Last night my friend Miranda got invited to a dinner by a man she hardly knew: she was the date of Nick Waxler, a fairly successful sports agent who once told her she had nice legs.
For a first date, Miranda felt like she was hitting it out of the ballpark, until his friends told her that Nick had this thing for models: they'd come to dinner, push their food around and pout.
It got to be a problem. They decided to take action. Miranda confronted him, and it didn't take him long to fold.
Modelizers are a particular breed: they're a step beyond womanizers who will sleep with just about anything in a skirt. Modelizers are obsessed not with women, but with models who in most cities are safely confined to billboards and magazines but in Manhattan actually run wild on the streets turning the city into a virtual Model Country Safari where men can pet the creatures in their natural habitat.
There's nothing like raising the subject of models among four single women to spice up an otherwise dull Tuesday night. Suddenly I was interested: if models could cause otherwise rational individuals to crumble in their presence, exactly how powerful was beauty?

Once upon a time, an English journalist came to New York.
Elizabeth was attractive and bright. Right away she hooked up with one of the city's typically eligible bachelors. Tim was 42, a well-liked and respected investment banker who made about two million a year. They met one evening, in typical New York fashion at a gallery opening. It was love at first sight.
For two weeks they snuggled, went to romantic restaurants, had wonderful sex and shared their most intimate secrets. One warm spring day he took her to a town house he saw in Sunday's New York Times. That day, Tim popped the question: "how'd you like to have dinner with my folks Tuesday night?". On Tuesday, he called with some bad news: "my mother's not feeling very well".
When she hadn't heard from him for two weeks, she called. He said he was up to his ears and that he'd call her the next day.
"He never did call, of course. Bastard.", she told me one day over coffee. "In England, looking at houses together would have meant something."
Then I realized no one had told her about the end of love in Manhattan. Welcome to the age of "un-innocence." No one has breakfast at Tiffany's and no one has affairs to remember. Instead, we have breakfast at 7:00 a.m. and affairs we try to forget as quickly as possible. Self-protection and closing the deal are paramount. Cupid has flown the co-op.
How the hell did we get into this mess? There are maybe tens of thousands of women like this in the city. We all know them, and we all agree they're great. They travel. They pay taxes. They'll spend $400 on a pair of Manolo Blahnik strappy sandals. And they're alone. It's like the riddle of the Sphinx. Why are there so many great unmarried women and no great unmarried men?
I explore these sorts of issues in my column and I have terrific sources: my friends.