Tag Archives: New York


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.

Magic Moments

7 Nov

Two different characters messaged me this morning on OKCupid while I was getting ready for work.  GUY 1 was a short, bald individual from New Jersey.  His profile picture was of him topless and flexing all of his shiny muscles, looking like a roasted boar battling some gas.   GUY 2 was a pink-faced critter who reminded me of a young Gene Wilder and whose picture was taken at a Comic Con.  I decided to have a little fun with them and momentarily transformed into “Gutrak,” a spirited immigrant with a penchant for mystical games.  Here are the conversations that followed (you have to read my lines with an accent):


GUY 1:  What up?  You look and sound real interesting and awesome. I would love to chat. I am cool, adventurous, caring, I keep it real, and I tend to do what the lady says due to my submissive personality ;)

ME:  What is meaning of this “submissive”?

GUY 1:  Submissive means the lady is the boss lol

ME:  You like to put on knight outfit?

GUY 1:  I will wear anything you want me to Goddess

ME:  Well I do like foam knight outfit best because won’t pinch skins like steel one!  You have this outfit?

GUY 1:  That I don’t have Goddess. But it don’t matter I can take pain. I will be your good lil pet ;)

ME: You have sorcerer cape maybe? Pegasus horn? Ok and who is your favorite wizard? Mine is Marwood Dragonfoot but I also really love the Barktooth Warbeard! Tell me who you like the more! OMG I’m eating gogurt right now SO GOOD you have it?!

GUY 1:  Damn no Goddess is there anything else or another way I can make it up to you?

ME:  Well I will suggest going to park to maybe do log rolls down hill. Where are you live? I want to explore outdoor in pants with you and trees. Or you like the tom yum soup? I make and maybe we have a soup and watch favorite dragon movie

GUY 1:  I am in Brooklyn Goddess. When can you meet?


GUY 2:  Hi there, how’s it going?

ME:  Having some special time thinking about the Magic the Gathering!

GUY 2:  I’ve been collecting Magic cards for many years now

ME:  Wow amazing news! I need to get mine ship to the America. All I have here is couch and my dragon themed films

GUY 2:  Dragons are cool. I have about 40 Magic decks for you to choose from

ME:  I love you.  We are date now?

GUY 2:  Haha I feel like you only love me for my Magic cards

ME:  Yes it is right

GUY 2:  What class character do you play as?

ME:  Wizard of course!!!!!!

GUY 2:  I almost always play wizards. My last one was named Jaedeilein, he was a battle mage. They fought each other like duelists and eventually they were erradicated by a young king and his court mage. Too busy fighting each other they were defeated to the last 2 who were cast out into a new realm. By the end of the journey they realized they had to team up to get what they wanted… And he retired as a healer in the new world. Right now my friend and I are playing a game inspired by ancient India… My character is of a sect of monks that are Demon Hunters, they can only fight the supernatural and only they have access to the sacred weapons housed in temples for such purpose. So his code doesn’t allow him to fight a Brigand… only monsters….


That’s where it ended because I had to leave for work… and I didn’t have any idea what in the world this guy was talking about.  It was only 10am and already my mind was numb from talk of mages, brigands, and jaedeileins.  As you may have gathered I have never touched a deck of Magic cards in my life and had to do some light Googling so as not to reveal myself as a wizard impostor.  GUY 1 is most likely a molester, so I will pass on meeting him in person.  GUY 2 is a serious dweeb… If I go on a date with him I will have to find someone to teach me how to play Magic the Gathering– and maybe lend me a cloak or a pouch of marbles or something.

Choose Your Own Adventure

31 Aug

“Richard” and I went out on several dates over the course of a few months, despite his tendency to cancel on me the day before and need to reschedule.  I actually thought I might like him for a day and a half, then realized it was a false alarm.  He was tall, large-handed, and bilingual (pluses), but was unorganized, wore shoes with toe-slots, and wasn’t the most witty shark in the sea (minuses).  Adding to my ambivalence, he went out of his way to inform me that he “really enjoys being single.”  As if the disclaimer was necessary, because I was really looking forward to capturing him in my net and forcing him to be my husband.

