CyberBully4U

18 Feb

I rejoined Tinder yesterday after a friend showed me one of her suggested matches: a thirty-two year old man in a ski mask, swinging around two large axes.  I felt left out.

This morning I awoke to thirty-three Tinder notifications, so I skimmed through the first few messages over a nice plate of pancakes.  One gentleman simply wrote “your dog is more attractive than you.”  Hmmmmm.  My first reaction was to wonder whether or not this man likes dogs, because if he doesn’t, that’s a fairly rude thing to say to someone.  My second reaction was to consider pointing out to him that he looks a lot like a baked potato.  But, since I strive to be a wise and mature woman, I just deleted him.

One of the pesky road bumps you encounter on dating websites is the inevitable insecure man-child who uses the curtain of anonymity that the internet provides as a means of combating his own perceived inadequacies.  YouTube is another popular forum where these types go to spew their pent-up aggression toward the human race by typing things they would never say to someone’s face.  Anyway, I hope this particular individual finds some source of personal power beyond insulting women he doesn’t know online.

Unless of course he DOES love dogs… in which case forget everything I just said.  He was only pointing out the obvious, because my dog is incomparably stunning.

It’s Not Me, It’s You

16 Sep

My mother has said to me on more than one occasion: “how can there be no nice boys in New York?  There are millions of people in that city!”  True, true.  But, after you subtract the ones who are married, in a relationship, gay, under twenty-one, or over fifty-one… you are left with mostly depressed, emotionally unavailable men who never quite got over their ex and are addicted to attention.  Or as I like to call them: comedians.  I once attempted the daring feat of dating a man who fancied himself a comedian.  It lasted (maaaybe) four months.  Here are some highlights:

-He bragged about eating multiple buckets of fried chicken by himself on a nightly basis.

-Whined about all the injustices in his life– Cranky roommates, absent father, absent money, you name it.

-Claimed his ex-girlfriend was stalking him… according to her, it was the other way around.  The whole time I was seeing him, there was a passive-aggressive Twitter war going on between them.

-His cologne of choice was Febreeze “Meadows and Rain.”  I called him out on dousing himself in air freshener after I recognized the scent as the same spray my coworkers use following a particularly lengthy bathroom session.  He initially denied it, but came clean (so to speak) after I spotted the bottle in question in his bedroom.

-Once, I came back from the bathroom to find him hiding behind a table in my apartment.  He eventually came out and sheepishly said “yeah, I was hiding behind the table…”

-Invited my sister and I to one of his sketch shows at Upright Citizens Brigade and the whole show consisted of inside jokes only other UCB members in the audience understood.  As we were walking out, my sister remarked “is it just me, or was that not very funny?”

-Had no concept of how to get around in the city.  He had lived in New York longer than I.  And had a smart phone.  I called a car for him once to get to the airport because he couldn’t figure out how.

-Accused my sister’s cat of peeing on his cowboy boots and stealing his contact lenses.

-Sold his Muppets DVD collection to make rent.

-Invited me out to dinner on Valentines Day by telling me he “felt bad” he had forgotten to invite me out to dinner on Valentines Day.  I chose the place, made the reservations, and paid.

-Broke things off with me two weeks later via a 3:30 a.m. email telling me that he “felt bad” because he just didn’t have enough time in his busy schedule to be dating anybody.

-Got involved in a serious relationship with another UCB groupie less than two months later.

At the time, I found all of this about as funny as his sketch show.  However, I’m happy to report that, nearly two years later, I can finally appreciate the immense hilarity of my time with this individual.  Even if most of my favorite “bits” were unintentional on his part.

My Urban Cowboy – W4M

25 Aug

YOU:  An aging gentleman in leather chaps, a beaded leather cowboy hat, and a string of white seashells dangling from your jowls.  Your shirt was unbuttoned to reveal just enough of the dark, cavernous world of your innie belly button to leave me wanting more.  Your salt and peppery mustache enveloped the nozzle of your bottle of Diet Sprite and your wide stance betrayed the secret that you had recently dismounted your steed only to board the Brooklyn-bound L train.

