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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.


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.

Soup Can Man

13 Nov

A little while ago I went on a second date with a guy named “Brad.”  Brad referred to himself as a “rising star of Manhattan real estate” and also fancied himself a singer of songs.  One of his profile pictures was a headshot (which if you’ve ever read my blog you know I always steer clear from), but I remembered him having a nice head of hair… so I agreed to go out with him a second time.

When I got to the bar, Brad texted me that he was biking from Manhattan to Williamsburg and running late.  Twenty minutes later he burst through the door, bellowing “You lookin’ for me?” at me from thirteen feet away.  He smelled as if he had just emptied an entire can of Axe Body Spray all over himself to cover up any biking-related odors.  I tried not to sneeze/vomit from the overwhelming fumes and surveyed the rest of Brad’s person.  He took off his coat and replaced it with a crumpled pinstripe blazer from inside his backpack.  As he stuffed himself into the jacket, I noticed something distressing hanging from his neck– not one, but TWO necklaces.  I was instantly reminded of the traumatic day that I made out with a Canadian wearing a leather choker several months prior.  Brad had on some sort of dark gothic cross necklace and a long red string with a large geode tied to the bottom of it.  The rock was bigger than a golf ball and I wondered how he biked around the city with that giant thing jangling against his chest.

Brad was cute, but naughty.  He was loud, southern, and made a lot of strange faces and poses.  At one point, I paused to send a quick email to myself (some notes on Brad for later reference) and when I looked up, he was standing and staring with pouty lips, leaned against the bar with his arm behind his back and hip jutted out– almost in a full side bend.  Brad was one of those people who flirt by teasing, and throughout the evening he made fun of my hair, my outfit, words I used, etc.  However, he didn’t know what he was getting himself into because I am the queen of comebacks.   He tried to assert himself by pointing out my insecurities… but I wasn’t the one fidgeting with straw paper and making nervous creations out of napkins.  By the end of the evening he was drunkenly slurring “Why don’t you wanna be my friend?… Why don’t you like me?… Why did you scream when I tried to kiss you?”

We hopped around to a few different spots, then Brad announced he was hungry.  He had the attention span of a baby wildebeest and I felt like we changed locales every fifteen minutes.  After having a light meal at some Japanese place in Williamsburg (where Brad was titillated when an old Asian lady told him he “look like the Brad Pitt!”) we ended up at The Levee.  Naturally, Brad felt this was a good time to bring up religion and was flabbergasted when I told him that I don’t associate myself with one.  He said “Surely your parents were raised religious!  Your grandparents?!”  He finally calmed down after I told him I think my dad’s sister is Lutheran… “Oh thank god” he sighed, “I’m Lutheran, too.”  He complained that every other girl he had gone out with on OKCupid lied about their weight and ended up being twenty pounds heavier than they were in their profile pictures.  He described various escape plans he was forced to carry out after being seized by these larger ladies.  He told me I looked exactly like his ex-girlfriend, which was creepy, but apparently his first compliment of the evening.  It pains me to admit it but I think we made out at the Levee.  I hate it when people make out in bars.

I went back to his place with him because it was close to the bar and I wanted to call a car service to take me home.  He had just moved into a four bedroom apartment with three other girls whom he didn’t know.  The living room was bland and small, but the real shock was his room.  I have never in my life seen a bedroom so messy.  Clothes and garbage were strewn all over– empty vodka bottles on the desk, plates and cups on the floor, and discarded soup cans with moldy soup remnants on his bare mattress.  I couldn’t decide if I was more surprised that this was the bedroom of Manhattan’s “rising star of real estate,” or by  the fact that he apparently ate soup straight from the can.

I wouldn’t say we “hooked up” per say… it was more like nudging a salted slug with a stick.  He tried to get me to spend the night but I wanted to get out of there as fast as I could.  On my way out, I thought it would be funny to sprinkle the free condoms we had gotten from the bar on the couch in the living room (Brad was in his room and missed this mischievous moment).  I then left the apartment, silently giggling to myself and simultaneously knocking a large wooden parrot off the wall in the hallway as I closed the door.  I tried to re-hang the bird to no avail and ran out of the building before my antics were discovered.  The next day I got this text from him:  “So what’s this I hear about condoms on my couch?”  Apparently his roommates were not amused when they discovered my condom deposit, and had left him a series of passive aggressive post-it notes about respect.  Oops.

