The MIA Writer

I've been missing in action!  I could make excuses, and even though they are completely valid in my real life, they don't matter in the life I have here with you.  You're here to read about my dates, about my crazy updates, about my titled beaux.

This one will catch you up.  And then we'll have some more fun with my trips down memory lane into the depths of the dating medium that is New York City.  Also we'll hit some new ideas, new boys, new fun.

I've been in a weird dating space with little to write about in my mind.  This happens to even the best daters, and as The Ame-ster pointed out to me, sometimes the real stuff is ok for my readers too.  So here goes an unexpected lesson learned to share with you, gentle readers.

The Goth Gamer threw me for a loop.

We were having a great time.  I felt comfortable in a way I hadn't before with the male persuasion of the straight variety.  There was attraction, yes, but there was laughter.  There was relaxation.  There was no pressure.  Looking back this is exactly the makings of a wonderful friendship.

The part that threw me was the attraction-plus-straight equation.  I've often said that I don't believe guys and girls can be friends if they are straight and single.  I mean, if you're single, you like each other enough to be friends, and there's a physical attraction?  Why would you NOT go for the gold?!  Not only have I been called out on this by friends (including straight, single male friends), but I've recently been punched in the face with this reality.

When The Goth Gamer called me after not seeing each other for a few days to tell me that we needed to alter our relationship because he had found himself with a girlfriend, I was a bit stunned.  I wasn't hurt, though my pride took a smack.  I wasn't sad, though I was confused about what should happen next.  And when I found out that his girlfriend was a girl who can't keep a job, spends days on end not leaving her apartment or speaking to anyone, and has zero friends, I was even more perplexed.  C'mon, Gamer, I may not be a supermodel, but I can at least maintain a witty conversation!

Then he said it.  "She needs me.  You don't and never will."

And he was right.  Not because I'm incapable of relying on someone, I'm just incapable of "needing" him.  We're friends.  Yes, I find him sexy.  Yes, I laugh a lot with him.  Yes, he likes my friends maybe more than he likes me.  Bottom line is that I don't have any need to have anything more.  I don't want to share my childhood stories, my work woes, or even my dreams.... and I don't see myself ever wanting that with The Goth Gamer.

Seeing Mr. Gamer last night for the first time in almost 3 months was in and of itself a bit of a nail-biter.  But as soon as he first hugged me, I knew we'd be just fine.  I missed the smell on his jacket, but I found myself thinking I wished we were watching "Chopped" on Food Network as opposed to making out on his couch.  If that doesn't scream "FRIEND," I'm not quite sure what does.  We were there for something artsy in the back room of the place so I didn't see him again until the evening was over.

I had dragged The Irrational Attorney along with me because she's ALWAYS up for a good time, even be it an awkwardly good time.  Like me, she appreciates the story that comes from every experience.  She's the one who noticed Gamer's Girlfriend slip into the barstool next to her man.  It was dim, and my back was to her so I decided to wait and let Gamer introduce us if the timing was right when the evening's art concluded.

The Irrational and I grabbed our jackets and sauntered back to Mr. Goth's section.  He held out open arms for me to step into.  The Girlfriend?  Yeah, she ran away.

RAN. AWAY.

Well, maybe not ran, but definitely scurried away.  The last place on earth she wanted to be was standing next to me hugging her fella.  To be honest, I was shocked she came out at all.  He yelled her named.  He yelled her name a second time.  He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted over the somewhat small crowd a third time.  She turned and, realizing she really had no out, came back to face her panic inducer.

He introduced us, and I held an outstretched hand for her to shake.  In her own Goth-like attire complete with hair almost covering her face... picture this but darker:

Ok, not really that bad.  But not TOO far from the truth.  She took a deep, shaky breath and squeezed the circulation out of my fingertips.  I, being a true Scarlett O'Hara at heart, told her it was nice to meet her before she scurried off to stand behind the man that she needs.

In that moment, it was as if true clarity showed itself.  She does need him.  He does need her to need him.  I don't want him.  She's got him even if I did.  And I felt a sadness.  Sadness for her that the clear panic of being in public like this is not worthy of making fun of, but worthy of pitying.  Sadness that the pain in her face was so palpable even the hairstyle above couldn't completely hide it.  Sadness for Gamer that he needs to be needed so desperately.

Sadness for me that I've never felt that kind of dependency on another human.  I'm not sure I want to.  But it's definitely an emotion, a feeling, a need I've never felt.  And then I had a stirring of hopefulness.  Despite my list of positives that I slowly share with guys I date, despite my own issues of panic and fear that I am sure to hide with these same men, what Gamer needed, he found in her -- even as she stood panicky beside him.

Here I am.  Ready to just be again.  Ready to head into winter - as of tomorrow it officially feels like winter in the NYC - with some abandon.  Wish this Almost Girlfriend luck...

The Rugby Player

My first marathon date was experienced with a broad, cocky, beer-guzzling funnyman.  He warned me on the phone when we made plans for the date (and subsequently talked for hours as though we were in junior high) that he would be kissing me before the date even began. 

"Why would you do that?"

"Because I want to.  I know you want me to.  And then we can have a good date without worrying about the whole kissing thing at the end."

Something different.  Someone who didn't follow rules.  A guy who took charge, made a plan, and didn't take no for an answer.  We decided the date would be January 1st.  If things worked out, we'd be able to look back fondly on how our relationship and 2010 started.  If things went poorly, the year could only get better, right?

I remember I wore a mini skirt, sweater, cowboy boots, and a red ski jacket.  He smiled as I approached.  And then, as promised, he in his 6'4" solidity took me and kissed me.  A wonderful kiss.  I nearly popped my booted foot.

Eight hours and too many beers for him to drive back to Long Island later, I offered my couch to him so the date didn't have to come to a halt ending with him sleeping in his car.  We stayed out three more hours laughing, talking, and occasionally sneaking a kiss or five.  He commented on his love for my red jacket - subtle yet forcing me to be the center of attention in that crowded bar.  Back at my apartment after closing all the establishments in the area of the city that never sleeps, I fitted him on the same couch he would come be very comfortable on.  The next morning we got up, and I tried my hand at breakfast.  He was nice about my atrocity and offered to cook me dinner later in the week at his place.  We watched a movie, did a little cuddling, and eventually decided to end the date on a high rather than get sick of each other over dinner.

Over the next few weeks and months, we were in touch most days and saw each other a couple times a week.  We watched much of the final season of "Lost" together discussing the intricacies of the conspiracy theories.  He spent many weekends upstate playing rugby, but we grew closer and closer.  We talked about meeting each other's families and were excited to introduce one another to the friends - though we were taking things at a good pace.  The physical chemistry between the two of us was absolutely off the charts.  Never before or since have I been so drawn to or excited by a man.  

Our relationship was fun.  It was intelligent.  It was close but not next door.  We were on the same page on so many levels.  And we started to feel.  I started to feel.  For the first time these feelings didn't push me to run to France or Atlantic City or to throw my phone off the GWB (a recurring threat of mine when people get too close too fast for my comfort level).

One of his rugby weekends ended with a phone call: "We have to talk."  Silly me, I thought people only said that in movies.  He had run into his 22-year-old ex -- the one who he broke up with because she was in college and moved into his apartment without asking after being kicked out of the dorm and disowned by her parents for being a pothead and all-around mess.  He guessed he wasn't as over her as he thought, and I had no interest in competing with any of that.  Though Mr. Rugby wanted me to.  He wanted me to fight for my man.  He wanted me to tell him how much better I was.  Unfortunately, that's not my style.

