One Guy, Four Ex-Girlfriends, Lots of Wine

A Battered Romeo invited four exes for drinks and asked, ''What's wrong with me?'' Now that he knows, will he be a better boyfriend . . . or Just Kill Himself?

I sat in my kitchen staring at the bottle of aspirin, the glass of water and the mug of coffee, but I could not bring myself to ingest any of them. I flipped on the TV, thinking the final round of the Masters could divert my attention from the pounding in my head. One Greg Norman bogey later, I turned it off. This was a milestone--I was too hungover to watch golf on TV. Across the way on the counter sat a tape recorder and several empty wine bottles. I counted them. There were eight.

I'm 33 and single. I mean really single. The last time I used the word girlfriend was in the Eighties. During the past decade I have had scores of mini-relationships, but none graduated into anything approaching serious. My only long-termer was in college, when I dated a gal for three years. The number two relationship on the list lasted about four months. I believe that relationships can be gauged by how far up the Big Event Ladder they climb. The upper rungs consist of things like living together and having exploratory discussions about marriage or children. Couples in this realm are no longer just dating--they've become a unit. At this point, she finally accepts that he probably won't get any taller, and he resigns himself to the fact that, at the end of the day, he was simply fooled by the cunning fiction that is the Wonderbra.

In the past decade I have participated in none of these relationships. My climbs up the Big Event Ladder reached only as high as a smattering of weekend getaways and meeting a couple of parents. Discussions of marriage? Never. Kids? Even less. To sum up, I have never in my life purchased jewelry of any kind for a girl I was dating. I've given them things like Far Side calendars and gift certificates to sporting goods stores. And, no, I am not one of (continued on page 162) 4 ex-girlfirends (continued from page 116) those guys who want to date as many women as possible and are scared to death of commitment. To the contrary, I'm the rare bachelor who prefers a regular relationship to random carpet dating. Yet my romantic interludes, no matter how sizzling they are at the outset, usually have the shelf life of a carton of milk. Worse yet, I miss The Larry Sanders Show more than I miss most of my former flames.

During the past few months, several events have forced me to take a good hard look at myself: first, the failure of my most recent attempt at a relationship; second, my ex-roommate's engagement, which makes me the final single guy in my peer group; and third, for the first time in memory, my mother did not write ''maybe this will be the year you meet that special someone'' on my birthday card. This was truly a blow--my own mother had given up on me and had most likely decided that her youngest son would spend the rest of his days playing cards and wearing hats and fishing, or whatever it is that aging heterosexual bachelors do. I knew that drastic measures were in order. I decided that this was not something I would be able to decipher on my own. Then it hit me--who could better analyze my exploits with the women I've dated than the women I've dated?

Within weeks, I had made final preparations for what would become known as the ex-girlfriend summit. Four carefully chosen girls with whom I have shared varying degrees of relationships had agreed to gather at my house on a Saturday night for dinner. Their mission: to pick apart my psyche and tell me what the hell I've been doing wrong all these years. I told them I intended to emerge from the evening with a remapped social blueprint, prepared to dive headfirst into deep and lasting future relationships.

The four-woman firing squad breaks down as follows (listed, by the way, in chronological order):

Lynn, a 31-year-old attorney, is the aforementioned college girlfriend. Although it has been over ten years since we stopped dating, we have remained close friends (sometimes I think we are close friends because we stopped dating). She has a quick wit, can sing and dance like a pro, and although she won't admit it, she is disarmingly beautiful, in a Teri Hatcher sort of way.

Diane, 31, is in advertising sales. We dated off and on during our postcollegiate early-to-mid-20s find-yourself years. She's smart, she's fun and she's always smiling. She has an endearing spirit that makes everyone fall for her right off the bat. She loves the outdoors, and is an accomplished athlete and a marathon runner. Diane and I shared pockets of romance while we were finding and building our careers, and we also remained good friends.

Nicole, 31, is a freelance artist (picture a younger, softer-featured Maria Shriver--sorry, Arnold). Nicole and I had a legitimate, adult-style relationship--with a clear-cut beginning, middle and end. With our similar career choices of artist and writer, we hit it off like gangbusters, and she led me into uncharted territory--such as hand-holding in restaurants. Nicole and I dated for several months before things fizzled out.

Maura, also 31, is in sales. Sharp and extremely quick, Maura is a better-looking version of Caroline in the City's Lea Thompson. Maura and I started out as running buddies. Fifteen-mile runs would go by quickly with her, the conversations always spirited and hilarious. (It didn't hurt that she had no qualms about jumping into the hot tub afterward and splitting a bucket of beer.) Gradually, the evening workouts turned into dinners, concerts and other datingstyle interludes. In the end, however, Maura and I were never quite sure if it was romance or friendship.

With this distinguished panel, there was a great buzz among my friends and family as the summit approached. My sister commented that ''the fact that you could find four ex-girlfriends to agree to do this without being paid or tricked is so healthy I could vomit.'' She had no idea how prophetic that would be. To keep distractions and spying to a minimum, I decided to stage the event in the safety of my own dining room. To prepare my spartan bachelor pad, I splurged on three candles, five wineglasses and a dimmer switch for my 100-watt Home Depot ceiling fixture. The girls and I agreed that the libation would be red wine, which seems to have a knack for loosening up the vocal cords.