Despite my prank, Brad invited me to watch a movie with him a few nights later.  “Where?”  I asked, “In your trash heap– I mean bedroom?”  He wrote back “You got me all wrong, baby.”  Ok, so despite his disgusting bedroom and caustic personality, Brad was mildly amusing for some reason…  But how do you tell someone you can’t hang out with them again because the smell of their body spray makes you physically ill?

The Boston Years Part 2

3 Aug

One night, I went to see some odd band at Bill’s Bar with a friend and the guy she was dating.  The band wasn’t my scene and my friend and I got separated in the crowd, so I headed towards the bar.  I selected the most attractive guy standing at the bar and sneaked my way in next to him.  Normally I would’ve just smiled, purchased my drink, and moved on… but this particular evening I was feeling ambitious.  I told him I had decided that he was the most attractive guy there, to which he responded by paying for my drink.  Bear in mind that now, in my old age of 27, nary am I that bold.  We shared another drink and the next thing I know we are balancing on a toilet, making out in the women’s restroom.  As things began to get as serious as they can be in a public restroom, suddenly I heard a loud male voice, shouting and banging on the stall door.  It was the bouncer, who had caught on to our antics and was kicking us out of the venue.  I threw my sweater back on before being aggressively escorted to the front door.  The bouncer asked for both of our IDs and I handed him my passport (I had lost my driver’s license earlier that month).  He photo-copied it and added it to a “Do Not Let In” list on the back wall of the ticket booth.  As I parted ways with the guy from the bar, I took his New York Yankees hat off his head and put it on (I never was a big Red Sox fan).  He told me we would have to hang out again so he could get it back.  The next day, I woke up with a new hat on my pillow and a friend request on Facebook.  It took me a few photos to figure out it was the guy from the night before- It had been dark and drunk.  I guess he took note of  my name while my passport photo was being plastered to the wall.  Needless to say, I never went to Bill’s Bar again and mystery man never got his hat back (sorry!).


A few months later, out again with my poor friend from school, I happened upon a guy who looked like he could’ve been the brother of my high school boyfriend.  They even had the same last name, it was weird.  He had a funny little sidekick with him that my friend spent the evening talking to while I was getting to know “Nathan”.  After the bar closed, Nathan suggested we all go back to their place to have another drink.  My friend wanted to go home, but I begged her to come with me because I didn’t want to go alone.  Once there, Nathan and I retired to his bedchambers while my friend was irritated with me in the living room.  We exchanged numbers and got together a few times after that.  The only things I can remember about him are that he was extremely attractive (he seriously could have been a model) and that he would booty-call me every other weekend or so.  Eventually we stopped texting each other and I started dating someone.  Several months later, I moved from an apartment in Allston to a new place in Brighton.  One day, I noticed my new next door neighbor coming out of his building at the same time I was leaving mine so I smiled and said “Hello”.  The neighbor turned and a look of horror came over his face.  It took me a minute to place who he was (I ran out of contacts back in ’07 and never bought more)… it was Nathan.  He must have just moved in as well.  A girl came skipping out of the building after him and he embraced her, hurrying her away.  Later that day I got a text from Nathan that read: “My girlfriend is really jealous.  Act like you don’t know me if we run into each other again.”  I never dreamed as a little girl, that by the time I was in my early twenties, I would have the opportunity to play the role of “The Other Woman” so many times.

The Boston Years Part 1

31 Jul

My first year in Boston was pretty wild.  I was living outside of the Midwest for the first time and was eager to meet the smart, interesting, well-dressed men of the East Coast.  What I wasn’t prepared for was the amount of “bros” there are in Boston.  Bros who wear baggy pants, sports jerseys, and spiked Backstreet Boy hair.  Who use the words “wicked” and “fag” in every other sentence and often have accents so thick they’re unintelligible.  Not everyone in Boston is a gigantic tool, however, and I did happen upon a small handful of nice guys.  During my first year and a half there, I went through a period where I experimented with a few one-night stands.  Here is my little dedication to the wild years of my early 20s.  (Note: These stories do not involve any of the aforementioned “nice guys.”)

