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of our children should be.
    I WAS NOT TO SLEEP WITH A MAN ON THE FIRST DATE. Trust me, this needs to be in all caps. These books wanted me to wait not three dates, but three months .
    No problem. I had not met anyone (schizophrenics spinning in their underwear at the Promenade don’t count) in six months and had not had sex in about seven. Or more. (Why are we arguing about this? Don’t be mean.) It was the longest dry spell of my adult life. I was in a race with the State of California for longest drought. Let’s just say, when John hopped into my life, he looked like a rib eye in faded jeans and a black cotton T-shirt.
    But now I knew the rules. He’d have to speak first. Which he did. Sheila looked at me while I stared at John, the man who would impregnate me, marry me, and then, die on me.
    “That’s her,” Sheila finally said.
    “Ah, okay, I think I have her dog,” he addressed Sheila. God knows what he was thinking about the mute with the wild hair (that would be me).
    “Ralph?” Sheila lit up.
    “I think it’s Ralph,” the man said. “Honestly, it was hard for me to get him in the car. He bit my shin when I tried to pick him up.”
    “Are you single—I mean, bleeding?” I snapped to, just in time to humiliate myself.
    “I’m fine. I’m used to it. I grew up with a lot of cousins. Someone was always getting bit, usually me. I must taste good. Let me just get him out—”
    He looked at me. “On second thought, you do it.”
    I strutted to his car, channeling Naomi Campbell on her way to court. I worked it like RuPaul, sweetheart. Ralph was sitting on a folded towel in the backseat, assessing me imperiously. Every morning, like a prayer, I spritzed on L’Instant de Guerlain. It made me feel like a svelte Parisian without all the hard work, like sneering and dieting. John sneezed.
    Great.
    I picked up Ralph and took quick measure of John’s looks. Solid. Lush eyebrows. (I’m an eyebrow obsessor—if there were an eyebrow porn website, I’d be on it daily.) Thick dark hair, a few grays. Those serious hazel eyes.
    “Nice house,” he said, looking at his future home. “You know, I’ve never met a dog that didn’t like me. Women, yes. Dogs, no.”
    This nonassertive thing was getting exhausting. I’d need a nap if I kept it up.
    “What was Ralph doing at the time he bit you?” I asked.
    “I don’t know, nothing really. He was just sitting outside a sushi restaurant.”
    “Interesting. Ralph loves sushi.” I looked at Mr. Gorgeous. “And how did you address him?”
    “Uh, I said … hey, ah … hey, doggie. Hey, little doggie.”
    “Oh, see. Ralph hates that. He finds it patronizing. First of all, he doesn’t think he’s a dog. Ralph, in fact, is larger than life. He has a website, thirty-three hundred Facebook friends. He tweets. He likes and expects recognition. Did you offer him a tuna roll?”
    Now it was John’s turn to be mute.
    “Where are you from?” I asked.
    “The city.”
    “I figured that. Manhattan.”
    “Guilty.”
    “Do you smoke or drink?”
    “No … and …” (PLEASE GOD. Don’t make him an “I’m in recovery” guy. I always wonder if I’m supposed to look for scars.) “Yes.” (THANK YOU.)
    “Own anything?” (At this point, a skateboard would do.)
    “This car. No, scratch that—I lease it. Oh, wait, I have my saxophone—”
    “Musician?”
    “I wouldn’t call what I do music.”
    “Jazz?” I scrunched up my nose. Three things I don’t understand: jazz, the Dallas Cowboys, and thick-bread sandwiches.
    “I’m sorry,” he said.
    “Drugs,” I concluded. It wasn’t a question.
    “Advil.” He smiled. “I got it bad.” Ooh, that smile. He still had human teeth. Westsiders go to the cosmetic dentist for horses. I know women whose veneers make them look like Mr. Ed, but less attractive. If these toothy broads ask me a question, I answer by banging my foot on the floor, twice for yes, once for no.
    “Gayish or straightish?” I