Don't Ever Love an Alpha

(Note to readers: Every character in this story is at least 18 years old.)

*

This is a warning. Don't ever do what I did. If you're an average woman, like me, always keep in mind that this is what you are. One thing that's lifting me out of months of misery is the hope that I can help you avoid those months. Please, please, if you're swooning over an Alpha male, and he actually notices you, and decides to accept your swoon, run away.

Joe was so far above my level that it never occurred to me that we could get involved. I know, that kind of thinking isn't supposed to exist, we're all on equal terms and any two people can find each other, blahblahblah. But Joe was so thoroughly Alpha, more so because he didn't seem to think about that or work at it. Every straight woman seemed drawn to him. Myself included, as much as I hate to admit it.

Still, I tend to be more practical than imaginative, so as much as I liked to be around Joe, I didn't get carried away fantasizing about him. Sometimes I got these little brain-flickers, of me and Joe getting all steamy. I also got them about other hot guys (mostly pop singers). This was from a part of me I call The Crush-Getter, or just Crush, which my rational mind ignored. The flickers fizzled out without me having to dismiss them. My emotions, with regard to everything, stayed on an even keel (or maybe they flatlined). Just the way I am. Or was.

I live in a big city with lots of young singles, and friend circles that formed in college and at work and through social media and from leisure activities. So, I could find myself with a packed, if vague, social calendar, among large groups hanging out here and there, even though I wasn't close to anyone. I wanted to be around people, but mostly at arm's length.

So, I'd show up at these parties or gatherings or whatever, because that seemed to be a better option than staying alone in my one-bedroom walkup.

(Have you ever noticed that many of us start sentences with 'so,' when we don't need to? Older people don't seem to do that, so maybe it's a millennial or Gen-Z thing. See what I did there? I used 'so' in a grammatically necessary way. Maybe I'll start sentences with a meaningless 'thus' or 'therefore,' to see if it freaks people out.)

(Yes, I know, I'm supposed to be giving a serious, urgent warning to average women, so why am I putting in trivial asides? Maybe because I'm past the worst of this now. This doesn't undermine the whole idea of the warning, because of the months of misery, and avoiding them.)

At this one gathering, in the really large apartment and roof deck of someone I knew at least by name, Joe was there. Incredibly, he had just been dumped, or so it was whispered. Naomi hadn't shown up that night, so I had no data to counteract the whisperers' theories that Joe may have played the field too much while in a relationship. He was now presumed to be on the rebound, maybe short of confidence (and finding that a new experience). He happened to notice me when I was, I don't know, on some sort of biorhythm peak. (Nobody remembers biorhythms. Ask your parents.)

I was sitting in a group of seven, eight people, along with Joe Calderone. He seemed to be his usual, disarming self, holding court only because everyone yielded to him. His rich baritone ennobled his every utterance, which did not mention Naomi, nor their relationship. OMG, that voice. It could make the disclaimer on the side effects of my allergy meds sound magical.

That night, my hair had gone exactly where I wanted it, my legs had become gym-sleek, and flavored coffee made me both witty and quick. I spent the first several minutes unaware that Joe was sizing me up. If I had known that, I would have babbled like an idiot.

People drifted into and out of the conversation. Other women fawned over Joe, but didn't get much response from him. They drifted too, maybe hoping to take him aside later, one-on-one. I stayed where I was, because I liked the chair. It was comfy and the right height for my legs, how they felt and also to show them off. I was also gorging on a sensory feast, not just Joe's voice, but his wavy black hair, just slightly disarrayed, and the calm gestures of his steady hands, and his riveting eye contact with whomever else spoke.

Joe stayed because...I stayed?

The group got smaller. Soon it was just the two of us.

This had gone on long enough for me to observe that Joe didn't seem humbled, or bitter. Had he engineered his 'dumping?'

I decided that Joe saw me as a soft landing, and not a serious prospect, so the babbling never started. Who was I, anyway? That quiet chick guys mostly ignored, and the other chicks weren't close to. If Joe bedded me a few times and then moved on, there'd be no repercussions. Except, you know, to me.

Yet while I was doing all of this clear thinking, I had flickers about Joe. They were quick, gone almost at once. But there were many of them.

