Adventures In Dating III: Part 2

Walking down Bleeker Street, Ilya and I were passed by a group of hot young girls. A late-twenties looking guy who was walking a few feet in front of us made a loud, sexist comment in their direction. He turned around to see if we were laughing, and asked us if we voted. We both responded with “Yes.” He then informed us that his name was [redacted] and he was running for Mayor of New York. We walked the entire way to Lit with him, chatting about politics, his platform, hot chicks, his new public access television program, and other mundane things. The guy was clearly not right in the head but we spoke candidly, like old friends. When we reached 2nd Avenue we went our separate ways.

As we walked towards the group gathering outside Lit, Ilya suddenly turned to a man walking to his right and asked, “Aren’t you in Blues Explosion?” It was Russell Simmons, the drummer for the Blues Explosion.

“Yeah.” Russell said. I’d always heard that he was not very personable and a little anti-social.

“Orange, man. Awesome.” Ilya offered.

“Thanks.” We traded cheesy thumbs up or waves or nods, and watched his clique descend into Lit. We gathered with our sluts in front of the club and made our entrance. While the girls looked for the bathroom, Ilya got a vodka tonic and I got a Rolling Rock.

We went downstairs and started dancing, or in my case shuffling around. Ilya noticed that his girlfriend’s roommate from Los Angeles was in attendance, and after several moments of jaw-dropping awe, he danced his way over to her. In the meantime, I got to know the girls a little better, and tried to dance with them. Marsha fed me her Long Island iced tea as she tried to coax me into moving my body with some semblance of rhythm. Eventually everyone made their way to a small alcove on the far side of the room, near a stage that was being used as a dance floor by several hipsters.

I plopped down between Leah’s legs as she was reclining in the alcove with Sandra. She wrapped her arms around me and offered me some of her drink. Ilya slowly walked over to us and announced that he was trashed. He handed me some of his vodka and tonic to test how strong it was. I told him it was strong. We laughed at his condition and he asked how I was and I responded “Good,” definitely buzzed but by no means trashed. There was lots of giggling and laughing, and eventually the barriers between the girls and I became slightly more lax. Before I know it there was tickling and cuddling and groping occurring in the alcove, most of which was focused on my body. There was a lot of nipple play involved. I challenged the girls to see if they could make me laugh, and tried to teach them the fine art of stifling laughter, which I equated to yoga or transcendental meditation. Time became a null factor. With everyone so comfortable and close in our little alcove, I was sure something good would have happened if we stuck around longer. But when Ilya pointed to his cell phone and informed me that it was past 3am, we decided to leave. Why? Because it's a fact that when you leave the girl wanting more, she goes insane with desire and jealousy. The payoff is worth going home alone that one night. So, we left.

But first, burritos at San Loco. Ilya got a catfish burrito and I got a dish of nachos. After announcing he was still trashed, we began wondering about the car, whether it was still there, and how far the walk was going to be back to Hudson Street. We got some sodas for the road, I urinated, and we began our long walk back to the car. We talked about life and family, work, and of course, the girls. Namely we spoke Leah's ass and Sandra's tits. They were both quite nice.

As we turned down Hudson, the street appeared empty.

“Where are the cars? Oh man where’s the car,” we thought, remembering the night Ilya’s car got towed and we had to spend several hours at the impound waiting to get it back.

The car was up a few blocks. We hopped in, I put on an Enon CD and turned the ignition. I pulled away from the curb and before I could even disengage my blinker there was a cop car behind us. Its lights flickered and spun, its sirens bleeped and sputtered. At first I switched lanes hoping it would speed past, but instead the car got up right behind us, and less than a block from our original parking spot, we were stopped on the other side of the street. Thoughts of breathalyzers flashed through my head. I leaned my head out the window and asked, “Is everything alright, officer?”

“Did you know your taillights are out?”

“What? Are you serious?”

“License, registration and insurance, please.” My cell phone began to ring and I did not want to pick it up so I threw it on the floor. I reached over Ilya to the glove compartment and fished for the required materials, coming up with all three.

“Are they really out?” I asked, unbuckling my seat belt and reaching for the car door.

“Yes. Stay right here. Don’t get out of the car.”

I tried playing around with the lights on the dashboard, thinking maybe if I turned on and off the fog lights something would happen. I turned off the car and sat there, wanting to get out and look. The phone continued ringing as the officer began to make his way back to his car. I let Ilya pick it up and speak to Elissa.

We sat for ten or fifteen minutes looking through the car’s manual, and I found nothing about the taillights. I mentioned how we’d probably end up being pulled over in New Jersey also, because at this time any policeman that sees a car without lights is going to assume it’s been heisted.

“You think this is bullshit and they just wanted to see if we were drunk or something?” I asked.

“Maybe.” Ilya stated, handing me back my phone.

“I bet they spotted the New Jersey tags and figured us for partiers leaving the city late, and we were probably trashed.” I laughed.

“I’m more trashed than I’ve been in many months," Ilya admitted. "Since I started working, even.”

The officer returned with a ticket and informed me that once I have the problem fixed I can go to any precinct in the city and the ticket will be nullified. I asked for clarification, and he stated the information again. I thanked him, apologized and we turned on the car and started on our way home again. It was close to 4:30am, and we headed for the Lincoln tunnel.

As we drove, the sky lightened considerably. I dropped Ilya off. When I got home birds were chirping and the sky was light. I found my way inside, stripped off all my clothes, and turned on the radio. I could tell by the voices speaking about last night’s sporting events that they were indeed talking about yesterday’s news. It was that time already. Sleep would not come easy.