ME:  Younger white girl in a Rosie O’Donnell-esque tunic and a questionable boot, who was breaking a considerable sweat carrying a humongous mural of the Grand Canyon.  As I maneuvered onto the train, our eyes met– the only part of me you ever saw since the Grand Canyon was covering the rest of my body as well as the bodies of the two disgruntled strangers seated to my right.

US:  The electricity that vibrated throughout that fateful caboose cannot be denied and I shall not sleep until we share our tales of the dusty trails over a bottle of sarsaparilla.  Godspeed, elusive cowpoke. I’ll be waiting.

The Veterinarian

13 Jul

There is a restaurant in my neighborhood that has good burgers and a cute bartender whom I like to look at while I eat.

One evening, I was enjoying some dinner and the view, when a pair of late 30-somethings started to get a little rowdy next to me.  I looked over to see what all the commotion was about and saw one of them holding up an image of Alf dressed as an asparagus.  The skinnier of the two noticed me eyeing their altercation and included me in the conversation.  I had no information to offer on the Alf topic… but received some unfortunate information on the cute bartender topic: it turned out they were his friends and he had a serious girlfriend of nine years.

The larger man left shortly thereafter and I stayed to chat with the skinny one.  He never smiled and pretty much only had one facial expression– a puzzled look with slightly crossed eyes.  He was dressed like a cast member from Roseanne and looked remarkably like a young Bob Saget.  He had glasses, a prominent nose, and hair that looked like amber waves of grain– like you could pull a fistful of it and it would break off into a million pieces and blow away down a sunny hillside.  “Peter,” as we’ll call him, was thirty-nine, worked at another bar in Bushwick, and dreamed of being a veterinarian.  But not an actual veterinarian, oh no.  He wanted to PLAY a veterinarian in a small role on a TV show or commercial.  He went on and on about how much he loved acting and wanted to make a full career out of it even though he had never taken an acting class, or been in a play, or done anything except stand in a sea of extras in one shot for an episode of some TV show.  When he learned that I went to school for theatre he asked if I wanted to take turns filming each other doing three contemporary monologues each.  I told him I’ve been out of the loop for a couple years and am thus unfamiliar with the current veterinarian repertoire.

I ran into Peter around my neighborhood multiple times after that.  He always talked nonstop about himself and his “acting career” and never asked me anything about my life.  Come to think of it I’m not sure he ever even knew my name.  He also sent me constant text updates like “almost had a line on set today, but they gave it to someone else,” and “just submitted my headshot to play another veterinarian.  Keep your fingers crossed.”  His headshot, by the way, was a selfie he had taken of himself wearing a lab coat and looking confused.  He stayed over at my place once (don’t recall how that happened) and kept trying to kiss me, but I was too weirded out by him so I moved to the extreme edge of my bed and barricaded myself with a fortress of pillows.  The next morning I woke up at 6 a.m. and shrieked about how I had to go into town right away, like we lived in rural Mississippi in the early 1900s.

The next time I saw him after that, he was displeased with me.  Apparently he had found me on Twitter and seen a tweet where I referred to him as a “Bob Saget impersonator.”  He accused me of flirting with other men at the bar and told me that I don’t take him seriously.  Welllll.  I didn’t realize we had a “thing,” but whatever it was needed to cease and desist, so I stopped responding to him.

The last text I ever got from Peter was: “ever had a grape chia synergy drink?  One just exploded on my shirt and pants while opening it and the chia seeds stuck to my clothes.  Kinda cool.  Gonna leave them on there for awhile.”  I haven’t seen him since, so I’m assuming he got beamed back up to whatever planet he and Alf are from.

PantyhoseLover81

2 Jul

Have you ever had an experience where, as you are going through it, you wonder if you are living your last few moments here on Earth?  That’s how I felt on Sunday night when I went out with a gigantic, pantyhose-wearing man.

