Oy, vey! Portland’s a tough town for a single, het chick on the make. It’s not like there aren’t plenty of available guys here, there are. Over all, they’re a good-looking lot, too. And by and large, they’re usually pretty friendly and down to earth. None of that east coast first show-me-your-references crap. In New York, before you get a name, you have to successfully pass the “What do you do? Where did you go to school? Are you geographically desirable (i.e. same subway line, no bridge or tunnel)?” exam. Thankfully, Portlanders don’t seem as intent on dismissing each other right off the bat. So, I guess you can say that there are a lot of nice guys here. But that’s all you can say. They’re nice. And nothing else.

I’m not implying that P-boys should be taking notes from “In the Company of Men”, and upping their asshole quotient any. But they need to cut back on the sensitivity training a bit. I mean, we’re not going to pull an Anita Hill on you if you pay us a compliment once in a while. In Portland, the only men who ever tell me I look good are gay! Hey, I’ll gratefully accept all the approbation I’m offered, but it would be nice if there was actually some potential for getting laid attached to it. I’m so desperate for attention, I’m starting to miss those guttural clickings, wolf whistles and hey mommys that are the New York street serenade. Maybe it’s just that these northwestern boys are so focused on coming off p.c., they’ve forgotten how to come on. Ask us out, goddamn it! And I don’t just mean out of EJ’s and across the street to Club 21. Pick up the phone, dial the number, ask us to go somewhere. Anywhere. We don’t care anymore.

My girlfriend calls it PMS- Portland Man Syndrome. This localized epidemic is characterized by extended periods of flirtation, even overt expressions of sexual interest, which are closely followed by total withdrawal of the man at the first sign of reciprocity in the woman he’s infected. I never thought of applying the adjective “coquettish” to a man, until I came here. But Portland’s guys are a bunch of teases. (What do you mean, you want to be “friends first”?! There’s plenty of time for that later.) Portland’s single gals are collectively suffering from the world’s worst case of blue ovaries because the guys here just won’t put out. It’s actually come to the point where the women I know here have taken to flying men in from other points of the globe just so they can get a little action. What’s this world coming to? Jeezus-H!

I thought I had a line on a good one the other day. Not only was he tall (which is my only real physical requirement since I’m scraping six feet myself), but he was big and brawny and the thighs poking out from his shorts looked like they were sculpted by Rodin. He had this great big face and beautiful eyes and I just about tossed my drinking buddy out of my way to get to him. So we start talking and it turns out he’s from my part of the woods back home and lives in the same neighborhood I do now, and I’m of course thinking oh, how convenient, and then he starts in rhapsodizing about fucking rock-climbing and how he’s going to some godforsaken part of Arkansas to pursue this inane interest because he “can live for like two bucks a week there, no worries”. Well that just put the kibosh on that convo. I’m no gold-digger, but it seems like the men around here aspire to as little as possible, and feel no shame about it either.

What’s ironic is that a man can live here in Portland for only two bucks a week, too. How? With a girlfriend, of course! Every hooked-up gal I know is supporting her man. Portland men seem to lack that provider instinct. And before you go accusing me of reverse sexist piggism, let me tell you that I’m all in favor of doing things 50/50. It’s the 100/0 that I have a problem with. Most of the girls I know can’t remember the last time a guy bought them a drink, and a dinner is something they’ve only read about. If Portland dames want to have a good time with Portland Joes, they’d better bring their own gold card. And god forbid you should get serious and move in together. Because here, it’s not really moving in together, so much as he’s moving in with you. The most I’ve seen a Por-boy add to the domestic scene are a couple of amps and a bong. And of course it’s up to us to fill the bowl.

But what can you expect from a town where every guy is a wannabe musician, who considers work the enemy of his muse? Is there some sort of guy-only newsletter circulating out there touting Portland as the promised land for aspiring houseboys? I’ve never seen so many happily kept men in my life. Economic independence seems to be a concept only the women here can actually grasp. Somehow, we’re able to pay the rent, buy the drinks, and also play in bands. Why the hell can’t they do it, too?

Well, if I wasn’t getting any before, I sure as hell won’t be getting any more, now. But I guess it’s a little late to ask for a nom de plume. If I didn’t have to fill this half page, I could have condensed this diatribe into the world’s most unappealing personal ad ever. SWF, 29, surly, antagonistic, horny bitch seeks tall, anaerobic M for constant ego-stroking and consistent buying of drinks, dinner and eventual rent. Sensitive nice guys need not reply.