the way it is

I consider myself a gentleman, but if you are flaunting your cleavage I have earned the right to stare. Just sayin'...

god bless the child

I used to think the highest form of flattery was for a woman to want to have your child. I mean, with the physical aspect of what it does to a woman’s body and, obviously, the significance of creating a life with someone, I believed that to be some transcendent shit.

And then I remember all the women I’ve seen who’ve borne children for all sorts of clowns and my idealized concept is swiftly brought back to earth.

the swing

This probably drives women crazy: despite we men supposedly being visual creatures--it's how we mainly fall for the opposite sex*--not one of the women that Tiger Woods allegedly strayed from his marriage and consorted with is hotter than the Mrs.

Now, ain't that a bitch?

* (Actually, all men are visual: unattractive gay dudes have less of of a chance of getting laid than their hetero female equivalent.)

ice cube

I'm having a smoke outside one of my neighborhood watering holes when I find myself joining a conversation already in progress between two lovely 20-something girls complaining about bad dates and ill-mannered suitors. I share some of my experience in these matters which clearly impresses them both. (When you've been doing it as long as I have, you gotta have something to show for it, right?) After we're done smoking and commiserating they introduce themselves--one of whom, it turns out, I had previously met but I couldn't place her--and we go back inside to our respective drinks.

I return to the corner of the bar where I've been sitting, next to some friends who'd just shown up, but decide after a bit to go join Donna and Melanie, the two girls from outside. They are most receptive and shortly after my arrival Donna is flirting heavily with me.
So much so that I have to slightly avoid her and engage Melanie in conversation, so she doesn't feel left out. Things are going swimmingly, the girls are finishing their drinks and getting ready to order another round, when my friend Malcolm--who'd been chased away from the group he was hanging with by their sudden decision to loudly break into Star Wars' "March of the Evil Empire"--comes over and asks to join us. Donna immediately whispers something to Melanie, and just like that--poof!--the good vibe is killed instantaneously; the girls decide to leave and barely say good night. And then it hits me: "Now I remember how I know Donna."

What happened?

Well, you see, about 2 years prior I had met Donna at the same bar one Sunday night. I chatted her up and we seemingly hit it off.
But at one point in the evening I introduce her to Malcolm, who was sitting a few bar stools away, and she gradually loses interest in me and focuses on Malcolm. I recognize the shift and when she gets up to use the bathroom I let Malcolm know he can pursue her if he wants; I'm a lame duck at that point. He's a bit hesitant to take that step, since I had already put in the work, but I assure him it's OK and give him my blessing.

Donna went home with Malcolm and, from his own account, it didn't end well. He wanted more than she was willing to offer and eventually blew her off, never calling her or anything of the sort. Clearly, judging by this latest encounter, Donna was still hurt.

And so, in a flash of an instant, the possibility of my hooking up with either Donna or Melanie vanished without a trace, thanks to Malcolm's appearance going down like a bucket of ice water over Donna's head. Great. At least I'd already gotten laid that night.

But that's literally another story.

birthday

A couple of years ago I had a steady DJ gig in a couple of neighborhood bars on the weekends. One gig was Saturdays--and occasionally Fridays--at a now defunct lounge called Edessa; Sundays my bartender friend Ron and I did 'Delicious Sundays' at Bar 4.

At the time one of my New Year's resolutions was to shake things up a bit, so I started with that annual debauchery fest known as my birthday celebration. That year I had not one but two in one weekend. After all, it was going to be a working birthday. On Saturday I had the party at Edessa and on Sunday--my actual b-day--the festivities were a bit more low key and took place at my regular 'Delicious Sundays' night at Bar 4. Here's how it went down:

My old friend and former co-worker Mike and his girlfriend were the first of my people to arrive at Edessa. I was talking to them at the edge of the bar when I happened to look straight ahead to the front door. Just outside I saw that rare and unmistakable coat. Immediately I knew it was her.

"Here comes trouble", I said to Mike.
"What kind of trouble?"
"The female kind."

She made her way through the bar and to the back where the DJ station was located. Let me tell you, her big smile was no match for the dimly lit bar.

"Happy Birthday. I miss you."

And with that, Tina made her appearance at my birthday party.

She was a 33 year-old grad student who'd taken me on a ride on crazy, dating rollercoaster for a bit. Two weeks after our last encounter at Bar 4--when we decided not to see each other anymore due to Tina being an emotional mess--she showed up early for the festivities and ended up being one of the last to leave.

A short time after she showed up we made plans to go out for a smoke. I was slightly delayed so she went ahead and offered to chain smoke so that she could be with me when I finally made it out there. While having that initial smoke together she asked if I was surprised.

"About what?"
"Don't be coy", she said.
"Well if you're referring to you being here, I'm pleasantly surprised."

That's what she wanted to hear, of course. But it was true.

Anyway, as it turned out, it was a slow night for Edessa so my 25-plus guests made up about 75% of the crowd. Raquel, the bartender, made it a point to tell the owner that I saved her ass and consequently the bar as well. Not to mention the fact that she was a huge fan of my DJ prowess. They were loving me that night, let me tell you.

Since I was obviously working I couldn't dedicate enough time as I'd wanted to my guests. For Tina that meant dividing her time between myself and the friends of mine with whom she hit it off, particularly Mr. S. He was a big hit with her. And the feeling, I later found out, was mutual.

I had a great time. I also had quite a few, if you know what I mean. Which is why Tina and I ended up slow dancing and kissing at the end of the night. Yes, I know. More drama. I don't remember exactly how it went down but after telling me how touched she was that I introduced her to my friends and how cool they were, she mentioned again how much she'd missed me, etc.

"I don't want to talk about this right now, because it's not the time or place, and I've obviously had a few. But you and I could be very happy together."

There I go again.

She agreed that we should talk about it some other time. And yes, I must be a masochist. Sure, I'd stayed away from her. No calls, no e-mails. (I did send her an Evite for the birthday bashes, however.) And it was all good. But she shows up at my birthday party and the first thing out of her mouth is 'I miss you.' I don't fall for crap all that easily but Tina knew how to get to me. Grrr.

I wanted her to miss me. Well, it looked like she had. Ultimately, Tina and I had the big conversation a couple of days later when we were both sober, and I went in for the kill. I should've kept my distance.

A few months after that she booty called me at 2 AM on a weeknight--I had to be at my new job in the morning--and, already disillusioned with her flaky nonsense, I turned her down. It was for the best, and aside from the fact I was getting laid pretty frequently at the time, I do regret not taking her up on the booty that night, though.

+ + + + +

Sunday at Bar 4 was mellow. I got there at 11:15 PM instead of my usual 10 PM. It was a grueling day: I got to bed at 4 AM woke up at two hours later to be in DC for a funeral. Mrs. J, wife of a dear friend, had passed away from cancer the week prior.

My buddy Fernando was slightly buzzed when I got to the bar. Sans boyfriend, Lilian--who once confessed her lust for me, late into at a party at my place just months prior, by stating 'If I don't leave now, I'm going to stay'--showed up carrying a Greek dessert with a candle. Literally, very sweet.

"Make a wish", she said.

We all know what it was, right?

An old music biz acquaintance, followed by a few other friends also joined in. We had a nice time, but everybody left early so I wrapped it up at 2 AM. Fernando had been at another bar in the 'hood earlier in the evening and mentioned that Alan, their Sunday night bartender had asked us to come over if we got done early at Bar 4. We had, so we did.

When we got there Fernando and I each ordered a drink and discussed leaving right after. Yeah, right. I departed at 5 AM leaving Fernando behind. And he had to be at work at 9 AM. Of course there was a girl involved.

Shortly after we arrived, Helen showed up. She was a tall, brainy, sexy chick I'd met at the same bar over a year and a half ago prior. We exchanged e-mails but nothing more. Some time after that I bumped into her again and she ended up going home with Ron that night. Business as usual. After that I asked her out--she and Ron only had a one night stand--but no dice. When she walked in that Sunday night I hadn't seen her since the previous summer. In any event, I sat with Helen and we caught up. Later Fernando joined us and they sort of hit it off. She's hard to read sometimes.

Fernando asked for my permission to pursue her and I acceded. After all, I didn't perceive any difference in her attitude towards me and at that point I was too tired, anyway. Helen did buy me a couple of drinks and offered me her cigarettes on account of my birthday. And when she asked if I'd gotten a birthday cake and I replied not really, she took a Cheeto from a bag she'd been eating, put a match in it and lit it as a candle for me to blow out. Who new she had a soft spot?

