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So many men have retreated from intimacy, hiding behind firewalls, filters and curated personas, dabbling and scrolling. We miss you.
May 17. A warm Saturday night in Wicker Park, a vibrant stretch of Chicago where seven restaurants crowd a single block.
Listen to this article, read by Gabra Zackman
Troy and I were having dinner at Mama Delia, one of the quieter spots. The sidewalk patio held five tables: three two-tops, including ours, and a pair pulled together for a group of eight women. At those tables, Troy was the only man.
The scene was beautiful — low lights, shared plates, shoulders angled in. The kind of evening people wait for all winter. Still, I found myself watching the crowd as it moved past us: women walking in pairs or alone, dressed with care. At table after table at the nearby restaurants, there was a noticeable absence of men — at least of men seated in what looked like dates.
Troy and I have known each other for almost 20 years. We met at Playboy, of all places, back when we were both learning how desire gets packaged, sold and sometimes misunderstood. We stayed close friends, bonded not just by our opinions, but by the effort it takes to stay in someone’s life.
That night, we made the effort. Still, what I saw unfolding around us felt like something else entirely: a collective shift I couldn’t unsee.