By eight o'clock on a crisp spring Saturday night, I found myself standing in my kitchen with all four of them. At first, there was a hint of awkwardness. I'm certain it was because this was perhaps the first time in history such a unique collection of human beings had gathered intentionally. As we small-talked, I felt strongly about delving into my collection of bargain-rack red wine. The first cork I mutilated was from a Beringer Merlot 1996. It was only then that I discovered my five new wineglasses can easily swallow an entire bottle of wine. Before I had taken the first sip from my glass, I had already opened bottle number two, also Beringer Merlot 1996. The girls and I raised our glasses and toasted the ex-girlfriend summit, which would bring success to all of my future relationships.

We adjourned to the dining room for gourmet pizza, and I took my seat at the head of the table, with two women on each side. Nicole said, ''Should we get started?''

''I've lost my appetite,'' I said, looking at the half-eaten slice on my plate. ''I think we've already started.''

Bottle number three, Forest Glen Merlot 1997, ushered in the first topic of conversation, my interest in loud, black, winged sports cars. They all agreed that my fascination with these cartoonish vehicles is a bit juvenile, and that climbing out of them was sometimes embarrassing for them. When I asked what would be a more suitable choice of transportation, Diane suggested ''an older BMW,'' which I realized is what her current boyfriend drives. The topic shifted quickly to my clothes, with particular attention to my footwear. ''You wear oldman shoes,'' one of them said. In an attempt to defend myself, I removed one of my shoes and plopped it onto the table. ''What's the matter with these?'' I asked.

''My dad has a pair of those!'' Lynn shrieked, and they all exploded with laughter.

An assault on my clothes was next. Three of them launched into a rapid-fire offensive that fell just short of suggesting that I wore tweed jackets and smoked a pipe. ''Untuck your shirt and forget your belt once in a while,'' Maura suggested as she uncorked bottle number four, again Forest Glen Merlot 1997. The girls also agreed that I should change my toothbrushes more frequently and upgrade the toilet paper I buy.

The girls were apparently so loaded with ammunition on my shortcomings that one of them blurted out, ''I need scrap paper!'' Minutes later, they were all scrawling notes and giggling. As they scribbled, I resisted the urge to defend myself on each topic, realizing that the whole point of this exercise was for me to pick up some tips and apply them in the future. Besides, they were nitpicking anyway. ''You guys keep firing away,'' I said calmly. ''I'll just be over here drinking.''

The girls ganged up on my hair for a while, agreeing that it was too manicured. (Maura and Nicole took matters into their own hands by rushing over and tousling it.) Then Diane said I was the first guy she had dated with chest hair, which segued into the more personal subject of back hair. Yes, I am one of those lucky few who are blessed with overactive follicles in the area south of the shoulders. The girls all claimed it didn't bother them, but I'm no dummy--women find it revolting, and so do I. In a fit of vanity I gave myself a 30th birthday gift of having it removed, every last stub. (Maura had no idea about any of this, having dated the smooth me.) Still, if electrolysis was the most prickly subject raised, I was beginning to think I would get off lightly. Then one of them said to Lynn, ''How did you and Scott meet?'' What followed was a start-to-finish recap by each one, as the others listened intently and took more notes. This seemed like an ideal time to break out bottle number five, Ecco Domani Merlot 1996.

For a good hour, they rehashed old stories of my dating and relationship prowess, often all speaking at once. Lynn's comments about my dating style in my late teens and early 20s provided a glimpse of just how far I'd come. She said that in college, my idea of culture was bleacher seats at Wrigley Field. She added that at coastal seafood restaurants, I'd order from the landlubbers menu, and at fine Italian establishments, I'd ask for ''whatever's closest to spaghetti.'' ''We spent a week in Europe and all he talked about was that the beer was warm and the USA Today's baseball scores were three days old. He was addicted to Dr Pepper at the time, and when he finally found some at Harrods in London, he bought two six-packs and dragged them through five countries.''

Apparently, my dating skills improved with age, because the more recent girls had mostly good things to say about the places I took them to and my demeanor during such events. Lynn lamented that ''he made me see John Mellencamp three times on the same tour, and that was when he was still Johnny Cougar.'' It suddenly became apparent that poor Lynn, sophisticated and mature beyond her years, used to date a postadolescent, beer-guzzling frat boy who still wore briefs. ''What was it,'' I asked her, ''that kept it going all those years?''

''You made me laugh,'' she said. ''I've never laughed so hard in my life.''

They all agreed that I was a perfect gentleman, and they admired the fact that, as a rule, my relationships never overlapped. I've been told I'm too nice, too accommodating and too much of a gentleman. Indeed, not one of them could recall having had a fight with me. ''You were a pushover when we dated. Sometimes I'd practically beg you to tell me off. But you never did.'' Lynn recalled.

''You snapped at me once,'' Diane remembered, ''but I deserved it.''