A month later he asked me for another date.  We went to the same bar where we ended New Year's Day.  He told me he quit his job, cashed in his 401k, and would be heading to Europe to backpack and find himself.  He begged me to go with him.  I was taken aback.  I love to run away too.  I love Europe as well.  And I know we'd have a blast running away from it all.  But I also was not his 22-year-old girl.  I had responsibilities that I couldn't up and leave on a whim... certainly not for a man.

He went to Europe at the end of August.  He sent me emails and texts regularly.  He kept me abreast of his schedule and never stopped asking me to come join him.  "Even for a week?" he'd ask.  I'd remind him that he had dumped me for an ex.  I'd tell him I couldn't run off in a flurry of emotions and lust for a guy who was trying to find himself.  He said he understood, but he never stopped his attempts at getting me to go over.

And I never stopped being torn.  I would tell The Constant of my dilemma.  He even offered once to pay for the flight.  The Suzz, however, reminded me of the hastiness of flying off to Europe for a boy.  They were the cartoonish devil and angel on my shoulders though I'm not sure which was which.  I blamed my pocketbook and stayed in the comforts of NYC.

Earlier this year The Rugby Player called me.  I got fluttery when his named popped up but let it go to voicemail.  When I called him back, we stepped into conversation as though no time had passed.  We talked about Europe.  We talked about the intense connection we had shared.  I went out on a limb...

"When can we get together?  I miss you."

"I miss you too.  So much.  But I'm seeing someone."

My heart sank.  I had no words.

"Actually that's part of the reason I called you.  She's older and has kids.  I often feel like I'm playing the babysitter.  It's very real, and it makes me miss the simple fun I had with you."

"So you called because I'm the fun?"

"I mean... I guess?  It's just that I could always be myself with you.  You never pressed for too much too fast.  You were never needy.  You were the perfect girl to date.  You're just so fun."

That was the last time we talked.  He asked if we could still be friends.  I told him I had plenty of friends.  I got off the phone and cried.

Earlier tonight I picked up my laundry to find they had switched detergent.  It smelled of The Rugby Player.  I was instantly taken back to his little apartment on Long Island, cuddled up to his beefy arms watching "Lost" and "A Bronx Tale," eating gravy and Long John Silver's.  And I smiled.

I will always wonder how different things would be had I hopped a flight to Prague.

The August Experiment

"Grow in Faith.  Fall in Love."

Oh yes.  That happened.  Needless to say August's experiment was a bust.  For the first 6 days I got ZERO hits.  Talk about a humbling experience.  Just when I thought the whole Christian online dating thing wasn't where I belonged (imagine that), I started getting a few views... and then more views... and then some messages...

Over the course of the month I was contacted by 25 men - the majority in their 40s, including one from Texas who is a self-proclaimed "ex-gay" (I'm tempted to pay the $30 monthly fee to be able to correspond more freely with him and help him out of his lie of a life).  53% of them are from small town suburbs of NYC, in fact only one was in the five boroughs.

In the initial messages I was told an array of things such as:

• "I'm Jesus' favorite"
• "Which Greek goddess best describes you?"
• "I'm a great flirt.  Can I prove it?"
• "I desire courtship"
• "Your profile gave me a smile, so I thought I'd send you one in return"
• And my personal favorite from a somewhat portly gentleman, "I'm attractive but not unto myself" which I have no idea the meaning.

And they were all politically conservative.  I guess I shouldn't be surprised by that, but somehow I still am.  The lesson I learned is that Christians looking online for other Christians to date are a bit smaller-minded than I'm looking for.  I did not go on any dates from this experiment, so August has been a little dry in the way of dating.  I think I only went on 2 dates total - both real... neither prospective.  On to September!!

The Yesteryear Footballer

Too many years ago to mention (after all I don't want to give away EVERYTHING about me!  isn't the mystery part of what brings some of you back??) I had a ridiculous crush on the captain of my high school football team.  He, a gorgeous popular junior.  Me, a fun-loving yet lowly freshman.  I would see him from afar and adore his beauty, knowing he had no idea who I was.

Second semester came along, and I walked into 3rd period P/E class.  To my horror, Mr. Football himself was in the class.  While not completely UNathletic, how was my awkward 15-year-old self suppose to rock gym clothes while still making an impression during a mean game of Pickle Ball?  I spent the semester being googly-eyed over his blond hotness and even caught a smile or two occasionally.

The following year I spent many Friday nights cheering his football prowess from the bleachers and tried looking confidently chic when passing him in the halls.  This was easier to do as a sophomore than as a freshman, but alas he had obtained a girlfriend.  She was beautiful and cool... a perfect fit.

Two weeks ago Mr. Football popped up in my inbox with a friend request.  I instantly went back to being in the 10th grade with an insane crush.  I turned to the interns, "Guys.  I just got a Facebook friend request from my high school crush!"  Of course they all were immediately excited for me.  I'm sure it hasn't been too long since they had high school crushes of their own, so it's fresh in their memories.  Who knew he remembered me, let alone knew who I was [mumbles a number] years ago?

We emailed back and forth for a few days catching up.  At one point I even confessed my super crush from back in the day.  He said he wished he would've known - he wound up marrying the gorgeous girlfriend and divorcing her shortly thereafter.  We swapped numbers and have been texting as though we're back in high school.  It's all innocent and fun and flirty... and 1500 miles away.  The mileage keeps things safe and almost surreal.  But it also is a constant reminder that meeting up for a drink isn't possible.

Needless to say, it's been fun.  It's been an ego-boost.  And it's been a really nice walk down Memory Lane.

The Google Pothead

Believe it or not, this professional dater was once in a long-term relationship.  Granted, it was not your typical relationship, and I'm even in the process of writing a book about my experiences with this fantastic fella.  However, that is not a nostalgic walk down memory lane you get tonight.  Save your pennies and buy the book when it comes out... it's sure to keep you more than entertained.

After my seven-year relationship turned into more of a friendship, I spent two years dating me and only me.  It was a great time of exploration and discovery, and it was also a time of occasional loneliness.  When I started thinking it was high-time I get back out in the dating world, I was completely overwhelmed.

Enter The Google Pothead.

He was one of the original founders of Google.  Born and raised right in the Lower Eastside, he had moved back from California when the famous search engine began taking off.  He was bought out and, needless to say, was older and insanely wealthy.  He was independent, attractive, and knew exactly what he wanted - out of a meal, out of an evening, out of a girl, and out of life.  Two years of being single and not dating led me to know some specifics of what I wanted as well.  And I wasn't afraid to tell him...

I wanted to find a man who didn't need my paycheck.  One who also didn't need me to cook for him, make decisions for him, or meet his family.  I wanted someone to take me out and make me feel girly, to show me a side of New York I hadn't seen yet.  I wanted someone who didn't need me to make a commitment but wasn't interested in shuffling me into his mix of twenty other women.  I was seeking someone who didn't need to meet my friends, know too much about my career, or pry into the depths of my childhood or previous relationship.  And finally in the harsh realization of my nearly three-year, self-imposed celibacy, I wanted someone I could eventually feel comfortable with breaking out of my shell and dipping my toes into what Carrie Bradshaw had shown me about how to live the fabulous single girl's life in NYC.

Not exactly a short order, right?  Well, The Google Pothead fit the bill beautifully.  He didn't balk at my directness.  In fact on our first date as I sat there watching him nurse his expensive bourbon, I felt completely adult for the first time in my life.  If that was all I got out of my time with him, it would have been worth it.

Luckily I got more.  We went on several dates, and he was patient with me.  He never pushed me to do anything I didn't want in the same way he never allowed me to pay for a single thing, open a single door, or even make a single plan.  For the first foray, this - no, he was exactly what I needed.  A month or so went by filled with delicious meals, surprise lunch dates, and lots of laughs.  And one night I asked him if we could have dinner near his place.  I did all the things a single girl is supposed to do when impending coitus is on the horizon... and I showed up looking super hot if I do say so myself.

