Disaster from the Past: The Talking Dick

So I obviously haven’t been adhering to the “strict” experiment rules that I originally laid out for myself (i.e.: one date a week with an online stranger, followed by a blog). There are several reasons I have not been sticking to these rules, most of which are not very interesting to read about, and none of which I feel like writing about.

Which brings us to this post, which is an account of a disaster date from my past. That being said, I did not randomly select this DISASTER date to write about: it chose me, by reentering my life, 6 or 7 years later…

Let’s rewind time to when I was just 19 or 20 years old. I’d been living in New York for two years at most, and had maybe started college. Working as a live-in nanny for next to no money at all, and carrying a self-made (yet successful) fake ID, I was desperate to find my niche in this city that seemed to shout nothing but gibberish at me. It was hard not having a job that required any adult interaction in a city (and country) where I knew not one other person,  and thus began my venture into online dating.

My first online ventures were with girls, a species I’d long been curious about but too small-town sheltered to really explore. I was clueless, unsure of what I was after, what existed, or what other girls expected of me, which led to a plethora of moments so embarrassing and awkward that I cringe while reminiscing for even a moment. In the future, maybe I’ll write about some of these dates so you can have yet a new reason to laugh at me, but for now, let me tell you about a date I had with a man…

…and his talking penis.
I forget what website I found my date on, but it certainly wasn’t OkCupid, which did not yet exist. (I would eventually begin to meet people via Myspace, including my first girlfriend and one of my closest friends to this day). Anyway, being that I am partially crazy (a trait I still carry proudly to this day), I somehow decided that going on a date with a guy who played rugby five days a week, and had some sort of weird job that involved donning a bright orange suit and cheering on the Mets with some other grown man who resembled his twin, was a smart idea…

…even though he was 44 years old.

“Matthew” (no need for quotations; that’s his actual name) showed up to our first date with a buzz cut and a black eye, and I’m pretty sure he thought that he had graduated high school only a few years prior. Oh no wait–that was me who had just finished high school. Maybe he thought he was still living in a fraternity at college. Regardless, I hope that the word that flashing in your brain right now is DOUCHE-BAG.

To his credit he looked a lot younger than he was, and beneath his eyelids lay two splashes of the palest of blue I’d ever seen.

Ok pause. I have a confession to make: I started writing this blog entry a few days ago when I was stoned out of my face and the following words were ALL I came up with:

To his credit he looked a lot younger than he was, and beneath his eyelids lay two splashes of the palest of blue I’d ever seen. His eyes were like two cold glaciers; uninviting and hauntingly beautiful.  And with a smile, his lived-in skin would unearth the etchings of kindness; rivers through which warmth flowed and kindness reigned.  More than once I caught myself staring at him, contemplating how it would feel to scoop out his eyes and suck on them. They were that beautiful. Only now do I realize the lack of wisdom they held. They were not so much glaciers as they were shallow ice cubes meant for a cocktail.”

Remind me never to attempt to write while stoned again, because that shit took me what felt like 3 hours to write, and certainly doesn’t convey my TRUE feelings toward him. I’m pretty sure I must have sat down, tried to remember all the details that six years have made blurry, recalled Matthew’s really light eyes, and then in my high stupor started thinking about Daniel Craig.

…Because Matthew’s description should read like this: middle-aged douche bag with kinda light eyes, one of which is likely swollen shut, with not much else going for him. Unless you like orange suits (or the Mets).

So now I’m not stoned, and the writing is a lot easier (albeit less “poetic”), but I’m still having a hard time remembering all of the details surrounding the encounter(s) I had with Matthew. What I do know is that at some point I saw a movie at Sunshine cinemas with him. I was wearing a VERY short floral print baby doll dress and beige boots, and when I climbed the stairs ahead of him, he made some sort of comment about “approving of Miss Canada”. I also know that at some point we had drinks in soho, but I don’t recall if it was on a different night. And I know that at some point he invited me out to his friend’s house on Fire Island for an entire weekend, and I politely declined for fear of having to sleep with him.

I also know that at some point I went to his apartment. For the life of me I don’t know how he convinced me to go home with him, but I know I didn’t spend the night. And here’s where we get to laugh:

We’re laying on his bed, making out and gyrating and moaning and all that good stuff. I’d been with and “older man” before, he had been a scrawny 37-year-old repressed homosexual punk who looked like a 20-year-old version of Marilyn Manson. I’d also been with athletes (and a Calvin Klein model, but now I’m just bragging saving face), so when rugby fanatic Matthew took off his shirt, I expected to see a torso textured in bumps and falls of clearly defined muscles. Instead, he looked… bulky. When he lay on his back his torso curved up and out, almost like he had inflated himself ever so slightly. Even his thighs seemed blown-up. It’s not that he was fat–he certainly wasn’t, but he had what I’ve since learned is… a rugby body. Muscular and strong, but not lean and cut. Given an absence from the athleticism that high school sports provide, it is this type of body that does an amazingly efficient job at melding into the “potatoes-shoved-into-pants” bodies seen at 10 year reunions. Lucky for 44-year-old Matthew, he hadn’t quit the sports yet, but I could see what was on his horizon.

Anyway, at some point his dick is in my mouth. If your dick has ever been in my mouth, perhaps you can testify that I give a decent blow-job. (If  your dick has been in my mouth in the past year, you may argue otherwise. I’ve developed a severe case of TMJ and have developed an insatiable appetite for all things that involve pleasing me, not you, which classifies me as a less than fantastic lover at the moment). I distinctly remember a time in my life where I googled “how to deep throat”, made a series of mental notes, and got right to it.

What I’m trying to say is that I gave a mean blow job, and could fit even the biggest of dicks halfway down my esophagus.

