Last week, my favourite lady blog, Jezebel, shared a link to a photo that infamous sleaze and noted fashion photographer Terry Richardson had posted on his Tumblr account. The photo was of Richardson’s shrink. It was interesting that writer Jenna Sauers would do this, as earlier this year, she had almost single handily started an awareness campaign against Richardson’s questionable work practices, which included getting models to do things to him on camera.  As a result of Sauers’ unwavering efforts to unearth the fashion world’s dirty, but unsurprising secret, several people who’d worked with Richardson anonymously came forward with stories of him pressuring models into doing not so good things (that, more often than not, involved his peen). However, I couldn’t help but wonder if Sauers had posted the shrink picture in a mocking way or to show that Richardson was, in fact, human.

To sound cliché, I admire Richardson as an artist. He creates a simple but compelling aesthetic that’s somehow all his own. His images are often overtly sexual and leave me feeling unsettled. (Just Google him if you’re not familiar.)  This proves to me that he’s doing his job as an artist, because he makes me feel something.

But buddy is fucked up. I remember reading an article about him several years ago where he talked about how his mother would abandon him at an absurdly young age in her huge Woodstock home for days at a time. There, he would be completely alone, during thunderstorms, paralyzed with terror.

As someone who follows him on Tumblr, I was surprised to see that Richardson often posted photos of himself at his therapist’s office. He’s never hid the fact that he has issues — which  is why I strangely relate to him.

I recently made a choice to give up some vices that have been a big part of my life for a long time and that have only been delaying my growth. One of those vices includes fucked up men. Aside from a few harmless, casual and brief hook ups, I’ve been doing really well. That is, until I recently met someone who quickly made me revert back to my old habits. Basically, he had me at: “I’m really, really flawed.”

The first time I met this fellow, he confessed to me that he was an oversexed womanizer – albeit one that loves women, as opposed to the mother-issues, hating kind. (Though I’m not sure which one is worse.) Instead of setting off alarm bells, this set off wedding bells — in my daydreams, because the best part about pursuing a womanizer, is the possibility of being that one special lady who reforms him and wins his heart.  Sad stuff, right? Just like Richardson, I’m happy to admit I’m in therapy (and just like Richardson, my issues are deeply rooted in childhood).

I started reverting to the patterns that I do when I fall for messed up men.

First, I gave this fellow a moniker, Pizza Naan, which I use when I talk about him to my friends. (He’s part Italian and part Indian.) I do this as a way of dehumanizing him so that when it inevitably ends badly, I can always laugh. (Other nicknames have included Sweaty Diabetic and Standard Douche.)

Second, I started giving him power, even before we’d had a proper hangout. Half an hour before he came over for the first time, I was freaking out to a friend about how nervous I was. “I just feel completely worthless,” I blurted, surprising even myself. She was stunned and sternly told me never to let a man have that kind of power over me. Of course she was right.

Third, I don’t act like myself when I’m around him. When I recently had Pizza Naan over, I found myself giving in to his argument that people are more likable when they’re drunk, despite the fact that I’m trying very hard to live it up as a sober person. I guess it was my attempt to make him like me more. Exhausting, right?

Fourth, he’s such bad news that he inspires me to write. About him.

The thing is, Pizza Naan is not completely evil, which is why I was drawn to him in the first place. He’s likable, funny and warm. He’s upfront with who he is and like myself and Richardson, he is very clear about the fact that he has issues. He claims he tells this to all the women he gets involved with.

“All we can really do is take responsibility for our side of the street,” he told me.

He’s right. It’s up to me to decide how much power my vices have over me.

And while it’s one thing to acknowledge that, it’s quite another to act on it and try to change. Which is apparently what Pizza Naan, Terry Richardson and I need to keep working on.

Last week I met a warm-hearted, successful and handsome fellow at a concert who I immediately took a liking to. Over the course of the night, we established that we’re both hyper-communicators, super in tune with our emotions, and completely committed to the craft of writing. In other words, he was a candidate to be my new dream man.

He walked me home and we sat on my patio with my dog Dutchie snuggled in between us.  I knew by the end of the night he would express how he felt about me.

