One Thousand Days, Part 1

The Curse of the Singles Table
By Suzanne Schlosberg

I could tell you that I came to the most remote corner of Arctic Russia because of an interest in life on the tundra in the post-Soviet era. Except it wouldn't be true. The reason I'm here is that I have gone one thousand forty-four days without sex.

Let me clarify: I did not come to Provideniya to get laid. That would be like traveling to North Dakota for Ethiopian food. There are maybe forty single guys in this town, and it appears that the majority are border guards wearing the type of oversized sunglasses last seen on Starsky and Hutch. Not a good look, really.

The truth is, I came to Provideniya-a near ghost town of crumbling concrete with no cafes, no hotels, not even hot running water-because it seemed like the perfect place to commemorate my One Thousand Days. My own personal New Millennium.

The fact that I have been stranded here for a week seems especially appropriate. The fact that I don't really want to leave comes as a bit of a surprise.

I can't recall exactly when I started counting, but at some point, back home in Los Angeles, I did some calculations and determined that I was closing in on a historic milestone. One thousand days, in case you're doing some calculations of your own, is ninety-two days shy of three years. It is just thirty-six days shorter than the duration of the Kennedy administration. Other than my parents' former housekeeper, Esperanza, an ex-nun from El Salvador, I do not know anyone under the age of seventy who has even approached this record.

With no prospects in sight, I am, at age thirty-four, becoming the Cal Ripken of celibacy.

Now, I'm sure you're wondering how I got into this predicament. Do I look like Freddy Krueger? Do I dress like Barbara Bush? Am I too picky? Too bitchy? Too shy? Do I have agoraphobia? Chlamydia? Really bad foot fungus?

Good questions, all of them. Questions that I have, at one time or another, mulled over. Questions that members of my family ask frequently and loudly at our Jewish-holiday gatherings.

The short answer to all of these questions is no. Or, as they say here in Provideniya, nyet.

I suppose I could have sex. In fact, just last month, through my Internet dating service, I received the following e-mail from a twenty-one-year-old bicycle messenger: "I would like to spend a night with a wonderful woman. I am young but I am mature. I am French, also. I love pleasure, exchange of energy! What about you?"

The thing is, most consenting adults can find sex, if they're willing to go to bed with someone they're not especially attracted to or fond of. But here's the other thing: Yes, I'm looking for sex, but I'd like something more, too. At the very least, I'd like a little mutual desirability. I'd like the tiniest spark. And I'd like a guy who can utter the phrase "I feel" in a context other than "I feel like eating at Burger King."

Don't get the wrong idea: I am not all that virtuous. I'm certainly not saving myself for Mr. Right. I'd be perfectly amenable to taking Mr. Remote Possibility for a test drive. But somehow, despite my valiant efforts over one thousand days, even he doesn't seem to have made an appearance. As a consequence, I've been left in a state of sexual deprivation that I previously thought impossible. What's it like to go without sex this long? Well, let's just say that unlike Cal Ripken when he was riding his streak, nobody's cheering, least of all me.

During my epic dry spell, I've been out with so many guys that I have developed a system of dating strategies complex enough to warrant doctoral study. I have vowed to broaden my search, to try harder. I've vowed not to try at all and just "let it happen." I've tried to appear more available and less assertive. I've tried to appear less available and more assertive. I've done just about everything but lower my standards or give up completely, because the truth is, I still have hope. Greater miracles have occurred. Remember the South American rugby players who survived a plane crash in the Andes in the dead of winter? If they could live for ten weeks on toothpaste and the flesh of their deceased teammates and still manage to walk out of the mountains alive, surely I can navigate my way out of singlehood, no?

Still, as I stand by and watch almost everyone I know get paired off, I do wonder what's going on. Is this bad luck? Is it fate? Is this predicament of my own making? I've never believed there is just one perfect match out there for me-there are probably dozens, if not hundreds. But why do they all seem to be in a witness protection program?

Some months ago, it became evident that my countless efforts, large and small, would not keep me from reaching One Thousand Days. Short of a miracle to throw me off course, I was headed straight toward this ignoble benchmark.

Clearly, an event of this magnitude called for some sort of tribute (to myself, of course, for my remarkable endurance). I briefly considered a solo trip to Death Valley, but commemorating my dry spell in the desert. . . I don't know, the concept just seemed unimaginative. A few friends suggested I go somewhere fabulous, like Tahiti or the Italian Riviera or Jackson Hole, Wyoming. But fabulousness was clearly not what the situation warranted. Fabulous is for your honeymoon, not your impersonation of the Virgin Mary.

Copyright © by Suzanne Schlosberg

About the Author

Suzanne Schlosberg is a freelance writer who lives in Los Angeles. Suzanne can be reached through her Web site, www.suzanneschlosberg.com