As did he.

At the end of the evening (having no idea how to behave with a man I'd known for such a short time much less in a less than puritanical way), Mr. Google returned from the other bedroom with a contraption I hadn't seen since the "Cheech and Chong" movies I used to sneakily watch after my parents went to bed.  While talking he stuffed it with lawn clippings and pulled out a lighter.  He then passed it to me.

"I've never done that."
Surprised for the first time since we'd been seeing each other, "Oh.  Well, I smoke a lot of pot.  I hope that's ok."

Who knew of all the pseudo-demands I'd made, the commitment-phobia I'd exhibited, and fun times we'd spent together, that our biggest missed connection would involve marijuana?  I went with the flow while refraining from toking up, and left to go home just as his eyes glassed over to the point of near-irritation.

The Google Pothead and I continued our tryst for several weeks before it waned into a whisper of a memory.  I became more and more aware of things I needed and things that weren't as important as I thought they were.  This would be the biggest learning experience of my dating career, and I was sponging every ounce of it up.

Over the past few years we've tried to get together a few times to see if we can be friends.  Once we even went on a for reals kind of date.  We are still Facebook friends and even once ran into each other while we were on separate (and less interesting) dates, but I came to the conclusion awhile ago that The Google Pothead was for a season.  Every time I see him, I quickly go to back to the place I was when we met.  A vulnerable, wide-eyed, confused, unsure girl looking for a temporary connection to make me feel alive.  While I cherish what he was for me and will never regret any of my time on the Lower Eastside eating expensive food, dodging the contact highs, and playfully arguing over completely inane political values, The Google Pothead and I will never be.

The July Experiment

A few weeks ago I wrote about my online experiment.  For July I picked match.com and what an interesting journalistic venture this turned out to be.

Shortly after plopping down my monthly fee to see what could happen on the ole match.com (normally $41.99 per month but I got a special rate because I know how to work things like whoa), I realized that this experiment just might be more than I bargained for.  And isn't that what all of life's lessons are about anyway?  So I went to see where my 30 days would lead.

I set up an account with limited truths but zero lies.  This was not intended to be any sort of acting experiment, I would be myself while keeping some of my passions and insecurities on the D.L.  I put several pictures of myself - none too sexy and not my best pics, but certainly none with frizzed out locks or muffin-tops.

(what are those jeans about??)

Let me just tell you, gentle readers, match.com is no joke.  When people go on match, they are looking for lifelong partners.  I had to do some fast-acting adjustments in my head and assure the Universe that I would not be intentionally leading any of these poor blokes on.  I lean toward a level of healthy self-deprecation, so when I "meet" guys who genuinely think they just might see something potentially long-term in me, I'm honestly surprised.  So coming into contact with several in one month was quite the experience.  Here's the breakdown (in a list form I'm so fond of):

• 30 "winks" received.  This is sort of a lazy way of letting someone know you're interested without having to put forth much effort.
• 14 emails received from guys who were looking for a wife and baby-mama.  I did not respond to these due to a combo of non-interest and not wanting to piss the Universe off.
• 9 guys who I continued correspondence back and forth.  5 of these never made an official move other than filling my inbox in the month.
• 4 guys who I gave my phone number to.  1 has tried to make a date - I may make this happen yet. 1 asked me to come to his apartment - I changed his name in my phone to "matchy creeper".  1 I went out with - see The Unconvertible Muscle.  And 1 I actually got excited about only to have him cancel the date last minute... he said he got back in touch with his ex and felt like he needed to give that a shot.  Boo.
• 1 old guy who I'm not convinced wasn't married looking for some play.

Even though I don't think match.com is the answer in this girl's real dating life, I give it two thumbs up for any guys or gals who are sincerely looking for love and an exclusive future with someone.  And to be clear, in my real dating life I probably am eventually looking for that.  But in the world of fake dates, I don't know I can fully get behind it in a one-month online subscription.

To give you a tiny sneak peek into August's excitement, know that the online expedition is continuing... but in a different forum.  Stay tuned...

And in closing, here are some real life messages I got on match.  Enjoy.

• "Seeking ONE REAL WOMAN for a SERIOUS RELATIONSHIP ONLY!" - yelling is always a way to get your point across.
• "...seeks that special connection where we're both on the same page with our desires and dreams..."
• In an introductory email I got a FULL description of everything in this guy's life, culminating in, "Now it's your turn.  Tell me EVERYTHING.  We must keep in touch."  First contact.  First.
• "I'm looking to have someone (anyone) in my life long term."

Things We Don't Talk About On Dates

The Asian Sensation sent me this fabulous article... and then I realized how its tongue-in-cheek nature is sort of how I operate in actuality.  Hmm... and we wonder why I'm so single I do dating experiments :)

Things We Don’t Talk About On Dates, Ladies

Jul. 28, 2011

By Stephanie Georgopulos

 

There’s nothing like a good old-fashioned date. A meeting of hopeful minds, two could-be lovers unwinding over a mid-priced meal. The wine flows like lava and the conversation is bottomless, like an order of breadsticks from the fine Italian eatery Olive Garden (be still, my heart!). Yes, a date is like a lemon – bright and… acidic? And… I guess it sort of stings when it squirts in your eye without warning. I think I’m doing this wrong; the point is, when you go on dates, I want you to think of a lemon. A lemon can be one of two things: a refreshing garnish for your cocktail, or a defective person. (By defective person, I mean you. We are talking about you.)


How might a sane and rational woman, a lady, morph from someone worthy of courtship into part of a family whose members are left to rot on suburban lawns? It’s simple. You get sauced, and all of the promises you made to yourself before embarking on your evening of merriment fly out of the window along with your dignity (or your undergarments, depending on the hour).

Don’t get all doe-eyed on me, sister. Magazines, television, films, music videos, your grandmother, your mother, your younger sister who somehow managed to get married before you, your friends who have more sex than you do, that one blog you pretend not to read because it has a cutesy title that screams YOU’RE NOT 21 ANYMORE BUT YOU’D LIKE TO BE? READ ON, the unmarried woman who owns the cafe that charges four dollars for a fucking twelve-ounce iced coffee, are you serious, that is way too expensive, and your disapproving landlady have been telling you since you were pushed out of your mother’s gently-used-but-married vagina: there are things you just don’t speak of on dates.

I see you’re recalling something. I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but could it be you’re remembering how you found yourself discussing your last relationship while you were on a date? You tip-toed around it, avoiding it all night like a wine spill or expelling gas, but it happened anyway, didn’t it? Your date volleyed back, sharing something equally innocuous about their last relationship, and you thought, “Okay, this doesn’t seem like the end of the world. Are we doing this right now? We’re doing this right now! Adult-like!” Then one of you maturely changed the subject, segueing into other topics of relevance, like the Woody Allen film neither of you have seen or particularly care about seeing, or the couple beside you who is desperately attempting to resuscitate one another, with tongue, dear god, do people still make out like that in public? That is simply boorish, we would never do such a thing, we discuss our past relationships with flourished hand gestures and knowing head nods and we move on when appropriate and god, I hope we are the disgusting making out couple an hour from now.

How many times must Cosmopolitan, Kate Hudson, and Grandma Ninny tell you that you do not discuss your escape from indentured servitude until Date Three, at least? Grandma Ninny was married sixteen times, did you know that? She knows what she’s talking about. You are not allowed to be vulnerable, drunk, yourself, or honest while on a date. If that worked, fishermen would sit at the edge of their boats murmuring, “Fish – I just, tried my hardest, you know? It’s been so long since I’ve been fishing, and the last fish I caught gave me food poisoning and I’m… I’m scared, fishies. Please jump in my boat.” Do you see fishermen doing that? No. They trick the fish by giving it something tasty, and when the fish shows it’s hooked, it’s ripped from the water and is left to flop about, suffering until it can no longer fight for air and then it dies. Let’s not even get into what they do with the body afterward. Do you see where I’m going with this?

