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The Press Loves Us, So Will You!
Events Filled with Love Creating Naughty Events Since 2001 thebride@metroplanners.com |
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The Phenomenon of the Trophy Boyfriend
February 2005 I had my first "trophy boyfriend" when I was 20 years old. He was tall, lean, looked like a young Mark Messier, and called me "Paully" in a smooth, Southern drawl. I liked him in large part because of his vast knowledge of literature and the way he took time every day to watch The Simpsons. I also liked the way my friends would react when I would parade him around the sorority house during dinner or before dates. Their reaction was a mix of envy and admiration, and I loved every minute of it. And so began a habit that consumed most of my early 20s. I only wanted to date men that my friends would compliment, as if they were a new pair of shoes or some chandelier earrings. "Trophy boyfriends are common in younger women who may feel insecure about relationships," says Blaire Allison, a love coach in New Jersey who runs www.loveguru.net. She says that when women are in these somewhat detached liaisons, they may feel like they're in control because the guy is just for show. Allison says that women shouldn't be afraid to experiment with these sorts of relationships, mostly because they can be a lot of fun. It's also a good way to try out certain kinds of guys, to see if you really need the suit-and-tie man over the creative type. The idea that I sought a sugar daddy couldn't have been further from the truth. The common denominator in my trophy boyfriends was some form of brilliance. A handsome guy was not enough. Instead, I scored points with the girls by being able to say I was seeing someone who spent six months volunteering at a Palestinian orphanage in Gaza or who was a resident at Beth Israel hospital. I was sure other women did the same thing, it was just that no one admitted it. After all, who would be that shallow? I never thought of myself as shallow. And I didn't think I had an issue with self-esteem, as Allison might surmise. I think my self-sufficiency was the problem. I had been gainfully employed since I arrived in New York in 1999. I paid rent, student loans, and supported my weekend habit for Glenlivet. I hadn't been a women's studies major, but I graduated with a firm grasp of theories of patriarchy and oppression. My take was that knowledge was the route to empowerment and that empowerment bred happiness. Sex columnist Anka Radakovich says that from an anthropological standpoint the idea of "trophy dating" is all about the display of status. "'Dating up' is going out with someone either better looking, more accomplished, or more famous," she says. "When a girl [shows off] a trophy boyfriend, she's as attention-seeking as Donald Trump who parades his new wife around like a show dog." Radakovich added she doesn't think that men would mind being thought of as a trophy boyfriend or a sex object. By today's standards a trophy boyfriend would be someone along the lines of Ashton Kutcher, someone who is handsome as well as well known. However, Radakovich sees a double standard: When a woman has a trophy boyfriend, she might be seen as a gold digger, but when a man has a trophy girlfriend, he is considered the man. But if a woman is educated, employed, living on her own and able to schmooze her way through any party, why would she want a man more accoutrement than equal? One steamy August night, shortly after the lights came on after the infamous New York City blackout, I met my biggest challenge. While in the middle of some blitzkrieg drinking down on the Lower East Side, I spotted a handsome redhead at the bar. According to eyewitnesses (and close friends, at that), I went up to him, ran my fingers through his mop of hair and said, "You have the most amazing head of hair I have ever seen." He told me his name was James and I was hooked. For the next few weeks James wooed me not with fancy dinners and outings -- I barely remember him buying me anything more than a few drinks -- but rather with his record collection in his bachelor pad on the corner of Prince and Mulberry streets. And when I say "record," I mean vinyl, as in first editions of The Beatles Magical Mystery Tour and Led Zeppelin's Coda. For a woman who moved to Gramercy specifically to be closer to Irving Plaza, this was sexual catnip. But there was one problem with this trophy: James upstaged me -- refused to play his role as the subservient. He matched me, then raised me, in terms of life experience and accomplishments. I went to Columbia for grad school, but he had a law degree. I had all the new indie rock CDs and was guest-listed at some of the shows, but he had seen many acts while they were still in London or on the Dallas music scene. Still, I figured if I played my cards right, then maybe James would be my next trophy boyfriend. He fit all the other criteria. He was smart, good looking, nice to strangers and seemed generally impressed by me, even if he eclipsed me in some ways. But I was getting ahead of myself with James. My post-coital haze blurred the real problem that had emerged: James, by and large, wasn't biting. I didn't doubt that he liked me. Our late-night pillow talk consisted of everything from books to politics to the evolution of Public Enemy. What I questioned was why I felt like I was being kept at arm's length. Sure, I knew the name of his law firm and that he had a brother, but I didn't know the name of his brother or even what James had majored in as an undergrad. Little details like those made me wonder what he was doing when he wouldn't return a voice mail or why he would cancel a date an hour beforehand. We were so much alike, so on par, it seemed strange that another woman could interest him more. The mix of crushed ego and lust made my head spin and my heart ache. I was as fascinated by the nuances of James as I always wanted men to be fascinated by me. Suddenly I wanted to know what sorts of ties he liked to wear and whether he did his own laundry or sent it out. By Christmas, it had been weeks since I had heard from James. He dissolved on me. Every now and then, mostly during late-night cab rides home after I had been drinking, I wondered where he was, whom he had taken to his firm's Christmas party and, mostly, what I had done wrong that stopped me from keeping what I saw as the ultimate trophy boyfriend. My reaction may not have been out of the ordinary, at least not according to Allison, the love expert. "Society teaches women that we have to sit back and let men pursue us. [The trophy boyfriend] is a way of taking action and being in charge. It's a way of saying, 'I'm a strong woman; I am going to call the shots and be in control.'" But in this case, I wasn't in charge and certainly not in control. Most importantly, there was little I could do about it. Then -- like any passing phase, and seemingly for no explicable reason -- my trophy boy dependency just. expired. The weather warmed up and I soon realized I didn't need a brilliant arm charm. I had nothing to prove, and I certainly didn't need a doe-eyed love interest to tell me I was grand. This revelation came to me as I sat at a diner in the East Village with a new man and an order of eggs. I didn't know if the guy across the table would stick around or if that afternoon would be the last I would ever see of him. He told me about a recent trip to Philadelphia he had taken as well as the failing health of his adored cat. I sipped my coffee and marveled at the simplicity of the afternoon. Neither one of us was looking to get anything more out of the meeting other than maybe some laughs. We were just two people, eating eggs and talking cats -- and finally that's all I needed. Pauline Millard is a writer living in New York City. She is an avid runner and recently completed her first novel. Literary agents are more than welcome to track her down. This is her first contribution to Arriviste Press. |
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