***

It was two weeks later when I saw Leah next. I met her for drinks at The Ginger Man. I consumed several pints of beer, and after a few hours realized I was off in my own silent world, an utterly useless drunk. I asked if she wanted to go around the block for some food before I drove her home. We went to a small diner and I ate an egg and cheese sandwich. I have no idea what we talked about, but she was giving me that look throughout the entire year. The "I wanna swallow your load" look. It sobered me up quickly. We headed to her apartment on the Upper West Side, and I anticipated being invited upstairs. I asked where I should park and she said, “On the corner – but, my parents are home.” I leaned over and kissed her. For ten or fifteen minutes we kissed and touched one another, and before leaving the car she made me swear I would call her again to hang out soon. I told her “We’ll see.” She pouted. This was too easy.

I watched her walk into her building. The streets uptown were empty. I waited for the light to turn green and made a U-turn around the center median from the far right lane. Ten seconds later, there was a patrol car behind me. Its sirens wailed and lights flashed. Holy Shit! I was getting pulled over again! I was still a little drunk, but not drunk enough to have missed a “No U-Turn” sign. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what I had done wrong.

It took a half an hour for the police officers to tell me I had run a red light by making a U-Turn from the far right lane. I guess that making a North/South U-turn is technically running an East/West red light, but it seemed like utter bullshit. I argued with the officer, raising my voice and demanding an explanation. He responded by threatening to cite me for speeding also, and rather than escalate the situation further I simply sat in silence. When he went to hand me the ticket, I yanked it from his hand and rolled up my window. I was going to fight this ticket tooth and nail. Only I never did. I just ended up paying it. Instead I decided that I was going to make Leah pay for all these traffic tickets…in orgasms.

Of course, this wouldn't be an adventure in dating if there was any sort of positive resolution. Unfortunately, I never received anything from Leah. Several weeks later she called me to confront me about how I was threatening her and stalking her.

Uh, What?

To say it caught me slightly off-guard would be an understatement. Seriously, she called me out of the blue one afternoon and accused me of making threats of violence against her online and stalking her. I tried to joke around and tell her that this wasn’t really a good way to react to my not calling for a week, and she told me she was in touch with the FBI and several online companies who had told her that the threatening e-mails and phone calls were originating from my address. I laughed and asked if she was being serious or just fucking around, and she told me to expect some documents in the mail soon. I vehemently denied everything and pointed out all the flaws in her logic, but she was unwavering. She really thought that a) someone was out to harm her, and b) it was me. Good thing I didn’t bring the pot and condoms that night in May or I probably would have been looking at a rape charge, too. She told me off and instructed me to never talk to her again or she would call the police.

It's been over two years later and nothing ever came in the mail for me. I have never received any documents proving my involvement in a conspiracy against her. I have not called or written to her. Once or twice she has sent me messages saying, “What’s up?” but I have not responded. This adventure in dating might actually have ended more awkwardly than the girl with the text message snafu (part 1 - part 2).

Until next time...

Tags: adventures in dating, Bleeker Street, Mayor, New York, Russell Simmons, Blues Explosion, Lit Lounge, Rolling Rock, Los Angeles, San Loco, Hudson Street, Enon, police car, missing taillight, The Ginger Man, Upper West Side, police officers, illegal u-turn, ticket, paranoid delusions, mp3, blog, download

Adventures In Dating III: Part 1

I'm not sure this qualifies as a literal "adventure in dating," but I found this story on my hard drive this morning while looking for my resume (where are you hiding, you stupid word document!) and it's too funny not to post. It's from May of 2005. I was fresh out of college, living at home, and looking for any available options of the female persuasion. I knew this girl, we'll call her Leah. She had been expressing interest in my manhood for several months, so I called Ilya and told him we were going to meet her and some of her friends for drinks. This is part one of the saga, the calm before the storm.

***

This is straight journal without creative input. No free association, just narrative. Last night Ilya and I drove into New York intending to meet up with Leah and some of her probably slutty friends at a bar they often frequent on the weekend. We would have rather gone to any number of Manhattan bars but Leah claimed she knew the singer of the house band, and she wanted me to see them. So I bent to her will. The drive into the city was filled with Ilya reprimanding me because I didn’t bring any condoms or pot. I told him when you’re me, you go into these situations assuming you’re not going to get laid. The pot supposedly is for 1:00am, after several beers, when your girl is very drunk. You ask if she wants to smoke some pot and that’s subliminal lingo for wanting to fuck. Shit, I should have gone to a big state college. I missed out on all these incredible life lessons. In any event, it became a running theme/joke throughout the evening.

Approaching the Holland Tunnel, listening to a sampler CD from Trance Syndicate, a powerful bass line seeped through the car from outside. A few automobiles in front of us, a young African American man was blasting hip-hop music through the open windows of his vehicle. I turned down our radio slightly to figure out the source of the hip-hop, and Ilya reached over to make it louder.

“Never touch a black man’s radio!” I exclaimed, slapping at his hand.

“But...odds are it was once yours anyway,” Ilya responded. Laughter ensued for a few moments, and before we knew it we were in the tunnel crossing over state lines.

We parked at Hudson and Bank, less than a block away from the White Horse Tavern. I wanted to go in and drink some whiskey in memory of Dylan Thomas. Instead, we walked around looking for somewhere to eat. Ilya wanted Thai food and I wanted pizza. We stood outside a place called Spice for several minutes waiting for a table; Ilya tried in vain to convince me that I would enjoy the food when I knew well that my delicate palate would not allow me to. The last time I had Thai was in 2000 when I worked for at the medical center on West 14th. It tasted like grass with turds sprinkled on it, and I wasn’t too keen on trying it again. I wanted something real to line my stomach before a long night of drinking.

