Archive | February, 2013

A Fire Down Below

26 Feb

Gather ’round young souls, for I will now share with you the story of the time I lit my underwear on fire.  It doesn’t have much to do with my love life, I suppose, but may give you some perspective into the breed of lady you are dealing with here.  Bear in mind this was several years ago and I have undeniably gained poise, self-discipline, and some sort of fashion sense since then.

So there I was, ringing in the year 2006 by dancing with a bunch of sexy guys at the hottest party in town.  And by that I of course mean dancing under some black lights with my stoner guy friends in someone’s living room in the middle of Wisconsin.  I had recently turned 21 and was proudly sporting one of my signature looks: a low-cut shirt paired with super low-rise flared jeans exposing the top of my thong.  The fact that my underwear was often peaking out from my pants was not really a fashion choice, but more of a lack of effort to dress myself correctly.  If my friends and coworkers today could only see the outfit I was wearing on this fateful eve, I would probably lose my job… and maybe a few friends to boot.  But I was feeling super cute that night, holding a cigarette in one hand and a plastic cup in the other.  You may venture to guess my state at this point was less than sober… when I administered a gyration great enough to knock the lit end off my cigarette and down my shirt.  I didn’t even notice until an intense burning sensation on my torso truncated my groove.  My first instinct was to shake it out of my shirt, but in doing so I sent it straight down to the protruding neon pink mesh belonging to my thong.  I watched the top of my underwear first begin to smoke, then turn to flame as I pointed and laughed with my friends like a big idiot.  Luckily, my sister was nearby and ran over to fan and pat out the flame arising from my undies.  The cigarette had burned a hole through my shirt and the front of my thong, and I still have little round burn marks on my skin at both locations.

“The time my sister put out my underwear fire” is a cherished family story that often gets told over the Christmas turkey.  But I feel like I can talk to you about anything, Mr. Internet, so now you know my story, too.

A Hair Scare

17 Feb

As you may have gathered by this point, I have a weakness for musicians… particularly if they are bearded and out of control.  So when a tall, hairy, lumberjack-looking guitar player asked me out for drinks on OKCupid, I immediately agreed.  He made a point of mentioning how busy he was with his band on his profile, so I figured he had to be at least somewhat talented.

We planned to meet at a bar in South Williamsburg called Burnside at a reasonable hour one evening late last spring.  I arrived first (as usual) and eyed the cheese curds being consumed next to me with a deep longing and regret.  I reminded myself that a first date with a guitarist is neither the time nor place for an emotional cheese transaction, and thus abstained.  A few minutes later, a pair of cowboy boots saddled up next to me.  They were attached to a pair of do-able jeans and a tank top belonging to “John,” my date.  I repeat: a tank top.  As you may have also noted, I have had a wide variety of experiences with urban cowboys (see: this guy and this guy) but never had I seen such a long and pointy toe– which seemed to get longer and longer as the night went on.  And even the boldest of urban cowboys usually doesn’t pair a pointy-toed boot with a tank top.  We ordered drinks and began to chat.  He was cute, but obviously shy and a little… off.  Music was his life and dating was hard for him since he had recently been a roadie on tour with a band and was now starting a new band with one of the members.  “Maybe you’ve heard of them?  They’re kind of big,” he said with a hint of haughtiness, “Remember the song ‘Stacy’s Mom’?”

Just stop right there and don’t go any further.

I responded with a look that I hope came off more aroused than aghast and frantically ordered another round, which he did not attempt to pay for.  As the clock struck eleven, I said I should probably be heading home soon and he agreed, yawning and stretching his arms to the heavens– the international “I’m Tired” gesture.  It was then that I saw it.  Or rather, didn’t see it.  Where most adult men have armpit hair… there was not a hair to be found!  His pits were as smooth as a baby’s bottom, as they say.  I casually examined his other parts and ascertained that he was not wearing a wig, and had hair both on his arms and chest.  I did not care to carry out this research any further, so John and I said our goodbyes.

A few months later, I was eating more tacos than is socially acceptable at a restaurant in Greenpoint… when who do you think walks in and sits down at the bar next to me– but John.  Neither of us had contacted the other after our awkward date and it was clear that we didn’t want to be noticed by the other during our lunch that day.  We never made eye contact, but every time he looked down to send a text, I shot glances at his pits to try and see if anything had sprouted during the past few months.  Unfortunately, he was wearing a shirt with sleeves this time and never lifted his arms up.  He finished his margarita and left the building as I took a moment to come to terms with the fact that I would never know what was up with that dude’s armpits.

Maybe he was a swimmer?  Perhaps a woman?  Or maybe Stacy’s mom just likes them to look really young.

Whatever.  Keep on rocking, man.

Modern Romance

8 Feb

One of the best things about having this blog is that readers always want to share their  stories with me.  I love hearing about other people’s crazy dating experiences!  If you have a good one, please feel free to share.  Here are some particularly romantic ones that I’ve heard recently:

“A guy just messaged me on OKCupid asking me to visit him in prison.”

“A few weeks ago I had sex in the desert at five AM next to a giant cow carcass that still had some of its skin on it.”