All in all, it was a good 39th birthday. Yes, indeed. I was hoping to find the time to sleep. And dream.

the crying game

About a little over a month ago, I met and became friendly with Reese, a cute chick who wears the non-straight uniform—i.e., looks like a lesbian—and asked Mark, at whose bar this chick and I met, what her story was. Just in case the boyish haircut was just that. I took his “I’ve seen her leave here with dudes” response to mean she was straight or bi, so the next time we bumped into each other at the bar
I wasted no time in candidly inviting her to come home with me.

It turns out my Mark’s gaydar was off.

Reese accepted but made it clear she was gay and graciously gave me an out by letting me know she would not be offended if I chose to rescinded my invite. Luckily for me, I didn’t have to make that decision given that we hung out a bit too late at the bar that night.
And at that point all parties felt like sleep in one's own bed was the lone, logical choice, anyway. (I have since found out she used to date men, but I get the feeling one big heartbreak she told me about may have made her re-think her sexual orientation. Whatever…)

Unfortunately, Reese has now become an unwanted bar buddy, due to the fact that after a few drinks she gets a bit antagonistic with me or anyone else I might be hanging with. Not to mention how she brings up EVERY SINGLE TIME how her parents neglected her as a child. It’s not like we’re old friends for her to make me and/or my friends into her personal analysts. Ugh.

Now, I have to shake off a chick who's not going to have sex with me; who I shouldn't have been chatting up in the first place.

Damn, it sucks to be me sometimes.

love and marriage

My dear friend Mr. S once told me people don’t necessarily get married when they find the right person, but instead,
once they’ve decided to get married, they generally get hitched to the next person they have a serious relationship with.

Guilty, as charged.

You see, I did exactly as Mr. S postulates and married the wrong woman. I don’t say that out of spite, but from the knowledge
that I adopted the ‘marry-the-one-who-annoys-you-the-least’ approach. Why? Because I didn’t think “the one” existed.
I believed that finding the ideal person was akin to winning the lottery. And so, I settled and ultimately paid for making such a
callous decision with a selfish, vengeful mate.

I’ve since had the pleasure of meeting and involving myself with a few incredible women that have disproved my original theory regarding matrimony. For various reasons that could not be helped these relationships did not progress in the way that
myself or these wonderful women would’ve hoped. But it changed my previous outlook on love and relationships. It also gave me hope.

Of course, I haven’t met anyone of that caliber in years, so…

cheap trick

The very first date Sonia, my last girlfriend, and I went on was dinner at a Jamaican restaurant in Boerum Hill. It was a nice enough meal, but not too expensive. However, when the check arrived she made no effort whatsoever to contribute to it. It was a first date, and I like to be gracious, especially with someone I was trying to woo. So, gentleman that I am, I made no allusion to it and let it slide.
But somehow it stuck with me.

As the relationship progressed I began to notice how, um, aggressively “economical” Sonia was regarding matters of money.
(Trust me, I could go on, but that would require an entire, separate post.) And yes, it bothered me. But one trip to the movies really clinched it, in my book.

At the time I wasn’t doing too well financially so we always tried to find cheap scenarios for our entertainment. In those days, the Virgin Megastore in Times Square—RIP—had a movie theatre, which showed second-run movies for $5, so it was a logical choice.
One Saturday evening, we got there cutting it close to showtime, so one of us got in line at the ticket window, while the other did the same at an ATM-type ticket dispensing unit right across from it. I don’t recall which one of us was on what line but Sonia eventually got the tickets before I did; we dashed inside and managed to catch the last preview before our intended film.

As we’re walking home afterwards, she non-chalantly states, “Hey, since I got the tickets for the movie, you owe me $5.”

Huh?!

I was dumbfounded, but I immediately regained my composure and upset that she would bring up such a thing, when it was always a split check or I would pay whenever we went out, despite the fact that I was barely making any money and Sonia had a cushy office job with a hefty pay check, I brought back the early restaurant scenario with a vengeance.

“Remember that time we went to dinner at that Jamaican place and you did not make even a feeble attempt to share the check?
Well, I think I have you more than covered for this.”

I mean, I should’ve known: this was a woman who would come over to watch her favorite cable shows—she wouldn’t pay for the service over at her place, which btw, she only went to about 5 days a month, since she was at my apartment ALL THE TIME—and then give me grief for spending money on cable. It’s like someone bumming a cigarette from you and then chastising you for smoking. What kind of bullshit was that?! We broke up not too long after the movie incident.

Recently, Sonia came up in a conversation with an old friend of hers I “inherited” via our relationship, and whom I remain good friends with. (I don’t speak to my ex. Haven’t in years. Not my style.) It turns out that Sonia now lives in Manhattan, where she found herself a sugar daddy and has assumed a materialistic, Sex and the City-type existence, excising from her life all past friends who don’t fit her new lifestyle, including our once mutual friend.

Can someone tell me how the fuck I fell in love with this girl?

wake me when it's over

While out doing some food shopping last week I bumped into my neighbor Jenny at the supermarket. I was genuinely surprised to hear her say that our mutual friend, former neighbor and long-standing object of my affection, Christina, had been in town for a few days.
I was bummed that she’d come out to Brooklyn and not gotten in touch, but my last reunion with Christina was bittersweet, to say the least.

OK, here’s the back story:

Years ago, Christina had been a bartender in our neighborhood. I'd been checking her out for a bit but we finally met when I helped her get rid of an obnoxious drunk who was being a nuisance at her bar one night. From there on in we became fast friends and eventually discovered a nice chemistry between us. Unfortunately, our timing was always off: we were never single at the same time and it remained that way until she left NY a short time afterwards.

One night, out of the blue, she calls to say she’s gonna be in town for the next couple of days and makes it perfectly clear I’m one of the main reasons for her trip. I was clearly excited at the prospect of seeing Christina after a couple of years, and the fact that we were both single at the time was just a big plus.

Aside from being a bartender, Christina had played drums in a very popular rock and roll trio before leaving New York, so I knew that someone with as many friends as she did, and who had not been in town for 2 years, would understandably be spread out pretty thin. So, I was prepared to hang out with her Thursday night and not think much of it. But early on that evening we made plans to come back to my place after the hang in Manhattan was done with—and for me to call in sick the following day for part 2—pretty much establishing I was gonna get to sleep with a woman I'd lusted after for 3 long years at that point.

By the time the consorting-with-the-numerous-friends part of the evening came to its conclusion, however, she was a bit drunk,
very emotional (she cried profusely at the sight of Gary, her former roommate/bandmate who had been in a coma when she left and was now to all appearances fine) and obviously erratic. I resigned myself to a fruitless evening.

I got a ride back to Brooklyn with her former roommates and was just gonna go home when she dragged me back to their place.
She had some food and was a little less drunk, but I still decided to go home anyway. I was putting her to bed when she got naked and pleaded me to do the same and join her in bed. I can be a strong-willed man, but...I just couldn't fight it this time...yeah, we had sex.

Unfortunately, in the midst of it, she freaked out and asked who I was (we had turned off the lights) and as you can imagine it was all down hill from there. I then waited til she fell asleep, got dressed, and left. But her ex-roomies had to let me out which made me feel even worse. (Wham! Bam! Thank you, ma'am! Um, not quite.) But it gets better: I decided to go to work the next day and, of course, Christina calls after I'd left to say she was hoping I'd stayed home and that SHE DOESN'T REMEMBER THE PREVIOUS NIGHT.
(Which might be only partially true: women ABSOLUTELY KNOW if they’ve had sex. But anyway…)

We got together Friday night. She said she remembered bits and pieces of the night before. We talked about having sex that night,
but I couldn't bring myself to ask whether she recalled our previous carnal encounter. (There were too many things that went on for her to completely have blacked out on, but still...) I ended up leaving at about 3 AM. There were friends of hers still there hanging.
She left for Florida the next day. And I haven’t seen or heard from her since.

The sad thing is, I’d been thinking about her these last few days and then I hear she was in town and didn’t even call me.
Jenny mentioned that Christina was quite saddened due to a recent breakup and how that may have contributed to making her trip even more low key. But I would’ve loved seeing her, regardless.

turning japanese

My friend Michelle is a sweetheart. A loving, generous human being who deserves the absolute best, as far as I'm concerned.
Since she moved out to Los Angeles 2 years ago we've become much closer, ironically enough, enjoying the kind of profound,
heartfelt conversations we never could've had when she was here in Brooklyn: in a bad headspace and consequently an often
belligerent and obnoxious drunk.