After a long debate about food, and dozens of beautiful women passing us on the street, we decided to hoof it over to Ray’s on the corner of St. Marks. I had pizza and drank Spaten, Ilya stuck to Bud Light. We spoke about the implications of the evening. I told him my long back-story with Leah, and the various sexual situations we found ourselves in as teenagers. Hilarious. All of them. Those American Pie movies have nothing on my youth. We agreed that the bar we were about to visit was going to suck. At one point Ilya said, “but what if it totally blows our minds and teaches us that we’re too closed minded about music and culture?”

“It won’t.” I responded, “Let’s be realistic.”

We watched crusty punk kids marching up and down St. Marks in their uniforms, high boots, tight jeans and styled hair of varied hues. We sat for a while, talking about the possibility or likelihood of him moving to Los Angeles in the near future. When I thought the conversation was turning too heavy, I'd look at my watch and tell him how many hours I was from not getting laid with the "Wanna smoke some pot?" line.

From Ray’s we walked to Kim’s. We both tried to convince ourselves that we wouldn’t buy anything, but I walked out with two used records and Ilya one. As we were preparing to pay and leave he noticed a girl he thought he recognized. He remembered her from Boston; she was a friend of an ex-girlfriend. For a while we hung back and studied her: tall and brunette with a cherubic face, big eyes and puffy cheeks. She was wearing a white dress and high boots. We initiated conversation and soon decided to invite her along for the evening. "Daisy" we'll call her. We walked together towards our destination.

Daisy made jewelry and lived on the top floor of a brownstone in Brooklyn. As we walked we talked about Art Deco, because she had come from a lecture on the subject. I tried to define it for Ilya, but couldn’t do so without turning it into a joke. Just like everything else in my life. After Daisy made sure to call attention to my bad attempt at humor, she defined it -- but not very well. Upon finding out I had just graduated college she welcomed me to the world of post-collegiate malaise. We three traded tales about our schools and what we liked or didn’t like about them, about the education and lack of actual work done for classes. We passed the bar on Great Jones Street where Mark Ibold worked, and took turns peeking through the window. I wouldn’t have minded stopping in for a drink but we were supposed to be at this other bar by 11:00 and the time was rapidly approaching for us to get there.

When we arrived at our destination, there was loud music playing inside and a good deal of people standing outside either smoking or trying to get in. We actually had to line up outside because the bar was packed. We felt it was embarrassing to be seen on a line for something, so we all turned our backs to the street. When they finally let us in we were informed of our table’s two drink minimum and Daisy quickly up and left, saying she had to be up early for something.

It didn’t take long until I realized that Ilya and I were the only white patrons in the bar. The “incredible” band that Leah had promised I would love was nothing more than an R&B cover band playing Stevie Wonder, Prince and Marvin Gaye songs with a Reggae flare. I ordered a Guinness, and Ilya had a vodka tonic. The waitress returned with our drinks, and much to my dismay my Guinness was an Extra Stout. I got through it quickly to try and kill the awful taste, and for a few moments Ilya thought we should ditch the girls and go to an old high school chum's party in Brooklyn, because there might be hot girls and drugs there. I said no. Maybe Leah's friends would be cute. If it sucked, we’d just convince the group to go to Lit and we’d make this a good time. Then I recognized Leah's friend "Julie" walk into the bar and I said hello. Behind her, three more girls entered.

Leah entered behind Julie with two other girls I didn’t know. We'll call them "Marsha" and "Sandra." Marsha was a tall mulatto girl who instantly became enthralled with the band. Sandra was a short, full-grown girl with a large chest and a face kind of like Ashlee Simpson. Prominent chin, blond hair, sloped nose. She looked pretty good approaching, but was considerably less attractive when she got closer. Maybe I needed glasses. We all introduced ourselves. Marsha said was originally from Georgia, and Sandra was from Arizona. They both went to art school together in the Midwest. The girls all ordered Bud Lights, Julie ordered a Red Stripe, and eventually we all switched to mixed drinks. We made lots of small talk while listening to the band, and the topic of conversation quickly shifted to figuring out how many drinks it would take to get me to dance. Leah tried to sell the group on past experiences when she'd seen me dance, and then Sandra suddenly turned to me and said, “Leah tells me you’re a musician.”

“No, I’m not.” I said, matter-of-factly. "Maybe she said magician?"

“Wait, you’re not a musician?”

“Stop lying, Evan. ” Leah chimed in. She turned to Sandra and said “Evan’s a serious musician.”

“What kind of music?” Sandra asked.

“Slow music. Really slow. Very slow music.” I intoned.

“Is it like Emo?” She inquired.

“No, not really...I guess some people think so.” I hated having this conversation.

“So tell me what it sounds like.”

“Ugh. I don’t know if you’d get the references... or--”

“Just tell me!”

“Alright!” I thought long and hard. “...It's like that self-titled Velvet Underground album, but a little heavier and more stoned. Like, too stoned to hold a guitar and play it." That one shut her up quickly. She turned around to watch the band and I shook my head disapprovingly at myself.

