What is it with LA guys in their 30s? Their common sense seems to recede faster than their hairlines.

Anyone who’s lived in Los Angeles knows exactly what I’m talking about. Men who fit the profile grew up, went to college, lived a respectable life, and even enjoyed some personal success. But suddenly, almost the minute the clock chimes midnight on their 30th birthday, they become fear-based, emotionally-anemic, withering people-pleasers…and, the worst type: the type who lie to you so that they never have to see your disappointment. Yuck.

Subject A is a friend of mine. I call him a friend only because he is everything I would love to see in a husband, but I cannot call him husband. I can’t even call him boyfriend. That is because while he is accomplished and handsome and charming and adorable…he has the under-developed sensibility of a 13-year old child. And his disease is progressing. It is insidious, and he is ALMOST unaware of how completely it has engulfed his very being. But, though he would love to, he cannot deny that he aches with a bone-deep loneliness; that a vague sense of longing wakes him each night at 4AM; that many men of his age are now called “Daddy”.

He often laments deploringly: “What is wrong with me? I’m a grown man, after all.”

God, do I wish I knew.

He claims to want marriage, a family, and stability. He moans about consistency, and how he desperately wants some. He fears his own mortality, he cherishes his family, and he wants to better himself. He doesn’t even listen to music in the car. He listens to self-help tapes. He watches ‘What the Bleep do We Know’ without snarky, cynical commentary. He carries groceries for his elderly neighbor, and just adopted two stray puppies who crap on his rug incessantly. He seems to possess limitless patience, gentleness, and integrity. He plays the guitar and sings, but is never taken by his own attractiveness. To top it off, I’ve never heard an unkind word spoken by him about anyone. I gossip. But he doesn’t.

He is what most women would refer to as a perfect guy.

On paper.

In reality, he has the conviction of a house fly. He is so easily distracted, either by a hand of poker or the act of poking; he can never approach completion of the laundry, much less his lofty goals of self-actualization. He seems to suffer from a desperate fear of being abandoned. Or of completing a dream and having it explode. For although he births a million ideas a day, he has trouble seeing any of them through. And I stand by, watching with the gnawing awareness that he will never reach his potential, and it is a great potential. He could be a great husband. A great father. But LA men of his age who are neither…will probably never be either.

He dreams of success, both professional and personal. And he does have professional success, enough that he’s recognized on the street. But when it comes to the personal…he drifts ever farther away. Even as he seeks it more desperately, it becomes more elusive.

His is a life of self-deceit cloaked in the seductive prospect of easy sex with gorgeous 22 year olds. He is 35. But he is a comedian. And comedians, especially handsome ones with soulful eyes, get fucked by 22 year olds.

And I know what you’re thinking: Great! Lucky bastard.

And yes, you are right. She doesn’t have an ounce of cellulite. But this is a guy who is unhappy, because he doesn’t just want to fuck. He claims that he wants to be loved. He claims to want something substantial. And as much as you think fucking a 22 year old might FEEL substantial, it’s not. Especially not when her myspace has 8 different photos of her tits covered in tequila.

He’ll make it your business to know: HE pines for “something substantial”. He’ll say it with tears of conviction in his eyes, he’ll convince you so completely…yes, he really does want “something substantial”…That is…until she emails with a request to use his pool. Then, it’s game on. Again.

Because he is, by anyone’s standards, a limp noodle of a man. Clearly, he doesn’t possess a limp noodle. The 22 year old IS good for something.

But he is an unfulfilled man. An unhappy man. A man who’s greatest fear is that he will be stuck, unloved and alone. He is like a hungry person who gorges on a box of Twinkies before dinner at the Ritz. As if he’s afraid he won’t get that amazing dinner, he reaches for the thing that at least will prevent him from starving.

And by his own admission and constant appeal, this man is starving. I see it, and I hate it. I wish he would at least embrace his lifestyle. So you fuck 22 year olds, and are afraid to be in love. So what.

But to be haunted by his own existence, makes it impossible for him to enjoy. Or for me, to condone. And it wouldn’t matter what I think, except that he is constantly seeking my approval. I think I’m why he got the dogs, actually. Yuck. Poor puppies.

And as a single woman who’s searching this vast pressure cooker full of self-adoring martyrs/self-saboteurs for a decent prospect, it’s excruciating. If only he could get his shit together, who knows what our friendship could blossom into. But for today, I struggle to maintain a baseline respect.

If only he could stop lying to himself (and me), I could live with his choices. Even if I don’t agree with them. Because I really don’t care who you’re fucking. But please, just stop trying to convince me you’re seeking the high road. You are not a righteous man when you’re laying the bone to a girl half your age, and then complaining about how you have no substance in your life. Sorry.

And he’s not alone. LA is crawling with this variety of emotional undead. Maybe it’s the acting that does it. The narcissism bourne of the trade. All I know is, they can’t feel love because they are too afraid of the pain that inevitably accompanies any personal closeness.

These are a cynical, pessimistic breed of men that might actually cost themselves a shot at genuine love, a result of their fear-based distractions and near-constant whining (without ever taking action.) Gross.

And I stand by, with that gnawing pain which tells me he is a dead prospect. A man for whom happiness might always be an illusion. A man in whom I can never invest trust and safety, or anything other than a convenient “work” relationship. To be honest, I weep for those dogs. They’ll probably end up back at the shelter, when he realizes he might actually love them if he doesn’t get rid of them.

That’s him calling on the cell-phone now. He’s desperate to make sure I’m not disappointed. Am I ok with the fact that he cancelled our work date in order to fuck the 22 year old? He won’t say it, but that’s why he’s calling. He’ll think of some trivial anecdote to tell me, just so he can check the tone of my voice. He wants my approval. Please don’t be disappointed, he’ll say – without saying it.

I pick up the phone, and I let him off the hook. I laugh at his joke, I lilt my voice in an approving way…give him what he seeks, even as I hold back — almost imperceptibly. He notices a slight edge in my voice. He knows I don’t really approve. But for tonight, I’ll lie with him, to him, and to myself. And we’ll pretend together that this is an acceptable way to spend a life. He just wants, more than anything, not to face my – or anyone’s – disappointment. Avoiding that matters more than telling the truth. More than standing by his convictions, whatever they may be.

And, if I really search my feelings, I’m not disappointed. In him. But I am in myself. Because I forgot: He’s a LA man in his 30s. I should know better than to expect more.

Last 5 posts by Salli Frattini

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