We continued to bond over things like our vices (his: women, mine: men) and the fact that we’re both neurotic Jews, in our own special way. He told me how he dates all the time and I asked him where he meets these lucky ladies.

“Everywhere. The bus stop, the grocery store,” he said. “Guys in this city don’t ask out girls so when I put myself out there like that, it’s really not hard to get a date.”

I told him about a recent trip to LA, where men do double takes at you with sincere admiration every time you leave the house. I can’t remember a time when I felt so noticed, and in turn, beautiful.  It simply doesn’t happen like that here in Vancouver.

I commended my new friend on his tactics and told him I too am the one who usually is the pursuer, though I was starting to consider taking a different approach. Usually, when I know what I want, I know how to get it. But the pursuit was starting to get exhausting and if my track record says anything, my approach rarely produces long-term results. I told him the bottom line is that I’m not scared of the possibility of love. Then I leaned in and kissed him.

It was getting late and he called a cab. I took his number. He looked at me and smiled.

“I’m really interested in you but –”

*

A year ago, I sat my close friend Sarah down with a bottle of wine and a digital recorder and told her to tell me her secret. Sarah is intoxicatingly beautiful. She is also enchanting, charming, warm, funny, smart, witty, and intriguing. In other words, for men, she is the ultimate pursuit.

I have seen it countless times when I’m out with her. Men falling all over themselves to catch her attention, even if it’s just for a quick chat. One time that stands out particularly, was when a grey-haired, pony-tailed, washed up bohemian-type man ran out from a restaurant to ask us if we were lost. I watched as Sarah politely talked to this man, who said he was a photographer and that he really liked her “unique style.” (She was wearing jeans and a t-shirt.) I stood and watched in disgust and pity at this ridiculous old yam. I wondered where on earth he had the gall. I wanted to tell him that we are all blinded by our delusions but please, let’s get real.

What equally impresses and baffles me is that Sarah will always give her time to these men, which in turn, makes them feel like they have a chance. I view her actions as being philanthropic, a way to give back to men for expressing interest and in turn, make them feel good about themselves. Because Sarah is a better person than I ever will be.

When a man who clearly doesn’t have a chance with me starts to chat me up, I quickly tell him where to go. But that’s a story for another time.

It goes without saying that Sarah doesn’t have a problem getting not only what she wants, but getting what she wants to fall deeply, deeply in love with her. She just has a way with love.

So, that night when we sat down with a bottle of wine and my digital recorder, I asked her to tell me how she does it.

“There’s no real secret or anything,” she shrugged. “I’m simply put off when a man isn’t interested in me.”

*

“I’m really interested in you but –“

I honestly can’t remember what my new friend said after that because I totally tuned it out. Had this been a year ago, I would have overanalyzed his statement, agonized about it for days, then beat myself up for not being good enough. After I’d done that, I also would have probably pursued him anyway, in an attempt to make him realize that his initial feelings were wrong and that I am amazing and that he totally wants to date me.

Instead, I went inside, locked the door and deleted his number from my phone. I felt like shit, but it was a start.

The next morning, I took Dutchie out for a walk. An older woman and her black and white Shih Tzu walked towards us. The only thing my dog cares about in this world is me, so when other dogs approach her she generally ignores them. But something different happened this time. I watched in amazement as, after sniffing the Shih Tzu’s butt, Dutchie started to bounce around with sheer excitement.  I’d never seen her like this before. She pawed at the Shih Tzu’s face, waved her butt to his nose and bounced around some more. She was completely taken. I tried to walk away but she didn’t want to leave and neither did her new boyfriend. When we finally did, the Shih Tzu ran after Dutchie. They did more pawing, bouncing, tail wagging and sniffing and finally, the Shih Tzu’s owner called her dog, Teddy, and they parted ways. Within seconds, Dutchie was back in her zone, marching ahead, in tune with her step, as if nothing had even happened. I looked down at my dog lovingly and shook my head in amazement. I truly admired her approach.

Confidential to MM: I really look forward to reading your stories on love when you finally feel inspired. For whatever it’s worth, you inspired me.