Where do I start? At the beginning, I suppose. In an acting class where I was not supposed to be that day.
In a random sitting down next to her – Well, I guess it wasn’t so random.
I saw her blonde hair and blue eyes from across the room. And I was instantly drawn to her,
drawn to sit down right next to her, right there on the front row of that acting class…
Because I am always drawn, unconsciously, to The Unavailable Woman.

A pregnant stripper, and she’s still in love with her abusive ex-boyfriend?
My Dream Date.
A thirty-something associate movie producer putting in 80 hours a week at the Tribeca Film center?
In my final draft, she’s The Mother of My Future Children.
A twenty-something neo-hippie hiding out in Eugene, Oregon, on the run from the suicide death of her coke-dealer boyfriend?
I’ll stop at nothing to provide her with every Grateful Dead bootleg concert CD her little heart desires.
A downtown bi-sexual burlesque dancer specializing in S&M psycho drama, with a stalker ex-girlfriend she still meets with for lunch once a week just to keep her happy?
I bought my handcuffs yesterday.
A forty-something avant-garde choreographer, hanging out in New York for two weeks, on her way back to Seattle where she lives with her two pre-teenage sons?
I booked my Jet Blue ticket this morning.
A corporate lawyer, tri-athlete, wine enthusiast… and she’s just returned from China with her brand new adopted infant baby Chinese daughter?
For her, I’m prepared to spend the rest of my life manipulating her Blackberry.

Let’s go back to that acting class, shall we?
I could see her unavailability in the flick of her shoulder length high-lit hair, in her blue eye shadow, in her skirt and blouse that were just a shade too conservative for a young woman in a New York City acting class.

And I could feel her unavailability in my pours, in my pants,
in my knee caps, in my bones, in my bone, in my moles, in my warts, in my back.
And I know it when I feel it: The Purely Unavailable Woman, who won’t admit that she’s unavailable,
who won’t admit that she’s married, or engaged, or impossibly and forever tied to another man, another place, another time.
I love that kind of woman!

Maybe you’re that kind of woman. Maybe 10 years ago, when you moved to New York to become an actress, you got a job waiting tables in a West Village bistro.
And your manager was an Italian dude who needed a green card or he was going to get deported.
So for $2000, you married him so he could get his green card and stay in the country.
Because you can buy a lot of head shots for $2000!

But to fool the Feds into thinking that it was a “real” marriage, he had to move in with you for two years, didn’t he?
And he started out sleeping on your couch. But then he started sleeping in your bed with you, didn’t he?
And then you bought a dog together, didn’t you? And then you buried your cat together, didn’t you? Oh, it’s complicated!

If you’re that kind of woman, prepare yourself for some un-fettered Bitter Poet Love!