And another thing. Stop talking about your job. Your date does not want you to be financially independent, have interests, teach them things, or give them any insight whatsoever into worlds they’ve never known firsthand due to their contrasting life experience. Your job is insignificant, just like your middle name and your credit score. Bleh – boring. No one wants to talk about your accomplishments that have, in no way, shape or form molded you into the person you are. Really, the way you pass the time for over sixty hours a week is of no consequence.

Do not show up on a date and discuss how stressed out you are by your career. This is totally rational advice, you are totally rational, that is why you are never stressed out about your career. Rational. Reality. You are a reasonable, realistic, rational person who is never stressed out. You are an exclamation point. You are fun. Whenever you are about to say something related to your job, replace it with something fun like, “I’m having so much fun,” or, “This bar stool is fun.” People like fun, people do not like careers.

Lastly, do not speak of the things you’ve read. Reading is intimidating. Telling someone you’re a reader is like telling someone you’re a brain surgeon. “I just finished the new Jennifer Egan and successfully performed a hemicraniectomy. What’s the last book you’ve read / brain surgery you’ve performed?”

No, you must pretend not to read, and you must especially pretend not to read articles that tell you how to behave on dates. People want to date a freethinker who, in spite of themselves, will act with conviction and not in accordance with what society markets as acceptable dating behavior. No, no one wants to date that person, the one whose actions are dictated by embittered, neurotic writers. It’s best you don’t mention it.

The Bagel-Eating Democrat

In doing this super fun (yet sometimes beleaguered) online dating experiment, I've thought back on the history of online dates I've had in my past.  My very first was in the spring of 2008.  I was unsure how the whole situation worked.  My profile was god-awful with pictures that were just wrong.  I have no idea how I attracted anyone at all.  And then I look at who did contact me.

In the middle of the biggest Presidential election season of my lifetime, I thought it was super cool that a worker for Hillary's campaign emailed me.  He was attractive, a bit younger than myself, and a hard-core democrat.  All sounds good for finding someone to have a little fun with, right?

When we spoke on the phone, he told me about his fashion blog, so I instantly thought I was falling into old habits by potentially hooking up with one of those "confused" guys (more on that tidbit o'fun in a possible future post).  He asked me to meet up with him at a French bakery on 9th Avenue in midtown.  I was confused because I'm quite familiar with all things midtown and all French places in NYC in general, and I knew of no French patisseries anywhere near there.  But I went along with it.

We met up and walked down 9th Ave to this phantom spot until we were almost to Port Authority where the Bagel-Eating Democrat remembered he didn't know what the hell he was talking about.

"Would you want to go to a bar instead?"
Sigh (is this what online dating is about?), "Sure.  That's fine."
"You pick.  My ideas are busts."

We headed to Vintage on 51st and 9th and sat down about the time I noticed he didn't look as much like his pictures as I recalled.  I immediately turned the conversation to Hills and his working for her campaign.  Finally something interesting to both of us.  The waitress (who has come to be my favorite waitress in midtown since I've been on a number of first dates, had a few birthday parties, and even some random late night forages for nachos there) approached:

"What can I get you guys?"
Ladies first, "Absolut Pears and Sprite [my signature drink]"
"And you, sir?"
"Water.  I don't drink," in his most condescending tone.

Cool Waitress made eye contact with me, smirked, and walked away.  I told him we didn't have to come to a bar, and that I didn't NEED an alcoholic drink.  He said it was fine and continued his story about Hills giving speeches.

Cool Waitress returned with our bevvies, "Would you guys like some food?"
He gestured for me to go first.  I honestly don't remember what I ordered, but it was something light and quick as I knew this date wouldn't be lasting long.
She turned to my now annoying date, "I'm not hungry. Thanks."
Another look from Cool Waitress.

Shaking my head and a bit embarrassed that I was now the girl with a cocktail and a plate of food on the way, I listened to more campaign lore.  A few bites into my appetizer, the Democrat pulled out his trendy messenger bag and retrieved a bagel from it.

Uh.  I thought you weren't hungry, mister.

"A guy's gotta eat," he told me.

We finished our drinks, and I told him I thought I was going to call it a night.  It was already 7pm, and I had a lot to do.

"Need me to ride home with you?"
"Nah, I'm good," I told him.
"Well, I'll walk you to the subway at least."

We got to Columbus Circle.  "Here's me," I said.  He then leaned in, opened-mouthed, ready to devour my face.  I performed a dodge only known outside this instance as a contortionist's move and maneuvered into an awkward hug.  "You sure you don't want me to go home with you?"

I was sure.  My hour with The Bagel-Eating Democrat will never leave the forefront of my mind.  And every time I eat a bagel, I think of him... and am horrified.

A lil update for ya...

It's 793 degrees in NYC.  The thought of dating or rubbing up on someone makes me nauseous.  So here's an update to keep you interested.  And feel free to share this with your peeps.  The more readers I get, the more ideas I get from my readers, the more fun we can have.

The Boston Flake: Are you reading me, sir?  Or did you just pop up for kicks?  Flakey as always.

The Goth Gamer: Quite an amazing dude actually.  Who knew that would happen?  We've gone out, we've stayed in, we've laughed, we've argued.  He's a brilliant, neurotic, sexy, nerdy, funny arse-hole... just the way I like 'em (and we wonder why I'm perpetually single??)  We'll see where it goes.  The journey seems interesting and exciting.  I'll keep you posted.  Fingers crossed we continue to dig each other.

The Unconvertible Muscle: After receiving a handful of texts, I decided to let him know I wasn't into him.  His response?... "who is this?  I delete a lot."  Guess we were on the same page after all.  [wipes the sweat from her brow, knocks the dust off her shoes, smiles, moves on]


The Harvard Persistence: Another email.  This time he berated me for not working on our "friendship or anything else for that matter."  Although I am "kind of a good kisser."  Well, thank you for that.  No worries, however... despite the fact that he is "very anti-gun" he's attending a singles' event at a pistol range so he can "actually feel a gun and fire one."  Good for him.  I'm tempted to reply to him so I keep getting the fun emails...

There's a quick email to start our weeks.  I have some unexpected and unusual free time this week, so maybe I'll be able to score some fake dates for my journalistic efforts.

The Harvard Persistence

One of my greatest dating stories comes to us thanks to The Harvard Persistence.  A very particular, somewhat peculiar 40-something, he was eager to plan an unforgettable evening.  What did he come up with?  Dinner at an Italian restaurant in midtown followed by a movie in Times Square.

Here's the deal: If we do dinner on a first date, make it someplace weird or unique.  And if we're going to do a movie, make it something interactive or different (think "Rocky Horror Picture Show" at midnight or a viewing in Brooklyn Bridge Park with Grimaldi's in hand).  Something even more out there would be all the better, but I digress.

After we (rather he) set the details, he emailed me to inform me that texting to let him know I'm on my way would not be necessary as it annoys him and to only call him to let him know if I was going to be fifteen minutes or more late.  With that, I knew I was in for quite a ride.  I told this to The Suzz, and she was able to point out that I'd been given instructions... rules, if you will, because he's a middle school teacher.  Of course he is, and come to find out I'm young enough to be one of his former students easily.