But that doesn’t justify what happened next. I don’t care if I had just given the best blow job in the entire world…

The blow job ends. He is laying on his back, butt-naked (for all I know he still had his socks on), with his arms crossed behind his head. I’m still down near his nether regions when he does a half-crunch; I assume he is looking at me and maybe about to say something, but I am dreadfully wrong. Instead, with his pasty, bulky body still in a half-crunch position, he stares right at his dick and starts doing a series of little pelvic thrusts, which make his dick bounce up and down against his pasty stomach. Simultaneously, with the type of voice you reserve for small puppies and babies**, he says the following words TO HIS BOUNCING DICK, “Ohhh…..we like Miss Canada, don’t we? (pause. bounce bounce.) Yes!! (bounce) Oh yes we (bounce) do (bounce)…”

There are a lot of times in my life that good things happen to me, and I wonder what I’ve done to deserve them. This was not one of those moments.

**It’s very important that you actually take a moment to imagine that voice. You know the one. Its usually sprinkled with a lot of “koochee-koos”. Now, picture a grown man using it to talk to his dick. The same dick that you just swallowed semen from.

************

Fast forward time to about four years later. I’m at the Bohemian Beer Garden in Astoria, celebrating my 24th birthday when I pass by a man in a bright orange suit. It’s him. Our eyes meet, and I assume he recognizes me, because he says “hey” as though he knows me, so I say “hey” back. We stand there awkwardly, exchange a few words, and then he asks, “…so what’s your name?” He has no clue who I am and he is trying desperately to flirt with me.

I am shocked!

My immediate reaction is to spark his memory, and I foolishly say, “...Yeah, um, we’ve met.

His smile turns incredulous and he responds, “We have?

My smile fades and I give him a simple “Yep” before I start to walk away.

No Wait! Where have we met?? You have to tell me! Please!” He is begging, and wearing an orange suit, and all I can picture is his dick bouncing around inside of it.

I half-turn and say “I’m from Canada” before walking away and returning to my friends.

In hindsight, I realize that while it may have been a little ridiculous or insulting that he didn’t remember me, he did have some things working in his defense. For one, my look changes a lot, and it had been four years. Secondly, we had only hung out once or twice before. But mainly, I hadn’t burned myself into his brain with something as traumatic as a talking, bouncing, penis.

******

Fast forward to the present. I am 26 years old. I receive not one, but two messages on OkCupid from a user whose profile picture looks disturbingly familiar.

Message #1 is actually an “award” that he gave me . If you aren’t familiar with OkCupid, it’s a badge-type thing people can give your profile if they know you  or like your profile. For awhile now, my mailbox on OkCupid has been full and I’ve been unable to receive new messages unless I empty it, which I have chosen not to do.Some people have figured out a way to circumvent the system by giving me an award, to which they can attach a note. Matthew decided to take this approach, awarding me with “The Perfect Mix” award (insert picture of a chocolate covered strawberry) and attaching a note that says “Hi… Up for a drink? You can bring the Bingo cards… -Matthew“. If you don’t understand the bingo card reference, you will if you look at my online dating profile.

Clearly, I don’t respond, and two days later, when I’ve made some room in my inbox, I get a message from him that reads, “We’ve met – haven’t we? Not a line – swear.

Hey Matthew, why don’t you ask your dick if we’ve met? You two seem to have great conversation skills.

Disaster Date #4: The Charleston Cheapskate

Remember Mr. Charlestonsurf, the self-proclaimed southern gentleman looking for a classy and funny girl to settle down with? (If not, read about him here, under Potential #2). Well after almost two weeks of texting we finally went on a date, and let me tell you: this boy has a skewed definition of what it means to be a “southern gentleman”.

Florida, circa 1 week prior to date:

Charleston and I had been playing Words With Friends (a mobile version of Scrabble) ever since we had exchanged phone numbers on OkCupid. Between turns, we would engage in slightly flirtatious back-and-forth banter in the game’s chat area.This opens the door to casual texting and soon we are each other several times an hour. Gross. But in my defense, I was stuck out in Boca Raton, FL with no TV, no internet (aside from my phone), and a bunch of old people. Damn right I was going to text anyone who’d listen about the colour of my wallpaper and the taste of my lunch.

Anyway, at some point our conversation got a little more flirtatious. I didn’t really mean for the following conversation to go down that route either. It just…happened.

me (in response to him asking what I was doing, or something): “…just put em to sleep. It may be bath and wine time.

Him:Add some bubbles, and you have a party!”

Me:Sounds like a lame party unless I add something else…I’m gonna be a good girl and do yoga pre-bath.”

Him:Haha, what else would you add, whiskey?”

Me:Oh, ummmmm…no…

Him:Just kidding… You clearly need someone to wash your back

Me:That’s closer to what I was thinking.”

Him: Naughty girl, you’ll wake the kids;)” (Note to readers: I do not have kids. I am a nanny and was away with the family babysitting, FYI.)

Me: It’s a big house!”

Him:Well then, no one will miss one of those cucumbers, have some fun!”

GROSS! GAG! ACK! EEK! ABORT! The fact that he went right for the image of me with a cucumber when he thought of me masturbating makes me think he’d be a lousy lover. He can have whatever image of me in his head that he wants, but all I heard when he said ‘cucumber’ was “YOU NEED A PENIS TO HAVE A GOOD TIME! I HAVE A PENIS! PICK ME!

Me: Hey I wasn’t saying I was going to go down the naughty road—only saying that your definition of what made a party was missing something and sounded lame!”

Him: “It’s ok to go down the naughty road from time to time, it’s healthy!”

pause.

“And yes, I was missing an ingredient, glad you caught that.”

pause.

“I was going for funny, but that sounded weird. New subject: Florida. How is it?”

*****

Anyway, it wasn’t a disastrous text exchange, but it wasn’t great either. I decide that until we meet, our texting will remain squeaky clean. Then, I got a sunburn and told him about it. I was trying to be cute, and at one point:

I said: “My poor burned tuckus! (how do you spell that??)”

Him: “No clue, but a pic is required!”

Me: “Ha. I admire your attempt.”

Him: “Oh come on, be a sport.”

Now I know what you’re thinking. If I sent a freaking picture I am out of my mind bat-shit crazy. But being delusional, I thought I kinda liked this guy, despite never having met him. I was also bored out of my mind. And my last excuse is that my ass looked REALLY good despite being a shade of red that I am only used to seeing after a good flogging. Oh, and I’m also a whore—I mean exhibitionist whore.

