The idea of dating a model is the stuff of male fantasies. After all, we see these icons of beauty incessantly — on television, in movies, on magazine covers, maybe even on the street. And, of course, it's well-documented — and maybe even stereotypical — that some men can be image-driven when it comes to relationships.
While some men are hung up on shallow aesthetics and unattainable ideals, it is also no secret that some women have their own shallow foibles when it comes to the opposite sex — whether that involves finances, employment, college pedigree or the amount of hair on someone's head.
Of course, physical attraction is an important part of any relationship, but it will only take you so far. Eventually, looks fade, and you're left with the person underneath.
Every now and then, even a regular guy like me has brushes with models. Last year, I helped with an awards banquet in Washington, and was put "in charge" of working with two models hired as greeters and presenters.
The organization's chairman, who enlisted my help, thought it would be good for me to work with the models. It was a tough job, but I was the man for it.
They were really just a couple of pretty girls who worked as models on the side: One said that she was trained as a lawyer in Russia, while the other worked as a speech therapist and part-time model/actress.
After the ceremony was finished, they joined me at my table for the banquet. They were interesting and engaging, and certainly accustomed to mingling with men who fawned all over them, mostly men with a lot more money and clout than I have.
They were nice, but that was that.
A few years earlier, however, I actually had a date with a real, live model.
She was only a model, not a supermodel — not that I know how an attractive woman earns the "super" distinction.
The girl I'll call "Orit" was an Israeli who'd just moved to the United States. We had corresponded via e-mail for a couple weeks before she arrived to live at her cousin's house in northern New Jersey.
For the record, Orit had initiated contact with me online, and said that she appreciated the fact that I did not immediately ask for a photo. Truth be told, I hadn't asked her for one at all.
In her mid-20s, she had recently completed her military service as an army medic and had taken a trip around the Pacific before landing in America. Our e-mail conversations were nice. Orit seemed interesting and definitely exotic.
Eventually, she sent me a few photos. She was stunning.
When she finally arrived, we made plans to meet. I picked her up at her cousin's house in an affluent northern New Jersey suburb. I chatted with her relatives while she lingered, putting on the final touches to her makeup and her wardrobe.
We drove to New York City and strolled around Greenwich Village. Guys were practically straining their necks as we went by (one observer may have gotten whiplash). I almost felt self-conscious. I have known attractive women in my life and had dates with some girls I've found beautiful, but I cannot recall such reactions from other men.
We ate dinner in a small Chinese restaurant, and for a minute or two, I almost bought into her mesmerizing looks. The conversation, however, was pretty flat. She didn't seem too interested in anything about me; instead, she marveled at her new multicultural surroundings and seemed to like fancy cars.
She was almost hypnotized by a shiny new Porsche parked next to my aging Ford Explorer in the garage. I'm fairly certain that she wasn't impressed with my SUV. In fact, she didn't seem impressed by all that much at all, and halfway through the dinner, she mentioned that she had already been to the city that afternoon.
She didn't seem totally disinterested in going out with me again. Then again, it wasn't a positive sign when she fell asleep on the way home — and I mean sound asleep! By the time we finally pulled into her cousin's driveway, I had to gently nudge her awake.
I had no further contact with Orit. I'm sure since then that she's had plenty of other suitors — maybe even one with a brand-new Porsche.
Roy S. Gutterman is a Syracuse, N.Y.-based writer. To contact him, visit: www.Lrev.com.