I showed up to Nizza right on time, no texting/no calling as I was told.  I can follow instructions though I was tempted to text "1 block away!!" at one point.  He tried to pull out my chair for me, which is just awkward on a good day with a good date, then he asked if he could check my coat.  "My coat's fine on the back of the chair.  No worries," I told him.  We proceeded to have decent conversation, as I do so like to meet new people and learn new things.  When the check arrived, before I even had the chance to get my wallet out, he said "Do you want me to pay half?"  My thought was, "At LEAST half, buddy.  You asked me out."  But I just said something like "sure" probably with a very perplexed face.

As we left the restaurant I was tempted to feign an emergency but decided to go with it... after all I like movies and didn't have anywhere else to be.

"Which movie are we seeing?"
"I thought we could decide together?"
"Cool.  What are the options?"
He pulled out a newspaper clipping.  "Let me look."

Wait a second.  This guy just pulled out the NYTimes movie listings.  Who knew they even printed them there anymore?

"I can probably pull it up on my phone quickly," I said.
"No!  I've got it.  Plus I hate smartphones."

Wait another second.  You live in NYC in 2011 and you hate smartphones?  Ok, ok.  I have a few friends who still don't do the smartphone thing, the Facebook thing, or the Twitter thing.  Hell, I don't even get the Twitter phenomenon myself (though I have an account and my intern thinks The Almost Girlfriend needs one herself... thoughts on this??)  But to hate smartphones when we're standing on the corner of 42nd & 9th like idiot tourists who don't even have it together enough to not have a newspaper clipping??

"How about Rango?"
"The kids' movie?"  I heard it was cute, but for a date?  For a first date??  Whatever  I went with it.  Add to the story, right?
"I'll get the movie.  You get the concessions.  Deal?"
Sure, fella.  Whatever you say.

We got to our seats, and Harvard pulls out count 'em... not one, not two, but FIVE straws.  Ya know, because one might break.  Obviously.  Then he said to me, "I know this might be silly, but I bought you a present."  Taken aback and a bit uncomfortable, I braced for what in the world I could've mentioned to him that he remembered I liked or what piece of previous conversation could be turned into a gift.  He pulled this out:

"Oh, how nice," I said completely unaware of what I was holding.  He explained to me the significance of it, though I've forgotten completely since it had absolutely nothing to do with anything we'd talked about.  Don't get me wrong - I like gifts.  But strange little boxes on first dates are just... well, strange.  When opened, this is what I found:

And don't think for a second I got rid of it.  It's in a bowl of memorabilia that have weird explanations.  This bowl lives on the bookshelf in my bedroom.  While I'm the opposite of a pack-rat, I keep strange things like this to whip out for conversation pieces on a whim.

When Harvard asked me for a second date, I felt like I should say yes.  He was a nice guy, and quite frankly didn't have a chance for this date what with the rules, the dinner, and the movie.  I thought I'd plan the next one and see if he could pull that off.  But the second date wasn't any better - he even wore his Harvard sweatshirt as a talking point to let me know yet again that he had a degree from there.  As he pecked me goodnight, I knew it was the last time we'd hang out.  Alas, he did not.  He called the next day to set a third date, and I told him I just didn't think we were a good match, that he's a Type A planner, and I'm much more go-with-the-flow, see-what-happens girl.  Also he had lied about his age, and the problem with having parents who birthed me as teenagers is that my window for the older guys is smaller than others since I think they need to be closer to my age than my dad's.  Call me crazy.

"Can I still call you?"
"Well, I don't really see the point in that.  I don't think we'll be going out again."
"Then can I email you?"
"I can't tell you NOT to email me, but I can't guarantee you'll get a response.  I don't really see what that can serve except to lead you on."
"Ok.  Well, then I'll email you soon."

Fine.  Whatever.  He won't.

Wrong.  Two days later I got an email detailing a play-by-play of his week.  I didn't respond.  Another few days after that, I got an email telling me about his dad's birthday dinner.  Still no response.  And then a doozy came.

The first part talked about a Broadway show and the NYTimes, then he moved on to discussing his softball games.  From there he went into what can only be described as the worst Penthouse Letter to ever be written.  Keep in mind that we never had sex.  We never kissed beyond a goodnight peck.  In fact, he even asked me on our second date if he could place his hand on the small of my back... which was just awkward.  Oddly too graphic (though not enticing in the least) to put here, I'll list the nuggets you should glean from the email:

• His blood was flowing from a softball game in the rain.
• He envisioned coming to my apartment after the game and grabbing me to kiss me when I opened the door.
• He planned to lead me to my bed and apparently proceed to provide pleasure to the both of us.

From here he said, "Anyway!  So yesterday I had a great day.  I took five students to a [conference]."  Abrupt much?  Then I got the details of the school outing.  Of course I did not respond.

A month later after a handful of play-by-play emails that went unanswered, I got another "naughty" email.  This one more graphic and somehow more laughable than the last.  Bullets again to keep it under control, gentle readers:

• Another game resulted in "softball energy"
• He would come to my place and start kissing me until our tongues were "snaking around"... (I wish I were making this up)
• He would then press me up against him so I could feel the stiffness in his "sweatpants"... really, sir?  Sweatpants?  I don't care who you are, sweatpants are not sexy despite what The Fashionista thinks.  Especially because I'm picturing this:

Maybe I'd feel differently if I went all Top Gun in my mind and pictured this:

Now I just want to watch that volleyball scene and listen to Kenny Loggins...

• He then would proceed to "place his hands on [my] shoulders with just enough pressure" that I understood where he wanted me to go.
• He continued on, but I won't sicken you with more... just take my word for it, it's something else.

He ended this email with "Sounds wonderful, huh?  Email or text me if you want me to stop by."  This time I responded.  "I'm not looking for any semblance of a fuck buddy."  Harvard, "Neither am I.  I was just writing a little sexy scenario."

Three months later I still get a few emails and an occasional text letting me know what he's up to.  It's become a bit of a game with my friends - The Suzz being the ringleader.  So, to you, Harvard Persistence, thank you for hours of entertainment for me and my friends.  We've pored over your inanity on road trips, park outings, and while imbibing margaritas.  Please let them keep coming.  But don't expect a response. 

The Unconvertible Muscle

When The Unconvertible Muscle contacted me on match.com last week, I was intrigued.  His message was witty asking where I found a statue of George W. Bush to pose with.  In actuality I have a picture posted of me “dancing” with this statue of Kevin White outside Boston’s Faneuil Hall.

His profile was funny too.  And his pics… well, they were muscle-y.  While I’m not normally attracted to the body-builder type, I recognize that I’m not blind, and this dude was good-looking.  We emailed back and forth for a couple of days.  I wondered if he was ever going to take a step and ask me out.  When he finally asked for my number, I knew we were making progress, and I was excited to dive into this portion of my dating experiment.

We texted back and forth and he was perplexed at the fact that my schedule is crazy.  It’s interesting – when you’re “fake-dating” (as I’ve taken to calling it), priorities lie with work, friends, summer sun, and the boys you’re actually into in real life outside of the blogosphere.  To cancel happy hour with a friend from out of town would never occur to me anyway, but certainly not for The Unconvertible Muscle.  We finally found a night that worked for both of us, picked a location, and were all set.  Drinks in my hood.

The morning of the date I we had a text-convo that read something like this:

“I can’t lie.  I had a match date from hell last night and now I’m nervous.  Let’s just say she was different in person (read: mushy large).”  Really?  You’re just going to say that to the girl you’re trying to woo, sir?  My response: “Well, we can’t all be supermodels.  Don’t be nervous.  My smile makes up for my 300 pounds, limp, and lazy eye.”  I happen not to sport any of those, but I was trying to shame him in some sort of sarcastic way.  It didn’t read though.  He just thought I was even funnier… fail.

