Uptown Lowdown

Manhattan

Boy, did I go out with a talker last night! We’ll call him Woody. Woody wouldn’t shut his pie hole for more than two bite-sized seconds about how much he hated women. On top of that, he called me “honey,” as if I didn’t already feel Electra Complexy enough for going out with a 50-year-old. Truth be told, I thought he’d be different. I mean, he’s Jewish. I know Jewish men like I know the snack isle at Trader Joe’s. At that age, most are either divorced and complain about how all women have baggage and they’ll be alone forever if all goes well, or they’re happily married to their only friend left.  Then there’s the wild card: divorced and on J-Date. Woody had never been married before, though, so I was dealing with a whole new breed.

He made reservations at the nicest restaurant I’ve ever been to. My heart (let’s be be real, heartvagina) swelled for the $135 shrimp but my polite girl socialization left me ordering the $60 tuna. I already knew from the start I wouldn’t date him again after I collected the prearranged $200 price. He called me when I accepted his offer online (via my new Google Voice number! It’s a dope way to conduct ambiguously legal affairs without anyone knowing your real number.). Woody had said, “Listen, honey, I just need to know that you’re open.”

“Open … Where?”

“No, I just need to know that you’re open to getting to know me. That you’re not a dead-end.”

“Oh. I’m open.”

“And you know, men my age, we don’t have the six-pack anymore. We don’t have all our hair like the younger boys.”

“You know I think I’ve read about that … science textbook or something.”

SO yeah, I’m a bitch. I’m toootally not open. The absinthe I’ve been saving the past three years for graduation morning is more open. That would have been the point where the good girls said, “You know, I’m really just trying to collect some cash and get fed fancy fish. Sorry.” But I like to cheat. I tell myself that sure, I’m open. I just highly doubt that we’ll have any chemistry, but it doesn’t mean we won’t.

Actually, it does. I don’t want to go out with anyone with whom I think I’ll have chemistry, because I’d feel guilty. My version of being faithful to J is a strict policy of getting the money and going. No fun. Unless that fun comes from bourgey dinners or intoxication. Mild intoxication is allowed.

Anyway, it would take my first book to recount all the stories Woody told me but let’s start with his conversation opener:

“I had a real Woody Allen moment last night, N (my $ date name starts with N). A real Woody Allen moment. My last girlfriend Nicole used to tell me I reminded her of Woody Allen. Well, you know honey, I never really liked that. He’s kind of a nerdy guy, you know Woody Allen? Well, he’s a bit of a nerdy type and I like to try and be more of the cool guy. You’re a non-judgmental type, aren’t you, honey? You seem that way. I’ve spoken to shrinks before, you know. Just a couple. My mom sent me when she divorced my dad.”

It was going to be a long night, so I ordered drinks. I basically just let him talk. I’m pretty sure that’s really what he was paying me for. Maybe when I graduate I can be an unofficial shrink for middle-aged lonelies with mommy issues. Do the ol’ alma mater proud.

“Anyway, honey, so I’ve been on a couple of dates from this terrible website before. Take this one girl. She’s a Russian. I hate the Russians. Worst people in the world. Why? Let me just tell you this: hide your wallet, hide your money, hide your phone, hide your electronics when you’re around the Russians. Don’t trust them for a minute. I met this Russian girl, and she was beautiful. They do tend to be beautiful. But conniving creatures. Let me tell you this. We went to a restaurant together. You know, it was a nice restaurant. Pricey but not too pricey. I took out $200 from the bank and that was supposed to cover the whole meal. You know what she does, N? She orders the Beluga caviar. You know about Beluga caviar? $150 a can. So I go to the waiter and I say, ‘Hey, give her the other caviar. Give her the $45 one.’ I thought she won’t know the difference. Well, guess what? She noticed the difference. ‘This is not Beluga,’ she said. ‘This is not Beluga.’ Ok, so then guess what she does? We have the meal and she orders two desserts. She says, ‘I’ll have the ice cream sundae and I’ll have the chocolate cake.’ Would you believe that? Two desserts. On a first date! Would you ever order two desserts on a first date? So that’s my deal with the Russians.”

“Yeah … Russians suck …” I mean, were those stories threats? Fuck me over with two desserts and I’ll tell my future dates to watch out for Jewish girls in college. Or I’ll tell my shrink. Or my mom. MOMMY!! I was already too drunk to be sure if I had reached the point where I was supposed to “go powder my nose” and then hop back on the 1 train like Trader Joe’s having a sale on all my favorite groceries depended on it.

That was pretty much how it all went down, though. Relatively harmless story time. I’m toying with the idea of writing up some more of his stories. I think I’ll do that.

Message from a guy from Jersey:

“Id like a girl to come chill nakey and watch porn with me tonight :)”

Diaries of a Sugar Daddy

Love your profile and I love being blunt, so here goes.

I’ve got a great job and I get to travel all over the world to some pretty cool places like Florence and Jamaica, Warsaw(actually a really beautiful modern city now), Rio, et.. 

