E jean dating advice
When James was 6, he was taken away from his father and given to a rich couple, Arthur and Evelyn. Arthur and Evelyn drove up from Indianapolis with James to the redbrick schoolhouse where we lived, deep in the hills north of Fort Wayne. I am not putting him on the Most Hideous Men of My Life List — whether he belongs there is for him to decide. Every woman, whether consciously or not, has a catalogue of the hideous men she’s known. “Youuuuuuuu liiiitttttttttllllllllllll prrrrrrrrrrrrik teeeeeeeeeeez,” he says. This opening compliment, “You little prick tease,” is paid to every girl at some point or other in 1961, and I don’t wait to be paid another. he lunges from the car and bolts his arms around me. He hires me to help “land new accounts.” “You start tonight,” he says. The next moment, still wearing correct business attire, shirt, tie, suit jacket, overcoat, he opens the overcoat, unzips his pants, and, forcing his fingers around my private area, thrusts his penis halfway — or completely, I’m not certain — inside me. I am wearing a pair of sturdy black patent-leather four-inch Barneys high heels, which puts my height around six-one, and I try to stomp his foot.
Late at night, when the guests had gone home, I took off my dress, pulled down my pants. James and I played so many ferocious games while camping that summer: hooking each other with fishhooks, holding each other underwater, tying each other up, shooting each other with cap guns, chasing each other with garter snakes, dumping hot embers on each other’s heads. Jean” column in and for 26 years, no matter what problems are driving women crazy — their careers, wardrobes, love affairs, children, orgasms, finances — there comes a line in almost every letter when the cause of the correspondent’s quagmire is revealed. Viz.: the man who thinks 30 seconds of foreplay is “enough,” the man who cheats on his wife, the man who passes women over for promotion, the man who steals his girlfriend’s credit cards, the man who keeps 19 guns in the basement, the man who tells his co-worker she “talks too much in meetings,” the man who won’t bathe, the man who beats his girlfriend’s dog, the man who takes his female colleagues’ ideas, the man who tries to kill his rich wife by putting poison in her shampoo. A padded bra makes a girl look like she lacks something. I meet one of those semi-good-looking, brown-haired, unimpeachably but forgettably dressed young men who are vice-presidents because their fathers own the company, in this case an employment agency–and–accounting firm–type thing, which, despite the gloss of its golden promise, no longer exists. I am astonished by what I’m about to write: I keep laughing.
” At the time, Carroll, now 75 years old, had both an advice column in ELLE and a televised advice show that ran on the NBC cable channel America’s Talking, now MSNBC. Jean” column launched in 1993 and still runs in Elle today.
Readers of her column will recognize that voice in her book excerpt, too, which also includes accounts of assaults by former CBS CEO Les Moonves and several other men.
(Moonves has likewise denied Carroll’s allegation.) Her columns are full of cheeky euphemisms—women getting off are “lathering their lemon squeezers”—and her essay about sexual assault is, too. his pants bursting with demands,” she writes in the book excerpt.
My situation in life — my father being a Beta Theta Pi from Wabash College, my mother being a Kappa Delta from UCLA, my wild wish to pledge either Pi Beta Phi or Kappa Kappa Gamma, my rah-rah disposition, my total ignorance of what is going on in the world, the fact that I never crack a book — all are equally against my becoming a columnist, the first requirement of which is acknowledging that there are other beings on the planet besides boys.
My first rich boy — I had fixed my eyes on his face long enough to know — was beautiful, with dark gray eyes and long golden-brown hair across his forehead. I considered Matt Lauer, Bill O’Reilly, and the giant dingleberry Charlie Rose, all guys whose TV shows I was on many times and who made headlines during the rise of #Me Too. If you’d met me my freshman year, you would never have imagined I was born to be an advice columnist. Thirteen miles from the Bloomington campus, there I am: young Jeanie Carroll, driving with a boy down a hilly back road in Brown County State Park, where IU students go on October Sundays to supposedly look at the famous leaves. I’ve been looking through my 1961 datebook, and each day is so chock-full of the names of boys who called me, the names of boys whom I expected to call me and didn’t, the names of boys who did call me but I didn’t care if they called me, the names of boys who if they didn’t call me I was never going to speak to again, the names of boys who if they called me I would not pick up the phone, and the names of boys I would have my roommate, Connie, call and ask if they called me while she was on the line with a boy who was begging me to call him back, I can’t figure out who this boy is. And whether it’s my age, the fact that I haven’t met anyone fascinating enough over the past couple of decades to feel “the sap rising,” as Tom Wolfe put it, or if it’s the blot of the real-estate tycoon, I can’t say.
He orders another drink and becomes more and more excited, slobbering on my hand like a Doberman playing with his squeaky toy, and meanwhile my boss’s ex-wife — who I now, half a century later, suspect was actually his wife and this was a little game they played to spice things up — starts rubbing her chap’s leg. My boss scratches and whimpers at that door for the next quarter of an hour. I was mostly single, free of encumbrances, and working in the ’60s, ’70s, ’80s, and ’90s, when a woman could scarcely walk down the street without getting hit on or take a job without being underpaid. This happens in the time — one of the happiest of my happy life — when I am booming around the country writing for I have been interviewing Moonves in the lounge of the Hotel Nikko in Beverly Hills for a story (presciently titled by my editor “Dangerous Minds,” February 1997), and the short, gravel-voiced Moonves apparently takes one look at me — a 50-something journalist in a pair of old brown-and-beige oxfords — and his life is no longer his own. But mainly, I think it is because I have done the thing no Indiana University football team has ever done in history — I have won a national championship: Miss Cheerleader USA. C., to meet President Lyndon Johnson in the Rose Garden. Beauty contests are such a rage when I am growing up that my camp — a Girl Scout camp! So it happens that the first beauty contest I am nominated for is Miss Camp Ella J. (Later I’ll win Miss Indiana University, no doubt due to my “talent”: I take to the stage dressed as Edith Sitwell and perform a dramatic reading of There is no talent portion at camp, alas. Logan.” After they put the papier-mâché crown on my head, the cape on my shoulders, and give me the baton covered in Reynolds Wrap, Old Cam, No. The man snatches the bodysuit up and says: “Go try this on! “It goes with your eyes,” I say, laughing and throwing it back. The first, a journalist, magazine writer, correspondent on the TV morning shows, author of many books, etc., begged me to go to the police. She grew very quiet when I told her, then she grasped both my hands in her own and said, “Tell no one. We would have been filmed on the ground floor in the bags-and-hats sections.