Yeah, I was in love with her but I knew it would never happen between us. For one thing, I always believed she was hung up on younger, skinny, good-looking, hipster types with a cocaine problem. (Not really, as it turns out.) Also, by then I'd started to tire of taking on a saviour complex. I felt like Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon: "I'm too old for this shit." Sorry, fix your own lives, ladies. You've had a few decades to figure it out.

Last week Michelle calls me from California to catch up and eventually inquire about my lovelife. I tell her about Maria and she gets all excited and starts urging me to pursue her; to put up a fight; and how much women love that. I'm not convinced and explain to her that Maria hasn't really given me any incentive to do anything like that. Finally, after a bit of failed cajoling, she gives up.

"You know what? You're not that into this chick."

"I guess I'm not. I mean she's really fun and sexy and I'd like to date her but I'm not bowled over or anything."

"So is there anyone that like that?"

"How so?"

"I mean, who gets your motor running?"

"No one, lately."

"OK, tell me, who do you immediately think of when you wake up and want to jack-off to?"

[Wow, I guess Michelle and I are that tight, huh?]

"Um, well there's a couple of women who I've recently slept with..."

"No, not chicks you've fucked; women you feel a connection to."

"Honey, besides you, in the last five years there's only been two other women who've made my motor run, as you say.
And since you left it's just been Patty, and you know how that turned out...and why are you giggling? Are you mocking me?"

"No, of course not. It's just that...you...mentioned me in that way..."

"Well, you know I've always been in love with you. From the moment I laid eyes on you at the bar that night."

"You know I love you, too. And I care 'bout you and love to hear your voice."

I bet you're wondering what this last exchange led to, right? I'll tell you: talk of artistic expression, charitable work, and a few other topics. Oh, and how Michele thinks both of us should put out good energy so we can find someone to love and be reciprocated. Um, ok.

So much for Michelle and I. But hey, maybe from here on in I can get her to talk dirty to me.

love the one you're with

Maria is a smart, warm, beautiful South American girl I was recently introduced to by a mutual friend. As you may have guessed, I was immediately captivated by this engaging brunette whose company I've come to enjoy over the last few weeks. You see, in the brief time since we met, we've hung out, had drinks a few times and it has become quite apparent that she is quite taken with me.

As a friend.

It gets better: she happens to have a thing for one of my boys. Which I wouldn't mind one bit--he's a good guy--if not for the fact that he's not even remotely interested in Maria.

Good grief.

the fly

Raven-haired, built-like-a-woman, 30-something beauty walks into my buddy Mark's bar and has me immediately mesmerized. So hot. She makes her way over to greet Mark behind the bar and he introduces me to the lovely and, as it turns out, über-friendly Nina.

We enjoy a lengthy chat and I buy her a drink before she goes back to her friends. Of course, this is the one time I forget to carry a pen with me, but I figure I'll have a chance to do the "digit dance" before the night is done.

Nina graciously sends me a shot of whisky from across the bar, but a short time later finds herself on my end the room when her friends leave and, in the process of saying goodbye, she bumps into Sylvia, who's sitting about 3 people away from me. She decides to stay, and I ask Mark if I can buy Nina another drink.

"Um, do you know that she occasionally fucks Freddie?"

"Your co-worker Freddie?"

"Yup."

This guy gets around; not only does he fool around with the tall, voluptuous Wendy, who I have lusted after from Day 1, but Nina, too?

"Well, I guess she can buy her own beer then."

"I thought you'd feel that way."

I look over at Nina and Sylvia chatting up a storm and ask Mark if the latter knows if my newest object of desire has been fucking her ex-boyfriend.

"Dunno....might be one of those 'keep your enemies closer' scenarios."

In any event, a short time later Nina and Sylvia close up their respective tabs and decide to share a cab together. Of course, that's not the only thing they've been sharing.

the sign (lisa pt.2)

As you may recall, I hooked up with Lisa a very long time after we first met and exchanged saliva and digits. Three weeks later, it looked like a repeat performance was in the cards.

Not quite.

In a déja vu of our previous encounter she once again leaves the bar with me, but en route to my place the alcohol really kicks in and she immediately turns from tipsy to shitfaced without warning. At this point she was useless to me, sexually speaking, so I give up on my hopes for a carnal rendezvous, bring her back to my place and once we get home, take off her shoes and put Lisa to bed fully clothed.

Hours later I wake up and sidling up against her I notice her dress is wet. What the...And then it hits me: yes, Lisa has peed all over herself in her sleep. Fuck.

Disgusted and annoyed, I grab a blanket from the closet and proceed to crash on my living room couch. I wake up at almost 10:30 AM, which is an hour before Lisa has to be at work. I wake her up, she makes some phone calls--including one that, for whatever reason, requires that she lock herself in my bathroom--says goodbye, and leaves.

No apology. Nothing.

YOU JUST PEED ALL OVER MY BED, DAMN IT! WTF?!

A full-on cleanup mission consisting of mattresss airing/turning over and industrial amounts of Febreze is undertaken. Ah, this was obviously not Lionel Ritchie's idea of a Sunday morning.

Maybe this is a sign that I need to put my days of random fucking behind me. It's the clearest one I've gotten so far.

it takes two

While I will readily admit that it’s petty and childish, I can’t help but rejoice when a woman who has blown me off finds herself on the business end of a worse refutation. Ah, it does the heart good if only momentarily. But I'll take it, nonetheless. Here are two particular instances I’d like to share with you:

After enjoying a few casual encounters at my neighborhood bar, I thought we'd hit it off and asked Raquel out. But not only did she gave me the old “I’ll see you when I see you” response to my date query, she additionally mentioned how she was quite particular about who she went out with. Really? Since I considered her not be “all that”, as the kids used to say, I moved on and left it at that.

But one night, while I was out drinking with my buddy Michael, she came over and joined us. Raquel wasted no time in letting it be known how interested she was in hooking up with him, and made her move. To break the ice and further ingratiate herself with Michael she suggested the three of us take a picture in the bar’s photo booth. When Michael promptly shot down the idea, she recoiled and nixed the whole thing right then and there, without even offering to go in the booth with yours truly and save face, leaving her rebuffed intentions clearly out in the open. I was a bit miffed but my displeasure would not last.

When Andy the bartender eventually closed up shop for the night only the four of us remained. Outside, waiting for respective cabs, Raquel offered the by now legless Michael a ride home. “That’s all right”, he replied, heavily slurring his words. “I’ll take the bus.”

That Raquel couldn’t get Michael to go home with her, despite his highly intoxicated state was a small victory for me that night.

+ + + + +

“You must think I’m a bitch for never getting back to you,” Annie says, while temporarily taking a seat next to me at the bar and waiting to be served.

“No, I just figured you weren’t interested in going out on a date with me, that’s all.”

“OK, then. I'm sorry, though.”

"Yeah, whatever," I mutter to myself.

She gets her drink and goes back to the table of co-workers with whom she’s been barhopping all night. I later find out Annie’s had her eye on one of them and in a clear territory-marking move had brazenly sat on the guy’s lap at a previous bar. The dude has given her some of his attention, but there's another cute chick amongst them who seems like she will not be denied. Hmm...

As the night is coming to an end, I notice the co-worker in question and the other cute girl in their party have been MIA for quite a while. Annie has been fidgeting nervously and right after last call, when the music has been turned off, the lights are turned all the way up and the bartender is requesting that everyone leave, the missing couple are still nowhere to be found. Not wanting to leave without either one of them, the rest of the group is just standing there uncomfortably, wondering where the two have gone. Annie is visibly mortified.

After what seems like an interminable wait, the pair in question sheepishly reappear, to the combined relief and annoyance of everyone present, who at this point have been made quite aware, both by their prolonged absence and disheveled appearance, that the two had been hooking up in one of the bar’s bathrooms. As coats are collected and goodbyes are exchanged I glance over to see Annie, embarrassed and humiliated, file out with the rest of her party. It sure made my night. Sweet!

so cruel (in a biblical way)

Regardless of whether you believe the Genesis story of Adam and Eve is allegory, fact, or fiction, we can all admit to the effectiveness of its establishing the 'woman as evil temptress' motif. I was recently reminded of an incident from a few years back that confirms how this theme continues to manifest itself to this day.