I certainly qualify as a hard core nerd. I’m very well educated, teach engieering classes part time, and I have over 40 patents. 

I enjoy spending time boating and jet skiing at my lake front house and also enjoy snowmobiling and skiing. I love going to plays and concerts. I put myself through college working as a chef in an upscale restaurant years ago, so I love great food and checking out new restaurants.

But I’ve never had problems being with beautiful woman. Is this a negative for you? Lol

I’m happily married (22+ years) who is also my best friend. She races motorcycles and skis down the side of cliffs to get her adrenaline rush. I have two daughters, 22 and 29. One has a phd in philosophy and another is a lawyer. So, fortunately, they are employed, and not living at home. :) 

I’ve don’t like guys that sneak around on their wives. Fortunately she views my enjoyment of Sugar Babies as a “hobby” so I get to have my adrenaline rush being mischievous with women half my age.

I’ve had 5 long term sugar babies and I’m still good friends with all of them. I walked one down the isle at her wedding because her father has been out of her life since she was little. I am godfather to another’s 3 year old daughter. I helped two of them get their GED’s and helped three of them get through college. 

My daughters now know about my adventures. They were somewhat less forgiving when we first told them. But they came around when they finally got that I would never do anything to hurt their mother. In fact, three of my sugar babies have become like extended family members and have become very good friends with my two daughters (since they are the same age or a bit younger. LOL ) 

I’ve been lucky enough to only end up with only beautiful, smart, fun, and kindhearted sugar babies. No one has ever been hurt by this and everyone has benefited.

Plain and simple, I am looking for close friendship with benefits where we can make a positive difference in each others lives.

As you can see, I’m very unconventional. And I love artists!

Let me know if you might be interested.

Sam

OkC Throwback…lol

Hi! Hows it going? I’m David and I just read your profile, you sound really cool! Definitely the type of person I could be fast friends with. What kind of literature do you like writing the most? My best friend is an young-adult fiction writer, and I am currently myself in the midst of writing a fiction novel, though admittedly its a bit too raunchy for kids. I have immense respect for authors, especially as a musical composer (which is my primary aesthetic) because I can hide behind writing three minute songs and if they suck I can always write another one that doesn’t suck pretty quickly! Writing one long body of text is something I’m still grappling with (I’ve only written forty pages, don’t make fun  
Anyway, a bit about myself: 24, graduated two years ago from Brandeis (its a small school about twenty min west of Boston), and I currently make my living as a musician doing a bunch of things. I just wrote a childrens album and a few of the tunes got picked up by UMG so I’m stoked about that! Ultimately I’d like to be fronting a successful rock band and simultaneously be producing two or three brilliant artists a year on the side because only a few artists have ever done that and I think it’s totally badass. We’ll see, right now making sesame st type music and doing session work is fine by me. 

Outside of the whole artist thing, I am pretty laid back (wow, generic much? lol) I love love love basketball, though I am terrible at playing. I went to an all black high school so that might have something to do with it and Im so excited that the Knicks are actually good this year. I love jazz clubbing. Drinking Jamison. I will definitely kick your ass in chess, I go easy on my friends at first but when they start to get cocky I have to put them in their place. I love philosophical conversations and have a tendency to get really animated/sometimes go on long annoying rants. The good thing is that when I do I’m totally okay with people interrupting telling me to shut up! Seriously, I really don’t take myself too seriously but I know what I want and how to get there. I think. 
How about you? Outside of writing, what are your passions? Whats your name? Favorite Beatles album? Abbey Road all day for me, the way it ends is too brilliant for words. 

Anyway, I’ll stop writing now. If you’ve read this far, you are seriously awesome!

What’s Your Price?

Sorry for the previous stoney entry and sorry for the long gap. Let’s do this.

            The name of the site is “What’s Your Price?” I’ve got big plans for post grad life, namely fucking around in New Orleans and then fucking around in Argentina with Anna, and we need to finance it. Bartending has been real but let’s face it: at $20/hour it doesn’t compare to the cash money that comes in from dating old dudes in the 1%. So far it seems like the trick is to cap off these encounters after 1-2 dates, before the guys start trying to get you to dance alongside a stripper named La Negrita at their night club in Spain. I mean yes, these are sad, pathetic, socially awkward individuals whose hobbies include playing with their dicks and pondering taking a cooking class, but they’re exercising their capitalist right to buy commodities just like the rest of us, so I’ll give them that.

            Let’s call last night’s date Buster. Buster is a 36-year-old man from Long Island who has never worked a day, made a meal, or had a sip of alcohol in his life. His hobbies include collecting (not watching) foreign films, improv class, and reading his nutrition self-help book. “I’m getting really into photography lately,” he added to his list of riveting interests. “I’m really enjoying that. You know, taking pictures. But then the development part is a little dull. I like to move around a lot, you know. I’m really getting into exercise. I have this nutrition book…” Yawn. This really felt like a job, and not the fun kind that ends with you running away with a bottle of stolen Patron in your purse while the manager flirts with your underaged co-worker. And wait a second. He’s a photographer. Why is he rich? He’s going to pay me, right? “…and I’m really lucky because my parents have always supported me…” Bingo.            