I must admit that I was fully aware of what I was getting myself into when I answered a message from someone named PantyhoseLover81 on OKCupid.  His profile picture was of his hairy legs sheathed in a sheer, nude hose.  I responded because he mentioned that he also had a “regular” profile and I was curious as to what type of man fancied womens undergarments.  I figured his regular profile would feature a photo of a diminutive dweeb who was an office worker by day and a top secret hose fiend by night.  These dual profile people creep me out because they make me wonder how many “normal” men I have gone out with who have also had a secret sex profile.  But at this point there was no going back… I was intrigued.  So I got down to brass tacks with PantyhoseLover81:

PantyhoseLover81:  Hey how’s it going?
Me:  Wait, I don’t get it. Do you wear the pantyhose or does your date?
PantyhoseLover81:  Well if everything goes ok we both do lol
Me:  Like under our pants? Or just a nude hang out with hosiery?
PantyhoseLover81:  More like in the bedroom although I have been known to wear them under my pants on occasion.

He showed me his other profile, which was not at all what I had expected.  He was a giant, clean cut Italian man who was covered in tattoos.  He looked like a cast member of The Jersey Shore.  Under the question “Would you prefer your life to be simple or complex?” he answered “Simple.  Keep the drama for the movies.”  Additionally, I discovered that he didn’t drink– he was a sober lover of hose.  I concluded that all of these variables warranted a date.

PantyhoseLover81 lived in Little Neck (I have no idea where that is) but was driving, so I figured it wouldn’t be too much trouble for him to transport to my area.  I selected my least favorite bar in my neighborhood.  That way, he wouldn’t easily be able to track me down in the future because I rarely go there… but, at the same time, I could potentially make a quick escape to my home base if he tried to bind and gag me with hose and throw me in the back of his truck.

I went into the date with a massive headache due to the fact that I had spent the previous two hours looking at magic eye puzzles and could no longer focus my eyesight.  Tony Chiccorino, the man himself, walked in as I was taking a shot of tequila that the bartender bought me.  Oops.  He assured me that he didn’t mind, and I was struck equally by how tall and mellow he was.  I forgot to mention earlier that this was my first blind date ever where I gave someone a false name for safety purposes.  I knew I was inevitably going to slip up and have to come clean about my lie… which happened when I explained to him that the letters on one of my tattoos are my initials and he said “I thought your first name was Sara?”  Double oops.

Tony told me in his thick Queens accent that he worked as a firefighter– which genuinely surprised me.  You would think I’d be shocked to learn that my firefighter date was a pantyhose aficionado, but unfortunately it was the other way around.   I let him talk about the life of a New York firefighter, his nieces, and his recent kayak outing for a little while before I broached the real topic at hand.  “So have you ever slid down a fireman’s pole wearing nothing but hose and a helmet?” I asked, after procuring a second beer.  “I never mix business with pleasure” he responded.  “How did you first come to realize your love of hosiery?”  He explained that, at the impressionable age of seven, he had found a pair of his older sister’s pantyhose hanging in the family bathroom.  The texture had aroused his senses and he felt drawn to them in a way that, at seven years old, he could not venture to explain.  The next thing you know, those bad boys were on his legs and he was sold for life.  I asked him how often he finds himself galavanting about in a pair of hose and he said “you know, a pantyhose fetish is like a pulse.  It goes up and down.”  “How many pairs of hose do you own?”  I was not letting this go.  “In my arsenal?  Three or four.  I got news for you.  That’s a lot.  Usually it’s one.”  I guess the pulse is high this summer.  Just when I didn’t think things could get any better, he pulled out a vaporizer and started vaping in my face as he pondered: “Hose.  It’s one of those words you say too many times and it starts to sound funny.  Hose.  Hose.”  Eventually it came to light that he had recently engaged in a threesome with a married couple he met through OKCupid.  I made a joke about all three participants writhing around in a pantyhosed fury, to which I think he replied something about my statement not being too far off.  “You heard me” he said, as if reading my mind.