''You know,'' I responded, ''sometimes I think that, deep down, all girls want to be treated like shit.''

''No! Don't believe it! It's not true!'' they all shouted.

Then, out of the blue, Nicole chimed in with, ''Do you remember that night when we went skinny-dipping in your mom's pool while listening to Christmas music?'' Eyebrows lifted all around. I had wondered if this sort of thing would come up. (My mom had asked if sex would be one of the topics of conversation, to which I replied, ''Well, I'm not going to bring it up.'') All eyes were focused on me, waiting to hear about Nicole and me and Bing Crosby, naked in the swimming pool. Granted, she was referring to a harmless night. But I knew that as presiding judge of these proceedings, if I allowed skinny-dipping as evidence, it could pave the way for all kinds of tawdry business. ''Yeah,'' I said, dumping the last of the Ecco into my glass, ''I remember that night,'' and left it at that. I had put my finger in the dike, hoping against hope that I could hold back the flood by redirecting the conversation. ''So, are you girls saying that I shouldn't even part my hair at all?''

Then, the levee burst. What ensued was a barrage of sexual machine-gun fire that had me frantically opening bottle number six, Round Hill Cabernet 1993. The sexual laundry list included the good: It came up that the small hands--small feet theory does not apply in my case (I actually found a scribbled rendering on one of their notes the next morning); the bad: I shed, leaving small, dark body hairs everywhere--on their sheets, on their pillows, on them; and the ugly: I learned that I would be served by increasing the frequency of my oral visits to certain nethermost territories.

As I continued to guzzle, the girls continued to pick away at my romantic operations, taking my ego on a roller-coaster ride that left me dizzy and confused. One moment I was a ''great kisser'' and ''affectionate,'' the next I was chastised for ''not letting me grab your ass in public.'' Nicole liked that I was persistent in my pursuit, while Maura wondered if I was ever going to ''bust a move and go after'' her. The revelation of an office-desk interlude with one was offset by the news that nothing happened during a weekend reunion in Cancún with another. Apparently, fueled by that fascinating topic and by the fearlessness of my 33rd glass of wine, I blurted out:

''So, did any of you fake it?''

A long silence followed, with eyeballs shooting back and forth.

''Actually, don't answer that,'' I said.

No one did, but I was just coherent enough to decipher their smirks and sneaky glances.

''Yeah, well, I did, too,'' I said with a smile. Before things got completely out of hand, I summoned my final ounce of lucidity and posed perhaps the most important question of the night: What went wrong in our relationships?

''You were a grown-up to me. You were husband and father material, but at 23, that scared my socks off,'' Diane said.

Lynn added, ''You were the kind of guy I wanted to meet, but in the future.''

I reminded Lynn and Diane that they had each uttered, ''I wish I had met you five years from now'' at the end of our relationships. They nodded at the recollection, then I pointed out that it was eleven and eight years ago, respectively.

''I'll tell you what went wrong,'' Nicole continued. ''You broke up with me.''

Maura said, ''With us, it was one of those timing things.''

Ah, yes, timing--the catchall excuse for failed relationships that goes back to Adam and Eve. (I suppose another big one, ''I want to see other people,'' wasn't an option for them.) Maura said that she could never tell if I wanted to be a running buddy or a boyfriend, to which I replied, ''Well, you were the one who was always sending mixed singles!'' (That's how I said it.) Lynn looked at me and said, ''You're pretty drunk, aren't you?''

''Absolutely,'' I said, making it sound like one syllable.

Bottle number seven, also Round Hill Cabernet 1993, tasted exactly like the first, which is to say I could no longer taste it. At this point, the girls started discussing their current relationships and other nonsummit issues. I was reduced to a head-bobbing torso with tousled hair who felt it necessary to stress the level of my inebriation by spelling it--as in, ''I am G-O-N-E.'' It was getting late, and the general concern at the table shifted from what I needed to do to survive in relationships to what I needed to do to survive the evening. The girls decided to summarize my social situation and came up with the following observations:

''Don't change anything. If you wanted to be in a relationship right now, you would be. You just haven't met the right person. Or maybe you have, but you weren't ready, or the timing was wrong.''

Interestingly, this is exactly how I've felt all along, and hearing it from these four would have made me feel relieved and vindicated--except that I had fallen asleep. Maura nudged me and asked, ''Are you going to get sick tonight?''

''I'd say there's a 20 percent chance I won't.''

While I was hunched over the toilet, the girls were downstairs, enjoying bottle number eight, Ruffino Chianti Classico, Riserva 1991, the only good bottle of wine in my collection. Apparently, after I had collapsed for good, they chatted late into the night--four girls who had little in common other than the fact that they had dated me. There was something comforting about this. If I really had a major dating defect, I would never have been able to pull this off without something coming back to bite me. All in all, the summit served its purpose. So what if I drive silly cars, wear old-man shoes and comb my hair once in a while? I've had a social MRI performed by four of the most terrific girls anywhere, and they have pronounced me romantically fit. I'm telling you, Mom, my birthday is coming up, and this could be the year.