A Total D*ck Pic

Michael,  a dapper young private equity director and I had been chatting on a dating app for a few weeks and after both of us were in and out of town for the month of August we finally found an evening where our schedules would coincide to have our inaugural date. He chivalrously offered to meet me at a cocktail bar near my apartment in Queens, so I already chalked the evening up as a win.

Upon entrance to said establishment I was immediately attracted to Michael. With his thoroughly pressed Oxford shirt tucked into his well-tailored navy blue slacks and loosened Thomas Pink silk tie, he seemed to be just my physical cup of tea.

I sat down and he quickly got up to greet me and asked for my drink order and returned from the bar delivering my requested Tito’s and soda with two limes.

The conversation was fluid and within minutes his side-splitting sense of humor had me laughing uncontrollably. It wasn’t long before I was definitely feeling the chemistry.

Then Michael started caressing my knee and it was time to tell him to pump the brakes. At the end of the day, boys certainly will be boys and I cannot blame him for attempting to be physical so long as he demonstrates respect when I express my distaste for it so prematurely. I brushed his hand away from my knee and continued to engage in our flirtatious conversation.

“Sorry,” he said. “Does me being affectionate bother you? I’m an affectionate person.”

“I am an affectionate person myself, but this is our first date and you are going to have to be patient.”

He then proceeded to taunt me about what a prude I was and badger me about whether or not we would be able to hold hands on date #7.

My fleeting interest for Michael diminished almost as quickly as it developed and I finished the remainder of my cocktail.

Being that were so close to my apartment, Michael insisted he walk me home to which I agreed because I figured arguing with him on the matter would only cause me to spend more of my precious time in his intrusive presence.

“Give me a kiss,” he said when we arrived in front of my lobby. “And I want a real kiss.”

“No. Not happening. You can have a hug. Best I can do for you.”

As I gave him the most awkward and ingenuine embrace I felt a hand reach around me and briefly grasp my rear end.

“Seriously man? You just grabbed my ass after I told you I didn’t even want to kiss you? What the hell makes you think you have the right to do that?”

“Oh, come on. It’s just a quick butt grab. And I actually think your butt grabbed my hand,” He cheekily replied.

When I escaped back to my apartment I was contemplated deleting every dating app on my iPhone for the 5th time that month when I received a text saying what a great time he had and how he would love to take me out afresh, but his text went ignored.

The next day I received this:


Wow. OK. NOW I want to go out with you again.

After telling him his dick was pretty unimpressive and to fuck off, I figured that it would be the last time I’d hear from Michael.


My doorman delivered these the next day:


I no longer answer any of Michael’s texts, but I don’t block his number merely because they are so damn amusing:



Just The Tip

Craig and I matched on JDate, and though I myself am not a member of the ‘chosen people’ I feel that Jewish men tend to be the more enlightened when it comes to courting a person of the opposite sex. I suppose Craig had an affinity for jews and gentiles alike because he invited me to dinner after exchanging some bullshit messages about the weather.

To reiterate what I have said in past blog posts, I typically prefer to limit an inaugural meeting to just drinks so I can decide whether or not I will have the ability to withstand the duration 3 courses with someone, but I had a good feeling about this guy in particular. Off to dinner I went.

Craig chose a trendy spot in the Meat Packing District that was more ‘bridge and tunnel’ than I would have preferred, but I digress.

Overall, the date was enjoyable. We feasted upon oxtail empanadas, seafood paella and the obvious bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon followed by raspberry sorbet and a pair of espresso martinis.

We spoke of our mutual infatuation of WWII movies, the creative ways we would sneak alcohol into bars while attending college in the city (because drink prices could never quite agree with our ever depleted bank accounts), and our travel bucket list for the upcoming year. The conversation was effortlessly fluid and we decided to continue our evening at a quiet wine bar in SoHo.

Craig flagged the waitress down and requested she bring the check.

“So I hope you don’t mind, but I prefer we go Dutch,” he said.

“Oh, yeah. That’s no problem.”

Now, in no way am I saying that the man is obligated to fund every meal we share together, but I am old fashioned and do believe on a first date the man should be a gentleman, especially if he wants to get into my pants. Women are the gatekeepers after all and we ought to be wooed.

After splitting the tab we arrived at the wine bar and ordered a bottle of Pinot. Craig then excused himself to use the men’s room and the bartender asked to hold my credit card in order to open a tab, to which I handed over my Visa thinking we would split it when the bill was presented.

After the last drop had been consumed I was ready to call it a night. I told Craig to grab the check and ran to the ladies room.

When I returned, the black check holder was sitting there waiting for me to sign the receipt. I looked at the bill and the $60 bottle of wine was put entirely on my credit card.

“So, are we not going Dutch on this one?” I said.

“Oh you just said to grab the check and I just told him to run the card he had. I forgot it was yours. How about I get the tip?”

Craig reached into his wallet and pulled out a disheveled one dollar bill and a few dimes and nickels from the pocket of his khakis that were covered in lint and Kleenex residue.

“That should be good. It’s not like he had to do too much work to just open a bottle.”

Craig’s text the following day was ignored and he was never to be seen again.