On weekends, I used to frequent a bar called The Last Drop with another girl from my program.  The crowd usually consisted of mostly bros, but one night I met a guy who looked remarkably like a young John Stamos.  He was there with his friend, who let’s just say did not look like a young John Stamos.  We spent the evening chatting and exchanged numbers.  The next day, I remembered that I had met a cute guy and gotten his number but I couldn’t remember his name or what he did.  A few weeks later, I was back at The Last Drop with a couple thespians from my school, and the same guy was there again!  I’m pretty sure I called him “John” the entire time I knew him because of his likeness to Stamos… and he never told me what his name really was.  Naturally, I went home with him that night in a bit of a drunken stupor.  The next morning I woke up in a queen-sized bed surrounded by shelves and shelves of books.  I looked to my left, and John was laying next to me.  I looked to my right and my gay classmate was asleep on my other side.  Hmmmm.  I got up and went into a huge modern kitchen for a glass of water before returning to John’s bed to sort out the events of the previous evening.  John and I had hooked up (I definitely remembered that) while my classmate had watched cartoons in the other room with his roommate.  (He told me later he had accompanied me back to John’s house so I wouldn’t get murdered.)  He eventually crawled into bed with us while we were sleeping because he didn’t want to sleep on the couch.  I marveled at John’s leather-bound collection of the complete works of William Shakespeare, and he told me he was a Shakespeare professor at Harvard.  Excuse me?  I excitedly told him about how I was studying theatre and currently working on a monologue from “Pericles”, but he didn’t really seem that interested.  My friend and I took a cab back to school to work on some music together.  I’m sure I ran into John a few more times after that, we may have even hooked up again… but eventually I stopped hearing from him.

There was a bartender named “Chris” who worked at The Last Drop (where I had met John).  He was really cute, spoke fluent Spanish and Portuguese, played guitar in a band, and flirted with all the girls at the bar.  Chris was always working when I stopped by, and eventually he started giving me free drinks and inviting me to hang out at the bar after they closed.  One night, after a few Jager Bombs, he invited me back to his apartment.  This time I didn’t have a body guard with me.  It was the first time I had gone to a strange guy’s apartment alone, but after a brief drunken assessment of the situation, I deemed it safe.  Once there, Chris wasted no time in dropping trou and throwing me on the bed.  His excitement was a nice change from the awkward relations that had transpired with John a couple months prior.  I guess Chris got a little too excited, however, because all of a sudden there was blood dripping down his face and chest.  He flailed around the room and grabbed a discarded t-shirt, holding it to his nose and tipping his head back.  I sat there, naked, not knowing what to do or say, so I giggled and said “Hey, at least it didn’t get on your sheets…That’d be real bitch to get out!”  He told me to leave.  He was obviously horrified and I felt for him… but come on, getting a bloody nose during coitus is funny.  That weekend, I found a new dive bar to go to and never went back to The Last Drop again.  I hear it closed.

The British Dude

1 Jul

When I was twenty years old, I was attending a private women’s college in the middle of Missouri.  I was cute and optimistic, drove a Lexus, had a fake ID, and was basically the type of college kid I would want to smack today.  My friends and I went to bars all the time and boys from the university would clumsily attempt to pick us up.  I never reciprocated their advances because I had been in a series of serious relationships for the past four or five years of my life (most of high school and all of college up to that point).

However, the first semester of my senior year, I had just gotten out of a year-and-a-half -long turbulent and detrimental relationship with a former classmate.  All of a sudden, I was single and all too ready to take full advantage of my newfound freedom.  One night early in the school year, my friends and I went to this sports bar that we had been known to frequent.  Next to our table was a raucous group of British guys, who, at the insistence of one of my friends, joined our group.  I began chatting with a young chap from London named Jack, who was doing a semester abroad.  I’m not even going to change his name because that is one of the only things I remember about him- it was seven years ago and I had undoubtedly imbibed multiple gin and tonics at this point in the evening.  I also remember him being extremely attractive, in addition to having a charming accent.  My friend suggested I bring him back to my apartment to hang out with us further (we all lived in the same building).  I had never picked up a guy in a bar before.  I didn’t know the protocol for this procedure, but I had definitely taken a liking to this rugby-shirted individual.  He ended up walking back to my apartment with me, where we discovered our shared love of The Streets (I really liked them in college, it’s true).  My curious friend joined the party for a bit… and then you can probably assume what happened next.