I sipped more coffee, seeing it as the principal resource for my self-respect, and said, "Joe, why are you doing this?"

He got no farther than a puzzled look. He said nothing.

"You're not really interested in me, are you? Beyond tonight?" This was at normal volume, and at an eye-corner I saw some heads turn, showing that I'd been heard.

He blinked. "Sure I am, Ginny." Then he blinked again, and the reopened eyes seemed even more piercing. "You're smart, and nice, and honest."

I think he was addressing himself as much as me.

His praise excluded my looks. I'd like that, from some men, as showing respect. But this was Joe. Looks would always be in his equation. His last three girlfriends were total knockouts. That night I had made it to kinda-okay. So where did I get the nerve to say this?

"Right on all three counts. And all three would like you to know that I'm not here to salve your ego. You'll have to work on that yourself. If you'd like to talk again a week from now, I might listen."

Then, I didn't get up and walk away. Calmly, I raised my coffee for another sip. As noted, I really liked that chair.

He nodded, stood, and wandered off.

Maybe Joe settled, and took home one of the fawners that night. I didn't know, but I'm ashamed to admit that I wondered.

The rest of the evening, I saw a whole lot of glances my way. There were a few brief conversations that brought me into the orbit, about non-personal topics. But I also encountered my closest acquaintance in that party, Benjy.

"If your moment with Joe were on YouTube," he said with a sly smile, "It'd get a thousand views in ten minutes."

We were alone, more or less, at the coffee urn. "I just told him what I think, okay?" The voice was calm, but I seemed to be moving too fast as I added hazelnut syrup to my reload. "No way he's thinking about me long-term, and I'm not interested in anyone short term."

That zapped his smile. I knew Benjy was interested in me, and I overreacted at the thought that I'd hurt him. What I'd said wasn't even true, merely convenient. So much for my honesty.

"Except maybe present company," I said as a walk-back, with a smile that was probably phony and nervous. Then I regretted that too.

Benjy was nowhere near an Alpha. If Greek letters were extended through the whole social pecking order, he wouldn't get higher than Epsilon. He's short and skinny and not openly assertive. Even though he's a lawyer, and so far doing well.

He smiled back, letting me off the hook, because he's a good guy. I could have been interested in him. But I wasn't.

"Can't wait to see what happens next week," he said. Deciding that this worked as his exit line, he drifted away.

I didn't sleep much that night, because caffeine, and two kinds of excitement: from Joe's attention and my own altered personality.

***

Here's what I was at 25. A degree in information systems got me a real job, full time with benefits, to maintain and improve the deep-mining of databases. Something I was good at. Nothing I cared about.

I'm not completely nerd-introverted, but work surrounded me with people who were. I found the setting to be low-stress, so I leaned into it.

Most of the time, I was alone without being lonely. But I chastised myself for intellectual and emotional laziness. I wanted someone in my life, in theory. I'd just never met anyone for whom that was true in practice.

But did I even know people that well? Did I make an effort? Can't say as I did. Chatting people up wasn't a Me Thing. I extended myself as it was, going to these gatherings and believing that I made myself available to someone else's up-chatting.

I adapted some CAD programming to find out what would make me seem like something to look at, without me trying to look like what I'm not. Brown hair, straight and thick? Shoulder length with bangs seemed to work, framing the delicate (or puny?) nose, mouth, and chin. Also hiding most of the loooong forehead. Some trial and error with products got the hair to soft, smooth, unsplit at the ends, and able to show various earth-tone highlights. The mega-industry of women's hair care was actually good for something.

I have big glasses, and kept them. They seemed to enlarge the eyes and give them some character.

I was enough of a mesomorph that 120 pounds were okay on a slender 5' 4" frame. If I'd had to do more at the gym than I did, I wouldn't have bothered. The derriere is curvy, and sometimes I dressed not to disguise that. The breasts are comfy in a A-cup bra, and they're high, close-set, and front-directed. With an open neck I couldn't get deep cleavage, but at least gentle valleyage (if that's A Thing).

Reacting against my laziness had at least made me a wallflower. Before that I was a wallweed. (There must have been wallpaper with weeds on it. No?)

I wasn't eager, however, to follow through on the attention I sought. Sex has been a problem for me. I don't even like physical affection very much. Touching, and being touched? Meh, mostly. Kissing? Nice sometimes, but I can't seem to stay on the same page with the other person, tongue-wise.