Now, let me ask, what do you do when your buddy’s sexy lady friend openly flirts with you and makes a habit of stopping by your place, unannounced, cigarettes and bottle of wine in tow? You do the right thing and brush it off and go on your way, is what.

But.

What if you know he’s been cheating on her; that he’s been looking for a way out of the relationship; that you may be buddies but he's not a close friend? Did I mention she’s sweet, affectionate, incredibly sexy and just your type? What about it then?

Once again, you do the right thing and brush it off and go on your way.

But.

Oh, man. Why?!

Matthew 26:41: Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation: the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.

So true. So cruel.

sledgehammer

Talk about late bloomer: it wasn't until my mid-30s that I understood what "Show me 'round your fruit cage / and I will be your honey bee" really meant. Loser. I've made up for it, sure. And so, tonight, with Peter Gabriel's classic tune burrowing through my consciousness, I contemplated going out for the specific purpose of getting laid and honoring the spirit of this particular song. But, for no reason I could put my finger on, I calmly rethought things and decided to stay in, despite the nagging impulses of my raging libido. Didn't pick up the phone and make any ill-advised calls, either, although thoughts of a nice little romp with certain toxic avengers of the female persuasion still dance in my head...

Dunno if I should be proud of myself, but it's something, right?

Anyway...

time (clock of the heart)

It's always a mystery to me why two people that should clearly hook up never get around to, or why it takes such a long time for them to eventually do so, when all the conditions for their carnal rendezvous are seemingly within reach. Timing is everything, indeed.

Case in point: Lisa is a girl I've known for a few years. Despite our tongues being intertwined within the span of a few drinks on the very first night we met--and subsequently going out on a date or two--nothing ever came of it. In the interim, she'd dated some doofus for 2 years--a fact which, truth be told, made her significantly less attractive to me--but after that dude was out of the picture, lust and unfinished business between us began to nudge me once again in her direction. It was a fruitless task, however.

Until now.

So, at 3:30 AM with thoughts of some last minute hookup with a friendly partner clouding my judgement as usual, I bumped into Lisa at her fave bar late Saturday night and decided to shower her with my slightly drunken charm. She was sitting with some mutual friends and their guests but when they left shortly thereafter, I went over and made my move. It did not take long to have it bear results. But I had one minor obstacle to overcome.

"It's late. I've gotta go."

"Really? I was hoping you'd stay."

[This is the part of the exchange where the woman will give a reason why she has to leave.
But if she doesn't offer up any and instead asks...]

"Why?"

[...you are sooo in.]

"Because I've missed you and I wanted to spend some one-on-one time with you."

"OK. Let me get my purse and I'll come sit with you."

A little kissing and drinking later we are back at my place pretty much doing what we should've been ages ago. This became especially true to me when I got to gaze at that yummy body, delicious breasts, and those luscious thighs that invitingly lead to the promised land.

But the best thing is, the next day, she didn't want to leave and I didn't want her to go. When was the last time that happened? Hmm...

I don't want to be her boyfriend, though.

people are strange

Friday night I'm hanging with a couple of friends at one of my fave bars when I bump into Jane, a young singer/songwriter who I've had a thing for that dates back a few years. She's sitting at the corner of the bar, with her glasses on, hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing a wifebeater and sweatpants. And even in this decidedly drab attire she looks absolutely gorgeous. Jane has blossomed over the years from a cute girl to a beautiful young woman. The transformation has been stunning to watch.

Jane greets me warmly and tells me she's grateful that I showed up just then since a dude not of her liking has been making a rather feeble, yet annoying attempt to chat her up. Jane is trying not to be mean, but she's clearly not interested. You'd think her body language and demeanor would give this guy a clue. No dice.

After the clueless guy eventually figures it out and disappears, Jane and I continue to chat for a bit and the sweet, affectionate side of her personality that is so endearing to me shines throughout our brief time at the bar. She excuses herself due to having classes early the next morning and leaves me with a heartfelt hug and a mild case of longing and what ifs. Ah, Jane...

My buddies and I are engaged in conversation when a cute 30-something sitting across from us, and accompanied by two guys, flashes me a nice smile which I reciprocate. She then proceeds to introduce herself and her companions, one of which happens to be her boyfriend. OK...

They seem nice enough and we end up talking at length about music. We've hit it off and eventually the friend offers to buy me a drink, which I accept. I later excuse myself to go out for a smoke and Theresa asks if she can join me. OK...

After bumping into an old Brooklyn but now living upstate acquaintance of mine named Monica while outside, Theresa and I head back into the bar and I resume the conversation with my own friends. We soon after decide to leave and hit another neighborhood joint.
As I'm saying my goodbyes to Theresa and her friend--the boyfriend had temporarily disappeared--she starts caressing my face (!) and telling me how much she loves my facial hair. The friend, meanwhile, is not fazed one bit by this. Hmm...

"You must have a good woman who loves you," Theresa says, while her hands are still resting on my face.

"Actually, I don't. But I do alright. Do you have any friends you can introduce me to?"

"You should give me your card."

"She is good to know," chimes in the seemingly unsurprised friend.

And against my better judgement I grab a napkin from the bar which I give to Theresa
bearing my e-mail and phone number and walk out behind my friends.

Now, granted, Theresa was visibly tipsy but I know how uncomfortable I'd be with my significant other openly flirting with some guy. And one we've just met, at that. I'm also pretty sure my buddies would not take kindly to her doing so in front of them, especially if I wasn't around. Maybe Theresa and her beau have an open relationship. Maybe he's the super non-jealous type. Maybe none of this means more than some friendly interaction under the influence. Still...

time is on my side (for now)

I’m bored and feeling something similar to “cabin fever” when I decide to venture out for a drink
on a recent Thursday night. Cursing the heavy rain and wondering if I should’ve stayed home,
I make it to my corner bar where, unbeknownst to me, I was to encounter a ray of sunshine.

Shortly after ordering my first drink, I’m approached by a cute girl who sits next to me
and introduces herself. Beth is new to the neighborhood and is ecstatically telling me
about the great deal she got on her new apt, when I jokingly call her a liar.

"Honey, you're too cute for me to lie to."

And we’re off.

Before long we’re making out, rubbing up on each other. Beth is making weekend plans for us,
asking to be sent romantic emails, and pleading with me not to tempt her into going home together.
I'm on a roll.

Finally, around 3:30 AM she decides to leave and have an old college buddy
she was hanging out with walk her home. The seed had been planted.

Or so I thought.

The following day she responds to the nice email I sent her with this:

"Great meeting you last night as well and thanks for the sweet e-mail.
I gotta say though...after thinking things through with a clearer head
I am quite reticent about the age difference (and to be perfectly honest
am just not ready yet for lovers/dating/romantic notions). I am, however,
totally down for a neighborhood friendship. So sorry to be wishy washy."

What a clown.

All I could respond was, "Ask yourself one question: Before you knew the age difference, did it matter to you?"

I’m not interested in any platonic-type relationship, so that’s that, I guess.

This latest scenario is making me rethink being honest about my age when courting 20-something girls.
Luckily, by not looking my age I can fake being ten years younger, so I guess I will. The age difference has
rarely been an issue with girls younger than me by 15 years or so—I’m currently hooking up with a girl
who’s 26, the same age as Beth—but hey, if it’s gonna prevent me from getting laid…

And the saga continues…

how sweet it is

Whenever I bring up my dealings with women of a flaky nature, my dear friend Mrs. L bemoans the lack of decisive, no-nonsense women—like herself—out there. So, how refreshing was it to have a recent hook-up partner show up at my place in a tight little black dress and nothing underneath? Ah, yessss...

Hey, Mrs. L! Guess what? There are still some of you resolute women left out there!

an inconvenient truth

Some say that a man is as only as faithful as his options. (Believe it or not, I've ALWAYS been faithful, despite the occasional worthwhile opportunity to stray.) I'd venture to suggest that if the average non-wealthy schlub lands a hottie--like in every other sitcom of the last 40 years--he's less likely to tempt fate and step out on her, as opposed to a guy with looks comparable to hers. Unless, somehow, the schlub manages to attract a woman hotter than his own.

Now, if all of this is close to being true, then obviously an attractive man who reaches middle age with his looks intact is definitely going to stray from his once equally attractive wife. Right?