The next morning, we got up and he offered to buy me some tacos from Taco Bell on the way back to his dorm.  Best morning-after modus operandi still to this day.  For whatever reason, months earlier, I had stuffed two Cadbury eggs in a balloon and tied it to my rearview mirror so it looked like a scrotal sack (which is a really good word to use when playing Hangman, by the way).  I didn’t even think twice about my “balls” because I was so used to them hanging there, but Jack cupped them in his hand and asked “What’s this, Love?”  I wanted to roll him up and eat him like a burrito, he was so cute.

We enjoyed a chalupa-fueled final moment together, I dropped him off at his dorm, and never saw him again.  He’s probably married somewhere in Europe with gorgeous, blonde, rugby-playing babies.  I guess I really missed the boat on that one!

Mambo Italiano

8 Mar

There was a time that I allowed myself to be seduced by an Italian man named Massimo.  I was in my early twenties, living in the Back Bay area of Boston and attending school.  My friend was dating an Italian named Carlo who was a jazz pianist with good hair and a bad attitude.  One fateful evening, I went with her to see Carlo’s jazz ensemble play at the Lenox Hotel.  I was instantly attracted to Massimo (the drummer), so I stuck around for drinks with them after the show.  He had cute facial hair, a shaved head, some sort of agreeable sweater situation…and he barely spoke any English.  Or maybe he did and I just couldn’t understand him.  The only thing I could make out that he kept repeating over and over throughout the night was “It’s-a because of the chianti!”  When he started getting very forward with his hands, when he knocked over the artisanal cheese platter, when he whispered in my ear to come back to his place- it was all because of the chianti.  He happened to live right across the street from my school and I had my rape whistle, so I figured going to his apartment for another drink couldn’t hurt.

My memory becomes fuzzy at that point, but I do recall a consensual tussle that escalated to the point where both of us landed on the floor- sending sheets, focaccia, and wine flying into the air.  “DIO MIO!” Massimo cried as chianti dripped down his face and through his ample chest hair.  I thanked him for introducing me to the charm of a good Italian (uh, wine) and left him in a befuddled puddle.

That was the first and last I saw of young Massimo, but I emailed him last year after hearing that he also lives in Brooklyn now.  He responded that he is still playing music and lives in Williamsburg with his girlfriend.

Break my heart why don’t ya, Massimo.

Grocery Ghosts

13 Feb

A couple days ago, I stopped at Trader Joe’s to procure some ingredients for a big dinner I was planning to make.  Operation “Staying Off the Streets and in the Kitchen” as I like to call it.  As usual, there was a massive line that wrapped halfway around the store and the little dudes in Hawaiian shirts were holding their “End of Line” signs somewhere betwixt the potatoes and the tortillas.  As I rounded the corner to join the line, my eyes locked with a familiar face.  I probably gasped audibly as I retreated and sought refuge in the raw meat aisle.  I looked a mess; no makeup, Thomas Jefferson hair, sweatshirt, and jeans.  Anyone who knows me knows that I rarely wear pants.  If you see me in jeans I’m either having some sort of personal crisis, or it’s a full moon.  I didn’t want to run into this individual looking like this, but was also in a hurry, so I took my chances and got in line.

Five years ago, I went to Pittsburgh to audition for the Civic Light Opera.  I was in school still and had traveled from Boston with an assortment of bright-eyed Sondheim-loving gals.  After the auditions, my classmates wanted to go back to the hotel and go to bed.  I had other ideas.  I met Jerad, with whom I had attended an intensive theatre program in Michigan for a summer when I was seventeen.  He went to college in Pittsburgh and that particular night happened to be his birthday.  We went back to his house where a big party was being held…and drinking games were taking place.  The game was very simple: play “Roxanne” by The Police and every time the name Roxanne is heard, everyone has to drink.  Let me tell you, the chorus in that song repeats a LOT of times.  Next thing I know, Jerad and I are behind closed doors in his room and I am pouring a bottle of expensive whiskey all over his naked body.

Five years later, I was in line at Trader Joe’s, holding shallots and prosciutto while peering creepily at the back of his head.  He was there with a girl, so it turned out neither of us wished to acknowledge the other.  I purchased my groceries and got out of there safe and sound.  That was enough excitement for one day, time to get back to the kitchen.

Clay Aiken

10 Dec

Clearly I did not have relations with Clay Aiken.  He is gay and looks like a prawn.  But the name of the individual in question rhymes with Clay Aiken, so here we are.