So I sent a picture. It was not that risque at all: it didn’t show my face, and I had my knickers on (though slightly hiked up to show the burn lines), and a bare back. I just spent 10 minutes debating whether I should post it here, but I am (slowly) LEARNING HOW TO SELECTIVELY CENSOR MYSELF. It’s hard. Because in my eyes: you have an ass + I have an ass +we all have an ass = why cover up? Shake shake shake it.

The good news is that I didn’t send any additional pictures, despite his requests for more provocative follow-ups. Not because I have too much class or dignity, but because I was reminded that he is only 5’7″, and based on the handful of pictures on OkCupid, I wasn’t sure whether I would find him attractive in real life. The last thing I needed was to give him the impression that I couldn’t wait to meet him go home with him, which I’m sure he had already convinced himself.

Friday, circa one week later. Date night:

I had just spent 5 magnificent days in a row with Gregory, and my excitement for meeting Charleston had waned significantly. I realize as I am begrudgingly getting ready that if by some miracle or severe lack of judgment I decide to sleep with Charleston tonight, I will have slept with two people within a 12 hour period— which save for threesomes and orgies, would be a first for me.

Since he’s new in town, I’m in charge of finding our date spot. He suggests I pick a place in Carroll Gardens, which is coincidentally where he lives and is completely out of my way. I tell him I’ll pick a neutral spot in the city, and I make a mental note of his somewhat rude let’s-keep-the-date-as-close-to-my-bed-as-possible suggestion.

Someone on facebook recommends Raines Law Room, which is ultimately where I decide on. Our date is originally scheduled for 9, but I find myself characteristically running late and postpone our meeting time; first to 9:30, and then to 9:45, which I am *gasp* on time for. I have on a very low-cut,nearly backless black top, stuck in place by strategically placed strips of body tape, a black high-waisted bubble skirt, a cropped blazer, and black tights. I also don a pair of 3.5″ heels, which leaves me standing one inch taller than my date. Dumb move.

So I’m walking down 17th street, simultaneously trying to find the bar and get excited for the date. Both are proving difficult to do. The next thing I know, he is 5 feet away and walking towards me. I’m a little thrown off because I anticipated meeting him in the bar—not on the street with my headphones in and coat on. He informs me that the bar has a 90 minute wait time, which is why he had been waiting for me outside. We obviously choose to go elsewhere.

The first thing I notice about him is that he is wearing a navy blue fleece, with a small company logo across the chest. I’m all for men dressing casual, and I sometimes even have a thing for blue-collar casual, so while his outfit isn’t an immediate turn off, I am secretly grateful for the long wait at Raines Law Room, which is definitely more upscale than down. The second thing I notice is that he is actually relatively cute. Not sexy–but cute. Adorable even. Maybe it’s his pint size. When he speaks his mouth does this weird thing that I can’t explain—but if you saw him talking, but couldn’t hear him, you would probably think he had a lisp. Luckily for him, I have a thing for weird mouths and minor lisps.

I have to pee, so we duck into the first bar we see. It’s a relatively empty dive, which I like, but I am definitely over dressed. We grab seats at the bar, and he orders me a Stella while I go pee. Now here’s the thing: I hadn’t planned on taking off my blazer to reveal the full nature of my extremely low cut and backless shirt unless things were going really, really well. But the bar is hot. Even our beers are warm, and I can feel beads of sweat accumulating on my forehead. If I don’t take my jacket off, my bangs will soon absorb my sweat and clump up across my forehead, and I won’t carry it nearly as well as Jessica Biel:

So while he is ordering us our second beers, I try my best to casually remove my jacket, thinking maybe he won’t even notice. Instantly, he turns and stares at me my tits and goes, “taking off your clothes already?”. I try and defend my sad excuse of a shirt by explaining to him how hot it is in the bar, and I remind him that it’s Canadian blood that flows through my veins, not Southern blood like his.

As far as conversation goes, we are doing just OK. There aren’t many awkward silences, but mostly because I am working very hard at filling them up the moment I sense them. He sold himself online as being someone who always makes people laugh, but so far I haven’t seen even a glimpse of a funny side (though he is doing a good job laughing at my jokes and stories). We stupidly break all the rules and somehow start talking politics. Fortunately (and perhaps surprisingly), we’re on the same page when it comes to gay marriage and Republicans, but our conversation does get heavier than I’d like for a first date.

At one point he starts explaining to me that the reason he is still single at the age of 30 (not that I asked) is because he would rather be single than lower his standards. But he is saying it in such a way that insinuates that I am up to his ridiculously high standards and should thereby be flattered. Then he starts explaining that his mom is kind of neurotic and is always on his case about when he is going to get married and have kids—but he is saying it with a sick sense of pride–as if I am somehow supposed to find this appealing. In reality, I’ve started to sweat again, and I’m eying the shelves of hard liquor thinking it may be time for a shot. Then he says, “for instance, let’s say you and I are dating, and I tell my mom. She’ll expect me to bring you to South Carolina the next day. Even if you and I just went on a couple of dates, if my mom found out she would almost instantly find you on facebook and be writing all over your wall, inviting you to South Carolina and asking you all sorts of questions.

Let me take this moment to explain how much I despise “momma’s boys”. It’s great if you have a mother whom you love and cherish and respect. But if you are a grown man and you are still being mothered as though you were a child, there is little redemption left for you as far as turning me on goes.

I have to pee again, and as I walk away from the bar I can feel him staring at my very naked back. When I return, I slide back onto my bar stool, and his hand simultaneously slides across my upper back. What happens next is difficult to explain, and even typing it makes me red-in-the-face for his sake.

He says (while caressing my back), “your skin is so soft…”

Pause.

I see him lean in for a kiss as he says what can only be labeled as the WORST LINE EVER,

“…Are your lips just as soft?”

I instantly grab my beer and block my mouth with it. I let out an uncomfortable giggle and I’m all, ” NOPE! My lips are actually SUPER chapped and gross at the moment. Super, super chapped. Cracked and bleeding actually. Must be the weather.