[1977 wedding photo of John and Elizabeth Edwards courtesy of New York Times]

my chemical romance

I don't know what it is, but I come across an inordinate amount of women in this city who are truly fucked in the head. There always seems to be some sort of trauma or disorientation or desperate anxiety. Something that impedes a somewhat normal interaction with people (of the opposite sex, in particular) and life in general. I'm the furthest thing from a mental health expert but perhaps in some instances, medication would be helpful, I guess. Then again, there are those who choose to drink heavily while on their medication and that's just another brand of crazy. (One of these days I'll post about my adventures with the alcoholic chick who once, in a failed suicide attempt, slashed her wrists in the bathroom while we were hanging out at her place. Or maybe not.)

Although not an exclusive breeding ground or habitat for these ladies, I do meet them in bars, of course, "where crazy lives", according to my neighbor Simon. Which is why I've recently decided that if I'm not going home with someone I meet that night, I'm writing them off completely. At least with lowered inhibitions the possibility of getting laid is stronger. (I draw the line at wasted chicks; tipsy is fine, but a heavily drunken stupor is an easy conduit for an accusation of date rape just waiting to happen.) Dealing with them for an extended period of time may be detrimental to my mental health.

This notion of women off their rockers and gobbling down the chemical M&Ms is not just a guy thing: when I've occasionally asked my female buds to fix me up with one of their friends I invariably get "Yeah, ____ is my girl, but she's a mess I don't want you involved with." Yikes. So, what's left? Brunches? Not my scene. Parks? Maybe. House parties? On average, I get invited to those once a year. Back to the bars? But that's where crazy lives, remember?

[sigh] Let me go get a drink...

ain't got that swing

I am going to die alone.

I write this not with gloom and dread in my heart but with a grin on my face. It’s not that I’m unwilling to love or, God forbid, I am unlovable. But, you see, as I get older and find myself further removed from my last serious relationships—this year is the 10th anniversary of my divorce; haven’t had a significant other since ‘02—I have fallen into bad habits and patterns. For instance, I keenly enjoy and have become quite accustomed to having no one to consult on important decisions. With each passing day I am more set in my ways and less inclined to compromise or settle. Lord knows I really don’t miss the arguments, petty disagreements, or the delicate diplomatic balancing act of dealing with respective friends and in-laws. And it’s not like I’m meeting girlfriend material, let alone marriage-worthy women out there. But for a true romantic like myself hope springs eternal, nonetheless.

Now, those who know me have been frequently subjected to my recent ramblings about needing a girlfriend. Not out of loneliness, mind you. But sadly, in large part to avoid my judgment-clouding horniness from driving me to sleep with the wrong women. Which I do again and again and again. Good grief. Simply put, I need to have a regular sexual partner I enjoy and don’t feel repulsed by as soon as it’s time to take off the condom. Love would be nice, too.

Incredibly, this past weekend I was reminded of both the drag of being seriously involved AND the emptiness of sleeping with the wrong women.

Samantha and I stopped having sex once I became convinced that spending more than 10 minutes with her after intercourse was too much of a burden for me to bear. That was more than a year ago. For some reason, we did manage stay in touch, though. So when I found myself not having had sex in a month and Samantha calls with a last minute invitation to a lingerie party—she'd bought tickets in advance and her date flaked on her—and the added incentive of having her change into her boudoir attire over at my place, well, you know…

As it turns out, the party had some attractive women in tasteful but advanced stages of undress—and a bunch of people, both male and female, who should only be seen in that attire by whomever they’re about to have sex with and no one else—but the party also had a "roaring '20s" motif, and I could care less about that stuff. Was bored outta my skull. I mean, period costumes and doing "The Charleston"? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. (For the record, I wore a regular 3-piece suit with a tie.) Luckily, for me, the party concluded at 11 PM.

So how does this tie-in to being in a relationship AND letting your dick do the thinking for you?
Easy:

a) That party is the kind of nonsense you get dragged to by a girlfriend
b) The promise of having sex made me do it

It’s that simple.

As an added bummer, Samantha left her regular clothes at my place and planned on sleeping over. That kinda killed my wood but I figured, if she’s spending the night I might as well get laid. And I did. Afterwards, since it was still only midnight at that point, I took a shower—to wash off the scent of another woman, since I was gonna go out and see if I could hook up with someone else—and got ready to hit a couple of neighborhood bars. I know what you're thinking but it gets worse: real douche bag thoughts started running thru my brain. “If I bring someone home, how am I gonna explain Samantha? Maybe I can say she’s a friend from out of town crashing in my bed, and then have her sleep on the couch. That might work.” Yeah. Uh-huh.

In the end, I didn’t meet anyone I wanted to hookup with that night, so I avoided that possibly awkward scenario. But as you can see, when a good guy like yours truly starts thinking about pulling scumbag moves like the one described above, it’s high time to change course and get a girlfriend. Or make enough money to hire an escort or nice masseuse off Craigslist.

Wait…ugh, thanks a lot, Philip Markoff.

can't you hear me knocking?

I made the mistake of hooking up with my upstairs neighbor Celia on-and-off for a few years. Long story short, at one point she started stalking me and it became a big mess. (She also managed to kill my attraction to Alicia Witt, who resembles a younger version of Celia.) I recently found out from my building's superintendent that she'd moved out. That she left without attempting to say goodbye, was a big relief.

Imagine my surprise when 2 weeks later Celia calls me from California wanting to have phone sex. WTF??!!

genius at work

So, what exactly is the logic behind a woman denying you a blow job on a one-night stand because you've just met, but wanting you to penetrate her without protection? Anyone?

dyslexic heart (epilogue)

Two weeks after Patty left me upset over her rude and insufferable behavior while spending a couple of days over at my place, she calls and asks me to meet her for a drink. It was a warm, sunny spring day and she wanted me to join her on the patio of a bar in my neighborhood. I declined her invite but let her know I wasn't happy with her and wanted to straighten things out. She suggested coming over later on in the evening and I agreed.

That night, after a drink or two, we both loosened up and I told her how inexcusable her behavior had been. Patty apologized profusely and opened up about her dealings with anti-depression medicine and how thru sheer frustration she'd been falling into erratic and self-destructive behavior patterns. I accepted her apology and offered a few words of encouragement. What else could I do?

Of course, as usual, one thing led to another and before long, we're having sex. The next morning I walked her to the subway and we kissed goodbye. More than a month has passed since that day. And with the exception of a brief e-mail I have not heard from her since.

Maybe it's for real this time.

dyslexic heart (part 3)

Some 18 moths after our last “talk”, Patty emails me her new phone number and proposes we catch up with each other sometime in the near future. Despite my engaging in trysts with other girls and Patty having more baggage than an airport terminal, I thought about her constantly during our time apart. So, against my better judgment—and hoping she’s had time to reflect and change her mind about us—I accept her invitation. Patty and I meet up for drinks and afterwards head back to my place and talk turns to relationships. She tells me about falling for a dude that turned out to be a putz; severing all ties with her ex-girlfriend after she cockblocked her with a former college buddy of Alessandra’s that Patty was really interested in; moving in and out of various apartments, culminating in the current uncomfortable roommate situation; and how she’d been feeling lonely and undesired. Copious amounts of alcohol had been flowing, so I took her tales of woe as my cue and made my move. And yes, you guessed it: we had sex. Once again, awesome. But her feelings for me hadn’t changed. So soon enough we were back in that same pattern of yore.

Here comes the pain.

Upon hearing of this new development, my dear friend Bernadette—who’d previously met Patty and knew all about our history—was not amused. Frankly, she was pissed.

“I don’t like this girl.”

“Listen, I don’t blame you for going back to her, ‘cause in your place I probably would’ve done the same, truth be told. But she’s lonely, her self-esteem’s in the gutter, and she comes running back to you ‘cause she knows you’ll take care of her physically and emotionally. But as soon as she finds some other guy or starts feeling better about herself, she’s gonna ditch you. And I’m already hating her for it.”

Bernadette was right, but knowing that didn’t stop me or make me care any less about Patty. My dick and my heart had really taken over my brain. Again.

