her decision to have sex with Juan Pablo was probably the sanest thing she did the entire season, since he turned out to not be good for much else. Her rival, Nikki, also seemed somewhat crazy, but in a way that was a little less dark than Clare.
When it came time for all of us to decide who would “win” ( us being me, Juan Pablo, and Mike), we got into it. As crazy as I thought Clare was, she seemed like a nicer person than Nikki and should be Juan Pablo’s choice. But then Mike informed me, “That’s not how guys see her.”
“What do you mean?” I asked innocently.
He hesitated, but for just a moment. “Clare seems like she’d be a good fuck,” he said.
I was shocked to hear these words coming out of my husband’s mouth; it was as if you one day heard your sweet domesticated King Charles spaniel call someone a vicious cunt. Of course I know men sometimes view women this way, but I didn’t really understand what the specific signifiers of being a “good fuck” were, other than being hot and having a nice body, two qualities all the ladies had. What made Clare so special? I asked him to elaborate, and we got into a fight, and he told me I was being insecure, which I was outraged by…but it was the truth. I felt a pang realizing that of all the things I may have unintentionally radiated my whole life, “good fuck” was definitely not one of them. Maybe people can sometimes tell I’m a Leo?
The next morning I decided to double-check Mike’s comments with my friend and co-worker Dan, a devoted husband and father of two who is one of the most polite and inherently decent men I know, and is one of those hyper-intelligent people who also happens to be obsessed with The Bachelor .
“Dan,” I said, cornering him the moment he arrived at our office. “Do you see Clare as a good fuck?”
He looked panicked.
“Mike said so and I want to know what you think,” I explained.
Reassured by the fact that Mike had said it first, he ventured slowly, “Um, I guess I know what he means.”
“WHY WHAT IS IT ABOUT HER?” I unintentionally yelled at him.
“She just seems like the sort of person who is crazy enough to have no boundaries and would let you do anything,” he said, looking around the room for a fire exit or accessible air shaft. “And also she has porn face.”
I had to agree about the porn face.
Of course, I feel guilty watching this show. I feel guilty watching people cry and be upset for entertainment. My only defense is that I am never truly sure if these people are “real.” Are they actors? Are they would-be actors? Or are they truly vulnerable human beings who are yearning for a relationship?
I have spent more time than I’m comfortable admitting pondering this question, and it bothers me that I can never be sure. Perhaps as a result of this desire for certainty, I have developed an elaborate fantasy of joining the show as a contestant myself, but in a very special Bachelor season where, instead of the usual tricep-ed, former-NBA-dancing, white-jeaned beauties, the entire roster of women is composed of women like me: Jewish girls with glasses in their thirties who went to liberal arts colleges.
My fantasy begins with our arrival at the house to meet “The” Bachelor. We each pull up in our big fancy limos, but instead of emerging bedecked in some kind of goddess evening gown, all of us are wearing big sweaters and Dansko clogs. And instead of greeting the Bachelor with big sexy hugs, every single one of us is awkward and offers a handshake while saying, “Can we all just acknowledge this is so nuts?”
Normally the dates on The Bachelor are all of an active variety—kayaking, or paintball, or some other physical thing where you could end up having sex by accident—but because every member of this new cast is constitutionally a delicate flower, different kinds of activities are in order. Such as:
On an early group date we all go on a CVS run to buy Advil. There are some laughs
When it came time for all of us to decide who would “win” ( us being me, Juan Pablo, and Mike), we got into it. As crazy as I thought Clare was, she seemed like a nicer person than Nikki and should be Juan Pablo’s choice. But then Mike informed me, “That’s not how guys see her.”
“What do you mean?” I asked innocently.
He hesitated, but for just a moment. “Clare seems like she’d be a good fuck,” he said.
I was shocked to hear these words coming out of my husband’s mouth; it was as if you one day heard your sweet domesticated King Charles spaniel call someone a vicious cunt. Of course I know men sometimes view women this way, but I didn’t really understand what the specific signifiers of being a “good fuck” were, other than being hot and having a nice body, two qualities all the ladies had. What made Clare so special? I asked him to elaborate, and we got into a fight, and he told me I was being insecure, which I was outraged by…but it was the truth. I felt a pang realizing that of all the things I may have unintentionally radiated my whole life, “good fuck” was definitely not one of them. Maybe people can sometimes tell I’m a Leo?
The next morning I decided to double-check Mike’s comments with my friend and co-worker Dan, a devoted husband and father of two who is one of the most polite and inherently decent men I know, and is one of those hyper-intelligent people who also happens to be obsessed with The Bachelor .
“Dan,” I said, cornering him the moment he arrived at our office. “Do you see Clare as a good fuck?”
He looked panicked.
“Mike said so and I want to know what you think,” I explained.
Reassured by the fact that Mike had said it first, he ventured slowly, “Um, I guess I know what he means.”
“WHY WHAT IS IT ABOUT HER?” I unintentionally yelled at him.
“She just seems like the sort of person who is crazy enough to have no boundaries and would let you do anything,” he said, looking around the room for a fire exit or accessible air shaft. “And also she has porn face.”
I had to agree about the porn face.
Of course, I feel guilty watching this show. I feel guilty watching people cry and be upset for entertainment. My only defense is that I am never truly sure if these people are “real.” Are they actors? Are they would-be actors? Or are they truly vulnerable human beings who are yearning for a relationship?
I have spent more time than I’m comfortable admitting pondering this question, and it bothers me that I can never be sure. Perhaps as a result of this desire for certainty, I have developed an elaborate fantasy of joining the show as a contestant myself, but in a very special Bachelor season where, instead of the usual tricep-ed, former-NBA-dancing, white-jeaned beauties, the entire roster of women is composed of women like me: Jewish girls with glasses in their thirties who went to liberal arts colleges.
My fantasy begins with our arrival at the house to meet “The” Bachelor. We each pull up in our big fancy limos, but instead of emerging bedecked in some kind of goddess evening gown, all of us are wearing big sweaters and Dansko clogs. And instead of greeting the Bachelor with big sexy hugs, every single one of us is awkward and offers a handshake while saying, “Can we all just acknowledge this is so nuts?”
Normally the dates on The Bachelor are all of an active variety—kayaking, or paintball, or some other physical thing where you could end up having sex by accident—but because every member of this new cast is constitutionally a delicate flower, different kinds of activities are in order. Such as:
On an early group date we all go on a CVS run to buy Advil. There are some laughs
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