As we were leaving I asked Tony if he was currently sporting a sensible pair of hose under his jeans.  He told me that it was a little too hot for layering, but he did have a pair in his truck if I was interested.  “Can I drive you home?” he asked, as I began fearing for my safety and considering how I could leave a trail of forensic evidence.  I told him I only lived two blocks away, but he persisted.  “That really won’t be necessary” I said, giving him my number which seemed to be an acceptable parting gift.  I then ducked behind a homeless man’s cart until I saw his truck disappear over the hill.  By the time I got home, I received a text from him that read “Hope you got hose ok.”  I’m still not sure whether or not the typo was intentional, but that, along with the fact he didn’t murder me definitely secures Tony Chiccorino a spot in my Blind Date Hall of Fame.

The Bushwick Bushwhacker

23 Jun

I met “Casey” last year while attending a birthday celebration in Brooklyn.  We struck up a conversation and discovered that we had both attended college in the same small town in Missouri.  My friends were leaving so I gave him my number and he kissed me goodbye in front of his colleague.

The following week we met for drinks in Williamsburg.  He was cuter and funnier than I remembered and it turned out he was a writer of humorous articles for various websites.  I admitted to him that I used to blog about blind dating (I hadn’t in months at that point) and he shared how he had gotten into trouble for something similar in the past– writing an article incorporating a graph which showed the correlation between female pubic hair length and higher levels of education.  According to Casey, women who dropped out or never went to college are typically completely waxed, while women with an Ivy League education tend to sport a full fur pelt.

I knew it wasn’t an entirely prudent decision to go to his place on the first date, but he assured me it wouldn’t be a one-night stand… which seemed convincing enough at the time.  He lived alone in an incredibly nice apartment, and I couldn’t believe that a writer could afford a place like that.  I also couldn’t believe what swayed before my eyes like a great willow when he vacated his corduroys:  the longest, straightest 70s fringe I’d ever seen below the belt.  I remember remarking “I thought you said you went to the University of Missouri?” but the rest of the night is all a blur.

After that night, I attempted to make plans with Casey several more times to no avail.  His efforts went towards a series of post-1 a.m. booty calls.  After one of his late-night invites, I tried to text my friend “he’s attempting to lure me into another session with his lengthy pubic bangs.”  Unfortunately, I opened the wrong chat and sent that message to Casey instead.  When I realized what I had done, I figured there was no way around it and added “so…uh, what are you doing Saturday?”  He responded with “trimming my bangs.”  Ok, so he ended up using me for a one-night stand.  I wasn’t too bent out of shape about it since his pubic bangs were forever immortalized in an artistic bar napkin rendering hanging on the wall at a certain dive in the West Village.

Fast forward to three or four months later when I got a text from Casey out of the blue asking me out for drinks.  I was curious about his sudden renewed interest, so I agreed.  We met at the same bar as last time where he explained that he had been dating a girl from OKCupid.  She was a former Miss New York in a Miss USA pageant whom, he discovered on their first date, had lost her pageant body and grown a small beard.  They dated for three months but he eventually broke things off when intimacy became too difficult on account of her beard mixed with his already weakened sex drive due to Propecia.  I asked him what he had actually liked about this girl and he said that she had a good job.  A true New York romance.

Casey seemed aloof and depressed this time around and I didn’t feel like we had much chemistry.  I figured he was using me for a rebound from Miss Beard USA, but still went home with him because I didn’t really care at that point.  He gave me a hard cider and turned on the classic rock station.  We then retired to his lofted bedroom where– this is the only way I know how to describe it– I got scrolled on like an iPod Classic.  Afterwards, in a state of shock, I awkwardly commented on the sprinkler system not five feet above his bed, to which he made some half-assed joke about it being there in case sex got too hot (not possible).  I grabbed my cider to cope, somehow spilling it all over myself and his sheets.  He mumbled “you can stay here if you want” then rolled over and began to snore.  I had to get the hell out of there, and fast!  I threw on my dress and descended the steps to discover that his dog had chewed through my shoelaces and was now focusing on a frenzied game of tug of war with the bottom of my dress.  It was cold out and I wasn’t exactly sure where I was, so I grabbed one of Casey’s hoodies, yanked my dress from his dog’s teeth, and limped outside so as not to lose a shoe– thankfully procuring a cab.