We took turns sitting and standing around our small table, talking and getting to know each other. We moved closer to the stage at some point. At the rear of the club, the crowd came in droves. Even a group of sailors in town for Fleet Week passed through. A considerable amount of drinks also passed through. The Jack and Cokes tasted more like Jack on ice. Ilya and I continually giggled and made racially-charged comments, which were difficult to say stealthily. Whatever, we were being ironic! Ilya also continued downing vodka tonics. He said something about Leah having a nice ass and I gave him a nod and a thumbs up like we were in an old Mentos commercial.

After a cigarette break and more drinks, Ilya and I decided that by 1:00am (the magic hour, when I was supposed to roll a joint and put a rubber on in preparation of fucking Leah) we were moving to Lit, with or without the girls. By this point the girls were steadily growing looser around us (what with having consumed a beer or two -- women are such lightweights!), and decided that the end of the band’s set they would join us on our venture to Lit, but only after stopping across the street to get some pizza. When the band played “Sexual Healing” the singer, walked out into the audience and held the microphone up to several people to sing the “sexual healing” refrain. When he got to a young Asian man with an accent the crowd roared in approval. I got up right behind Leah, leaned over, and began to sing the lines into her ear with a thick fresh-off-the-boat accent.

“Sex-shu-rar hear-ring.” She giggled, turned towards me and gave me the look. Game over. Or...so I thought.

The band closed with a flavorful "jam" I guess, maybe it was an original, but by this point I didn't care anymore. The room was sweltering and I couldn’t wait to leave. Once the set ended, Leah introduced us all to the singer and we shook hands. After settling the final tab and finishing off the booze that the girls left behind, we left.

While the four girls ordered pizza, Ilya and I stood outside and recapped where I stood on my quest. Things were looking good. Perhaps there was to be a bit of the old penis-in-vagina before the night was through. We turned and started chatting with a girl in front of Bleeker Bob’s who sold cheap jewelry and pipes. We mentioned how New York girls will find one bar and think it’s okay to only go there, forgetting they live in a city with an infinite number of places to get drunk, hang out, meet people, do coke, and maybe fuck in a dirty bathroom. Ilya abruptly ended the conversation by inexplicably asking the woman if she sold pot. She stopped responding to us, so we went inside and watched the girls finish of their pizza.

“Where’s Lit?” one of them asked.

“2nd Ave. between fifth and sixth.” Ilya said.

“Who wants to take a cab, my heals are killing me!”

“It’s not that far. It’s like four avenue blocks.” He stated.

“No it’s not, it’s like eleven or twelve.”

“Fine," I said. Take a cab. We’re walking.” End of conversation.

***

Stay tuned for Part 2 tomorrow. The uproarious conclusion and epilogue. Like I said earlier: this was the calm before the storm.

Tags: adventures in dating, Manhattan, New York, marijuana, Holland Tunnel, Trance Syndicate, Hudson Street, Ray's, St. Marks, Kim's Underground, Brooklyn, Art Deco, Great Jones Street, Mark Ibold, Pavement, Guinness Extra Stout, Lit Lounge, mp3, blog, download

Adventures In Dating II: Part 2

It was dark outside. The temperature had dropped slightly. I don't remember what music I listened to as I drove towards Manhattan, but whatever band it was, their first album was better. I found a spot to park next to the Strand Bookstore, which left me a nice hike to the bar. I stopped by Kim's along the way to kill some time. I made sure not to buy anything, because showing up to a date with a Kim's bag would have opened up a conversation about music, which is the topic I am least comfortable talking about with people I don't know well. Rosé called once when I was in the store, but I did not answer. Let her wait, I thought.

Once I exited the store I called her. She did not answer. She probably figured that two could play at this game. I walked down St. Marks, past Hop Devil, and decided to hoof it over to our predetermined meet-up point. I chose to stand outside the bar and call her rather than walk inside, because I really didn't know who I was looking for, and I didn't want to make her uncomfortable in front of her friends. I dialed her again as I paced back and forth along the sidewalk in front of the bar. There was no answer. After five or ten minutes, she called me to apologize and say she was on her way outside.

The door swung open maybe thirty seconds later, and there was Rosé. She was slightly below average height (5'3" or 5'4"), and wafer thin. Snow-white face, perfect skin, wearing a black and white striped shirt beneath a black jacket and black pants. She looked like a goth candy cane. Her brown hair was cut just below her chin; her thick bangs were combed over her forehead. She had a narrow face, with big green eyes a slightly upturned nose. Her thin lips were covered in a light pink gloss. Or maybe she had just been licking them in anticipation of immediately dropping to her knees and servicing me. I smiled and said, "Hi" as she approached. We shared a brief hug, and then I asked if she was ready to walk over to Hop Devil.

As we walked, we made small talk about what songs her drunk friends, and our mutual distaste for certain imbibing venues. I asked her where she normally went to drink or hang out, and she rattled off the usual list of hipster dens. When I called her out on this, she became slightly embarrassed and mentioned how badly she wanted to be perceived as a hipster, even though she possessed few of the qualities that would allow others to pass such a judgement. She said it might have something with her going to Columbia, which immediately gave me the urge to use lots of big words and talk about world affairs. Although my memory is slightly hazy, I'm pretty sure I didn't achieve either goal. I asked where she was currently living, and learned about how she's still living in her ex-boyfriend's apartment uptown, but was desperately looking for a way out. Hmm...

