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.