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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.

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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.

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…

Hey You: A Soliloquy

30 Apr

I hadn’t been at the bar ten minutes when a brash bag of wind swooped in and hit me with this monologue.  He had patchy blonde facial hair and a rusty jacket that looked like it was straight out of a Dickens novel.  Upon his departure, I remained frozen in time, reduced to a stone statue for the next hundred years until the curse could be reversed.

“Hey you.  What are you thinking about?  Don’t worry… I promise I’m not hitting on you.  I’m just here to look for friends.  But you are too cute to be sitting all by yourself.  Have you ever been in love?  Like, REAL love?  I was once.  But who’s to say what’s real and what is not?  Guess what?  Next week I’m off to a Peruvian jungle to do hallucinogenic drugs and eat nothing but ants in a Shamanistic rite of passage ceremony.  I’ve already done peyote in the New Mexican desert and that worked out really well for me sooooo.  Oh, I’m MUCH more confident now.  I mean, you didn’t know me before, but don’t you think?  By the way, do you like war?  I have a theory that anyone who watches football is actually pro-war.  It is, after all, just glorified battle, isn’t it?  Take the Super Bowl, for example.  We wait all year to cheer as two opposing sides violently crash into each other for a few hours.  If that doesn’t symbolize war, I don’t know what does.  What was your New Years resolution?  Did you follow it?  I don’t believe in resolutions.  That’s a nice handbag you have there.  Pretty basic, though.  I care a lot about fashion… but I don’t go too high end.  What I REALLY love is a good airplane carry-on.  Mine is vintage.  It’s from the 1940s, which is coincidentally the time period I was actually meant to be alive during.  Well, nice talking with you, but I have to be up early.  I have to go check out some dunes in Jamaica Bay tomorrow morning.  You know, Hurricane Sandy and all.”

A Man Called Goat

23 Apr

I spent the past week in Austin where, as you can imagine, I encountered many colorful cowboys.  I received two marriage proposals while I was there– the first from a one-legged homeless man, and another from a flirtatious two-stepper who proposed marriage to me and then followed my male friend into the men’s room and asked him if his pubic hair was straight or curly.  But perhaps my favorite of all the Texan characters I met while I was here was a 44-year-old metalhead named Goat.

My friend and I happened upon a bar on Sixth Street that was playing softcore torture porn on their big screen TVs.  We were about to close our tab and journey onward when an assortment of aging metalheads blew into the bar like a warm spring breeze.  We looked at each other and agreed that we needed to stick around for a couple more rounds at this point.  Minutes later, a particularly amusing Metallica fan who had been playing the worst game of pool I’ve ever seen came over to me and introduced himself as “Goat.”  I asked him what happened with his game and he replied in a smooth Southern accent “I lost by sinking the eight ball in the wrong hole.  Although I don’t believe in wrong holes.”  Oh my.  Goat was wearing a red bandana tied around a full head of salt and pepper hair that went down to his waist, a full beard, pants that were tight in the butt and loose in the legs, a red shirt, and the essential denim vest covered in various band buttons.

Goat and his sidekick, Freddie, invited us to play pool with them and Freddie was no better at hitting balls with sticks than Goat was.  Each time it was my turn, Goat would tell me which ball to aim for and from which angle to hit it.  I kindly reminded him that he had lost every game up to this point in record time.  While playing, I learned that Goat was in a metal band called Pain Through Fate.  I looked it up on Facebook and found a photo of the band which depicted five forty-year-olds posing under a ceiling fan in someone’s living room.  The band’s description reads “Conveying the insane fucked up hurdles of life through the intensity of Metal.”  After telling him I live in New York, he informed me that he will be playing a solo show there in the next few weeks at some venue where the opening acts include a girl who covers herself in fake blood and a guy who gets naked onstage and eats cat food.

After losing the most embarrassing game in the history of billiards, I noticed that Freddie had suddenly disappeared into thin air.  Goat made little attempt to locate his comrade, but ample attempts to cop a feel.  It was time for me to depart.

The next day, I was telling the story at my friend’s bar and several of her regulars expressed that they were familiar with Goat.  “Well I guess with a name like ‘Goat,’ you’re bound to have a reputation around town” I said.  “That’s nothin!” a man in a giant lonestar flag shirt bellowed at me, “I also know a Hog, a Catfish, a Lunchbox, and a Juicebox.”

Do I HAVE to go back to New York?

Small World

27 Mar

I must confess: I have a favorite pick up line.  Not that I parade around town trying to pick people up all the time, but it’s nice to know I have it in my back pocket in case of emergency.

Imagine you have spied a pleasing prospect sitting near you at your local watering hole.  Casually do a double-take at him and say "You look really familiar, but I can’t place how I know you… is your name Bill?”  Or whatever name pops into your head at the moment.  The worst he can do is say "No sorry, you have the wrong person” and walk away.  But that usually doesn’t happen.  Usually there will be some sort of cute exchange, followed by an exchanging of real names, and the next thing you know you’re exchanging phone numbers.  My success rate with this method has been high and I was very confident in my execution… until one night when I encountered a small error.