A few times, out of self-impatience, I've pushed myself through to intercourse, and probably made my partners regret that they pursued me. I have allergies, and I'm prone to yeast infections. I'm just big fun for everybody.

I even have to approach masturbation carefully. I need lube and a soft cloth instead of bare fingers, to have any chance of feeling pleasure before irritation. Toys? I'm not willing to budget for them.

The few orgasms I've had seemed to arrive randomly, rarely caused by me or a partner.

Despite all that, I soon got impatient with wallflower status, and myself generally. Window reflections showed me a sorta-cute and maybe-interesting Virginia Stipanovic.

The talk with Joe was the first time this attitude broke the surface.

***

The ensuing Monday and Tuesday, I worked, and went home after. I tried to talk myself down from my odd encounter with Joe, positing that by the next quasi-party, Joe would either be back with Naomi or sporting some new arm candy. I wasn't in any sosh-meed groups with that crowd, and I didn't try to lurk near them. But because of that odd encounter, witnesses to it sent me unsolicited messages.

<<Naomi went to the Mumblecore Mania concert with Pete.>>

<<Joe was at the 9th Street Chess Club the last two nights. He won every game, but he picked the competition.>>

<<Sandra insists that Joe got a storage locker and cleared his stuff out of Naomi's place.>>

<<Naomi asked Cara if it was true that some woman snubbed Joe.>>

I barely knew these tattletales, and was miffed that they thought they knew me well. I was perplexed that I had become an aspect of other people's personal lives. It became tougher to think that this would blow over. And I hoped, a little bit, that it wouldn't. Flickers of Joe were raising my pulse rate.

***

The reason why I was closer with Benjy, than with the rest of that crowd, was that we were in an improvisation class. Three months earlier, a month after we met (at one of those too-big parties), he mentioned that he was taking the class to give him more poise in a courtroom. He said that with my ability to wisecrack, I might have fun doing improv.

I had just taken myself past wallweed status, and Benjy wasn't the only man who had noticed. I was chagrined at first, because I had attracted yet another guy whom I didn't find attractive. But I was looking for new activities, and they didn't have to be with a man I desired. Friends, sure, I needed more of those. So I joined the class, which met every Wednesday night in the party room on the second floor of a hipster bar. I met a couple dozen more people there, but as always kept them initially at a distance.

What I didn't expect was that I'd both enjoy doing improv, and find that I was good at it. Benjy was right, I can wisecrack at a high level, and also support a scene without fishing for the easiest laughs. More and more, others in the class tried to get into exercises and scenes with me.

On the Wednesday after the Saturday of My Joe Moment, the class's 'teacher' (who did middle-of-the-night standup comedy at local venues) asked for two volunteers to perform a 'Switch.' The performers start a scene based on one premise, then when the teacher yells out a different situation, the performers must switch and rebuild the scene.

I had mostly settled down from the weekend before, but my self-regard was still running high, and I was in the mood for fun.

I caught Benjy's eye, smiled, and angled my head towards the teacher.

"Ginny and I!" yelled Benjy, grinning.

"Go for it," said the teacher, sounding bored.

We strode onto what would be a bandstand during parties.

Usually in this class, a Switch would go through two or three premise changes. If the performers got lost, the teacher would advise them on how to readjust their minds and their characters (if any). If the performers navigated through three changes without getting lost, the teacher would call "Scene," and everyone would applaud politely as the performers gratefully returned to their seats.

To us, the teacher declared, "You're morticians preparing a body for a funeral."

Neither of us knew what has to be done with a cadaver, but we stood side by side at a mimed worktable which, we indicated, held someone named Arthur. We made hand movements that might relate to embalming, and got a couple laughs about how to make Arthur presentable, with hints that his had been an unpleasant demise.

"Switch!" said the teacher. "You're window washers on a platform fifty stories up."

This we knew about, at least from observation. Benjy and I immediately converted to wiping mimed glass with mimed squeegees.

He wondered aloud when we might be finished, and I got the first big laugh by looking to my far side and saying, "I don't know, Arthur isn't helping out." Benjy held his deadpan through the laugh, then replied, "He's got seniority, nothing we can do."