“My first OKCupid blind date was with a girl who surprised me by taking me to an art class.  She painted a river of blood and confessed she had a fetish for men with protruding hip bones.”

“I dated a guy who slept naked on a yoga mat on the floor and the only time he left his mat was to bet a dollar on a horse.  We broke up because he told me that he didn’t feel like we were ‘marching towards marriage’.”

“The other night I went into the bedroom of the guy I’m dating and noticed that there was a turd on his desk chair.  But he ran over and grabbed it before I could say anything.”

“My first OKCupid date held his napkin to my face and asked me to tell him if it smelled like chloroform.  At the end of the night he kissed me teeth first.  It hurt.”

“I’m fairly certain the hot nineteen year old girl from OKCupid that I’ve been corresponding with for two months is actually my homosexual male upstairs neighbor.”

“Once I went on an OKCupid date with a man who revealed to me that he lived under a bush in Central Park.”

“While I was on tour I woke up next to what looked like an elderly man with tits and a bleached wig.  I think I need to delete my OKCupid because this is becoming a problem.”

I don’t know whether to feel jealous or lucky.

Lemme Sleep on Your Couch

2 Feb

There is a bar in Brooklyn called Union Pool, perhaps you’ve heard of it?  Union Pool is known for being a major hook-up bar for Williamsburg singles and numerous friends looking for a “quick-fix” have struck gold there.  Weekends are more than I can handle– the place is crawling with wasted youngsters (many of whom have just recently moved to New York) served by a team of moody bartenders.  Weeknights are only slightly more bearable.

So a year and a half ago when my roommate suggested we head over to Union Pool as I was getting ready for bed, you can imagine how adamant I was about that NOT happening.  She begged and bargained– “I’ll buy you a drink… I’ll buy ALL your drinks… my friend from work is coming and he’ll drive us there and back!”  FINE.  It’s always a challenge to say no to free drinks paired with free rides.  Her “friend from work” arrived ten minutes later and I can only describe him as a plump, bald, Uncle Fester lookalike from the hood.  As we loaded into his white Acura, I wondered if I was about to be kidnapped and should leave behind some forensic evidence.  Uncle Fester was silent during the ride, even as my roommate was squeezing his extremities and asking him if he ever liked to play with himself while driving.

My roommate was a wild woman.  Once, she tried to drive us to Rockaway Beach, but ended up at the LaGuardia Airport, then the JFK Airport, and then in Connecticut.  Another time, she decided we should have a firepit in our backyard (in the middle of Brooklyn, mind you) even after I told her there was no way it wasn’t illegal not to mention a huge fire hazard.  The first night she lit her pit, she left the apartment to go get more wine.  I was watching TV in my pajamas when there was a thunderous knock on the door.  About ten firemen burst past me and made their way to the back patio.  After surveying the situation they instructed me to go get a bowl of water and dump it on the pit until the fire was out, all the while giving me an earful about fire safety in the city.  They left before my roommate got back… but you can be sure I relayed the lecture to her.  She responded “Well, why would they sell firepits at Home Depot if you’re not allowed to use them?  I think the firemen are wrong about that law.  Were any of them sexy?”

Anyway, once the white Acura pulled up at Union Pool, our odd trio entered and saddled up at the bar next to a couple doing shoulder choreography.  My roommate began her night by grinding on a barstool while simultaneously tugging on the hair of a wooden Native American head that was on one of the tap handles.  Typical.  I think her next move was to instruct Uncle Fester to buy us a round of shots, which he did.  She rewarded him with a brief kiss for his troubles, before sending him on his merry way and prowling for other eligible specimens.  I was sitting in a booth with another friend I had run into at the bar when my roommate approached me with a tall, dark, attractive man.  Either she had found him attractive but was scheming on someone else, or she found him attractive and wanted to pass him off to me first to see if he liked me better.  This was a regular game with us (see The Farter).  He sat down next to me and she put his hands on my legs (again, the usual M.O.).  The night starts getting a little blurry at this point, but we must have hit it off to some degree… because I woke up the next morning confused and alarmed… on his couch.  First I checked to make sure I still had all my teeth.  Then I checked to make sure I still had on all my clothes.  I breathed a huge sigh of relief when I got up and found that I even had my shoes on still.  Thank god– no funny business had transpired.  The man was still fast asleep in his bed as I crept out of the apartment as quietly as I could.  I remembered that he had kissed me the night before…  but I couldn’t remember going back to his apartment or even what his name was.  Yes, an emergency evacuation was necessary.  Outside the building I had no clue where I was, but eventually found a cab and made it to work only a few minutes late.

I think this was the harsh moment that I learned the importance of “no means no.”  From then on, if my roommate asked me to go to a bar with her at midnight, no meant no.  If a cute stranger whose name I didn’t even know invited me back to his apartment, no meant no.  I don’t live with this roommate anymore, which means that my chances of anything wild and exciting happening went down… along with my chances of being murdered.  Also, I think that was the last time I went to Union Pool, because having a one night stand with a stranger’s couch isn’t cute.