These American women have some crazy ideas - The Promise Ring Party Girl

I don’t date American women because I do things they find unforgivable like making plans, calling when I say I will, and saying what I really mean. American women think of boyfriends like handbags: completely interchangeable objects that only exist to hold their stuff and make their girlfriends jealous. I avoid them because American women suffer from a special kind of crazy. I’m not saying foreign women are immune to crazy, but crazy in Danish or Italian is a lot easier to handle. Years of trial-and-error have taught me that no matter how many different kinds of crazy I screen out, some new strain of crazy emerges. I happened again a few weeks ago when I met my first Promise Ring Party Girl.

It was at the back bar at Wilshire restaurant. Some of her friends overheard some of my friends talking about my column on Britney Spears and ended up debating who would be a better mother, Britney or Nicole Richie. Eventually, we were standing next to each other and she asked, “so you’re a columnist, huh? Like Carrie Bradshaw?”

I should add that I used to hate “Sex and the City” when I lived in New York; mainly because it made my girlfriend at the time envious of the unrealistic, unattainable lifestyle of the main character (despite the fact that she woke up every morning in the arms of the world’s best boyfriend: me). But since every woman over the age of 21 grew up watching it and believing that casual sex is empowering (and it glamorized the noble columnist in the process), I now love that show. When a woman says the words “Carrie Bradshaw” to me, that’s code for “you’ve got a shot if you play your cards right.” So I ask if she’s a Carrie, a Samantha, or a Charlotte (Mirandas don’t do it for me), but I’m really just listening for her to say she’s either part Carrie or part Samantha (code for “I’m not opposed to hooking up with you tonight”).

Miss Wilshire gave the perfect answer: part Charlotte, part Samantha. After that, it was on (even though she’s American). Some of her friends wanted to dance, so we left the restaurant and walked across the parking lot to Holly’s. I should also add that I’m attracted to women I consider to be exotic (different from my mother & sisters), so that usually means white women. And though I shouldn’t be, I’m always surprised when they can dance. This one moved so well that I couldn’t wait to get her alone.

A few of us went back to my apartment for more drinks. After the ten-cent tour, Miss Wilshire and I were in my room fooling around and I’m waiting for her to turn into Samantha - but it’s not happening. In fact, we do this strange sexual regression thing where the more turned on she gets, the less she let me touch her. I figure this was classic “anti-slut defense”, so I reassure her that I’m not just attracted to her sexually and that I’d like to see her again, and will definitely call her.

Apparently, that’s what she was waiting for, because that’s when she told me about her promise ring. I’d heard of them, but I thought they were things that teenage couples in Kansas gave to each other so their parents would let them go out without chaperones. I didn’t know a promise ring was something that a fully-grown party girl living in L.A. would wear. Then I made the mistake of asking what her promise was. “I’ve promised to save myself for my husband or, if I never get married, for Jesus.” With that, the party was over and I knew I’d never see her again.

I’ve been the victim of the “L.A. break-up” a few times since I moved here (that’s when someone just stops returning your calls and acts like you never existed), but I never appreciated it before the Promise Ring Party Girl. She called and left voice mails, texted a few times, then presumably took the hint. I bumped into one of her girlfriends who was nice enough to try to absolve my guilt. She told me that Miss Wilshire is a “serial smoocher” and that I’m not the first guy who couldn’t handle the Promise Ring thing.

I wanted to ask if Miss Wilshire really thinks she’ll meet the man she’s going to marry while she’s out drinking with her girlfriends on a Friday night? If she really thinks that a man who has known the joy of sex will voluntarily give it up for a shot at marrying her? Basically, I wanted to ask, “is she crazy?” But, of course, I already knew the answer.