As I left the ATM (I always take cash on a date so they don’t have to see my full name on my credit card in case I choose not to divulge it… lesson learned from The Suzz that google-stalking is EXTRAORDINARILY easy), my phone rang.

“Hello,” in my best chipper awesome-girl voice.

“Eh, uh, so where is this place?” in his best Queens-lifer voice.

“31^st Street under the subway at the 30^th Avenue stop”

“Hmm.  I don’t do trains, and I can’t find parking”

“Who drives in NYC?”

“I gotta have my car, babe.  So where is it?"

"31^st Street under the subway at 30^th Avenue” (note the repeat)

Clearly driving and trying to navigate an area of Queens not exactly known for its extensive parking options, he continued to get me to provide directions.  This was not going well.  I approached the bar and found an empty meter spot directly out front.  I told him I’d hold it for him.  He rounded the corner in a navy blue, super shiny Lexus convertible.

Let’s be clear.  Cars don’t impress me.  I’m a New Yorker.  We take the subway.  We take buses.  We hail cabs.  We occasionally take the LIRR or Metro-North.  And some of us have Zipcar memberships for apple-picking and Target trips.  If you do have a car, it’s because you need it for work, you never got around to selling it when you moved here because it was already paid off, or you live in a remote part of the city where the trains are hellacious on weekends.  Ok.  Maybe I don’t really feel that way.  And maybe part of me actually wants a car of my own sometimes.  Maybe with a non-toolbag I wouldn’t think twice about his sporty little ride.

He exited the car.

He’s shorter than he said.  He’s older than he said.  He’s a C-cup.  He didn’t know how/what to order because this pub doesn’t serve Budweiser (I’m serious).  He’s wearing a shirt reminiscent of this:

Also though… he’s really nice.  He’s really funny.  And he’s totally diggin’ me.  He thinks I’m pretty.  He thinks I’m funny.  He thinks I’m smart.

As we continued our conversation (which is surprisingly engaging) I realized he’s in it to win it.  This guy actually wants a relationship.  He wants a match (imagine that coming from match.com).  I’m so unfamiliar with guys who aren’t just looking for a good time (sexual or otherwise), that this threw me.  The conversation got deeper, and then like that he blew it.

“So with your gay guy friends do you ever try to convert them straight?”

Syntax error.  Is he being funny here??  Or is he just that ignorant?

“Well, it doesn’t exactly work that way.  If they’re gay, they aren’t convertible."

“Ehhhhn… I’m not convinced of that.  I think at least half the time it’s environmental or a choice."

My ears redden, “I give people the benefit of the doubt a lot, but you’re just dead wrong on this."

He went on to tell me how he only has one gay friend, he doesn’t believe homosexuals are more than maybe 1% of the population, and that I could probably convert one if I wanted to.  I tried to argue for a hot second, and then I realized he’s probably the most unconvertible one of all.  He excused himself to the men’s room and went in for a kiss.  I politely dodged it which he took as me being coy or something else silly girls do.

The check came, and I pulled out my wallet.  He’s instantly offended.  He thinks I think he can’t afford it.  Whatever, dude.  I always offer to pay.  I don’t need to owe anyone anything after a first date.  Also, it’s just the nice thing to do.  I’d like to make the same as a man at work, I’d like my vote to count the same as a man’s, I’d like to be taken as seriously, and in turn, I can pay my equal part for our drinks without expecting more.  I’m also human, and I’m flattered that you’d like to pay.  So he did.

Before we parted ways he said, “So when can I see you again?”  Screeching halt.  While I appreciated the enthusiasm, being put on the spot has never been my favorite thing.  I instantly turned into some sort of pretentious she-devil, “Let me check my calendar and I’ll get back to you.”  Who says that?!  Apparently this girl when backed into a corner.  And to be honest, I wasn’t sure if maybe I DID want to see him again.  Having attention lavished on you by a completely attractive, fit, moderately wealthy (I know this because he told me his salary… did I fail to mention that above?), independent guy is never a bad thing.

His response to my pretention, “Listen.  Anything is possible if you want it badly enough.  Change your plans for Friday night.  I’ll pick you up at 8.”  Pick me up?  Do I need to remind him again where we live?  We meet.  We don’t pick up in our cars for second dates… unless we like the guy.  Which at this point, I’m guessing I don’t.

To The Unconvertible Muscle, thank you for giving me a different perspective.  For writing.  For life.  Everything is a learning experience, and I now know that I don’t like guys who flaunt.  I don’t like guys who actually believe homosexuality is a choice.  And I don’t like guys who make fun of their dates from the night before to someone they haven’t even met.  But thank you for the attention, the two drinks, and the laughs while watching the All-Star Game.

Potential Investment

Need a way out of a rambling idiot in a bar?  Looking for a quick escape from a bad first date?

Try carrying these.

Trial on the Interweb

I'm no stranger to the world of online dating, but after doing some research I finding I'm clearly out of the loop.  I was aware of pay sites to find dates, free sites to meet people, and even sites to find hookups.  But I had no idea just how many there are, nonetheless how many there are that are specific to certain groups - and not just those specific to religion, cultural, and sexuality.  There are dating websites for Trekkies, ugly people, cougars, STD-positives, pot smokers, and even terminally ill people.

To get an insight in the world of online dating, I'll be signing up on some sites.  I'm going to pick a couple of free ones and one pay one.  For the freebies, I'm leaning toward one generic (Plenty of Fish or OKCupid) and one themed site (Christian Mingles, J-Date, or Geek 2 Geek).  After careful consideration, I've decided to make this as honest as possible.  I'm not going for an acting exercise or a way to hone some sort of non-existent lying fetish.  So I'll steer away from lesbian sites or anything requesting specifically outside my ethnicity.

If you have suggestions for me, feel free to comment or send me a message here.

Below are a few for your viewing pleasure.  Did you know how many there were??  Do you have any horror or success stories from online dating??

The American In Paris

*The survivial career has had me slaving away, requiring me to neglect not only my new project, but my new readers.  As an apology I'm providing one of my favorite dating stories of yore (it's still mine).  Enjoy.  Promising to be back on track in July.  -The Almost Girlfriend.

Since 1995 when I saw the movie “French Kiss” starring Meg Ryan and Kevin Kline, I knew I needed to visit Paris.  I learned the language.  I had a poster of the Eiffel Tower on my bedroom wall.  And for my birthday I made it happen.  On my own.  For myself.  No one to burden me with their whims.

I boarded the plane at JFK and woke up in France.  The train ride from the airport to the city was breathtaking.  Even the graffiti on passing bridges and tunnels brought a sense of accomplishment accompanied by the tears that threatened to plummet from my eyes.  The accents were beautiful.  The people were perfect.  The art was brilliant.  I was wholly swept away by the city and everything it embodied; it exceeded every expectation.

During the first few hours in what was clearly where I belonged, I felt waves of emotions ranging from disbelief to happiness to panic at my level of complete comfort.  I was thousands of miles and an ocean away from everything I knew… until now.  My mind was open to all new possibilities of life, love, food, art, and spirituality.

I decided to leave my camera at the hotel that first night.  I wanted to experience it with my own eyes rather than through the digital screen of my cheap Sony Cybershot.  I had been told about a champagne bar on the Champs-Elysee called Monte Cristo so I went.  Walking up to it, I was less than amused.  This was totally a Carmine’s meets Paris kind of vibe.  I go in, expecting whatever the Universe wanted to hand out.  In the back was a small sign: EN BAS A LA BARRE (downstairs to the bar).