Let it be known that were it not for that line, I would not necessarily be opposed to kissing him—at some point. But we were about 30 minutes into our date I was completely caught off guard and appalled by his tactic.

Instead of taking the blow to his ego and accepting the fact that I do not want to kiss him, Charleston persists, leaning further into my beer-face-shield and saying, “What are you talking about? They look pretty soft to me“. I must make some sort of disgusted face before taking another sip of my beer, because he follows up with, “no? Really? I’m getting shot down? Ouch...”. He is still leaning towards me though, so through pursed lips and a half awkward smile I respond, “yeah…..I mean… I dunno that was quite the line…and it’s a little early into the date…

AND THEN HOMEBOY KISSES ME!!!!!!! He straight up moves my beer from my face, and says “come on…” and kisses me! The kiss lasts maybe 3 seconds, which is 3 seconds too long. He’s not a bad kisser but I am in shock that his lips somehow ended up on mine despite my obvious lack of enthusiasm.

I think I’ve blocked out exactly how the kiss ended/how we moved forward with the date, but rest assured it was awkward. Shortly after, we finish our beers, and he closes his tab. I don’t offer him any cash, because the tab was something like $20 and we are heading to another bar so I figure I can offer to pay for our drinks there. We hop in a cab and head further downtown to a bar with decent pool tables. I pay for our $11 cab. I wouldn’t be updating you with all this nonsense about who paid for what if it wasn’t important, so hang on and make note.

The bar is crowded (with NYU students) so Charleston suggests I try and order our beers, insinuating I’ll have better luck grabbing the attention of the male bartender than he would. Sure enough, I manage to order us drinks in a few moments time, and as I am removing money from my wallet I see Charleston pulling out his credit card. I tell him not to worry about it, and start to hand the bartender my cash. Charleston pulls my hand back and insists on starting a tab. He goes, “No seriously, just let me start a tab. I only have like $6 cash on me. I mean, I have a lot of money in the bank—but just don’t have cash on me, so please let me start a tab.” Attention: why would you ever go on a date with $6 cash????? That’s ridiculous!!!! I also don’t need to hear whether or not you ‘have a lot of money in the bank’. Anyway, I let him start a tab and we head to the back to play pool.

There are three pool tables, one of which is open. I win the first game, and according to my notes (yes, I make notes) he made some sort of comparison between pool and sex. I don’t recall what the comparison was, but I’m certain it was ridiculous. At one point, this extremely drunken girl sprawls herself across the pool table across from us by way of a back bend. She lifts one leg up and reveals a whole lot of thigh and her entire thong-wearing ass, none of which is particularly flattering. The bouncer has to come and ask her to remove herself from the pool table, and potentially the bar. Charleston and I are watching her and I make some sort of “oh my…” remark, because this girl is making a fool of herself, but Charleston gives her a run for her money by saying, “See, now if you ever behaved that slutty I would not be OK with it.” Ew!! Who does this guy think that he is? First of all, it would take a whole lot of date rape for me to be ass-out in a bar smothered in NYU students. Secondly, why is he under the impression that I care what behaviour he finds tolerable or not? If I want to take my clothes off, I’ll take my clothes off.

Two guys come along and ask us if we want to play doubles with them, which we agree to. One of these guys is GORGEOUS, and we totally make eyes at each other throughout the game. His less-than-gorgeous friend asks Charleston how he knows me, and I get the impression he is asking because the delicious looking guy is curious whether or not I am on a date. WHAT DOES CHARLESTON TELL THEM YOU ASK???

“Oh, we’re married!”

WHAT????

Oh really? For how long?”, our opponents ask.

Oh, I think about a year and a half now–right honey?” He slides his hand across my naked back as I bend over the pool table to take my shot and pretend that life is not happening as it is. I don’t know WHAT to say. The whole “pretending we are married when we are not” game COULD potentially be fun (? ) but I do NOT want to pretend to be married to Charleston, especially when I’ve already pictured my hot opponent naked at least 6 times. Also, if I ever play that game it’s because I hate the idea of marriage, and I am playing it with someone who feels the same way, and we are playing it for the pure purpose of fucking with people for shits and giggles. However, I get the impression that Charleston is living out this sick fantasy of me being his trophy wife, and I’m afraid that if I go along with it he may actually become delusional and think it to be true. I mean, I’m half anticipating his god damn mother to walk into the bar and welcome me into the family any minute. So I simply roll my eyes, and answer “…yeah, one and a half years too long” and make my shot. Then I ask him to go and get everyone another round of beer. While he is gone, the hot guy asks where we went on our honeymoon. I immediately blurt out, “I am not married to that man. This is our first date and probably our last.” This leads to a somewhat fun game when Charleston returns, because our opponents continue to have him elaborate and on this made up life he has created, until 30 minutes later Charleston confesses that we are not actually married. He’s expecting this big “OH MAN! YOU HAD US FOOLED!” reaction, so the expression on his face is pretty priceless when we all reveal that I spilled the beans a long time ago, and the joke’s on him.

We win the game but leave the table to our opponents. We head to the bar to close his tab, and somehow I agree to have one more beer. It’s weird: despite all his blunders, I’m not having an AWFUL time with him. I know that I probably don’t want to see him again, and I know that we are not a good ‘match’, but I surprisingly enjoy his company on some level, and I love beer and don’t feel ready to go home quite just yet.

It’s during this time while we are sitting at the bar that Charleston tries to get me to go home with him. I decline, telling him I’d like to spend the night in my own bed. He then asks if he can come over to my place. No Charleston, you cannot. Perhaps he is trying to save face, but he makes a comment along the lines of “don’t worry—you don’t have to sleep with me. We don’t have to do anything. In fact, if you slept with me I would probably lose respect for you anyway. I mean, look– (at this point he pulls out a condom from his pocket to show me)—I never know what’s going to happen, so I’m always prepared, but that doesn’t mean I was or am expecting anything. So why don’t you just come over and cuddle and let me give you a massage.”