The next day I felt a momentary pang of remorse, so I sent Casey a text saying “sorry I spilled cider all over my naked body on your bed.”  He responded “it’s ok, I got most of it out.”  Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.  It’s not like I want to go run a marathon across eleven bridges or explore the ancient Mayan ruins… but a little zest for life once in awhile might be nice!  Casey asked if I wanted to come over to his place and “drop off his sweatshirt” a few nights later and I told him I could Fedex it.  It might be a clue that you need to work on your game if a girl is offering to use her Fedex account at work to return your clothes.

The Hawaiian

11 Jun

After being absent from OKCupid for over a year, I suddenly had an urge the other night to throw together a quick profile and see what kind of fun I’ve been missing.  The next morning, my inbox was already overflowing with countless messages of the “Hey, wats up?” variety.  One in particular stood out from the rest, reading “Aloha, how are you enjoying this beautiful day?”  I clicked on his profile to confirm my suspicions– indeed, I had a Hawaiian on my hands!  I had never gone out with a Hawaiian before, and to me they seem almost as elusive as a person from Delaware.

The Hawaiian appeared to be large and jolly, as I envision most male Hawaiians to be, but also seemed cute and laid back.  I was momentarily startled after he appeared to be giving “the shocker” in one of his profile pictures, but upon further investigation discovered it to be some sort of Hawaiian hand vernacular.  The other part of his profile that struck me as odd was the selection he checked off for his body type: “Full-figured.”  With options like “More to love,” “A little extra,” and my personal favorite “Used up,” why in the world would a man select “Full-figured?”  That makes me think of a big ol’ bra.

I canceled on The Hawaiian the first night we had planned to meet, but agreed to get drinks the following night.  He was immediately recognizable when he entered the bar because he was, in fact, a big kahuna.  We sat and chatted about Hawaiian topics– sea mammals, surfing, leis, etc.  He was very amiable and easy to talk to.  He offered to teach me how to surf.  He bought me a drink and then a shot.  He walked me to my door and asked to come up for a moment while he called a car service.  Ahhh, this Hawaiian was very smooth and my guard was down.  I agreed, breaking my number one rule about bringing blind dates home with me (hey, I’ve been out of practice for awhile).

Once inside my apartment, I went to the bathroom while he called for a car.  I was barely gone two minutes… but came back out to find that he had taken off all of his clothes and was fully nude, standing in the middle of the room.   I didn’t quite know what to say, so I went with “uhhh, did you call a car?” as if his bare papayas weren’t staring me in the face.  “They said fifteen minutes” he replied, still neither of us moving.  I was going to have to grab the bull by the horns in this situation.  I told him that we would at least need to have a second date before giving each other the Full Nude Review.  He said he understood and got dressed again (which somehow took way longer than the undressing had) and at last a horn honked outside.

I sent a polite follow-up message the next morning, assuming I probably wouldn’t hear from him again.  Boy, was I wrong.  All day long The Hawaiian sent me texts such as “I need more of you ASAP,” “What would you do to me if I was there right now?”, and “Will your sister care if I come over and rip off all your clothes?”  Obviously from here on out I will have to be better about reinforcing my “no house calls on the first date” rule.  Especially when it comes to a man who probably spent much of his life wearing nothing but grass skirts.

The Queen of Erotica

4 Jun

I can no longer go anywhere without running into the self-proclaimed “Queen of Erotica.”  Who happens to be a man.  An allegedly straight man.

The gentleman in question pulled up a stool next to me one night while I was enjoying some crawdad mac and cheese at a bar.  He introduced himself as Adam, but then leaned in closer and added in a lowered voice “but my pen name is Lily Night.”  I wish I could say that he was not the third person who had introduced themselves to me using a pseudonym that week, but sadly that would be a lie.  Adam explained that he had been writing under the name Lily Night because his publisher thought his erotic short stories would be better received if the author were female.  He was bored with the subject matter given to him (middle-aged married couples having their annual beach orgy and so forth) so he had taken it upon himself to begin working on what will be the masterpiece of his career: an erotic saga about krakens.  Adam had even recently spent seventeen days lost at sea in the Caribbean in attempt to emulate the plight of his characters getting shipwrecked in Africa.  Once he finished the novel and leaked it to Gawker (like his erotica forefathers) he would be rich!  His main goal in life, he said with a huge grin, was to own a Dodge Challenger with commercial plates that read “BALLER.”