The teacher was laughing when he said, "Switch! You're in a bakery making doughnuts."

We took the opportunity to move around and define the new space. This time Benjy was the one to bring in the running gag, looking at a mimed screen and saying, "Oh, the order of four dozen glazed from Arthur has been canceled."

I waited out the laugh by peering at the 'screen,' holding my deadpan. Then I said, "Wow, the business is going to suffer. Arthur was good for four dozen every day." Another big laugh.

As an acting exercise, the goal of Switch is to make the transitions smoothly. What made the scene Benjy and I did into comedy was the continued referencing, within the new contexts, of what we had done before. It wasn't just Arthur, we inserted credible references to other previous scenes. While we made doughnuts, Benjy criticized my presumed earlier attempt to make pastries with a squeegee.

The teacher kept tossing up new premises. We handled all of them. If one of us seemed to dry up, the other thought up something to maintain the momentum. Whenever Benjy provided the bailout, I wasn't just grateful. I grew confident in him, in us. I felt like we always knew who our just-hatched characters were. It was as though we had become the kind of people who finish each other's sentences.

After the eighth switch, the teacher called out, "Scene! Dynamite!" He applauded, and so did everyone else, despite what was probably envy.

As the reaction grew into a standing ovation, Benjy and I held hands, raised them triumph, and bowed. I was surprised to find that both his hand and mine were sweaty.

For the rest of the class, I was amped like I'd never been before in a social setting, but I eased back enough to cheer on the later Switch performers. Mainly I rode the rush of having killed, but also I congratulated myself on having followed my self-impatience to a new and, at least in this moment, thrilling experience.

I don't know who suggested going for ice cream after, it was neither Benjy nor me. We were both praised hugely by five classmates while we attacked sundaes. Two people wanted us to start a sketch comedy group with them, but we begged off, happy to keep this a hobby and expressing doubt that we could click like that in a scene ever again.

And then, eerily resembling what happened between Joe and me, Benjy and I were the last two at this ice cream parlor table. I was still amped. I could see that he was too, but also with a sort of calm confidence I'd never seen from him. This made it easier to overlook his big ears and small chin.

"How'd you like to take me home?" I asked, smirking. "I can't trust Arthur to defend me."

Benjy's eyebrows shot up. "Really?"

That was a good question, because I felt a flash of panic. Could I say it was no more than that, please escort me home, maybe a kiss at the door, nothing else?

No. I'd hate that kind of evasion if someone pulled it on me.

"Yes, really," I said. Then I had to take a breath before saying, "I think we've earned that kind of fun." And when I said that, I found that I did want sex with Benjy, even if I maybe didn't want Benjy otherwise.

Improv should be classified as a dangerous drug.

Benjy's posture remained confident, but his expression looked shaky. "Ohhh, I want that too," he said quietly. "But..." He looked away for a moment. Then he faced me again with a little smile. "Thank you. it'll be my, uh, pleasure."

"It better be mine too!" I said with a laugh.

Halfway home I realized that maybe I should have stifled my Brilliant Comedienne before saying that. On top of everything else I was doing to Benjy, should I pile on performance anxiety?

***

I had never before taken a man to my place. With sexual intent, that is. Two months earlier, I let in two painters sent by the landlord. They did a nice job. Painting.

Benjy and I sat side by side on my bed, in the dark, save for a wedge of light from the front hall. "I love your hair," he said, moving a hand through it, sifting it with his fingers. I liked the feel of that, even as I wished a man wouldn't say 'love' when he means 'am attracted to' or 'am aroused by.'

"I work pretty hard on it," I admitted. Then I tousled his and said, "Don't worry, I won't make you reciprocate."

This felt so...normal. Enjoyable, and fun, but it surprised me how much it seemed as though what we were doing together was no big deal. I was being casual about casual sex, and I think he was too. We still hadn't Performed The Act, we were playing around touching and undressing. Naked Benjy struck me as pretty much the same as partygoing Benjy, and improvising Benjy, and maybe lawyer-suited Benjy. While he might worry about how he'd look naked to a lover, he was less nervous now than he'd been earlier.

We agreed to stop referring to Arthur and squeegees and all that. I wanted us to be ourselves instead of characters.