Sex and the City

Women Who Ran with Wolves:

Perennial Bachelors? See Ya

In the past few weeks, several seemingly unrelated yet similar incidents occurred.

Simon Piperstock, the owner of a software company, was lying in bed in his plush two-bedroom apartment, nursing the flu, when the phone rang.

“You piece of shit,” said a woman’s voice.

“What?” Simon said. “Who is this?”

“It’s me.”

“Oh. M.K. I was going to call you, but I got the flu. Terrific party the other night.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” M.K. said. “Because nobody else did.”

“Really?” Simon sat up in bed.

“It’s you, Simon. Your behavior is reprehensible. It’s disgusting.”

“What did I do?” Simon asked.

“You brought that bimbo. You always bring a bimbo. No one can stand it anymore.”

“Hey. Hold on a second,” Simon said. “Teesie is not a bimbo. She’s a very bright girl.”

“Right, Simon,” M.K. said. “Why don’t you get a life? Why don’t you get married?”

She hung up.

Harry Samson, forty-six, a well-known, eligible-bachelor art dealer, was having one of his typical drinking evenings at Frederick’s, when he was introduced to a very attractive woman in her mid-twenties. She had just moved to New York to be an assistant to an artist with whom Harry worked.

“Hi. I’m Harry Samson,” he said in his East Coast drawl, affected, perhaps, by the fact that he had a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.

“I know who you are,” the girl said.

“Have a drink?” Harry asked.

She glanced at the girlfriend who accompanied her. “You’re that guy, aren’t you?” she said. “No, thanks. I know all about your reputation.”

“This place sucks tonight,” Harry said to no one in particular.

There’s something rotten in New York society, and it’s the character formerly known as the “eligible” bachelor. It’s not your imagination. Those men in their forties and fifties who have never been married, who have not, in years anyway, had a serious girlfriend, have acquired a certain, unmistakable stink. The evidence is everywhere.

Miranda Hobbes was at a Christmas party when she ran into Packard and Amanda Deale, a couple she had met briefly through Sam, the investment banker she had dated for three months over the summer.

“Where have you been?” Amanda asked. “We called you to come to a couple of our parties, but we never heard from you.”

“I couldn’t,” Miranda said. “I know you’re friends with Sam, and, I’m sorry, but to tell you the truth, I just can’t stand him. I can’t stand being in the same room with him. That man is sick. I think he hates women. He leads you on, tells you he wants to get married, and then doesn’t call. Meanwhile, he’s trying to pick up twenty-one year olds.”

Packard moved closer. “We’re not friends with him anymore, either. Amanda can’t stand him, and neither can I. He’s gotten to be friends with this guy named Barry, and all the two of them do every night is go to these SoHo restaurants and try to pick up women.”

“They’re in their forties!” Amanda said. “It’s gross.”

“When are they going to grow up?” Miranda asked.

“Or come out of the closet,” Packard said.