on the browser, returning to the safe haven of Google, then lay my cheek on the edge of my desk, wondering yet again if I am out of my mind. Because clearly I am not cut out for a Craigslist match. As much as I’d love to end my streak, I also wouldn’t mind a bit more than a fling. I’m almost embarrassed to admit this because I’m supposed to be an independent woman – hear me roar – but I would really like to have a boyfriend.
The word sounds so high school, but I don’t care. I don’t want to be alone any longer. I want to be in love and carefree and have someone to talk to, laugh with, make fun of other crazy people in San Francisco with. Someone who would never even think of leaving me with two mixers and a vintage white dress.
I can picture it perfectly – a night out on the town, then we’d come home, turn on some torch music, he’d take me in his arms for a slow dance. Touch my hair in a way that sends sparks through me. Then a hand on the back of my neck, bringing me closer, lips meshing with mine. He’d slide his hand down to the small of my back, while laying a smoldering path of kisses down to the hollow of my throat.
We’d slow dance and sway, the kind of dance that’s not for anyone else to see. The kind that’s a delicious tease of foreplay, where every subtle move, every brush of the fingers, and dusting of the lips on shoulders, is the promise of what’s to come. That dress straps will be pushed down, that zippers will come undone. Clothes will fall in the floor in a heap, tugged off quickly, as the dance moves to the couch and shifts into something horizontal. Slow and tender and tantalizing, each move, each touch turning me higher, sending me further into a dizzying state of longing.
My breath catches at the thought. Not only the prospect of kisses that ignite goosebumps all over me, but the possibility of someone who wants only me. Who only has eyes for me. Who wants to look at me, longing and lust in his perfect green eyes, and then throw me down on my couch, strip me naked, and bury his face between my legs.
Okay, so evidently, I both want a boyfriend and the kind of oral plundering that makes you quiver, and roll your eyes in the back of your head, and grab the guy’s soft, shaggy hair, and shout his name over and over into oblivion.
Then curl up in his arms, safe and warm, and know he’ll be there the next day and the next and even then some
Is that so much to ask for?
Love, and a talented mouth?
I close out of Craigslist. I’m not going to find what I really want there anyway.
Chapter Four
I model for the camera a cute little ‘50s style bateau neck blouse. Then, I step out of the shot, swap that shirt out for a form-fitting black V-neck with one purple shoe design emblazoned on the front. I step back in front of the camera that Andy holds as he shoots today’s episode in my living room.
“What’s it going to be, my fellow fashion hounds?” I point to the camera – the viewers. “You get to vote on how I’m going to dress for my first ever date with a Trophy Husband candidate. And be sure to watch the outtakes from my very first phone call to a potential candidate.”