The last time we saw each other was a couple months ago.  Naturally, Richard had canceled on me earlier in the week and rescheduled for that evening.  We got drinks at a couple different bars, then went back to his apartment.  I had been there once before and almost didn’t make it out alive– that’s how disheveled it was.  I will now continue the story in the form of a Choose Your Own Adventure.


Once inside his apartment, he digs around in some cluttered piles, searching for a tax document for his business.  When he finds what he’s looking for, he exclaims something about loving being his own boss, then escorts you into his bedroom and shuts the door.  You sit down next to each other at the foot of the bed and it is then that you notice a sizable wad of tissue protruding from his right nostril.  Do you:

A. Tell him he has something major in his nose.  He extracts it and you both laugh, then begin to make out.  You spend the night and leave the next morning for work.  Please proceed to the letter D below.

B. From your seated position, you bounce up and down on the bed a bit, hoping the momentum will dislodge the tissue wad from his nostril.  It works!  The wad tumbles to the ground.  You begin to make out, spend the night, and leave the next morning for work.  Please proceed to E.

C. You bounce up and down on the bed, hoping the tissue will shake loose from his nostril… but it stays put.  You sit in silence next to him and nobody moves for several minutes.  He rubs his nose and the tissue wad vacates his nostril at last.  You systematically remove all of your clothing, piling each item atop his guitar case so as not to lose them in the sea on the floor.  You then lay down on the bed and instantaneously fall asleep.  A few hours later, you awake with a start.  It is 4am.  You leap up, throw on your clothes and tell him to call you a car because you have to go home.  You make it back to Brooklyn and eat a bowl of leftover pasta with some kind of horrid black olive sauce.  The next day at work you are exhausted and can’t rid yourself of the nauseating after-taste of black olives.  Please proceed to F.


D. You and Richard make plans to hang out a week or so later.  He again cancels on you the day before because he forgot he has a conference call for work.  He says you can accompany him to a concert that weekend “if you want.”  When you tell him you already have plans that day, he replies “we’ll talk.”  You take his multiple cancelations as a sign of disinterest and delete his number out of your phone.  Proceed to G.

E. You make plans to hang out a week or so later.  He cancels on you the day before because of a conference call at work and doesn’t reschedule.  You text him back saying “Haha is this your way of blowing me off gently?”  He writes back “I’m not seventeen.  I happen to run my own business and I have a conference call tomorrow then am going out of town.”  You don’t respond and add him to the Do Not Text List.  Proceed to H.

F. You make plans a week later and he cancels the day before.  You acknowledge his disinterest and say “Haha is this your way of blowing me off gently?”  He responds with “I’m not seventeen.  I run my own business, (etc).”  You text back “No prob, bro.”  Proceed to I.


G. You are proud of yourself for dismissing Richard after his condescending text.  He texts you again a week later, but you don’t respond.  Proceed to J.

H. He texts you a week later “How have you been doing?” like you’re recovering from Mono or something.  You will both be out of town the next week, but he suggests you should get together when you’re back to “catch up.”  A couple weeks later, you contact him and reluctantly make plans.  The day before you are supposed to hang out, you receive a text from him saying he has to cancel again.  You wonder if he’s playing a joke on you.  No one double-books THAT many times with the same person unless they don’t have any respect for them whatsoever, or they’re impaired.  He asks if you can reschedule, but this time you say no.  Proceed to K.

I. He texts you a week later and suggests you get together when you’re back in town to “catch up.”  The day before you had planned to hang out, he cancels again.  He asks if you can reschedule and you reluctantly agree– despite the fact that all of your co-workers advise you to tell him off and never speak to him again.  You meet in Nolita and discover that the restaurant he had selected for dinner is closed that night.  You instead get tacos from some brightly-lit taco truck joint before heading to a bar.  After a few beers, you call him out for being terrible at making plans and wonder how someone can successfully run a business when they double-book so often.  He admits he’s kind of an asshole, and looks a little too pleased with himself when he says so.  You end the evening on amicable terms and head back to Brooklyn alone.  Proceed to L.


J. You win the gold medal for self-respect!  Three strikes you’re out, buddy.

K. You win the silver medal for self-respect.  Learn to recognize when enough is enough and quit giving guys so many chances!  Especially if you met them on the internet.