He finally paused to take a sip of his pink drink and I seized the opportunity to assess the situation.  He was dressed like he had just gotten off the bus from Massachusetts– button-up stripy shirt over a v-neck, some sort of oddly-washed jean, a necklace, and a chunky watch, which he kept flipping open and shut on his wrist while intermittently thumbing his exposed chest hair.  There was also a peculiar pair of sunglasses dangling from his deep-v that looked like they were stolen from a member of the Three Blind Mice.

“Is there really a market for a book about krakens who probe each other with their tentacles?” I asked him, picturing a nerdy teen with braces pulling out kraken porn from under his mattress.  “You don’t understand” Adam explained, downing a shot of raspberry vodka, a third of which missed its target and trickled down his chin and through his chest hair.  “The krakens aren’t having sex with each other.  They’re capsizing pirate ships, wreaking general havoc, and having their way with all the women.  The main character starts out as a juvenile kraken, only about fifteen feet long, but as the story goes on, the tentacles grow longer and longer until it can violate multiple women at once.  I’m not only telling a story here, I’m challenging science to prove me wrong!”  Sounds like we’ve got a real hit on our hands.

He added that his overwhelming success will be a nice slap in the face to his girlfriend of seven years who had recently dumped him.  “Wait a minute, you aren’t gay?!” I couldn’t help but blurt out.  I don’t know, maybe it was the way he spoke, the pink drinks, the jewelry, or the fact that he goes around referring to himself as the QUEEN OF EROTICA.  He looked offended and scoffed “gay men don’t write novels about women being raped by tentacle monsters.  They write about men being raped by tentacle monsters.”  I was finished with my crawdad mac and cheese.  He continued that for my information, he was currently dating three 22-year-old Asian girls he had curated from OKCupid.  In addition to seeming a little light in his Steve Madden loafers, he was obviously pretty immature.  He kept mentioning the appeal of being seen as a “tortured writer” and how he drinks as much as he can every night so he can obtain that image.  I haven’t heard someone glorify drinking that much since a group of naughty eighth graders passed me a beer on the playground in middle school.

I told Adam that the time had come for me to bid him farewell but he ignored me, saying “I’m a very ambitious person.  I have to finish three films, six erotica stories, and write the first great contemporary New York novel of our time before I turn thirty-two and there aren’t enough hours in the day.  Do you know anyone who will sell me Adderall?”  Despite the fact that I am not a drug dealer, he said he still hoped we would see each other again soon and I replied “me, too!” thinking the opposite.

Little did I know that I would run into Adam every time I went out in my neighborhood until the end of time.  I’ve mostly taken to pretending I don’t see him, but every once in awhile he will come over and show me the profile of the latest hot 22-year-old he is talking to online.  At least it’s good to know that there is still such a high caliber of men on OKCupid.

The Chip

20 May

I met Matthew a couple months ago after I stopped at a local bar on my way home to get out of the freezing rain.   I was coming from a previous bar in the West Village where a drunken she-beast had stolen my coat and I was pretty upset.  Not long after I arrived, Matthew approached me and asked if he could buy me a drink to cheer me up.  He was cute and things could not have gotten much worse at that point, so I figured “why not?” and gave him my number.  The next morning I received a text from him asking if he could take me out for drinks that night.  Our “date” was fairly uneventful, but fun… we talked and drank beers in outdoor chair swings at a new bar in my neighborhood.  He had recently moved here from Los Angeles and expressed that he wants to meet new people so he can get involved in the club scene and rooftop party scenarios (to which I told him he’s got the wrong gal for that sort of business).  He was sweet, but slightly effeminate– perhaps just a little too perfectly preened for my liking.  Before parting ways, he gave me a brief kiss goodnight and I kind of felt like I was kissing a delicate lady.  Over the next few days he texted me a lot about going out to dinner.  I wasn’t sure if things had reached meal-level just yet, so I invited him to see my sister’s friend’s band play instead.

