Tag Archives: Blind Dating

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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Planet Lars

4 Sep

I’m going to get the moral of the story out of the way now in case you’re pressed for time.  Here it is, my friends:  Do not get a tattoo on an OKCupid date.  I repeat, DO NOT GET A TATTOO ON AN OKCUPID DATE.

Last November, I met a wealthy Texas oil tycoon named Lars.  Well, actually his parents were wealthy– he was on a monthly allowance, livin’ in the big city in the name of a most noble accolade: a doctorate in philosophy.  I don’t remember much about our first date.  It was at Art Bar, my former go-to blind date spot (when I used to date).  That night, I recall being pleasantly surprised by the fellow before me– he was cute, well-dressed, and insanely smart.  A little on the skinny side, but you can’t have it all.  He had a charming gap between his front teeth, which I saw a lot of… because he talked a mile a minute the entire evening.  When I would attempt to interject, he would freeze for a polite nanosecond, then pick right back up where he had left off, as if restarting his paused cassette tape.  I gleaned that he didn’t take social cues very well.

Acute Asperger’s aside, I was enthralled by this strange specimen of mankind.  His stories were detailed and funny– prior to our first date he had come from a city-wide scavenger hunt for pig-related merchandise with a clan of fellow Texan trust fund babies who, during which, had somehow gotten themselves mixed up in an illicit exchange gone awry between two moving train cars.  Who does that before a first date?  I was further intrigued by him after a little innocent cyber-stalking turned up some eyebrow-raising results.  First, I found a seemingly dormant Facebook page with an all-American relationship picture of him and a cute blonde girl.  It seemed he had also been in the Navy (which fit with the blonde girl)… then in rehab for a spell… then Rose McGowan’s personal assistant in LA– before she publicly and scathingly fired him for putting her in the wrong car at Chateau Marmot (seriously, it’s on YouTube).  He had mentioned in his compatibility questions on OKCupid that he had had a homosexual encounter in the past, and joked to me about a male colleague attempting to touch him in an very un-collegiate manner.  So I was a little on the fence about his sexuality AND his sanity at this point… but fascinated nonetheless.

Lars and I continued to hang out in various dive bars around town and he certainly never lacked in the entertainment department.  Once, he said he had turned down a date with a sexually frustrated foreign exchange student who had suggested they meet for the first time in the bathroom of an all-you-can-eat buffet.  Another time, he showed up to a sports bar in Midtown wearing a tuxedo.  Then there was the time when he recollected a German stripclub he had recently visited where the performer "made an origami house out of a dollar bill, then wrote a postcard to her sister, then shot a banana into the air– all with her… well, you know.”  But my favorite story of all was the one about his stalker.  Apparently, someone who claimed to be a 19-year-old girl had been contacting him on OKCupid for months– bringing up personal information about him, trying to persuade him to email her naked pictures of himself, and sending him packs of his brand of cigarettes anonymously through campus mail.  Every time he attempted to meet this person, something would suddenly come up and she would have already left the bar/concert/etc by the time he arrived.  He thought it might be a lovestruck undergraduate in one of the classes he was TA’ing… I thought it was probably another man who wanted to probe his corduroys.

And then we got tattoos together.  I wish there was some sensational build-up to it, but I think we were simply out at a bar one night and someone suggested we get tattooed.  They don’t match– his is an anchor and mine is a flower– but it certainly was a bonding experience at the time.  Afterwards, we sat huddled together in a nearby pub, comparing our bandages and sharing all of our secrets.  A week or so later, he asked me to go out with him for Valentine’s Day… but I unfortunately blew him off to hang out with a much less entertaining Texan.  And then Lars seemed to disappear into thin air.  I recently checked in on him to make sure he was still with us on this Earth and he wrote back to say he was sorry that we’d lost touch, but that he’d been traveling the globe and didn’t have any time in his schedule right now.  Well.

Although much less exciting, my world has most definitely been a better place since I quit OKCupid.  This radical change in lifestyle has enabled me to start facing my troubles (like where I’m going to come up with two grand to get this damn tattoo removed) and my insecurities, rather than hiding them in a daze of wine and fleeting male affections.  I must say, however, that Lars was one of the most special snowflakes I met on OKCupid, and hopefully our friendship will find its way once again.

Perhaps over a nice cup of coffee rather than permanent ink this time.

Jobless Jake

16 Oct

What do you get when an albino, a kleptomaniac, and an ex-con all work at Wendy’s together?  A date with Jobless Jake, apparently.

A few nights ago I found myself surrounded by action figures at Gotham City, a Batman-themed bar in the depths of North Brooklyn.  I rung a buzzer to be let in to a room the size of my living room that was covered in comic books and other such paraphernalia.  I took a seat at one of the eight barstools and each of the four patrons turned around to greet me and ask what I was up to that evening (I was the only girl in the room).  The bartender’s sense of humor was dry as a bone and he reminded me of a sly alien.