At Hop Devil, we chose a table in the corner near the jukebox. She sat facing the door, and I across from her. I asked what she wanted to drink, but she left the decision to me. I purchased us both beers. She said she liked hers, but who the fuck knows what girls are thinking or why they say whatever it is they say. We spent far too long talking about our e-mail exchanges, blogs, and the weird realization that we knew had known each other all along. We spent crushingly little time on how moist her vagina was, and whether or not is was making her seat slick. We also talked about our jobs. She was currently working in retail, and also holding down a part-time job at an adult magazine, choosing which letters to the editor were printed...or something. We bonded over our mutual career goals, and how we subscribed to similar writing/editing industry mailing lists. We were like a couple of nerds. There weren't many awkward pauses. I had a second drink, and Rosé did not. She said she didn't want to get drunk, and retold me the story about how she drunkenly whipped out her vibrator at a bar a few weeks earlier. I could have taken her not drinking as a sign she didn't trust me not to take advantage of her, but I instead figured maybe she was interested in actually getting to know me and learning more about my life. As the minutes passed, I silently patted myself on the back for not asking a single question about queefs.

After the second drink, Rosé mentioned she was tired and should probably get back to her apartment. She had work tomorrow (yeah, right). I asked which train she took, and she said she needed to go to Essex Street. When she followed this by stating she would have to take a taxi there because she didn't know which way to walk from our current location, I offered to escort her to the train. She smiled and consented. About three blocks from the station, she changed her mind and decided she was going to hail a taxi and take it all the way uptown, because she was too tired. She thanked me profusely, said something about my being nicer than the guys she usually sees, and we agreed to make plans soon. We hugged, she crawled into the awaiting cab, and sped off into the night.

I was feeling really good about the events of the evening, so two days later, I sent her a text message during work hours that was related to the goods she peddled at her place of business. It was a "useless factoid," and just geeky enough to be cute. She thanked me and said we'd speak soon.

A week or two later, I was driving back from Baja Fresh with Ken, Jack and Dan, when I received a text from a friend I will call Rebecca for the sake of this story. All it said was, she was bored and had to stay late at work. After first reading it and putting my phone away, I had the impulse to send her a reply. I dug around for my phone and clicked through the menus to create a new message. I wrote simply, "Show me your tits, bitch," and sent it off into the ether. And then I realized I didn't actually send it to Rebecca, I had sent it to Rosé.

I was too embarrassed to send an immediate apology. I was frozen, really. I had no idea what to say or do when the inevitable response arrived -- if it arrived. And when it did arrive in my inbox, I felt even worse than I would have if she had simply read it and chosen to never speak to me again. Her reply said, "Who is this?"

"Who is this?" What the fuck! Seven days is all it takes to forget a person exists, or erase their phone number? If you had made a date with a person you'd just met, wouldn't you think to at least store their number in your phone in case you needed to cancel? Are you telling me that it was possible that after seven days I had been expunged? What a crock of shit. I decided not to even grace her with an answer. I was too livid. As I sit here writing this, I don't still don't know why I chose to let it go. I missed a perfect opportunity to make a joke out of it, or apologize, and ask her out again. It doesn't matter though, what I did next was even more retarded.

She called me, about a week after, "Show me your tits, bitch." And get this -- I ignored the call. The first thought I had wasn't that she could possibly be calling because she found my number and was looking to talk to me. Oh no. In my mind, she was calling to find out who had sent the text message; she had waited a week to try and throw the anonymous text harasser off her trail. This is how I rationalized not picking up the phone. I had missed my second opportunity to apologize and ask her to see me again.

That same night, I signed online to check my e-mail, web stats, regularly visited forums, and my MySpace messages. As I was about to sign off, I saw that she had just posted a bulletin board message. So what did I, the genius responsible for "Show me your tits, bitch?" do? I chose not to read and respond to her bulletin with something clever and cute; thus effectively missing my third opportunity to apologize and ask her to see me again. Instead I chose to post my own bulletin, because in my mind she was going to see it appear directly above hers, and it would jog her memory and she would respond to me, we'd make plans, and fist each other's asses off into the sunset.

Well, I guess seeing my name above hers jogged her memory alright. The next morning, my MySpace friends list had decreased by one person. I guess she finally put two and two together, and decided I was unworthy of experiencing her Baby Gap-sized vagina. In that moment--when I suddenly realized that I had blown a chance with a really nice, cute girl in the most obtuse series of events imaginable--I don't think I'd ever felt more ashamed to be me. I actually pitied myself for being so unfathomably stupid.

I've since resigned myself to the fact that I'll never talk to her again. But, to be perfectly honest, it's just another in a long list of hilarious attempts at courtship gone terribly awry. The horror. The horror.

Tags: adventures in dating, Craigslist, date, Strand Bookstore, Kim's Underground, St. Marks Place, Hop Devil, bar and grill, Columbia University, Playgirl, queefs, vibrators, Essex Street, awkward goodbye, useless factoid, text message, Baja Fresh, MySpace, bulletin, Baby Gap, pathetic, mp3, blog, download

Adventures In Dating II: Part 1

As far as I can tell, it went like this. I wrote a short fiction piece that wound up on a popular website during the second half of 2006. That's a very generous description, but this is supposed to be the kind of story that protects identities and provides only the vaguest of details. Several people responded positively to my writing, and for some reason, one girl in particular--we'll call her Rosé--caught my attention. I think it was her word choice. Her e-mail started with, "I read your little (big? impressive? and/or throbbing?) thing-a-ma-bob while sitting here at a job from which I'm currently trying to get fired." And with that, I was in love. No, wait, not love...What's the other one? Oh yeah, horny. This was clearly evident in my less-than-formal response to her. It said, "Thanks, I hope you get fired. Wanna [sic] fuck?"