After a few months of my shenanigans with Patty I began to sense that this go-around was different: I started to feel that even though I wasn’t seeking her out—she was the one calling and asking to come over—Patty was indeed taking me for granted and becoming more of an emotional vampire than ever before. And when she brusquely pushed me aside one day, as I was trying to get her to have sex with me, I knew this thing had run its course. That the incident occurred while I was looking after Patty for a couple of days at my place, after being unceremoniously asked to move out by her roommate, seemed to seal her fate with me. I was cold and distant—which she sensed and then tried to make up for, to no avail—up until she left. I later remembered how I’d been in a similar situation in college, with a girl a few years older than me named Diana, and how that bullshit lasted for years thereafter. I realized I was making the same stupid mistake all over again, but 20 years later. Had I not learned anything?!

I decided to extricate myself from Patty and, instead of simply avoiding her phone calls, I’d lay down the law the next time we saw each other.

dyslexic heart (part 2)

A few days later, Patty invites me over to her place and what seemed like a normal evening turns awkward at the end, when I try to kiss her goodnight. She says something about things going a bit fast for her. I’m confused but act supportive.

We continue to hang out and have sex over the next few weeks, until one night we meet for drinks and I feel a strange vibe coming from Patty. It feels funny and leaves me a bit ill at ease. Two nights later she calls, clearly upset, and tells me we need to talk. She won’t tell me over the phone, but asks to come over the next day and discuss what’s bothering her. I accept. Patty also—with much hesitation—informs me she’s in the company of Alessandra at some bar. Ugh. Dreading some upcoming bullshit, I head to my corner bar to have a few drinks and not think too much about the next evening’s conversation, which I assume will only be bad news for me.

A few drinks into my visit, Patty and Alessandra pass in front of the bar, seemingly drunk, arm in arm, on their way to Patty’s place, I assume. I’m enraged and think of yelling at them or calling Patty on the phone and cursing her out, but I calm down and decide to wait for the next day’s uncomfortable conversation, instead.

So, the next evening, she comes over and we talk. I listen to everything she has to say and then hit her right back with questions and statements of my own. I pretty much left no stone unturned. The gist of it was, we could not be a couple because she didn’t feel the same way about me and wanted this to be reciprocal. I make it crystal clear that she could not expect the same attention from me if we were platonic. She says she wouldn’t expect it to be. Patty then says she needed to bring all of this out in the open because what was making her so upset was our ‘friends with benefits’ arrangement, largely due to my feelings for her. She was feeling guilty that I made her feel beautiful, adored and loved and she couldn’t reciprocate. I told her that was my dilemma, not hers. Patty disagreed and said she felt she was hurting me by not being able to give back in the same way.

She then tells me nothing happened with the ex. Patty was a bit drunk, Alessandra walked her home and crashed at her place. I mention I saw them the night before, and she says the three of us would’ve probably had a drink together. (My friend Mark says they should’ve taken ME home. Heh, heh.) According to Patty, in the past, Alessandra has wanted to get intimate with her in similar situations but she’s declined. I believe her. And even if I don’t, or she’s not telling the truth, it doesn’t matter: she isn’t—and won’t be—my girlfriend, so, why even think about it? (I later find out they actually did have sex that night, which would explain her hesitation about telling me she was meeting with her ex the previous night, but we’ll get to that later.)

So, in the end, what did Patty and I decide that evening?


Um, to be…


…‘friends with benefits.’


Yeah, I screwed up. I had the opportunity to walk away from this nonsense—and was prepared to do so, thinking she was going to ask for us not to see each other anymore—but instead let my dick and my heart overwhelm and drown out the cries for rationality from my head. This is my fault and I’ll have no one but myself to blame when the shit eventually hits the fan. (Well, not exclusively; later on she’ll carry some of that weight, too.)

I told Patty that some 10 years prior, in my late 20s—when I was her age, actually—I was in a similar situation and the girl would not be my girlfriend but was willing to be FWB. I wanted all or nothing, so I walked. But what I’ve learned from life—and the Rolling Stones—is that you can’t always get what you want; things happen for a reason; and that you should appreciate what you have, whichever way it comes to you. And that I wanted her to feel as comfortable and as free with me whether we’re having a drink in a bar or having passionate sex in my bed, not wondering if I’m thinking she’ll change her mind and be my girlfriend. And that proof of that was I’d been on a date a week prior and planned on going on some more to see if I can find what she won’t give me. (Yeah, I know, I know. But hey, the night before Mark introduced me to a girl that I wanted to pursue, and was definitely going to ask out.) So, citing my experience in these matters, Patty accepts.

Bad move. But at the time, hanging out with a very pretty girl whose company I enjoyed and was willing to sleep with me was not the worst thing in the world. Or so I thought. I’d also been in a ‘pink moped’ phase when it came to women (unattractive women = pink moped: it’s fun until your friends see you) and my ego needed/wanted Patty. My head has its own theories but it can’t come to the phone right now.

As Patty prepares to leave we make plans to go to a bar for my friend Edie’s birthday, that Saturday. That day Alessandra cockblocks me by tagging along with her all afternoon and night, to the point of showing up with Patty at the bar. I’m INSANELY pissed off but keep my composure. Patty promises to come over and make up for it the next day. She does and profusely apologizes for the previous night. We then have some amazing sex. We’re back on track it seems, and the pattern continues for a bit. One evening after sex at her place, Patty even serenades me on the piano afterwards and I’m both flattered and blown away by her talent. Still, it feels weird. Especially when Patty uncomfortably lets on she’s got a date the next day. Hey, I don’t care: I just got laid. But I suspect who it might be with.

A few days later Patty comes over to my place and after a few drinks denies my request for sex, citing once again her discomfort with the ‘friends with benefits’ situation. We argue intensely for about 90 minutes, and decide to go our separate ways. We leave together: she’s going home; I’m heading off to another friend’s birthday party. I assume it’s over between Patty and I. And with the exception of bumping into her on the subway 6 months later, it is.


Not quite.

dyslexic heart (part 1)

It’s the crown jewel of the Romantic Comedy Cliché Hall of Hame but not supposed to occur in real life. Yet, the moment I walked in to my corner bar and first laid eyes on Patty that night, it hit me like a piano dropped from a third floor: love at first sight. I had to meet this gorgeous, Amazon-like creature. Man, I wish I knew then she would become my favorite headache. Or rather, my preferred hangover: intoxicating, fun, and ultimately, desensitizing in the thrill of the moment, but harsh and punishing in the light of day.

I introduced myself and proceeded to have, possibly, the most profound conversation I’ve ever had with a woman I was attracted to, within minutes of meeting her. I was instantly smitten. As we drank, we covered the basic topics—including our significant age difference by over a decade—before deeply ruminating on the mutual lack of that special love in our lives and the particular kind of loneliness that comes with it. Not in a sad way, but full of hope that a blissful state of affection and devotion would eventually find us both.

Corny, I know. But you had to be there.

The magic evening came to an end, and we said our goodbyes. And that, was seemingly that. Or maybe not.

Months later, I bumped into her on the subway. When I caught a glimpse of her face, Patty turned out to be the girl with the cute butt I was checking out from afar. I approached her and we chatted for a bit. She claimed to have lost my phone number, and asked for it again; I then invited her to a birthday party for an acquaintance of hers and good friend of mine, the following evening, and she accepted. At the party we had a great time, and a bit of a follow-up to our original conversation. Right before leaving the night’s festivities, she promises to get together again and we say goodbye with a warm embrace.

On a Saturday afternoon, two weeks later, I give her a call and find that she’s in the neighborhood—at the time, we lived about 10 blocks away from each other—and we meet up at a nearby bar for a drink. There I learn two things that would frame all our subsequent interactions with each other: a) she’s thought about and arrived at the conclusion that we’d have great sex if we were to engage in such activity; and b) she doesn’t feel the illusive spark of a love connection between us. That, was a clear sign of trouble I chose to ignore out of wishful thinking, lust, or both. But, as these things usually do, it would come back to bite me in the ass later on.

Patty also confessed that afternoon, that she was not a lesbian but had recently terminated her first ever relationship with a woman, Alessandra, who had not exactly taken the breakup very well, and had subsequently become a constant source of drama in her life. (Minefield alert! Danger, Will Robinson!) I soldiered on like an idiot. But, despite my hopes of winning her over, I kept my options open and went out and hooked up with other girls.

