So, I'm sort of a prostitute. 

A woman recently paid a sum of money -- more than you'd ever imagine -- to go out with me.

I never actually got the money, but that's not the point. The bottom line is I'm worth $225. Sort of.

I have an announcement to make.

Effective immediately, I have a Date Cancellation Policy: You must cancel a date 24 hours in advance, otherwise you owe me the money for the anticipated cost of the date.

You're not the unknown job hunter blindly sending out your resume. Not this time, baby. You have an in. You know a guy who knows a guy.

You've been vouched for.

In "Annie Hall," Woody Allen does something I would never have the guts to do.

On the way to dinner with Annie for their first date, he asks to kiss her now, in the street, before they go into the restaurant.

"We never kissed before, and I'll never know when to make the right move or anything," he says. "So we'll kiss now, we'll get it over with, and then we'll go eat . . . And we'll digest our food better."

Annie agrees, and they kiss.

"So," he says afterward. "Now we can digest our food."

"That's gross, Matt," Dara told me. "That's just disgusting."

Every guy needs a woman who will tell him like it is, someone who will judge his personal behavior with little regard for his feelings.

Fortunately, I have Dara.

She had called me to share a story about her annoying ex-boyfriend, but I cut her short.

"I gotta run," I said. "I have a date with a college girl."

He's not a player, because that would mean he uses them.

He's not a pimp, because that would mean he doesn't respect them.

And he's not a man-whore, either, because he claims not to do that
well with women.

He's just Ian.

"Are they gonna let me in with these sneakers on?"

I hated myself for even asking the question. If there was a chance I wasn't going to get into a place because of the way I looked, why was I there in the first place?

Funny. That's exactly what the bouncer wanted to know, too.

"Lift up your pant leg," he said. "Are you wearing sneakers?"

Dan and I considered warming up for the cuddle party. We looked at the bed in his apartment. We looked at each other.

And then we changed our minds.

No need to get cuddled out before the big party.

It's not sexist, necessarily. But it's still unfair.

Pop psychology has branded the modern man as "commitment-phobic." We don't "know how to commit," according to the conventional wisdom and we are "scared of settling down."

Well, it's never as simple as it seems on Dr. Phil or in Glamour or in the relationship section of Barnes & Noble.

In fact, the real problem may be female commitment-phobic phobia, not male commitment-phobia.

Second of two parts.

At some point, I guess, everyone spends a moment as a circus freak.

My moment happens to be now. And it happens to be lasting more than a moment.