No joke. That's all I wrote to this girl. I was not expecting a response, but five hours later I received one. She wrote, "Hi, pretty much constantly. Specifically with you? I'm not sure." Jesus. I thought to myself, has picking up girls really become so easy? The look on my face resembled that of my pediatrician when I was twelve and asked him at what age should I schedule my first pap smear. I decided to press on with a similar line of questioning. I think my response to that was, "Me too. I hope you're not fat." She said something about shopping at Baby Gap. I don't know from fashion, people, but I do know that a girl that shops at Baby Gap is a girl whose vagina would look good wrapped around my penis. In the next e-mail exchange, we discovered that not only were we both thin, but we were also both white! Well, I think it's pretty obvious at this point things were going my way. We traded MySpace URLs, and, much to our surprise, it turned out we already knew each other. After a brief moment of awkwardness, she gave me her screen name and we chatted. I don't remember what about, but Rosé and I set up a date. As the days passed, and our encounter grew closer, questions weighed heavy on my head, the most important of which was: should I put the condom on before I leave my house, or wait until we're back at her apartment?

When I called to confirm our date, Rosé told me she would be with her friends at a bar on Ave. A and 2nd Street, and that I should stop by and pick her up so we could go to another bar. I recommended Hop Devil as a potential place to sit, and talk, and have a drink. She told me she didn't know Hop Devil, and I convinced her it would be fun. This of course, isn't true, as nine times out of ten the scene at Hop Devil is dead -- but the beer selection is too good to pass up if you're in the neighborhood. Before disconnecting from the phone, Rosé mumbled something about how the last time she went out with a guy she drank too much and told him all about her vibrator collection. I instinctively started to ask her if she had separate toys for vaginal and anal stimulation, but I stopped myself and decided to wait until we were face to face. It seemed like the mature thing to do.

I don't remember the exact date of our meeting, but I remember I spent that morning and early afternoon sitting by the pool, because I did not want to look as sickeningly pale as I normally do. Also, there was ice cream cake, and I think that was the day I engaged in my first ever "text sex" session with a young blond I had been courting on the side, which is completely irrelevant to this story (but I wanted to brag). My thoughts about Rosé vacillated as I moved back and forth between a beach chair and the hot tub. Should I be nervous? What if I actually liked this girl? Would there be any pressure? How enigmatic should I act? Was she shaved? On a scale of thirty-six to eighty-nine, what was her vaginal pain threshold? Would she be okay performing analingus? Simply put, I asked the same series of questions that crosses my mind whenever I engage in conversation with any non-blood-related female.

I showered and dressed. I don't remember what I wore, but I distinctly remember going for a look; one that said I was kind of cool but also a bit aloof. I think I wore a plain-colored shirt and a hoodie, because one with ironic text would probably force her attention away from my face, which is where she needed to look if she was going to catch me miming a blowjob and motioning towards the bathroom. In the end, I decided not to unfurl and adorn the condom before leaving the house. In that sense I felt slightly naked, but as I left my house I was still supremely confident.

Tags: adventure in dating, Craigslist, personal, date, Baby Gap, MySpace, blogger, celebrity blog, 2nd Street, Avenue A, Hop Devil, bar and grill, preparation, blowjob, mp3, blog, download

Adventures in Double-Dating: Part II

My alarm went off at 10:33am on Thursday April 12th. I slowly rose out of bed, brushed my teeth, grabbed two liters of water from the fridge, and sat down at the computer to complete a few hours of work. Upon meeting my quota, I devoted the next several hours to important preparation. Which t-shirt would best conceal a "wire"? Which hoodie provided ample breathing room for a microphone taped to the inside of my wrist? As I constructed a checklist of one-liners and zingers, I started to feel disappointed in myself. Maybe I shouldn't be treating each new person I meet like a dart-board for caustic remarks, especially when they're young girls with low self-esteem. When a girl is searching desperately for a boyfriend, I was supposed to take advantage of the situation, not humor myself by zinging them all night.

No. I couldn't do it. People don't change. I was a cold, heartless, narcissistic bastard, and life was devoted solely to amusing myself. Today would not be the day I chose to flip my intolerance switch to the "off" position. True joy, for me, has always been derived from being obstinate, and not caring about my words or actions in social settings. By God, I had to record the entire date, and I had to act in the only way I knew how: like the pathetic knave I was!

I picked up Ken at 4:15pm, and as we were about to start our voyage, Z called to ask for a ride. During our drive, I decided to let slip the nugget of information I had been keeping secret for the past twenty-four hours. I revealed the mini-disc recorder and microphone, held it in the air and rotated it slowly in my hand for added effect. Dappled sunlight lay upon the digital display. It was an austere moment.

"You're not!" Ken exclaimed, "I was afraid to ask if you were planning something like this!"

With a simple flick of my thumb, voila! The eject button sprung back and the mouth of the MiniDisc player popped open. Then our jaws dropped.

It was empty. I forgot to bring a disc.

***

I parked my car on East 13th Street at the corner of 3rd Avenue, and Dan quickly went his separate way. Ken and I walked to Kim's on St. Marks to buy a pack of discs, but the nerd behind the counter said they sold out that morning. We frantically asked where to find one, and were directed to Radio Shack and K-Mart. We hurried to each location, but left both stores empty-handed. Panic began to set in as we realized it was growing closer to the zero hour, and I had no disc on which to record. As we rounded street-corners and sped down avenues, we tried to cement a plan for once we found a disc.

"Are you really going to tape it to yourself like a wire?" Ken pondered.