The night of the show, my sister and I chatted awkwardly with Matthew for an hour or so before the the band started playing.  He was virtually silent at first, but after two or three beers began talking non-stop about electrical wiring.  After my sister left, we moved to the bar for one more round and suddenly Matthew’s entire demeanor changed drastically.  Out of nowhere he started raising his voice about how everyone in Brooklyn is racist.  I was so shocked at this hostile turn of events, I just sat there with my mouth open.  “No one wants to talk to me when I go out!” he yelled, “why do I have to be the problem, why aren’t YOU PEOPLE the problem?!”  Oh dear.  I gently reminded him that I had gone out with him multiple times after meeting him in a bar, but he wasn’t listening.  He kept getting more and more worked up, to the point where he was sobbing and shouting “I never knew my father!  I was raised by a white woman, how am I supposed to know who I am!?”  I was torn between running out the door as fast as I could and staying to make sure he was okay because he was so upset.  “You are judging others more than they are judging you,” I told him, “people only care about whether or not you seem like a good person whom they would want to be around.”  In between sobs, he screamed “look around you!  Everyone in this bar is white!”  Clearly this conversation was going nowhere, so I suggested maybe he should leave if he didn’t like the bar.  “I’m not leaving!  You leave!  THIS IS MY BAR NOW!”  That’s it.  I told him I had already listened to his belligerent rant long enough and I was not going to entertain him any longer.  I turned to leave, but he aggressively grabbed my arm to stop me.  “Please don’t go, I’m sorry… Promise me that we can just pretend this didn’t happen and keep hanging out… I really need friends… Just tell me you’ll see me again.”  I looked around for the bartender I know in hopes that he would diffuse the situation, but he was no where in sight.  “To be honest?  No, I don’t want to see you again.  You obviously have a chip on your shoulder and need to work through some things for yourself.”  I pulled away from his grasp and ran out as quickly as possible, hiding around the corner from the bar and peering back to make sure he wasn’t following me.  What the hell just happened?!

The next day I received a text from Matthew that said  “I’m really sorry about last night and I’d really like to see you again.  Please know the chip on my shoulder isn’t me, it’s the chip.”  Uhhhh, what?  I told my coworkers the story about what had happened, to which one of them exclaimed “where on Earth do you FIND these people?!”  The bar…

My Month on Tinder

13 May

I finally gave in and tried Tinder for a month last fall.  The first thing I noticed was the incredible amount of insane names on there.  In one sitting alone, I came across a Festus, Yalph, Kamal, Marian, Hewlett, Boswell, Beathan, Riker, and Dumpit.  As much as men named after a prison, a printer, and a female librarian get me going… sadly, none of them appealed to me.  When I did eventually agree to meet someone, I was forced to cancel at the last minute because I was sick.  He said he didn’t mind rescheduling and then immediately sent a second text that read “But I’ve heard that sexting cures the common cold… my ex-girlfriend and I used to do it all the time ;)”  Noooooooo no no no!  Asking me to sext when I’ve never even met you AND hitting me with the ex-girlfriend double-whammy?  Amateur hour.

Without further ado, here are a few brief diary entries on my Tinder dates which, I hate to admit, almost made me miss OKCupid:

1.  The Silent Sound Engineer— Almost canceled on him after he left me not one, but TWO seven-second voicemails of himself heavily breathing.  Ended up meeting him at one of my favorite local bars.  Really cute face, but really shiny bald head– I could see the reflection of the Halloween decorations hanging over us in that head of his.  The date was short-lived after he told me he doesn’t drink because his parents used to force-feed him whiskey as a four year old and he has never gotten over it.  He offered to give me a ride home on his motorcycle and, although I only lived two blocks away, I let him cycle me around my neighborhood for awhile before retiring for the evening.  He was nice but too quiet and serious, so I didn’t respond to his request for a second date.