Wow. I’m now regretting agreeing to that last beer. Hey Charleston–thanks for clarifying that I “don’t have to” sleep with you; I was really confused about that. And thanks for showing me the condom. Without it, I totally would have had unprotected sex with you. Here’s what I say:

Hey, I’m not trying to play some sort of coy I-don’t-go-home-with-people-on-the-first-date card here. If I want to sleep with someone, I sleep with them. Life’s too short to live it any other way. I’m not declining your invitation for fear of you losing respect for me, but for lack of desire. I’m not feeling those feelings toward you at the moment and would prefer to go home and sleep alone.

I’m kind of proud of myself because I often struggle at turning people down (hence, why he has managed to sneak a few kisses in, and why the disaster that as Pizza Breath ever existed). I’m not suggesting that I normally end up going home with people even when I don’t want to, but I usually decline by making indirect and less-than-honest excuses along the lines of I-have-to-be-up-at-the-crack-of-dawn-so-I-have-to-go-home. So this is a step forward in the right direction.

Surprisingly, he asks if I’d have one more beer with him. I tell him that I think it’s best if we settle up and head our separate directions. So get this: He asks the bartender for the check, and as he is waiting he says to me, “Sheesh, you’re quite the expensive date.” Now if he was being SARCASTIC this would be OK. I mean, we have spent our night between two dive bars, drinking nothing but beer! But he is DEAD SERIOUS, and actually sounds mildly annoyed. This is especially ridiculous considering that when the bartender brings our check over, the grand total is $24!!!!!! MAYBE, he was anticipating it being a lot more, but even so, don’t fucking tell me I am an expensive date when I’ve gallivanted around a bar with you pretending to be my husband. I don’t think he realizes that I’ve seen the total on the check, and I hand him a $20 bill since he is blatantly annoyed at what an expensive date this has been. HE ACCEPTS THE $20.

Let’s do some math:

tab at first bar: $20 (plus tip) =$25?; paid for by him.

taxi cab ride: $11 (plus tip) = $13; paid for by me.

tab at second bar: $24 (plus tip) = $30? = $20 paid by me, $10 paid for by him.

Total money spent by me: $33.

Total money spent by him: $35.

Look. I have no problem paying for things on a date. On a first date however, I do prefer to be “taken out”—and call me crazy, but I anticipated that someone who labels themselves a “southern gentleman” who “knows how to treat a lady” would pick up the tab, sans complaints. Then again, I also didn’t anticipate him trying so hard to get me to go home with him. Even so, the problem lies not in the fact that the date ended with us each spending a similar amount of money, but in him making a big deal over it and acting as though he spent a lot more money than I did.

Anyway, Charleston leaves to go and use the bathroom and tells me to wait for him so he can help me get a taxi. I immediately text Gregory, who I have spent a lot of the date thinking about. Literally AS I HIT “send” I get a text from him, telling me that he is thinking about me.

Charleston comes back, and puts me in a cab and I head to Gregory’s and have a wonderful ending to my evening. About 45 minutes after leaving Charleston, I get a text telling me that he had a wonderful time and that we should hang out soon. On Sunday evening, he asks me how the rest of my weekend was. I really MEANT to respond and politely tell him that I wasn’t interested, but I was still having a great time with Gregory and couldn’t be bothered. I’ve received one other text from him since, but luckily, he’s no RALPH, and seems to have gotten the hint.

****

On another note, I have a date on Thursday night with a girl, who I spoke to a long time ago on OkCupid, but for whatever reason our communication ended and just started up again. I was super excited about her then, and I am super excited about her now. I told her that if she keeps me out past midnight, she’ll have to sing Happy Birthday to me–since Friday is my 26th birthday. Eeps! This led to a slew of flirtatious texts involving the possibility of coffee on Friday morning should the date go really well…and I’m all giddy like a school girl.

RALPH WILL NOT LEAVE!

Oh my LORD! Remember RALPH? Well, I figured after sending me SIX texts (see recap below) and receiving ZERO responses, he would get the hint. Nope.

Early afternoon on Saturday:

Text #1:Howdy :-)”

A few hours later:

Text #2: “Having fun w the friend? Is the sunburn healed?

The next night (Sunday):

Text #3:How about a drink tomorrow?” (Reminder: he has seemingly chosen to ignore the fact that we originally had plans for tomorrow anyway, and I CANCELLED BECAUSE I WAS BUSY!)

The next morning:

Text #4: Free tonight woman?:-)

Later that evening:

Text #5: Going to a dinner burlesque show Wed. Wanna go?”

(No Ralph, no I absolutely do not.) Wednesday evening:

Text #6: “Hey. I leave town tomorrow back Monday. Let’s try next week :-)”

*****

I SERIOUSLY CAN’T BELIEVE THAT HE HASN’T TAKEN THE HINT YET. At this point, I am not even CONSIDERING telling him that I am no longer interested, because he is such a fucking idiot that he doesn’t even deserve it.

AND NOW? HE EXCEEDS MY EXPECTATIONS AND TAKES PATHETICNESS TO A WHOLE NEW LEVEL! How you ask?

HE SEND ME A MESSAGE ON OKCUPID (where we originally “met”) and says “Where you been, woman?”

IS THIS REAL LIFE??? He went from potentially deserving a gentle letdown, to losing any chance of a response from me, to potentially receiving the following message (which is currently up for debate):

Dear Ralph:

Remember when we had dinner plans for Monday night, and I had to cancel because something came up? Remember when we rescheduled for the following week, because of our schedules? Remember when you tried desperately to find a scrap of time before then that we could hang out in? I’m asking whether you remember, because you are seemingly very forgetful, considering that one of your attempts included Monday night and others included nights that I had explicitly told you I was busy on. Remember when I NEVER responded to you, because you were speeding toward me like a freight train and all you made me want to do was run away and hide? Well, given your OkCupid message, it seems that somewhere in your delusional mind you’ve convinced yourself that my lack of response JUST MAY be due to something like a lost phone. Rest assured, dear Ralph, I have my phone. Now, for you to find your dignity.

 

Should I send it? Ignore him?? Kill him???




 

Disaster Date #3; part B: Sex, Drugs, and Jesus.

Ok, so part A covered the basics: our meeting, our connection, our first kiss, and that sort of nonsense.

Here’s where things get more exciting.