In the following weeks, Patty and I started seeing more and more of each other—including a close call where I inadvertently made a date with her and another girl, two hours apart on the same night and in the same bar, with neither of them the wiser—and at one point even get to meet her parents who were visiting form Georgia and had come to see her perform in a cabaret act. (I also met Alessandra there that night. Uh-oh.) Eventually, one Friday evening, we meet for drinks and I invite Patty over to my place for some dinner, a movie, and more drinks. She accedes and later decides to spend the night. And yes, we have sex. Ah, it was great. After spending all of Saturday together at my place, she leaves that evening to get ready for work the next day, and I sit silently ecstatic and in disbelief at my dining table for a bout a half hour after she leaves.

Then it starts to get weird.

third time is not the charm

A few weeks ago I had three "dates" in the span of one weekend, with women who, coincidentally, all live in my neighborhood:
Friday night with a cute law student named Cathy; Saturday with a sexy singer/songwriter named Rita; and on Sunday, it was the lovely Denise, a marketing analyst (I think). And they all ended badly.

Cathy and I met over drinks at one of our local bars and hit it off from the get-go. She was smart, attractive and quite opinionated.
I didn’t have a problem with the latter until she started ragging on people with children at length, and made it clear she wanted none of her own. OK, so not girlfriend material for me but she was quite the hottie, so I figure if I play my cards right, I’ll get some sex out of it. Nope.

We finish our drinks and go for a late night snack at a nearby 7-11, where she proceeds to pig out on a couple of cheese dogs.
Fine by me; I love a girl with an appetite. I then walk her home and as we stand in front of her building, we kiss. Cool.
Then, she drops the bomb:

“I think you should know that I’ve been in an on-and-off relationship with someone I’ve known since we were six.” (She was 31.)

Great.

She goes on about it, implying it's currently off, but there's major ambiguity there. So, I throw in my two cents.

“Listen,” I said, “I’ve been in a similar dysfunctional situation with someone for two years now, but I’m looking forward to extricating myself from it as soon as possible. And I think you should, too.”

(Of course, this must’ve been the alcohol serving as my spokesperson, because although what I said was true, there was no reason for me to bring it up with a woman I clearly had no intention of considering for a serious relationship. Or was it my crotch doing the talking?)

“Yeah, I guess.”

So much for Cathy.

+ + + + +

I invited Rita to a show at a new concert venue in the neighborhood. She had to take care of something immediately before the show,
so we decided to meet inside. There we met up with friends of mine who were acquaintances of one of the singer/songwriters on the bill. Rita, on the other hand, was known to the evening's headliner and was interested in seeing him perform. In between sets, after she met my friends and they’d gotten all chummy, Rita was asked why she’d been late getting there. She told a boring and convoluted story that had the unintended (?) result of alerting us to the fact that SHE LIVES WITH HER EX-HUSBAND. The night's positive vibe kinda quickly dissipated after that.

At one point, she excuses herself to go to the ladies’ room, and I’m bombarded with questions regarding my prior knowledge of Rita’s domestic situation, by friends who are quite upset.

“I didn't know 'til now. But I could sense there was something weird going on,” I replied. “When we met, at one of her shows, there was this dude hovering around who seemed like more than just her personal assistant. However, she was flirting with me and accepting my invitation to go out, so I kinda put it in the back of my head. But it kept nagging at me 'cause I just couldn’t quite put my finger on it.”

At my insistence, we left halfway thru the headliner’s set and I told Rita I was bailing on another show we’d planned on going later that evening, also in the neighborhood.

“I’ve had enough for tonight. I just want to drink.”

“Well, I’m driving and I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

"How ‘bout back to my place so we can have some angry sex?", I thought. I settled for a bar nearby.

What Rita failed to mention was that her ride was a late-model Mercedes. All of a sudden, her living with the ex made me feel even more uncomfortable. Not because of the car itself, but because it made me think of whose money was possibly behind it.
And all the different scenarios I came up with in my head felt really weird.

She drops me off in front of the bar, and before I get out she profusely thanks me for the evening, hints at some personal issues she's dealing with, and promises to get together soon. She then leans in closer, gives me a kiss, and drops the F-bomb.

“You’re such a good friend.”

Now, I really needed a drink.

+ + + + +

I’d been introduced to Denise by a mutual friend and neighbor late last year. I subsequently ran into her a few times at a local bar, but failed to notice until months later that she was a girl I’d been matched with online; one who I’d contacted but never heard back from.
I should’ve left it at that. But no, Mr. Looking for Love had to take things a step further. Ugh.

I meet her at that same local bar after she’d been partying earlier in the evening with friends out in Manhattan, and tell her about our online “past”. She apologizes for not responding and gets a little apprehensive at first but, ultimately, gets a kick out of the whole deal. But after a few drinks I notice Denise begins to get slightly incoherent and even a bit antagonistic, which is quite likely due to the alcohol being coupled with the copious amounts of weed smoked with her Manhattan friends, leading to her lovely chemically-induced makeover.

Now, I for the most part don't have a problem with whatever party favor gets you thru the night. But if what you regularly consume and enjoy leads you to becoming a subtler version of The Hulk with lip gloss, um, no can do.

I decide to call it a night. Who’s got time for a 34 year-old frat girl? Not me, anyway.

hookers are starting to look pretty good

On a relatively mild Friday night in early December '07, I went on a date with Corinne, a 26 year-old paralegal from Ohio who had shown interest in me the few times we’d bumped into each other at the bar where my buddy Mark works. I’d asked her out a few days prior to the date but had not heard back from her. Just as I am about to write the whole thing off, Corinne e-mails and asks if we’re still on for Baraza, a Brazilian hotspot in the East Village I’d told her about. So, I’m back in that headspace, and on the night of the date I get decked out in a new shirt and jacket, looking really sharp.

We went to Baraza and had a great time. We flirted, we talked about life, love, the possibility of pursuing a relationship, and most importantly, we grinded into each other as we danced; couldn’t have been more promising.

We left after last call, got a cab and Corinne proceeds to snuggle up to me on the way across the bridge to Williamsburg, where she used to live and had her car parked—she was currently living deeper into Brooklyn—and called it a night. Since she was a bit tipsy and was going to drive I offered to ride home with her and catch a cab from there. She declined. We said our goodbyes and I continued on to my place in the cab. When I got home I called to make sure she got home OK. I got voice mail and the mailbox was full so I called the next day, spoke to her a bit. She mentioned she was too busy with work to see me before Christmas and we left it at that.

Four nights later I’m at a neighborhood bar drinking with Mark who asks me what I’ve been up to. I tell him that with the exception of the previous Friday I’ve been staying home. After I tell him about my date he mentions that CORINNE WAS AT HIS BAR AFTER I DROPPED HER OFF. She met up with this guy Dan who hangs out there also—who’d called her while we were at Baraza, by the way—and…man, did I feel like an idiot. I manage to not let it diminish the rest of my evening—I ended up making out with Nancy, a cute bartender who works elsewhere in the neighborhood—but the next day, when I wake up, I’m pissed. Ah, that familiar feeling!

Corinne is asking me to be patient with her and thanking me for not wanting to just jump in to bed with her and meanwhile she pulls this bullshit?! Did she think I wasn’t going to find out she’d been at my friend’s bar?! During his shift, no less?!

Later that morning I send her an e-mail simply asking “Just out of curiosity, where you at Mark’s bar Friday night?” To which she replies “Yes, I went there for a nightcap. Why do you ask?” WAS SHE KIDDING OR DID SHE THINK I WAS STUPID? My response is, “Wow…I feel like an idiot” and leave it at that.

Once again the story is the same, the names just change: I went on a date with a girl I really liked, who managed to disappoint, as usual; and two nights later I was having sex with a woman I couldn’t get out of my bed fast enough. Who then wanted to watch The Simpsons afterwards. (Didn’t she have a TV at her place?)

I was tiring of making an effort with women who ended up not being worthy of me or any righteous dude. And I’d also lost most of my post-coital patience with women I had no emotional attachment, so…I once again started contemplating going with hookers. Seriously. Quality call girls, of course. No drama, no bullshit and no watching The Simpsons on the couch after we’re done.

I wasn’t joking.

But the Corinne story did not end there. Oh, no.

I’d planned on leaving things the way they were after I found out what happened that night after our date. But a couple of weeks later I run into her and was caught off guard when she approached me at Mark’s joint wanting to apologize. I was interested in what Corinne had to say about ditching me to come back to my own neighborhood and hang out with some other dude, after—concerned about her inebriation—I graciously offered to go way out of my way to make sure she got home alright.

I listened intently to Corinne and what I got was a rambling, off-topic, self-serving attempt at an apology that had nothing to do with me and was all about assuaging her guilt.