"No. I forgot the medical tape. We could try to get their early and fix it to the underside of our table." I said.

"Does this place even have tables?" He asked.

"Imagine if they walked in on us trying to mount a microphone on the table? Imagine if they just happened to be sitting on the other side of the room waiting for us!" I exclaimed. The various plot twists raced through my mind making me giddy.

"I don't know. We could zip my backpack up with the microphone peeking out, and position it facing them." Ken suggested.

It was like a bad movie. It was Abbot and Costello on acid.

We separated to cover more ground. Ken visited several pharmacies and small boutiques while I raced down Broadway towards Best Buy. At about 6:25pm we reconvened. We were still empty-handed. At this point, even if we had a disc, there would have been no time for proper setup and microphone tests. Mookie and Lita were probably already there waiting for us. Begrudgingly, we made our way to Mud.

They were waiting inside. The dimly lit Mud provided little chance to size up the opposition upon first entering the cafe. The coffee bar extended across the front of the space, making it near-impossible to talk to a person face to face. We ordered our teas and coffee and slid to a table in the back. Mookie and Lita sat with their backs to the wall. Ken sat across from Mookie, and I faced Lita. They looked enough like their pictures. Mookie's had the same long, dark hair, with long bangs swept across her forehead. Her body was slightly round. Lita's face also looked like her picture, and she was very tall and thin. After a brief introduction, Ken mumbled something about placing a food order.

"Have either of you been here before?" One of the girls asked.

"No," conceded Ken.
"Yes," I asserted. We were off to a flying start.

Our initial conversation was about their Craigslist ad. Apparently it's the sort of thing these girls did for fun (isn't that what everyone says?), and we were the respondents they most desired to meet. According to Lita, thirty people responded to their ad, and Ken was the only one who "followed directions," so we were blessed with the opportunity to pitch woo at a couple of charming dames. I mentioned my series of fake ads and the book idea we hatched, where I write the most depraved ads possible and Ken takes the girls out while I spy on the date and write about each encounter.

"By the way, we're recording you right now," Ken stated. Everybody laughed. If only we were recording. Think of the irony!

Everyone took a few minutes to talk about their jobs and majors in college, except me, for some reason. Perhaps sensing my intense desire to speak about myself at great length, no one bothered asking about my life. Ken talked about film school and his motion graphics career. Mookie said she was studying cultural anthropology and working for the PR company responsible for Bonaroo. Lita informed us she was studying international something-or-other, and she was hoping to get a job at the United Nations. I asked if she wanted to be a translator, but she said a person had to be fluent in six languages to even be considered. I joked that I was almost fluent in one language. Ah, self deprecation. I began to wonder if the Aryan sitting across from me smelled Jewish blood.

Actually, it turned out to be a pretty boring hour-long date. At one point Lita began talking about uber-liberal politics and how "hugging Al Gore" got her kicked out of a campaign rally once, but it was the best moment of her life. Ken and I sat lifelessly across the table, unable to conjure a single thoughtful response on the topic of politics. Clearly Lita never read The Top Ten Things Not To Talk About On A First Date. Oh, and at one point Ken told a story about phone sex. Not sure where that one came from. Luckily, the awkward silences were kept to a minimum. When an eerie quietness engulfed the table, I made damn sure I wasn't the one to break it. Let the girls worry they are a bore. There was a moment where Mookie spoke up and stated that she was the only person who ordered coffee, and the three of us had herbal tea. No one responded, but I was howling with laughter on the inside.

Just after 7:30pm Mookie pulled out her phone to check the time.

"Do you want to go?" Ken asked."

"Yeah, we probably should," she said.

We stood and walked to the front to return our mugs and plates. When the cashier asked if we were paying separately, Ken loudly remarked that he guessed so. Outside of Mud, we all walked to the corner of East 9th Street, and then came the awkward, "Welp, I guess this is goodbye" moment. Everyone stood around uneasily until I had a monumental idea. I reached out to the girls for a handshake. Who the fuck knows what to make of a handshake after a date?! It was the least intimate, confusing act in my entire repertoire of ambiguous gestures, and I totally nailed it.

"Oh...How professional," Mookie said, looking entirely befuddled.

As the girls crossed the street, I had a perfect idea.

"We should have had Dan sit outside the cafe the entire time we were in there, and then he could have followed the girls for a block or two after we separated to overhear review of us!" It sounded like a Seinfeld episode. Dan, unfortunately was at the Chelsea Hotel, and another great idea of mine was wasted (although they're always the future, ladies...). Ken and I went to Chipotle for a wrap-up, where we debated the girls looks ("If I was drunk, I'd do them both" seemed to be the consensus), overall date boringness ("It was 15% awkward"), graded one another on performance (Ken thought I did better, I said that was foolish), and stared at some girl with massive tits who wore a blue bra underneath a white t-shirt. That was my favorite part of the night. Everything else, it turned out, kind of sucked.

Until next time...

Tags: adventures in dating, hoodie, microphone, narcissism, mini-disc recorder, East 13th Street, Kim's, St Marks, Radio Shack, K-Mart, backpack, Broadway, Best Buy, Mud, coffeeshop, Craigslist, dates, personal ads, double date, film school, NYU, Bonaroo, public relations, Jewish, Al Gore, handshake, Seinfeld, Chelsea Hotel, Chipotle, mp3, blog, download

Adventures in Double-Dating: Part I

Normally I don't like to share any details about my personal life on this page, because I like to think the content here is slightly more rewarding than that of a LiveJournal. Also, I'd feel really bad (yes, I have emotions, contrary to popular belief) about dragging unsuspecting people into the spotlight. After all, this probably the most self-centered page on the entire Internet. Ah, but today is not a normal day! I've decided I want to spend my next two entries—as this will probably turn into a long, detailed story—recounting an event from last week. Why? Because it is as much about a sociological phenomenon as it is a personal story. This is a story about a date. Actually, it was a double date. A blind(ish) double date.