On this particular evening, my coworker and I were out at a bar and she was on the prowl.  After several rounds of tequila, she expressed her interest in a tall, Nordic-looking individual a few seats down.  She thought he was cute, but didn’t know how to start a conversation.  I told her to watch and learn.

“Hey!  Is your name Mike?”
“Yeah it is… do I know you?”
“Oh shit.”

I saved face by “figuring out” that he was NOT the same Mike who was a mutual friend of my imaginary boyfriend’s half-sister whom I had met at a party.  Oops, silly me!  Despite my awkwardly spot-on name guessing, it still worked out for my friend because they soon began dancing and eventually pinning each other against the wall in a sensual embrace.  Meanwhile, his nerdy friend had started talking to me and, although he kind of looked like the offspring of Mr. Bean and an extraterrestrial, I felt left out so I danced with him.  Both guys were comedians (who isn’t these days), and they were both very peculiar dancers.  The guy I was with moved like he was attempting a deep gyration atop the highest of crow’s nests on the most blustery day at sea.  But I still let him kiss me before we left as Mike and my friend were exchanging numbers.

A week later, my coworker texted me before work saying that she had to tell me something.  All of the terrible possibilities of what it could be ran through my head.  Was I in trouble for something at work?  Did something bad happen to her?

“Remember that twenty-four year old comedian you made out with last week?” was how I was greeted upon arrival.  "Vaguely.”  She went on to tell me that it turns out he is some sort of comedic sensation on the internet with a substantial fan base… and one of those fans happens to be another one of our coworkers.  Apparently this other coworker divulged to my friend that she had gone to see her favorite comedian do stand up, and they had gotten drinks afterwards then gone back to her place.  She was upset because she hadn’t heard from him in weeks and, to make matters worse, he made a YouTube video about how her cat watched them have sex.  My friend had figured out that it was the same person when the other coworker showed her one of his videos online.

UH OH.

We agreed to pretend that never happened and try harder to steer clear from comedians in the future.  They really are nothing but trouble.

The 1973 Cuddler

7 Nov

When you realize that someone dressed like a cast member from That 70s Show has followed you home from the bar, there are a variety of actions that can be taken.  Speaking from personal experience, my recommendation is as follows:

The second the flame of that candle you just lit reflects off of his groovy belt buckle, illuminating his lava lamp printed shirt tucked a little too far into a ladies bootcut jean– an escape plan must be set into motion.

Excuse yourself for a moment and hastily evaluate whether your acting skills are in tact enough to execute a believable onset of nausea and vomiting.  If not, receive an emergency email that a 6am meeting has been scheduled at work and if you oversleep you will surely be fired… so he really must leave at once!  Do not attempt both, or your credibility may be weakened.  And don’t try to take the easy way out– sitting on the floor in the middle of the room, eating a slice of cold pizza with your eyes closed, hoping he will simply disappear (I’ve tried it, it doesn’t work).

The polite thing to do is to take a raincheck and offer your number to Wavy Gravy on his way out the door.  But do not be alarmed when you wake up the next morning to several text messages expressing his disdain that the two of you didn’t get a chance to “cuddle” because you kicked him out after a hot five minutes of candlelit pizza eating and fake barfing.

Brett Makes Art

28 Apr

Here is a reblog of one of my posts from February 2012. This is one of my favorite bad dates.

What's in the Box?

Last month, I agreed to a blind date at Bacaro, an Italian restaurant in the Lower East Side.  I was nervous because I had only met people from the website for drinks, never dinner.  To make matters worse, all of the online reviews illustrated what a romantic date spot Bacaro is.  A romantic dinner with a complete stranger and I was wearing a gigantic unflattering turquoise sweater?  Disaster.  To calm my nerves, I had a glass of wine after work with a sympathetic coworker prior to meeting my date.  Upon finding the restaurant, the guy (we’ll call him “Brett”) immediately looked me up and down and I could tell he was unimpressed by my slight tardiness.  He looked older than thirty-five but had a fetal face, was skinny and pale, and I noticed his hairline had receded a bit further since his profile picture was taken.  He led me down…

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9 Mar

***Here is another reblog from last year. This is one of my favorite OKCupid adventures to date! (No pun intended)***

What's in the Box?

Beware, New Yorkers…there is a 40 year old Argentinean artist who preys on unsuspecting young women on the loose!

His initial pick-up line was: “I am an artist and any relationship of any type for me goes first through images. I am working on a project invovling pictures of women smoking –especially if they are tall. Would like to take yours. Not only I consume art, am consumed by it, but also I frequently exibit mine and write about other people’s. I believe that posesivness is a negative trait. Everything else can be everything else.”  After including this message in one of my “Suitors of the Week” posts, another blogger contacted me saying that she had received the exact same proposition from this guy.

I initially ignored him because he sounded totally creepy, but the next night (after a few glasses of wine) I decided to respond to his inane message. …

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