L. You win the bronze medal for self-respect.  Although you rescheduled with him again, you didn’t go back to his place this time.  That is a step in the right direction.


Everyone wins a medal in this story because it was never that earth-shattering of a “relationship” to begin with.  There are, however, lessons to be learned here.  The first being that I inherently give everyone the benefit of the doubt and therefore grant way more chances than most people would even consider.  I’m fairly certain this has given several guys the impression that they can walk all over me (remember The Lying Lumberjack?).  After the second or third cancelation, it’s probably time to call it quits.  Sticking it out through the fourth, fifth, and even sixth cancelation only makes me feel like an idiot.  The second lesson learned is: do not under any circumstances eat puttanesca sauce when you’re drunk.  It makes for a rude tomorrow.  The third lesson is a reinforcement of what my Grandma always taught me:  It’s not always about size… it’s how you use what you got!

The Best Pasta I Never Had

15 Aug

Try as I might, I continue to find myself in mystifying situations.  Like on a rooftop at 2 am with someone named “Lil Tony.”

Every time I go to No Name Bar things get wacky.  The first time I went there (last year), I made out with Tiny Tim in a dark corner and one of us may or may not have peed in a bucket in the supply closet.  Another time, there was a group of people tripping on some form of hallucinogenic drug, dancing in slow motion with a hundred balloons.  I was there with a friend, and at one point we looked over to find that everybody had left except for one lone girl, who was simultaneously humping a cluster of balloons and playing them like a saxophone.

Two nights ago, a large group of people went to No Name to celebrate my friend’s birthday.  Things were going smoothly until someone clogged the toilet in the bathroom (next to the bar) and it overflowed, spilling out into the bar area.  Several cans of silly string materialized, and found their way into a few naughty hands.  Soon, there was silly string floating atop the toilet water and hanging from the rafters.  A tall, floppy man who looked like a cute baby dinosaur grabbed a can of silly string and sprayed his disgruntled bald friend with it until he had a foamy toupee.  He lost aim and a clump whizzed past the DJ and stuck to the wall in his booth.  The DJ slowly turned his apathetic head to look at the glob, then turned to us and mumbled “Not by the records, man.”  Later on, I encountered the floppy guy again when he danced past my booth like a wet noodle to a Joy Division song.  I informed him he looked like a fusilli noodle, and he sat down and told me he wanted me to close my eyes and think about the best pasta I’ve ever had– then join him for a dance.  Now that’s a pick up line.  It turned out he was a chef, and he showed me a bunch of photos of his gourmet dishes.  Then he showed me a picture of a penis sculpture he had made out of beets.

Around this point in the evening, one of my friends had taken most of his clothes off and was dancing like a maniac in the middle of several horrified strangers whilst comparing his body to “rotting tripe” (he is also on OKCupid, ladies).  Another friend I was there with had finally struck up the nerve to talk to a boy she had been eyeing, whom the rest of the group collectively agreed was a babe.  As the party began to dissipate, Noodle Man suggested that I bring my female friend and the guy she had picked up (whose name turned out to be Lil Tony) over to his place to check out his rooftop.  I had to work in the morning, but it was only a few blocks away.  The view of the Manhattan skyline was impressive, and Lil Tony shared a bunch of fun facts about the Empire State Building, including various blimp-landings.  Lil Tony loved blimps.  When the clock struck two, I declared it time for me to call for a car to take me home.  Noodle Man walked me out while Lil Tony attempted to seal the deal with my friend on the couch.  Sitting outside on the stoop, Noodle Man wasted no time enveloping me in a floppy embrace.  I was sleepy and he smelled like pickles, but I let him kiss me because he was funny and danced like a noodle.  I got home covered in dirt from the roof, but pleased that I had handled my exit with grace and ease.

I am not the kind of girl who likes to go dancing in da clubs.  In fact, I strongly dislike it.   And guys who are good dancers make me think about “Glee,” which has to be one of the least sexy things ever.  For me, it’s not how well you move, but what you move like– Noodle Man was apparently a pro at both making food AND moving like food.  He gets an A+ in my book.

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.

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…