I entered Mecca.  Champagne.  Beautiful Parisian men.  Exotic French women.  And me.  “Transform me!  Teach me your ways!” I wanted to shout.  But I played it cool.  A dark and brooding man overheard my American accent when I ordered and came over.  For the next three hours I sat, sipping champagne, answering questions so this Frenchman could hear my accent.  All the while wanting to hear his.

We closed the bar and went back to my hotel’s bar.  He was terribly French in every sense of the word.  I swooned.  He embodied Paris and I took every advantage of the gift I’d been given.  The next morning we went our separate ways and I marveled at the fact that I never do things like that back home.  And then I laughed at the fact that I also came to Paris alone so maybe my coy act in the city wasn’t getting me too far.

I did the touristy thing that day and soaked up a number of sights – The Louvre, The Eiffel Tower, The Opera House, and more.  I walked the quaint, cobblestone streets basking in the French beauty I had dreamed of.

I returned to the hotel after hours of wandering the city in too expensive, too cute shoes (I was in Paris… comfort was not an option) exhilarated.  A note from my new French hottie was at the front desk.  MEET ME TOMORROW, it read.  The place: The St. Louis Bridge behind Notre Dame.  The time: 4pm. 

Around 3pm the next day the grey sky opened up.  I love rain.  I find it a good omen unless it’s a steamy rain causing my hair to frizz beyond comprehension.  This was not one of those rains.  It was more than a drizzle, less than a downpour.  It was perfect.  As I rounded the corner (in yet another pair of fabulous shoes), umbrella shielding me, I heard the faint sound of an accordion player.  Smoking a cigarette, wearing a black jacket and hat, and leaning against the railing of the bridge stood my Frenchman.  It was out of a movie.  I paused breathlessly before approaching.

My night was filled with everything perfectly Parisian.  We had a chocolate dinner with too much wine.  We went to a piano bar in Montmartre and had crepes and more wine.  He introduced me to Parisian macarons.  We walked down all over the city until well after midnight.  After four more nights spent together we decided to leave our tryst in Paris.  We wouldn’t even try to top what we had experienced with a long-distance thing we both knew would never work.

I spent my final day doing more sight-seeing things that had not been checked off my list.  And when I went to the airport that night, he was waiting for me at the check-in counter.  A gift in hand, he made me promise not to open it until I was on the plane.  I promised, kissed him goodbye, and went to my gate.  As soon as I got to my seat, I tore open the gift.  In French he had written a note, “We’ll always have Paris and the best week of my life.  If you’re ever back or want to see me in the States, here is my info.  If I don’t hear from you, I’ll always think of you fondly.”  His phone number, address, and email address was covering the title of the DVD I held.  “un americain a paris”… An American in Paris.

My flight back was reflective.  The eight hours were devoted to looking through pictures, recalling my incredible, dream-like week, and re-reading his note.  I had lived a fantasy to my wildest imaginations.

The Goth Gamer

When I started this experiment, the only two rules I gave myself were to turn down no date unless I felt uncomfortable and to write about all of the experiences.

So when an unexpected opportunity descended into the picture, I thought there’s not a better time than now to just dive in. As you may recall I did a little social experiment involving fake profiles on a dating website. Remember the final faux dater? The stupid one? The one with hundreds of messages?? One of those messages was from The Goth Gamer.

“I have a couple of friends who might like to meet you,” his message read.
“Are these friends in your pants??”

He instant messaged. “I walked right into that one, huh?” Indeed he did. “Is that really a picture of you?” “Of course it is,” I lied. He didn’t need to know who I really was, right? We continued chatting. I checked out his profile, which seemed different than other guys’. This became a challenge, so the messaging continued. Before long he came clean. “I’m a moderator on this site, and I actually contacted you to catch you.”

My plan was found out. I panicked. “I see. Well, in the interest of full disclosure, I’m doing a social experiment.” I told him everything and gave him my correct email address in hopes of not being banned from the site for all eternity. I let him know I was a writer simply testing some theories. He told me I needed to remove the fake picture. Eventually we moved to g-chat using our real names.

I knew what he looked like from his profile. I knew his job. I knew everything he had divulged on his profile. He knew nothing except that I was a writer, was witty and clever, and made good conversation. I liked it this way. It somehow gave my experiment an interesting twist. After two hours (yes, two hours we chatted into the late hours of the night), I finally signed off.

The next day I got a Facebook friend request from this seriously cute, black-adorned, Mohawk-sporting, game designer. “I had no idea you were so cute,” he messaged me. I guess he was expecting a frumpy, middle-aged, crazy housewife a la Catfish – maybe he’s doing a dating experiment himself. I normally don’t do the Facebook thing with boys, let alone boys I don’t know. But I thought why not?

After a couple of days of playing the getting-to-know-you game via every technological means he could find, he asked me if I wanted to go out. Following my newfound rules of dating, I said yes... though I wasn’t sure if he meant as friends or more. This was quite a unique dynamic we were setting up, and I kind of loved the game we were playing. We met at restaurant in my hood, his choice, on the only day of the week it was closed. He rounded the corner…

He was beautiful. I was not expecting this. The Mohawk I was dreading from the late-30-something was completely sexy. His voice was melting. His eyes were piercing – the kind of baby blues that never fail to stop me. How did I miss this on Facebook? Shows how uninvested I suppose I was.

We decided to walk to the next restaurant option. He was authoritative and prepared. I let him order for me… why not just throw all the regular rules out the window? This might have been one of the best meals of my life. I tried to not go on and on and on about it. As he talked it was uncanny how much we had in common in our views of love and relationships and dating. Maybe two cynical commitment-phobes make a good pair – at least for a date or two.

Dinner turned into coffee. Coffee turned into dessert. Dessert turned into a walk in the park. A walk in the park turned into kissing on a bench at 3am. I couldn’t believe how I was clicking with this self-proclaimed “King of the Nerds”. He walked me home, and I wasn’t sure if this was goodbye or goodnight. He was very cool.

I got a text the next afternoon. Well, well. Guess it wasn’t goodbye after all. We made a movie date and met up at a restaurant of his choice. He was late. Never a great way to start a date (a second one at that). But I’m a relatively laidback gal and certainly can cautiously move on. Dinner was fantastic again (the boy knows his food). In the movie I surprisingly didn’t find myself in that weird is-he-gonna-try-to-hold-my-hand/junior-high-school mentality that I feel we ladies tend to do at times. It was comfortable, like someone I’ve known for awhile. He wasn’t grabby, but it was clear he wasn’t just a friend. After the movie we went back to my place. I wasn’t ready for the whole she-bang (pun intended), but I also wasn’t ready for the date to end just yet and neither was he.

We chatted for a bit and then we kissed. I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say that that fool is the best kisser I’ve ever had. I mean, for real. The nerdy boys know where it’s at apparently. I was rendered useless. We continued on that path for awhile exploring, kissing, and enjoying each other. There were even neck massages at one point... whatever THAT’S about. I just wanted my hands on him, and he felt the same. Not that I plan to make this blog about my sex life (or lack thereof), but I’ll just go ahead and say that we did not have sex. Not quite sure why at this juncture that seemed relevant, but I’m gonna go with it.

I didn’t hear from him the following day, and I have to admit I was surprised. We’ve actually had limited conversations since our date the last week. I’m not sure if that means he got (or didn’t get) what he wanted and he’s done. Or if it’s just a matter of two grown New Yorkers being busy and not making time to hang out. Or if maybe I should remember this started as an experiment and if I never hear from him again, I’ll be just fine.

Anyway you spin it, I had a couple of great dates with a guy I normally would not have thought twice about (and did I mention the amazing kissing??) So if that’s all it is, it was a helluva way to start this journey.