So I let her have it.

“Can you imagine how foolish and idiotic I felt when I found out that instead of you being in bed, you were 3 blocks from my apartment drinking and who knows what? And when I asked you about it, your answer was priceless: ‘Yes, why do you ask?’ Are you serious? How would you feel in my shoes, Corinne? Listen, I’m not your boyfriend and you may not owe me any explanation, but how ‘bout some common decency? I think you’ll agree that after our conversations about going on dates and getting to know each other and you asking me to be patient with you about sex and whatnot, after the physical proximity we’d had, I had an expectation of courtesy on your part. Obviously, I was wrong.”

She was dumbfounded. I was just getting warmed up.

“So, yes, I got upset and had thoughts of getting you to sleep with me and then crudely ditching you. That was my little revenge sex scenario. Because, let me tell you Corinne, what you pulled that night is the kinda shit that turns nice guys into assholes. Seriously. But I thought better of it, nipped it in the bud, and chose not to call you again. I put it all behind me. And now, you come to me with a clueless pseudo apology, in which you either don’t even know what you did or or think you did nothing wrong that night. You sound as if you’re apologizing about something else, like not calling me recently or something. Frankly, either way, the end result is that bitter taste in my mouth all over again. And having to rehash nonsense that I’d already put aside.”

I was on a roll and she had that I don’t dare interrupt him look. Pretty smart on her part. For once.

“Luckily for you, I’m a mellow dude and just walk away from these situations. Even humiliating ones like this one. But many other guys deal with being treated like a fool in a much more belligerent way. You might want to think about that the next time you take a nice guy for an idiot. OK?”

“Um, OK. Sorry.”

And with that, Corinne sheepishly went back to the table she was sharing with some friends. As I finished my whiskey, I started wondering about the call girls I was too chickenshit to contact.

I've bumped into Corinne a few times since then, and she always says hi with a look that says Please don't slap the shit out of me; I won't do it again. Not to me she won't. Heh, heh.

legalese

Sylvia—a cute, blonde lawyer in her early thirties—was another girl I also met online. After a few e-mails we made plans to meet up for drinks on an early Thursday evening. I had already decided to play it cool and show up fifteen minutes late, to cover up the fact that I was slightly nervous. As I'm waiting in front of my building for a taxi, and just as it's pulling up, my neighbor—and occasional hookup—Celia appears with her dog. I didn’t say where I was going, but I was waiting for a cab, smelling good and slightly well dressed…I was pretty sure she’d figured it out.

The date was a success. Nothing special, but we laughed, talked, had a few drinks, and really enjoyed ourselves. Standard good date material. It lasted some 3½ hours and only concluded at that point due to Sylvia having to be in court the next morning. Afterwards, on our way to the subway, we hold hands, and half a block before the subway, under a tree, in an unlit part of the block, we kiss. It was nice. Kinda romantic, you might say.

We get to the station and I ask her if she wants to get together sometime this weekend—in a previous conversation to set up this date she’d said she had plans on Friday but was free Saturday and Sunday.

“I’ll have to check.”

But I thought you said you were free…

“I know, but I may have made plans.”

Oh, ok…

“No, I’m not trying to be evasive. Let me check. We’ll talk or e-mail tomorrow anyway, so…”

What the fuck was that about? Was she tipsy and didn’t know how to react? Did she feel pressured? Did she not feel a physical connection, despite the kiss? Anyway, we get on the train, talk some more, kiss briefly twice and mutually state how much we’d enjoyed the evening and how glad we were that we’d done this. My stop comes first, we say our goodbyes and since I’d had about 5 whiskeys and had to work the next day, I went straight home, had a bite and then to bed.

The next morning there was a note under my door. It was dated from the night before so I may have not seen it when I got home.

Guess who?

Miss Celia wrote me a three-pager—complete with a drawing of her dog at the end—in which she states “with respect and love towards the wonderful human being” that I am, her desire to “remain good neighbors and acquaintances, rather than attempt to be real friends or friends with benefits”. Let’s see…this was the second time she’d had this ‘talk’ with me. The last time I ended up going up to her place and having sex. Of course.

I start thinking that blowing her off two nights prior night—she wanted me to come up and have sex—coupled with seeing me on my way to be with someone else may have set her off. Whatever…

Meanwhile, I didn’t call or e-mail Sylvia. I wasn’t going to chase after her having gotten “Let me check” the previous night. Granted, there was also the possibility that I may have come on a little too strong. Which was another reason for me not to call. When I finally do hear from her, days later via e-mail, not only was she not interested in a second date, but from her account you would think we’d been on two different dates! WTF?! So, suffice to say, that was that. (Come to think of it, why would anyone date a lawyer? You don't want to break up with someone who has that kind of legal know-how trying to mess with you out of spite, now would you?)

As I take stock in my recent dating letdowns, I start contemplating the possibility of resorting to hookers if this nonsense continued. (CraigsList, are you calling my name?) Nothing too expensive, but I'd make sure they’re hotter than the slightly skanky looking ones from that HBO show about the Bunny Ranch in Nevada. Bet on it. Ha!

fake boobs and cold feet

In the summer of '03, I started exchanging e-mails with this girl I met thru an online dating service. I was wary at first, since she initiated contact without a picture on her profile; always a bad sign. Sensing my trepidation she e-mailed me some photos and my apprehension immediately disappeared: Lina was smart, funny, witty; half-Colombian/half-Sicilian; a music and film geek; and gorgeous, to boot. After our first date we became inseparable. I would visit her and be there for 8-9 hours at a time. Phone calls routinely broke the 5-6 hour mark. I'd discovered the sweet, affectionate, sexy, side of her and was so hooked. Still, I was a bit cautious; but it felt really good to be with her. We had an intense level of honesty going: everything from family, past romantic experiences to money and sexual preferences, was covered in an extensive and frank manner. (Except for one thing: I subsequently discovered she had fake boobs, which she never really came clean about. A bummer, but hey, nobody's perfect. Although her chest was. Heh, heh.)

I never pressured her for anything and we only became physical when I felt she was comfortable. So, aside from getting to know each other better, the one thing stopping us from jumping into a relationship was our respective skepticism: Lina was tired of men not being there for her emotionally—which I like to think is the opposite of yours truly—and I was not looking forward to another dysfunctional, clueless woman with money issues. And when we discussed these things, our responses to each other were invariably, "Who are these people you involve yourself with?!"

It was very, very promising. But still...

Guess what? Lina got cold feet.

One night Lina shows up at my place and from the outset I can tell something is wrong. I just knew it. Sure enough: in a nutshell, I got the "I can't get involved right now, let's be friends" speech. I was literally at a loss for words. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I recovered my linguistic capabilities.

"How can you go from fantasizing about me to wanting a platonic relationship in less than 24 hours?"

She said something about thinking things through, deciding she wasn't ready and not wanting to be selfish by asking me to wait, blah, blah, blah. I told her I thought it was selfish of her to expect to get those things that she wanted from me without having to deal with the heavy stuff. She cried, asked me to be in her life, to be there for her as a friend. I said I didn't think that was possible.

But what really led to her change of heart was something that had gone down a few days prior.

Lina’s ex-husband was in town for a wedding and she met up with him for brunch. From our conversations I was able to deduce his reappearance—and what it represented—was at the heart of what freaked her out. Here she is feeling so strongly, albeit with some trepidation, about someone new and right in front of her is the last man she felt that way about. With all the unresolved issues that come with it. So she freaked and bailed on me. ‘Twas that simple.

Back at my place, we eventually mellowed a bit, had the bottle of wine she brought over, listened to some tunes, danced to some Juan Luis Guerra and around 1 am I called her a cab. After I walked Lina downstairs I came back up, got dressed and went to one of my local watering holes. Behind the bar, on a very slow night, Stephanie—who had in fact met Lina on our first date—gave me her shoulder while I got drunk. I got home, fell asleep on the couch and awoke with enough time to shower, get dressed and get to work on time.

While the previous night had left me sad, disappointed and hurt, I woke up the next morning pissed. It was as if I'd gotten a surge of ire instead of a hangover. I was really upset. All I could think of was, I'm too old for this. I'm really tired of mustering up the hope and courage that goes into involving yourself in a serious relationship. Fuck.

I bumped into Lina at an Apple store about a year later and we both purposely ignored each other. I never saw her again.

I sure miss those boobs, though.