Willing and [UNST]able

As a fledgling New Yorker I decided there was no time like the present to dip my toes into the dating pool by downloading a few apps and seeing what kind of possibilities laid before me.

Christina was one of the first girls to message me on Bumble. This 25 year-old segment producer was certainly physically pleasing and being that she was a college basketball fan much like myself, I thought I would take a stab at it and invite her out for a cocktail or two.

I selected a charming wine bar located in close proximity to Christina’s apartment in SoHo, and arrived promptly at seven PM.

It was obvious to me that Christina relied on the help of some filters or other photo enhancing applications to improve her appearance on my iPhone, but she still seemed quite appealing nonetheless.

We spoke about where we were from and what we did for a living, but considering March Madness would soon be upon us, we dove right into our beloved college basketball.

Being a graduate of University of Maryland Christina was quite passionate about her Terrapins.

While exchanging opinions about the first round of each other’s brackets I noticed a dewy mist glazing over her green eyes.

“Are you OK?” I asked, worrying if something I said had upset her.

“I’m sorry. It’s just so hard to talk about college. It was the greatest time of my life, and I just miss it, and I feel like I will never be as happy again. I just want to go back to football games and life when I had no responsibilities. I have been so depressed every since graduation, and I hate it,” she forlornly revealed.

Bewildered at what to say to this emotional stranger with severe Peter Pan syndrome I awkwardly placed my hand on her shoulder and murmured some senseless condolences.

Christina and I sat there for another two hours whilst she sucked down several glasses of wine despite the slurring of her speech.

I decided it was time to get her home, so I escorted her to her apartment and attempted to say my goodbyes.

“Come up with me for one more drink,” she pleaded.

Though I knew it was a horrible idea, I felt the waterworks might begin again should I decline her invitation.

We entered her apartment and the second I sat on the couch Christina straddled me  and wrapped her lips around what felt like my entire face.

Completely turned off by everything about this woman I gave her a gentle nudge, and told her it was best she get herself to bed.

“WHY DON’T YOU WANT ME? WHY DOESN’T ANYONE WANT ME? I MAY AS WELL THROWN MYSELF OUT OF MY WINDOW!” she said, in between dramatic sobs of despair.

Worried that she may in fact throw herself out of the window I tried my best to calm her down, and hoped she would soon pass out.

I spent the next hour comforting  this tearful stranger and explaining that life after college actually isn’t so bad.

“Will you please just come sleep in my bed and hold me? That’s all I want. I promise I won’t try to have sex with you.”

Right at this moment, her roommate emerged from her bedroom, clearly agitated by all the racket. “You can just go. She does this all the time. She won’t jump out the window, I promise,” she said confidently.

Ecstatic to be relieved of my suicide watch duties I gingerly pushed Christina’s head from my shoulder and bolted for the door…

…then quickly removed my toes out of the dating pool for a while.


Too Much To Stomach

Mason and I were introduced through one of my colleagues when he crashed our company’s happy hour. After conquering our Q3 goal we were a rowdy bunch certainly ready to tie one on for the evening.

With platinum blonde tresses and juniper hued eyes, this New Hampshire-born web designer had me smitten from the get go.

After chatting for several hours it was to my dismay that Mason left the event sans my contact info.

I continued celebrating into a blacked out oblivion the rest of the night, and by morning Mason was merely a figment of my imagination.

Until he messaged me on Instagram.

After exchanging several coquettish messages via DM, he invited me to a light show at the New York Botanical Garden, and I was back to being rather smitten with Mason once again.

We perused the illuminated exhibits of ethereal splendor that were displayed for the public and commented on the work of each artist. We enjoyed some vodka cranberries along the way along with some light bites in between our rather pleasant conversation.

As the show concluded we cabbed it back to the Upper West Side to continue our alcohol consumption conversation.

Mason and I finished off a bottle of Shiraz, and though I very much enjoyed his company and wanted to see him again, I decided going home to my apartment alone would be the courtly thing to do.

He gently took hold of my chin and pulled it toward his face for a kiss.

Minutes later we remained on the corner of 79th and Amsterdam somewhat passionately engaged in a full-on make out session.

Mason reached up my blouse to touch my stomach. Having a pretty good prediction as to where he was going with this I removed his hand from the direction which it was headed.

“Not so fast,” I giggled coyly.

“You don’t have to feel uncomfortable,” he said.

“I’m not. I just don’t want to be felt up on a street corner. That, and I’m not into moving that quickly,” I assured him.

“Oh, I thought you were uncomfortable because you have a little bit of a tummy, which I actually like.”

“…” (floored expression)

“Seriously though, I am not interested in your body. All I am really interested in is your soul. I just want to know your soul.”

At this point I was having severe difficulty trying to figure out whether I was more offended by him commenting on my supple midsection or creeped out about him seemingly wanting to consume my soul, but I decided it was time to hightail it home.