There just may be more of The Goth Gamer. And if I’m being honest, gentle readers, I sort of hope this chapter is only the beginning with more stories to come. Stay tuned…

The Boston Flake

The Red Sox beat the Yankees last week.  The Bruins won the Stanley Cup last night.  Sarah Palin recently made all women and Americans proud with her retelling of The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere.  All these have had my thoughts on Boston.  And what better way to regale my dating ups and downs than to start things off with The Boston Flake.

I met The Boston Flake in the spring of 2009.  The charming, blue-eyed Massachusetts native required me to change my texting plan to unlimited for all the morsels we sent back and forth before our first official date.  Between respective trips to visit our parents, we finally found a night to meet up at one of my favorite midtown dives.  The laid-back, golden haired dreamboat flashed his teeth at me as I approached.  I was done for.

Our conversation was breezy as he pounded back beer after beer after beer, his eyelids lowering with every swig.  He talked of Massachusetts.  He told me his impressive resume.  He stood for what I thought was going to be an approach-and-kiss only to say:

“I gotta go drain it.”
“Excuse me?”
“The bathroom?  I gotta go.”
“Oh.  Um, alright.”

My internal monologue hazy from one too many Absolut/Sprites had me asking if that really just happened.  “Drain it”?  Classy.  I resolved I was done.  He sauntered back, pressed right up on me, lightly kissed me, and smiled.  His beer breath my instant weakness.  He tried to go home with me that night without success.

I was fairly new to the dating arena and certainly much less jaded than I find myself more than two years of singledom later.  So his antics were ones I fell for.  His baby-blues (another weakness for me) could have asked for many things and gotten them.  A few weeks later he invited me to Brooklyn for dinner.  I was very excited.  About an hour before I was to be there he texted, “Will you stop and pick me up some shampoo?”  Strange request from a guy I barely knew, but maybe this was how dating in the city goes between two adults.  The directions he had provided to his place were wrong.  I wound up in Scaryville, Brooklyn, NY, USA.  I called him, uneasy. 

“What are you near?”
“Warehouses?  Can you come get me?”
“Oh!  You’re on the other side of Williamsburg.  You should get out of there.”
“How do I get to you?  I have no idea where I am.”
“Just find a cab or walk toward the bridge.  You’ll figure it out.”

Not wanting to be anything less than a self-sufficient woman of the 2000’s I resisted the urge to get in a cab back to Astoria.  I showed up at his apartment an hour later.  His dimples suddenly caused all irritations to fade.  Dinner was wonderful.  His dog was perfect.  We watched some ridiculous show on A&E or History Channel about weaponry – my favorite topic.  And then he started snoring.  He was OUT.  I tried to wake him relentlessly for an hour.  It went from being a game to a frustration to a concern.  I called The Constant for advice.  “Just leave,” he said.  Gasp!  Really?!  How rude would that be?!  Ok… no ruder than Boston Flake asking me for shampoo, telling me to find my own way there, watching a show about guns, and falling into such a deep sleep his lady-guest was left confused.

I didn’t speak to the hot New Englander for a few days.  When I did hear from him, it was business as usual.  Flirty texts, “let’s make a date” banter, and whines about his unemployment ensued.  Oh, did I fail to mention that??  He was out of work… for the entire time we dated.  His parents paid his rent, and he couldn’t take me out.  However, his refrigerator was always filled with beer – cheap, gross Natty Light, but beer nonetheless. 

Knowing his penchant for the Red Sox and at-the-time lack of funds in the bank, I invited him to the Sox/Yanks game when my Boston Babes came into town.  A double-date as Bleacher Creatures at the new Yankee Stadium could never be a bad thing… until you figure the Sox having their butts handed to them by the Jeter-led Yanks.  We left the game early and found a Red Sox friendly bar serving tater tots covered in gravy.  At the table, Mr. Flake himself passed out.  Literally.  He was speaking one moment and sound asleep the next.  At the table.  Hilarious yet absurd.

Plans always fell through, moods never panned out, and eventually our relationship sifted into next to nothing.  I ran into The Boston Flake at a midtown bar the following spring.  Our instant connection was inevitable and my friends left me sitting there with him when it was time for them to head home.  Laughing until I cried we played catch-up as he told me about his new job and adventures to Massachusetts with his crazy family, and then he stopped short and said:

“It’s too bad we couldn’t work together”
“Ehn… everything happens for a reason”
“You do know why we didn’t work, right?”
“I do.  But I’m curious why you think we didn’t work.  Enlighten me.”

He began to list.  “#1 is that goddamn dog.  She is ugly and high-maintenace, and she makes you seem more high-maintenance than you actually are.”  I laughed.  He had met my dog once and I only initially even brought her up because he was also a dog-owner.  She never traveled with me, unlike his dog who rode in a bike basket everywhere with him.  “Please continue with your list.  I’m dying to know the rest,” I said to him appalled.  He went on, “#2 is the gay mafia.”  “Pardon??”  “Ya know, the gay mafia you travel around with.”

Just to be clear, I’m a single girl in NYC.  I love my gay friends.  They provide unending friendship and support, and I give it freely in return.  However, I don’t travel about with a merry band of homos.  In fact, he had only met a few of them at my birthday party the year before.  I don’t talk about them endlessly, and I’m definitely not one of those girls who have to bear the unfortunate title of “Fag Hag.”  I have my own life and don’t need to live vicariously through my friends who happen to like the same sex.

“Really?  The Gay Mafia?  You really think that’s why we didn’t work??”
“Well, I thought so.  Don’t get defensive.  It’s just intimidating – the whole package.”

And there’s the crux of the biscuit.  Intimidation.  The strong single girl’s paradox.

Since then I’ve spoke to him a handful of times, with each correspondence ending with a promise to buy me a drink, but never (and not expectedly) following through.  However, I still can’t take a Bolt Bus to Beantown or even see Mitt Romney on my television screen without smiling and shaking my head at the experience that was The Boston Flake.

Shady Lady

To begin this journey I wanted to start with a basis founded in quick, cheap, unscientific journalism.  I created a series of fake online profiles to see what kind of hits I might get - just for kicks.  The first was an intelligent profile of a smart, successful woman ready for love in the Big Apple.  She did not have a picture on her account because she was worried about the stigma attached to online dating for someone in her position at work.  She got 2 messages from quite possibly the most unfortunate looking men in the tri-state area.  She responded to these 2 men to thank them for their interest but to let them also know that she had "reconnected with her ex" and would be deleting her account in the coming days.

After a week or so, I altered this profile to be a little more open, less successful, and ready for the Big L - complete with a picture I found on Google of a moderately attractive every-woman.  She got 3 more messages - this time from older men, possibly old enough to be her dad.  No worries though, she responded to these guys that after going on one online date she realized she wasn't quite ready to put herself out there and would be disabling her profile until things got sorted out.  Whew.  They dodged a bullet filled with crazy.

A few days later, I updated this false profile once again.  This time she was an idiot.  She only cared about being pretty, maintaining her femininity, and having some strapping man help her work out her confusion regarding her sexuality.  Oh, yes... and she was hot.  5'6", 130 lbs, brunette, huge boobs.  She packed quite a physical punch.  Anyone care to guess how many hits?  Go ahead.  I'll wait.

327.  327 men (and a few women) viewed her profile.  She received over 100 messages.  Lucky girl.  While I didn't go through all of them, I took a gander at a sampling.  Some were lecherous creeps.  Others were married guys looking for a hookup.  Several were actually decent guys whose profiles claimed they were looking for a relationship.  And to be clear, I don't doubt their sincerity.  I, too, would take an easy feel-good by a pretty boy if it were thrown in my face.  

This small portion of my journalistic journey has concluded.  I just wanted to see what would happen and give myself a little jumpstart on this trip.