I wake up on Saturday morning hungover, sleep-deprived, and phoneless. Shit. Gregory has my phone. This means that he has access to my facebook, this blog, my text messages, and my pictures. Not to mention my contact list which includes a plethora of first name’s followed by “OkC”, meaning I met them on OkCupid. Oops.  Luckily I trust that he will not snoop, but each time someone comments on my current facebook status, which makes reference to my date with Jesus look-a-like, a preview of what they say pops up on my phone. To give you an idea of what he has potentially seen:

“I feel spiritually enlightened after hanging out with JESUS last night! ;)”

“He looked a lot like Jesus, Beckah. A lot. But there was something irresistible there, too. I totally see why you would have the sex with him.”

“I liked his sweater the best. Only Jesus could get away with wearing something like that. Marry that man!

I email him and we arrange to meet at his friend’s place in Tribeca at 6:30 before heading to Madison Square Garden together, for LCD Soundsystem’s LAST SHOW EVER. I roll out of bed, throw some babysitting-approved clothes on and head to work, which is also in Tribeca.

Here’s a funny side note: when I get to work, the dad of the child I’m babysitting throws a copy of the Village Voice at me and says “you’re in this!”. See below.

I somehow manage to make it through babysitting without killing myself or falling asleep. I rush home, get ready for the concert, pop 10 mg of adderall in an attempt to wake up, and then hurry back to Tribeca to meet Gregory. I’m late (of course), and wearing the same scandalous shirt pictured in the Village Voice, which is held up by a plethora of strategically placed body tape. We head to this amazing loft in Tribeca where about 20 semi-fancy and definitely-square people are alternating bites of sushi with lines of coke and sips of sake. My cut-to-the-bellybutton neckline is drawing a lot of stares from the turtleneck-and-blazer wearing girls, who are otherwise effortlessly beautiful and somewhat intimidating in a 6ft-supermodel-kind-of-way. Gregory reassures me that aside from one or two people, this is not his regular crowd of friends and that once we pick up our tickets and have a drink we’ll head out. I’m still exhausted, so I pop another half an adderall and take a shot of whiskey.

I haven’t done coke since I was a stripper 4 or 5 years ago, and I have absolutely zero desire in ever doing it again. Gregory doesn’t touch it either, but he tells me he is going to take Molly, and asks if I’d like to join him. Despite my curiosity, I’ve never taken ecstasy before. It’s been offered to me on multiple occasions, but I guess I’ve always been scared of it. Something about Gregory makes me feel super comfortable, and the idea of experiencing LCD Soundsystem while rolling sounds incredible. I worry for a moment that adderall and MDMA aren’t a smart combination, but I agree to take a capsule anyway.

Shortly after, we arrive at Madison Square Garden. The air is electric and my excitement for the show immediately triples. Security is lax: people are openly smoking pot, lighting cigarettes, and drinking from flasks. Our seats are the worst possible ones you could have, but we never see them; instead, we wander to the best section ever, find some empty seats and claim them until told otherwise, which never ends up happening.

We miss the opening band, but it’s no matter because the moment LCD Soundsystem takes the stage, I feel the drugs beginning to kick in. The music is pulsating through every inch of my body, the lights are penetrating my every pore, and I feel fucking fantastic. For most of the show, Gregory and I are melting into each other, and I feel so connected to him I could cry. I feel connected to the entire crowd and I make love to each person there. I can’t help but regret that I waited 26 years to try this amazing drug. At one point, Gregory and I are kissing and pressing our bodies together, and I’m suddenly shaking with pleasure and he has to hold me up. I can feel that my panties are wet and I honestly wonder whether I just came. This young guy from Minnesota comes up to us and excitedly asks if we are rolling and offers us gum. He blows a Vicks inhaler into our eyes and it feels like my eyes have goosebumps. I am laughing and telling him I love him. Greg and I make plans to go to a party in Brooklyn with him after the show, where DJ Caribou is spinning. The last song LCD performs leaves everyone’s face wet with tears, and a million white balloons fall from the ceiling and I think that this is heaven for sure.

The last song LCD Soundsystem performed that night, and EVER:

The concert ends around 12:30, but I feel like it lasted 20 minutes and I mourn its ending and savor our last few moments in the stands. We spend the rest of our night between two parties, both of which are disappointing, but only because nothing can compare to the show we just saw. Around 2 a.m., I take a little more Molly and try to enjoy the party we are at. Neither of us are feeling the dj and we opt to lounge on a leather couch and people-watch instead of dance. All of a sudden I feel dizzy and nauseous and I don’t want to stay there for a moment longer. I stand up, tell Gregory I’m not feeling well and that we need to leave, and quickly. I can feel myself beginning to panic, and I’m suddenly sweaty and shaky and hate everyone around me. Gregory quickly grabs me a water and takes me outside. As soon as I feel the fresh air I feel better. We call a car and caress each other on the corner until it arrives. By 6 a.m. I’m walking up the steps of Gregory’s loft, feeling both euphoric and exhausted. I have no idea where all the time has went, and I never want this night to end.

Much like my apartment, his place is a large open loft with high ceilings, and I instantly feel at home. He makes us tea while I spread out on a carpet and stretch every muscle I can think of. Eventually, he joins me and massages me and helps me stretch and feeds me sips of the most delicious tea I’ve ever had. We get naked and kiss and roll around on the floor and feel the sunrise. We sort of have sex, but not really.

Sunday morning and I surprisingly feel superb. I take a shower and attempt to cover my tits with my sad excuse of a shirt, which is much more difficult to do without body tape. Gregory and I meet some friends of mine in Greenpoint for brunch and we spend the rest of the day sipping bloody mary’s, basking in the sun at McCarren Park, and poking around in thrift stores. My sister phones me at one point and tells me that I have “extra sugar in my voice” and I think it’s the most beautiful expression I have heard. Then I think I must still be feeling the effects of the drugs.

In the evening, we all head to a local bar to shoot some pool. The entire day ends up being fantastic and laughter-filled. I have to work early the next morning, but Gregory spends the night anyway. In the morning, I leave him sleeping in my bed and head out the door. When I get home, my bed is made and there are these clay trinkets I showed interest in at a thrift store resting on my bookshelf.