He’s Got Some BALLS

After an agonizingly long day at the office I made my way to the A train and back to my apartment in West Harlem intending to catch up on Game of Thrones and pass out next to a carton of half-eaten Kung Pao chicken.  A glamorous life I live, indeed.

I was fortunate enough to score a seat at the height of rush hour where I settled and got ready to relinquish all attention to my beloved kindle for the duration of the commute.

“Confessions of an Economic Hitman,” a stranger next to me said. “Great read.”

Being that I had just started the book on my way to work that very morning I had no viable opinion to offer, but I soon found myself discussing other pieces of literature with Liam, a devilishly handsome certified public accountant residing on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

Before he exited the train we had exchanged numbers, and planned to grab drinks that very week.

Like many boys in New York City, he was not one for forming a definitive plan, but rather texting sporadically at various hours of random evenings asking if I would like to hook up grab a ‘last minute nightcap,’ which I always respectfully declined.

One Friday night subsequent to an evening out with my girlfriends that involved an over abundance of gin and tonics, Liam proposed we grab one more drink at a bar in close proximity to my apartment.

“A great idea!” I said.

This is was not a great idea.

I don’t quite recall the details of our spontaneous rendezvous, but long story short, we woke up in my apartment side by side, scantily clad with remnants of mozzarella sticks strewn throughout the sheets and a half-empty bottle of wine on my night stand.

I got up to go to the bathroom to quench the insatiable thirst and rid myself of the remaining gin, wine and marinara sauce that lingered inside my mouth.

When I crawled back into bed Liam was awake, and informed me that he was going to jump in the shower. I drifted back into my slumber fully expecting (and hoping) that there would be no trace of him when I awoke.

I was finally awaken by the sound of a frying pan screeching against a rusty burner and the sizzle of freshly cracked eggs accompanied by the delectable smell of sautéd butter.

I ascended the stairs of my duplex apartment to find Liam, stark naked, cooking up breakfast.

To my horror, his dangling testicles were quite literally pressed up against the knobs of my oven.

“Breakfast?” He asked, cheerfully, which I found even more obnoxious than his balls on my stove.

“No thanks,” I said, finding it hard to fashion any sort of appetite. “I am going to take a shower and get started with my errands and such.”

My ‘errands’ consisted of ordering the greasiest sandwich in existence and nursing my hangover on the couch, but I would have said anything necessary to expedite his departure.

When I finished my shower I was astonished to find Liam in my living room, his feet comfortably propped up on my coffee table, scrotum displayed for my viewing pleasure, and casually enjoying his my eggs. For a minute, I thought he owned the place.

“Do you not have Netflix?” He asked.

Growing increasingly perturbed with his offensively entitled behavior…and his balls all over my stuff…I told Liam it was time to make his exit.

We ran into each other on the subway several times after our little ‘encounter,’ but Liam and I never spoke again.



A Date Gone Orally Wrong

After the difficulties that ensued from my terribly unsuccessful engagement I regrettably found myself back in the harrowing  arena that is online dating.

“Join Match,” they said. “You will meet a nice guy,” they said.

Desperately trying to move on from my failed relationship of five years I audaciously swiped through my matches with hopes of starting anew.

Logan was a fair-skinned and particularly aristocratic-looking specimen. Armed with a charming pick up line and a recently completed masters degree in computer science, he had me quite intrigued to accommodate his request for an in-person meeting.

Being relatively new to the millennial phenomena that is online dating, I figured Logan would suggest we meet at a bar or coffee shop of some sort, so I was delighted when he suggested we go to a wine and cheese tasting event he had purchased tickets for.

Wine and cheese are certainly the direct route to this gal’s heart.

Logan and I settled into a quaintly romantic brasserie and exchanged light badinage while waiting for the instructor to begin the tasting.

Soon I found myself very much enjoying our time sampling various French burgundies, discussing the flavorful aromas of each and deliberating which cheeses complemented them the best.

As the instructor concluded her presentation we continued getting to know each other over the remainder of our vintages.

To my dismay, I had to bring the date to a close as midnight rapidly approached, and my speech began to noticeably slur.

I told Logan what an enjoyable time I had and expressed my desire to to see him again, hoping the feeling was mutual.

“Do you have to go home now? It’s so early!” He pleaded.

“I have to be at work at seven tomorrow, so I think it’s for the best. Plus, I have already had a lot to drink,” I said, slightly abashed by my tipsiness.

“We don’t have to drink anymore. I’m sorry, I’ll just say it. I would love to take you home and eat you out.  You won’t even have to do anything to me,” he said, expecting me to be eternally grateful for his offered services.

Dumbfounded, all I could do was cackle in embarrassment on his behalf.

“Or, we could just cuddle. I’m a great cuddler too,” he threw out as a last ditch effort to get me into his apartment.

I’m good, Logan. I’m good.