More to every Cookie

A year ago, instead of resolving to get a boyfriend, which had always proved a failure, I resolved to take steps at self-improvement to get a boyfriend. Thanks, Oprah.

Analyzing my approach to men, my buddy John and I isolated my two main strategies. “You’re a ham,” he said, “like Phyllis Diller.”

That’s the first method, where every conversation is a chance for me to make a goofy one-liner. Phyllis is a charmer, people like her, but she never says anything of substance. You don’t date Phyllis. Eventually you get bored of her and turn the channel.

“And then there’s your Medusa,” he added.

“Medusa?” I said, with my eyebrow raised to kill.

“You chew ’em up. You pounce on them. You’re all boom boom boom,” he said, shaking his imaginary tits like they were a weapon.

“How about Mae West,” I offered.

Knowing what was good for him, he agreed to that.

Mae is less popular than Phyllis because, though funnier, she propositions anything that moves and a few things that don’t. She’s sharp, sly, and relentless.

Although the two modes of meeting men have served me well in the past-I’m a knock-out at parties-they haven’t helped me bag anyone. My pick-up rate is lower than Gordon Campbell’s IQ.

To get action, I resort to my third persona: the Small-town Boy. He looks bashful and serious as he cruises for anonymous sex. Friends doubt I can pull off the Small-town Boy, but in a ball cap and no makeup, I pass for butch-yet-sensitive, provided I don’t gesticulate, or speak.

All three, I realized, were performances, which meant, in a small but significant way, all three were also anonymous. I was the Wizard of Oz behind his curtain, putting on a show. Once I’d isolated the behaviour, it surprised me to see how much I relied on it. I’m a shy girly-guy, who compensates extremely well. Imagine a can-can girl who falls apart in a slow waltz.

I spent the rest of last year attempting to expose my inner self more than my ever-popular cock and balls. By October, I’d mastered it. I met a young guy, fresh off the truck (which had been around the block a few times). A very nice mix. We went on dates, had great sex, and were intimate, not in that order. Three months later, we’re boyfriends.

Many of the people who know me either drop their jaws or screw up their faces when they hear I’ve got a steady guy. What’s a whore like me doing with a bf? Can I give up the peepshows, the park, the cab-drivers? Or will I?

Sure. My years (and years) of nameless promiscuity don’t mean I can’t prefer something intimate and regular. There’s more to every Cookie than what meets the eye.

Miss Cookie wishes to reassure everyone that her column isn’t over. She still has lots of sex behind her.