What’s happening with us now?:

Monday evening and Tuesday evening we did not see each other, but we texted profusely. Every other night since then we have spent together, despite me having a date on Friday evening with Potential #2 (I’ll explain how that happened in my next post). Greg has met the majority of my friends and won their stamp of approval. He wants to take me to Morocco, but due to green card complications, I’m stuck in this country until around December. He is leaving for the west coast sometime soon to pick up a piano and organ that he has in storage, and he wants to take me with him, but I can’t take off work on such short notice. For eight months he lived on a sailboat and sailed around the world with two other people, and he says that if I ever want to go live on a boat for a month or two we can jump back on that boat in a heartbeat. All of this sounds appealing and dreamlike, but I don’t anticipate up and leaving for anything longer than a weekend getaway anytime soon.

I have never dated anyone like him. He is not what I ever expected being drawn to. Our connection is unlike anything I have had before, which is not necessarily to say that it is better; it’s definitely intense and easy and solid though. The sex is different too. It’s as if our connection overrides the actual sex and we spend more energy trying to literally morph our two bodies into one than focus on the logistics of sex. There is less focus on how to please each other and more focus on how to express all this pleasure we feel for each other, if that makes sense. That being said, the sex is good — just different. I’ve decided that unless something between us takes a turn worth mentioning, this will be the last post that I write about us. I am going to TRY and continue with this blog, but after I forced myself to go on a date with someone else on Friday, I know it’s going to be very difficult for someone to take my mind off of him.

Disaster Date #3; part A.

Remember when I wrote that blog called 7 upcoming potential disaster dates? Well out of those 7 potential dates I’ve since: permanently canceled one (read: Ralph), scheduled drinks with the Charleston surfer for this upcoming Friday (read: Potential #2), added a new potential person to the seemingly growing list of mistakes, and met with the polyamorous nomad (read: Potential #1).

This post is about Potential #1, otherwise known as the polyamorous nomad Greg.

Thursday 12:35 a.m.(ok technically Friday):

It’s my last evening in Florida, and I’m nearly asleep when I receive a bunch of texts from Greg.

(the following texts all come within a minute or so):

HOLY SHIT LCD SOUNDSYSTEM.”

“Beckah do you dance?”

“I mean really, really dance”

“I mean move your body with such abandon that you open every pore”

“every channel”

“until your shirt is soaking wet and your hair sticks to your face”

“if you can dance like this then I invite you to Madison Square Garden this saturday evening”.

I know what you’re thinking. This guy sounds weird. And by weird, I mean it sounds like he is on crack. And by crack, I mean ecstasy. Regardless, I accept his invite on the condition that we meet for a quick drink on Friday evening first. YOU TOO WOULD ACCEPT AN INVITE TO LCD SOUNDSYSTEM’S LAST SHOW EVER.

Heck, I’d have even gone with Ralph.

Friday

I’m back in New York. I’m wearing (completely shear) black genie pants and 4-inch heels. Underneath my pants is my favourite garter belt and a pair of black stockings. Up top I have on a black bustier with strategic shear panels on the sides and back. Perhaps I should have taken a picture, but trust me that despite the fact that 95% of it is see-through, it’s sexy and yet somehow subtle. This is one of my four ‘go to’ first-date outfits that has proved successful every time, and it’s also appropriate acceptable for the queer dance party I am attending later in the evening. Immediately before I head out the door of my apartment, my roommate looks me up and down and says, “wow. I think I’ve only ever had one girl give it her all like that on a first date,” and for a moment I wonder what it is that other girls wear on a first date. So much for subtle. I shrug and  grab a cropped rhinestone-laden blazer for good measure and head out the door. 

I meet Greg at a dimly lit, rustic Italian wine bar around 8 pm. I’m late and he is sitting in the very back corner, away from anyone else. My first reaction is that he looks like Jesus. He is wearing a white linen shirt, and he is all at once exactly what and nothing like I expected.

Two hours later we’ve each finished three glasses of wine, and shared a salad, a cheese plate, and olives. Our conversation is great, and moments of awkwardness are few. It’s definitely a more intense, almost spiritual atmosphere than I’m used to on a first date, but one that I anticipated there being between us from the get go. When the bill comes, which is around $120, he refuses to let me contribute.

He asks if I’d like to continue hanging out with him and go to a private party at Bowery Bar to see the Strokes (who have apparently broken up). I thank him for the invite, confess that I hate despise loathe the Strokes and have plans to go to a queer dance party in about an hour, where a friend from out of town will be. I can’t bail entirely on the party, but I’m not done hanging out with Greg either. So we conclude that we will head to my party first, visit with my friend for a bit, play a game of pool, and then head to Bowery Bar together.

We are looking for a cab to take to my party when we share our first kiss. I forget exactly how it happens–but I know he somehow verbally requests one and manages to sound sexy and endearing and not creepy and desperate, so I kiss him. The kiss is OK. You know how some kisses on the mouth actually make you question whether someone is simultaneously performing oral sex on you, because you get wet and excited and just wanna start humping already? Well, this kiss isn’t one of those, but it isn’t at all disastrous . I definitely feel a connection to him, which is what counts. For a moment, I also ponder how ridiculous we must look: me all black-and-polished-fashion-forward-stilettos and he all long-haired-Jesus-yogi-body-wool-sweater.

Once the first kiss is out of the way, the rest tend to flow like water, which is what happens for the rest of the evening. We get to the queer party where he meets a LOT of my friends, some of whom read this blog and know what’s up with my dating life, and many of whom do not, and thereby probably wonder why the hell I have a dude in tow, let alone one that resembles Jesus. Maybe it’s the environment, or maybe I’m more vain than I care to admit, but on several occasions I catch myself wondering what the hell I am doing with him, and I feel ever-so-slightly embarrassed. But then he touches me, or says something to me, or looks at me, and everything else melts away and I feel elated and excited and calm all at once.