I knew this person for one day.  He was a friend of a friend that I went to college with.  Mr. Aiken was an actor who recently moved to New York via Missouri.  He is one of those people that posts what I call “Living the dream” updates on Facebook about all the auditions he is going on, and “New York moments” he’s enjoying in the big city.  He looked a bit like a horse in the mouth, had abnormally long toes, white sunglasses, and was shaped like a question mark.  Was nice though, and funny enough.

We went to the beach with my roommate and the aforementioned college friend, drank all day, drove back, and continued the festivities into the night at the restaurant my roommate worked at.  I am conjuring a slight memory of a salmon burger… but I can’t be certain.  The next thing I remember is waking up the next morning for work massively hungover and nude– next to a bag of biscuits.  I didn’t want my roommate to learn that I had plundered her Pillsburys in a naked stupor, so on my way to work I disposed of the evidence in the kosher trash receptacle of a Hasidic neighbor.

This scenario began my reputation at work which is summed up by the quote “I made ya some biscuits, but ya can’t sleep over!”  Anyway, I tried to chat with Clay online after our 1-day stand, to be buddies or whatever normal people do, but he wasn’t into it.  And I can’t say that I really care.

Arnold Bistro

7 Dec

I was about to leave the Corner Bistro when I was approached by Arnold.  He was a muscular, tan, fifty-something year old man in a disconcerting retro shirt and of course, white pants.  He wasted no time in letting me in on the fact that he was gracing me with his presence because he was “sexually attracted” to me.  After bestowing upon me the gift of several glasses of cheap wine, he offered to drive me home in his Pontiac Firebird convertible.  I agreed, which I soon regretted after standing on the corner for twenty minutes, watching him wrestle with the hood of his car in tight, white linen slacks.  I didn’t want to make him to drive all the way to Brooklyn, so he dropped me off in the East Village instead.  After he pulled me in for an aggressive kiss, I got out and took the train the rest of the way.  By the time I reached my apartment, I had received two drunken voicemails from Arnold telling me how confusing I am for leaving him to probably go meet up with another guy, and how he wanted me to be his date to all of his “exclusive events.”

Despite the discernible red flags, I was intrigued by the attention from an older man and ended up agreeing to a date with him the following week.  He met me at a random sports bar in Chelsea donning yet another pair of white pants, this time combined with a white shirt that accented what I venture to guess was not his natural skin tone.  He complained more than once about the fact that my wine was not included in the happy hour special after he offered to buy me drinks.  The original plan was to go out for sushi afterwards, but he decided half-way through happy hour that it would be a better idea to make a salad together at his apartment.  At this point it was difficult for me to ignore the sinking suspicion that a sensual salad tong reach-around was imminent, yet still I forged ahead.

After an awkward and lengthy grocery store trip, we walked at least fifteen blocks to his apartment.  It was in a really nice part of the East Village but his furnishings were that of a late-twenties thrift store junkie.  It also had no air conditioning and an allegedly noise-sensitive transvestite neighbor.  Arnold got out several albums from his massive record collection to impress me after he learned of my love and knowledge of classic rock.  In between sweating profusely, shushing me and periodically turning down the music (due to an alleged irritable transvestite neighbor), he scolded me for setting an album cover on the table in case there was salad dressing on it.  He then regaled me with tales of various other women he was seeing, his close threesome encounter with a cast member of “The Good Wife,”  and his own ex-wife.  Apparently he ran a modeling agency when he was younger and had married one of his models.  All of a sudden, sweaty and misty-eyed, he reclined on me…and wasn’t the Emerson, Lake, and Palmer song that was playing romantic?  Eventually, he gathered that I was not going to sleep with him, so he walked me to the train.

A week or so later, I went to the Bistro with a coworker.  Arnold happened to be there, wasted and obnoxious.  He was pissing off the bartender, harassing several bar patrons, and insulting my coworker.  Finally, after I made it clear I wanted nothing to do with him, he announced he was leaving– but not before grabbing my face to try and kiss me.  On his way out, he invited me to be his date for an event at the Museum of Sex the following week and told me to text him the next day if I was interested.  Obviously, I was not.  The day before the event, I received this text: “Haven’t heard from you so we will get together another time.  :-) Arnold.  P.S. SEX MUSEUM.”

2011: The summer of love.