2.  My Manager’s Sister’s Ex-Boyfriend’s Brother—  Tinder tells you if you have any mutual Facebook friends, so I agreed to meet this man after I noticed that he was friends with my manager.  After a late arrival, he immediately remarked that he was surprised by how tall I am and expected someone shorter based on my pictures.  I asked him if he had even read my profile because I put my height on it, to which he responded by saying he was actually pleasantly surprised and found me very attractive.  He was bald and named after a fish, but his Caribbean accent was pleasing to the ear, so I stuck around for a few drinks before concocting an escape plan.  The next day at work I received a very X-rated text from him and that was the end of that.

3.  The Spanish Executive— I felt bad for making him come to my neighborhood in Brooklyn because he lived on the Upper West Side.  When he arrived, he appeared much older than I had thought and had airplane breath.  Told me right off the bat that he has two ex-wives and a ten-year-old son whom he travels to London to see every other month.  I blurted out “I’m almost thirty and always thought I would have at least one ex-husband by now!” before realizing that probably isn’t a helpful thing to say on a blind date.  He got really excited that I have pretty good Spanish vocabulary and, for the next two weeks after the date, texted me solamente en Español.  The texts started to get a little too racy when he invited me to some upscale French restaurant conveniently located next door to his apartment.  As much as I wanted a free Spanish tutor, the thought of watching someone’s dad slurp mollusks made me very uneasy.

4.  The Nerdy Accountant— This guy actually used to work in accounting for the same company I do (not in accounting) and had been my partner during a store inventory in Boston six years ago.  I couldn’t really remember his face and his Tinder picture looked like his head was floating in an amniotic sac… but I remembered him being funny during that fateful night so many years ago.  I imagined the great story we would have about how we met if it ended up working out.  It did not.  I met him at an over-priced German beer bar full of fools in Williamsburg.  He didn’t offer to pay for any of my drinks even though he had picked the place and even brought up how much more money he made than I.  He seemed a little uptight, smelled like he hadn’t washed his clothes in awhile, and also made a high-pitched whistling sound from his nostrils like an alarming tea kettle.  After he tried to talk to me about money-management and baseball (two things I know nothing about), I countered him with talk of lutes and red herrings and the date ended shortly thereafter.

5.  The Concert-Booking Ticket Guy—  We had a shared interest of one of my favorite bands, so I messaged him lamenting the fact that I had failed to get tickets for their upcoming show before it sold out.  He responded by telling me that he was going out of town that weekend and wanted to give me his tickets for free because I “seem like a good person.”  I never ended up meeting him, but stalked him on Facebook and found out that he is going through a divorce.  The show was awesome and the fact that a stranger would do something so nice for me renewed my faith in Tinder… for a few days.

6.  The Midwestern Architect—  I don’t remember anything about this date other than the fact that he was wearing one of those mock-turtleneck sweaters from LL Bean and he smelled like Miracle Whip.

7.  The Chubby Roadie—  Agreed to meet him because he had one picture of himself wearing a diaper and another of him cradling a koala atop his protruding belly, next to a sweaty goth in Australia.  On the date, he blatantly tried to get me drunk and threw back more shots in the span of an hour than I thought was humanly possible.  I quickly escaped after he made a couple homophobic remarks.  He continued to text me, but luckily got shipped off to Singapore to tune someone’s guitar a few days later so I was able to ease out of that one.

8.  The Creepy Face Paint Man— This guy was allegedly a Buddhist.  He also had very little body hair and would’ve made a great clown.  His profile picture was of him in full face paint and a top hat beaming like a maniac.  I don’t recall much of what we talked about, but he wore a wrist brace and spoke to me in a whisper.  To this day he still sends me Facebook messages once a month inviting me over for “chicken finger night” at his apartment with all of his friends.  That invitation sounds more dangerous than running in front of a speeding bus.  After one particular invite he even followed up with “You missed another fun, tasty evening!”  

In closing, what I learned from my month on Tinder is this:  The rumors are true… PEOPLE GO ON TINDER TO FIND PEOPLE TO HAVE A ONE NIGHT STAND WITH.  Sorry guys, not my thing.