It’s about 2 a.m. when we realize we are not going to make it to Bowery Bar, because I have to babysit at 10:30 the next morning and don’t want to exhaust myself for LCD Soundsystem. He invites me over to his loft (where he lives alone), but I need to spend the night in my apartment so I don’t show up to babysitting the next morning in my see-through walk-of-shame stride-of-pride get-up. I don’t feel like bringing him into my messy room and roommate-filled apartment, so for once in my life, I keep it in my pants and decide to sleep alone.

Greg tells me that he’ll drop me off at home in a cab, which is sweet. We leave the bar and instantly bump into my pseudo-ex Jesse, who I recently shot a sex scene with.

As I’ve mentioned, the sexual chemistry between Jesse and I is ridiculous, and my immediate desire is to make out have sex with him right then and there. Instead, I hold off for a moment and introduce Greg and Jesse, literally using the lines: “Gregory, this is Jesse, the pseudo-ex I told you about…the one that I shot a sex scene with the other day?” Greg is very warm and they shake hands and exchange hello-nice-to-meet-yous. Then Greg says he forgot his scarf inside, and would be right back out. So I do the only reasonable thing I can think of at the moment and say to Greg, “Is it OK if I make out with Jesse while you go and get it?Here’s where Greg earns mega points: not only is he OK with it and unfazed by my asking, but he also seems to agree that the only reasonable thing I should do if I want to make out with Jesse, is to in fact make out with Jesse. So I make out with Jesse and take a cab home with Greg.

To Be Continued (we’ve seen a lot of each other!)…

Dear Ralph, you’re a disaster and we haven’t even begun

Remember Ralph (see potential #4)?  Well, I’m officially crossing him off of my ‘potential’ list. I know that I predicted a disaster date out of him from the get go, and the masochistic side of me still thinks that an excruciating date with him would be worth it, given the writing material it’d be sure to produce. But…I just can’t. He is CLINGY as FUCK and makes me want to DIE. And, his name is Ralph. Seriously!

Here’s what has happened between the two of us:

~We make tentative plans for a Monday night and exchange phone numbers.

~He texts me, saying “Enjoy FL!🙂 See ya hopefully a week from tonight… and good morning

My immediate thought is “who the fuck is this?”, since I have given my number to at least 8 people on Okcupid in the last week alone. I figure it’s probably him, given the reference to our date the following Monday–but I dock him points for not signing off with his name. Dumbass.

~I change our plans to Tuesday night, because Monday night no longer worked for me. This change of plans works for him.

~While I’m in Florida, we engage in small talk via text, always at his initiation. None of it excites me, and 99 % annoys me. He seems eager and super responsive.

~I cancel Tuesday plans because I forgot that I had to work late. I apologize profusely, and ask if he’d like to reschedule for the following week, since he is out of town Thursday-Sunday. He suggests Wednesday, which at the time didn’t work for me, because I had a date planned with potential #1. He agrees, and attempts to continue to engage in pointless back and forth banter via text, which this time around I mostly ignore.

~So he sends me: “How about… we be adorable… and have brunch Sunday?”

What I wanted to say:

Dear Ralph: Brunch is only adorable if we just woke up together. And if we didn’t, I certainly don’t want to parade around town as if we just did.

What I did say:

“I have a friend from out of town staying with me for the weekend…”

He insists that “it would have been adorable:-P” Gross.

Four days have passed since that text, and I’ve received four texts from him. I’ve responded to zero. Last night he sent a text saying “How about a drink tomorrow?”.

What I wanted to say:

Dear Ralph: Tomorrow is Monday. The day that we originally had plans on. The day that I canceled, because I was busy.

Instead, I said nothing. Normally, I would have at least responded and reminded him that I was not free, and jokingly called him a dumbass. But I was busy having sex with potential #1 (see upcoming yet-to-be-written blog. As in, stay tuned) and really didn’t think texting RALPH was my#1 priority.

Today, he fucking texts me “free tonight woman??

What I wanted to say:

“Dear Ralph, here is a link to my blog I told you about.”

I actually said nothing, and am taking a poll to see what the best response actually is.

I guess I’m being hard on him, because I began our interaction with little to no romantic interest in him. I realize that I may have reacted differently had this not been the case. That being said, there is something to be said for playing it cool. It’s just SO UNSEXY to be this available and eager, and his name is RALPH.

 

*UPDATE: so I never got back to him, and he texted me in the evening inviting me to a burlesque show on Wednesday evening! This man CANNOT TAKE A HINT and has also apparently chosen to disregard the entire conversation that we had about this week NOT BEING GOOD FOR ME.

I shoot a sex scene, and a hetero man invades my queer life.

The first half of this post is probably not very relevant to those of you not in the queer scene here in New York, but you can just pretend.  

If you haven’t read my last post, you should go and at least read the blurb on Ny_Rockstar (see Potential # 4) before continuing with this entry.

Well, yesterday morning RALPH asked me if I had any interesting plans for the weekend. I responded today, explaining that I had spent my Saturday shooting a sex scene for a friend’s film with a transgendered ex lover of mine, followed by dancing at Choice Cunts until 4 a.m..

His response was as follows:

I’ve been to Choice Cunts.. a friend of mine dances there.
Sounds like you had an interesting couple of days..🙂
When do you get back from FL? My radio fans want to know!”

The queer scene is small enough without a heterosexual man invading. Now, it’s just plain ass cramped. And who is his friend? Is it YOU?

Choice Cunts is a monthly party, and I haven’t missed one in over two years. So unless he attended Choice over two years ago, Ralph and I have been in close, sweaty quarters together already; a place I’m certain he’d like to revisit.

Anyway, I should talk more about that sex scene I shot yesterday, because it was fucking hot. The director was so sweet because he kept reassuring me that I needn’t show any nipples or find myself in too compromising a position, but within five minutes I’d given him tits and ass like never before. I couldn’t help it–the sexual chemistry was (and is) so incredible between the other actor and I that every time he yelled ‘cut’ I jolted back to the reality that I was ‘acting’ and had to stop.

Oy. I have to change the subject. Actually, I have to go and do something. I’ve lined up more dates than I can handle for the week I return from Florida, so it will be  interesting to say the least!