It started Mid-March, as I was sitting in my room with Ken and Jack trying to figure out how to put together an Ikea shelf unit for my ungodly record collection. Jack had been caught in one of his loops all night, continually harping on the fact that glue was required in Ikea shelf construction. I tried to convince him that because glue was not called for in the directions, it was unnecessary. Jack grew irate. Ken, meanwhile, was spending the night trading e-mails on his Sidekick with his harem of online girlfriends from a vast array of social networking websites, dating services, and the Craigslist personals. Suddenly, he sat up. His jaw dropped.

"Oh, my God!" He exclaimed, and began to laugh. "Evan, you're going to kill me."

I became nervous. Ken would not say something like that if he was not in fact being serious.

"Oh yeah, you're totally going to kill me," he repeated.

Apparently Ken had recently discovered a Craigslist personal ad written by two young NYU students, both of whom were looking for older guys to get lunch with somewhere in the West Village. They promised that if all went well, "we could be going to bars and such." They were looking for mature men (25-30) with diverse interests, and promised to return the favor after receiving pictures from respondents. Ken, sensing a chance to flirt with college girls, pounced at the opportunity. Without consultation, he elected me to join him on the date, and told the girls that we met their age requirements (even though I did not), and were two "extremely busy people" (even though I was not). He joked that meeting for tea would be preferred to meeting for lunch, because that way if they turned out to be creepy, "it's all over in 15 minutes (insert smiley face)". Oh, and he chose send them my photo along with his own; never mind potential consequences (ie. what if it's someone I know?). He also happened not to mention any of this to me until one of the girls—we'll call her Mookie (as in, Mookie Wilson, my favorite all-time New York Met)—wrote to say they were intrigued by us.

At first I was slightly angered at his offering up my services, because—let's face it—on a scale of 1-10 Craigslist is maybe a 2 when it comes to meeting people. Furthermore, personal ads in general are creepy. My general stance on people who write [sincere] ads is that they're doing so for a simple reason: they do not attract people either physically, mentally, or both.

I left Ken to handle all the communication because he enjoys the chase, and fancied himself an expert. The girls (who, it turned out, were roommates) sent their photos. Mookie had green eyes and dark brown hair, with long bangs swept across her forehead. She looked fair-skinned, and very pretty. Her roommate—we'll call her Lita (after Lita Ford? No, I don't know...)—looked quite Aryan. Pale, blond haired and blue/green eyed. Lita, although not as as attractive as Mookie, was a nice looking girl. Then again, who could really tell—they were both potentially only "MySpace hot," a topic I've explored in depth in the past.

Over the next week, Ken and Mookie wrote to one another in an attempt to firm up the details. Ken had plans to travel to Hawaii for a week, so the meeting was placed momentarily on hold. Following his return, he immediately (as he is wont to do) began to pester me about when we would see the girls. It took another few e-mails to decide on a place and time. Ken played the role of dominating male figure well, chiding them with remarks such as, "We only like redheads," and correct use of a semi-colon would only earn [a girl] "some" points with us. Finally, Ken consented, stating he "guessed" we could meet them in spite of their flaws.

With Ken's hectic schedule of practices, work and other dates with Internet girls, and my...uh...hectic schedule of super-important business meetings charity work crime-fighting...whatever, the point is, it took a few days to agree on a time. We settled for Thursday the 12th of April. Mookie recommended a cafe in the West Village. Ken wasn't so sure about it.

"I know where that is," he said to me one afternoon, "but the thing is, we need to start there and then have a place in mind where we can move them, because girls like being led around by guys."

It pained me to have to think about all these head games and superficial details. I asked why he didn't just recommend a different place. Wasn't that essentially the same thing?

Ken agreed, and asked which place I had in mind, only I didn't have one in mind. He asked if I had ever been to Mud—which he had heard of before—and we decided to suggest that cafe. Neither of knew exactly where it was, so we had to look up the location before he could assertively respond with an address. Ken, ever-so-sly, suggested to Mookie that she call him to confirm, but she simply responded with an affirmation: Thursday at 6:30pm.

On Wednesday, I needed to be reminded that Thursday was the date. I started to imagine all the different ways I could enjoy this experience solely for my own comedic benefit. I also tried to conjure ways to add an element of my typical ingenuity to the festivities. That night, following a discussion with my sister, I decided I would surreptitiously record the entire date with a hidden microphone. I found a roll of medical tape and practiced concealing my binaural in-ears, first by taping them to my chest under a t-shirt, and then by taping them to my wrists beneath long-sleeves. I elected not to tell Ken right away that I would be recording the date.

Feeling confident that I would reach a new height of personal gratification upon completing the task at hand, I slept soundly Wednesday night. This figured to be my finest hour. In my mind, there was no doubt my cynicism and lack of passion, when combined with Ken's aggressive pursuit and machismo, would be the perfect antidote for an otherwise lovely double date.

To be continued...

Tags: adventures in dating, Craiglist, personal ads, double date, dates, blind date, NYU, students, females, coffeeshop, hipsters, mp3, blog, download