“Jake” had moved to New York from Oklahoma four months prior and was in the middle of the job hunt of the century.  I assumed he must be looking for a very specific job, but he told me he was applying for anything he could find.  It struck me as odd that someone could be out looking for a job of any sort every day for four months to no avail.  I had finished half a beer when Jake arrived.  He was balding, blonde, and looked like he’d had a lot of extra helpings from the family chili pot.  In fact, he kind of looked like Phillip Seymour Hoffman.  We introduced ourselves and the bartender brought over two shots of whiskey “to break the ice.”  I asked how things were going on the job front and he said that he decided the problem was that he was over-qualified– at least that’s what the woman at the job center told him earlier that week.  I wondered if he’d tried searching for employment opportunities on Craigslist and he said that he had, but could only find postings for work as a maid.  “Uh what job category are you looking under?” I asked, and he answered “Miscellaneous.”  What?  No one looks for job listings under Miscellaneous unless they want to be a research study test subject or in an “independent film” where girls get naked and throw suds at each other in a car wash.

Throughout the evening I gathered that he had a college degree in English (equally asinine as my degree in Theatre) and had formerly worked at a Wendy’s (with an albino, a kleptomaniac, and an ex-con) and as a bagger at the local grocery store back in Oklahoma.  He said he really didn’t like his job at the grocery store because he didn’t like being chastised about how to bag loaves of bread.  His roommate that he had moved here with was paying his rent until he found a job.  But he told me not to worry– he could afford to buy me one PBR because they were only two dollars.  I told him I would buy my own drinks.  He lamented that he was having a hard time taking OKCupid girls out because he didn’t have a job and most girls weren’t interested in partaking in free activities on a blind date.  His only other option was the Batman bar.  And there we were.

We naturally progressed to the topic of OKCupid and the usual questions: “How long have you been on it?  How do you like it?  How many dates have you gone on?”  Jake had only gone on one or two other dates so far.  His first date was with a plus-sized girl who asked if he was gay five minutes after meeting him.  I have to admit the same thing crossed my mind, but I wasn’t about to ask him when his profile specified his interest in women.  Apparently he met her at a bar and she spent the whole night complaining about everything, including her friends, whom she had brought with her on the date.  Jake said he ended up really liking the other people they were hanging out with at the bar and even ended up “Friend-zoning it” with some of her friends.  I had never heard that expression before, but mentally catalogued it alongside people who use the phrases “Mickey-D’s” and “Va-jayjay.”  Jake actually called her to hang out again after that, but she never called him back.  After we finished sharing the joy of the OKCupid bond, we shared the joy of the divorced-parents bond and the social media bond.  I told him Facebook makes me tired and Instagram makes me depressed, but I like Twitter.  He said he likes Facebook because he’s “friends” with a bunch of hot babes… but he could never date any of them because all they do is write about how much they hate their parents.  I asked if these “hot babes” were thirteen years old, but he assured me they were at least twenty.

After another round, he walked me to my train stop and asked if I wanted to hang out again.  I said sure because I always say sure… then talk my way out of it later from the privacy of my boudoir.  I felt a little guilty because he looked surprised at my answer.

Before I climbed the stairway to embark on my long journey home, Jake said “Oh yeah, I almost forgot…” and handed me a keychain!  It’s a little orange egg that opens up to reveal some dinosaurs in the midst of a battle with a T Rex.  No one has given me a moving keychain before and it’s definitely a welcome addition to my collection.

I think I just “Friend-zoned” it with Jobless Jake.

Jorgen Jorgenssen

10 May

Scrolling through my Facebook roster can be exhausting!  So many people my age are getting married, buying a house, having their second baby, etc.  Every once in awhile, it’s reassuring to hear that I’m not alone in my pilgrimage.  In fact, some of my single friends have even more dramatic happenings in their love lives than I do.  For example, I have never drank anyone’s blood or pooped in someone’s back yard after having a one-night stand with them.  I’m not dating a lawyer, a boy band member, a witch, or a 55 year old with purple hair.  However, while I can’t claim any of the aforementioned adventures as my own… I did go out with an angry Dutchman with a rampant tooth last night.

Jorgen and I had made plans to meet on two previous nights- the first time he canceled because he got carried away at a “rooftop jam session,” and the second time I canceled because I was too busy hiding from the world in a dark corner.  We finally coordinated our schedules and met at a German bar in Williamsburg.  The first thing I noticed was his slight lisp.  If your tongue is upside-down and halfway to the other side your face when you say the word “peanuts”…Houston, we have a problem.  My second observation was his barren valley of exposed chest and how there was not a hair to be found.  It was as smooth as a baby’s bottom, as they say.

What was strange was that he told me he had moved to the U.S. from Amsterdam only three years prior- yet he had no trace of any accent whatsoever.  What was even more odd was how he continuously reminded me that he didn’t understand measurements in terms of feet or fahrenheit because he was foreign.  I’m sorry, if you have lived in America for three years, you know how many inches are in a foot.

After he glanced at the extensive beer menu only to pull a “I’ll have what she’s having,” we struck up a good old-fashioned conversation.  He loved Brian Wilson, hated fish tacos (what?!), had left Amsterdam to become a musician, and spoke fluent Dutch and German.  I told him I know how to say “sperm” and “more gummy bears please” in German, but he was unimpressed.  He made fun of my tattoo, then looked through my Instagram photos and told me something I had cooked looked “growth.”  We then moved on to the topic of OkCupid.  Apparently I was only his second date.  He asked if I’d had any really bad dates and I touched briefly on the one where the guy took me to dinner, cried over his ex, then forced me to eat tiramisu while he told me I wasn’t his type.  Jorgen’s response was “Wow, I hope he paid!”  This exclamation was perplexing considering Jorgen did not offer to buy me a single drink at the first bar AND I had to cover half of his tab at the second bar.  I don’t mind paying for myself, but I did mind footing the bill for his blue raspberry jello shots.  And yes, I went to a second bar with him… but only because I wanted to hang out with the middle-aged Polish alcoholics in Greenpoint.

I think we brought the average age at the second bar down to 56 upon entering.  Everyone there was speaking Polish and (same as my first visit) someone was napping at the end of the bar.  Jorgen’s phone rang and it occurred to me that this was the third call he had taken during our brief time together.  I had sent a quick text earlier to my sister, but three phone conversations?  Come on, bro.  After he hung up, he informed me “that’s what Dutch sounds like” and then told me he was giving me a free pass to ask him any three questions I wanted.  I asked him if he’d ever enjoyed the company of a man, which began a twenty minute conversation about bisexuality and whether or not it really exists.  Our debate (and presumably the jello shots) got him all fired up and he retired to the mens room.  While he was gone, a big jolly redhead saddled up at the bar and started talking to me about loin cloths.  Jorgen returned and was visibly perturbed that I was talking to someone else.  I asked him about his take on loin cloths to which he retorted “I’m foreign, what do you care?”  He announced he was going to put some songs on the jukebox and asked what I wanted to hear, so I requested Polish disco.  He couldn’t figure out how to work the jukebox and, to my surprise, the jolly red giant got up and showed him how it was done.  This perturbed him further.  They then took turns trying to find the “better” songs and I realized I had initiated a full-blown Polish disco duel.  I had to get out of there, so I told Jorgen I wanted to go to bed.  He left the bar with me after telling the bartender he thought we had already paid our tab (which we clearly hadn’t.)  He only had a ten, so I paid the rest of the bill as the red-headed man rolled his eyes.  Outside, I gave him a friendly pat goodbye and he disappeared into the abyss of McCarren Park.

I mean come on, who doesn’t like fish tacos?!

The White Russian

29 Nov

Sometime last spring in the wake of a tough breakup, I reluctantly went to a party in Astoria. This took a lot of wine and convincing a) because it was in Astoria, b) because it was a whole mess of theatre people from college and I hate having the “What are you doing now? Are you auditioning?” talk more than anything in life. No, I’m selling designer handbags for a living and writing about my dysfunctional love life and/or spray painting things I buy from the dollar store in my spare time.
Once at the party, I somehow gravitated towards a youthful individual in a graphic tee paired with a white short and shoe combo. This is odd because I don’t generally appreciate a graphic tee, and I definitely try to steer clear of anyone who wears white pants. I am also rarely attracted to younger guys. We hid from the masses in the kitchen and drank someone else’s champagne that we discovered in the freezer (sorry!). After the bottle was polished off, I gave in to the inevitability that I was going to make out with this White Russian. But first I checked his ID. He told me he was 18 and I needed proof because I don’t have a lot of experience with teenagers. He also shared that he recently had some run-ins with the law, to which I responded with a brief attempt at an “I am older and wiser than you – don’t be stupid” speech. I then took him to the living room, because I didn’t want any lingering thespians to witness the strange collaboration that was about to transpire. Too many people came in and caught on to what was happening, so in my highly-functioning state, I deduced that we had no choice but to take it to the bathroom. The details are blurry and not something I would want my elders to read on the world wide web. I will say that the shower curtain was somehow torn down, rods and all (sorry!).
He contacted me on Facebook the following week in attempt to redeem himself for his shoddy dexterity at the party. I felt bad for him (and myself), so I invited him to a bar he wasn’t old enough to get into while I was out with some friends in the Village. What he was wearing when he arrived both blew my mind and burned my retinas: white hat, white polo, white cargo shorts, white socks, white shoes. We took a long and silent train ride back to my apartment in Brooklyn, where he managed to decimate a couch.
I found out several weeks later that he had spent a week in Rikers and now has a record almost as long as the number of years he has been alive. I was momentarily scarred by my experience with this achromatic teenage bandit, so my next encounter involved a man nearly three times older. Unfortunately, he also had a penchant for white pants…