            During the messaging stage of getting to know him, I was a little confused when he asked me if I know of any good bars in Manhattan. “Um, yeah…which neighborhood are you thinking of?” I asked. “Oh um, how about the East Village, or the Upper East Side, or the West Village, or Times Square?” Hmm…or how about Queens, or Jamaica, or Canada!? I hear Canada’s nice this time of year. I suggested a bar in the East Village, since I was going to be in the area that night, anyway. It became clear within ten minutes of meeting him that he had just named the areas of Manhattan he had heard of from within the depths of his hibernation cave a.k.a his parents’ Long Island basement.

            He ordered a coke and I ordered a beer. The waitress knew exactly what I was doing. Everyone at the bar knew exactly what was going on. Still, I smiled, I thanked Buster for his repetitive compliments, and he answered “Cool!” enthusiastically to everything I said. “Do you enjoy the opera?” he asked me. “Not really.” “Cool!” I was getting antsy by the end of the drink. I didn’t want another. I wanted to get down to business. He laid it on straight. “$100 for public encounters, $500 for private.” I have no intention of any private encounters with Buster, but $500 still felt insulting. “I wouldn’t do anything for less than $1,000…I’m worth it.” He agreed. The guy has a flapper fetish. It was written all over his face, and I just cut my hair short. Still, I’m not down with private encounters. I don’t think I could go through with it, even though I would be able to afford my plane ticket to South America after 2 nights.

            It really is tempting. The way I see it, sex workers exercise their right as members of capitalist society to alienate whatever part of their bodies they want. A professor alienates her brain for money, so logically speaking, there’s no difference alienating a different part of the body to make a profit. Morally, yes, puritan America takes issue with this. Sex is the scariest, most offensive vice to our Christian overlords since Darwin the douche-packer. They’ll give their kids a (toy) gun but imagine them whipping out a sex toy for little Timmy’s birthday. I was raised socialist, far from this mindset, but anyway, this is neither here nor there because I’m just selling platonic company at this point in time.  

             “I don’t like surprises though,” Buster warned me. Soooo no finger in your ass—got it. You know that’s exactly what he meant. We planned to meet again next week for dinner. I gave him a hug goodbye and bounced. J’s away on a business trip for a couple weeks, so I have time to try out a few more prospects, while I still have my premium “college baby” What’s Your Price? account.  

Naturally, every message on this site will be creepy. But anyway, here you go:

“i wonder, might you be the sweet bright gurl with that freaky bad gurl side..
im a well built ,older but cute boy toy slut in bad need of a woman who loves kissing and cumming ot meet wekly for dinner and hot torrid sex.im direct but sincere
i got burnt on here so i learned if interested, meet, have a drink, dinner and if we click see how we kiss and play, if we have fun,i will take this one time arrnagmeent for a few hundred roses and give you 4/5 k a month to share hot torrid fun with, as well as anything else w emight want to do like shop or…..
im direct but sincere,so if interested and if you love playing and loosing it, meet me, bob”

Cracks

            I’m on some real shit this week, but don’t worry, I’m not tryna write a Xanga. Normal entry to follow next.

            This week, it’s all starting to crack. I’ve reached a crossroads. I can’t just ignore every text, call, email, message from everyone waiting for an answer, but the minutes and hours and days go by and I’m going to lose everything, watch myself losing it, like nail polish slowly chipping away.

            On the one hand there’s J. He’s perfect. That’s the easiest way to describe him. But is he perfect for me? He has this “Boy Meets World” view of what a relationship should be like. We’ve been dating a couple months and we like each other, so a boyfriend/girlfriend situation is just the obvious next step to him. Last night he came back from a ten-day trip. I was pumped to see him. As he hugged me he asked, “You know what I was thinking while I was away?”

            “What?”

            “That I’d really like you to be my girlfriend.”

The word hit my stomach like too much whiskey and Mexican takeout. It could be all the Judith Butler I read at Barnard, but I’m really not into labels. We text all the time, we know we like each other, respect each other, have fun together, but J wants that extra security that comes with a label. “This is my girlfriend” as opposed to “This is that bitch I was telling you about.”

            “Oh. Wow. You got so tan!” I responded.

            “D, come on, what is it?” he asked.

            “And your hair. It looks so good like that. You don’t need the mousse.”

            “D. Just tell me. I have knots in my stomach.”

            That’s part I of this story. Part II is that the editor of a blog called Inside New York asked me to write a sex column for the website after hearing of my blog through the grapevine. When I met with her to discuss details, she gushed, “I read your whole blog! It got me through a break up!” I’m not sure how rants about free love and Chipotle from a girl with a small (but charming) drinking problem helped her in any way, but it was, of course, extremely flattering. The column would basically be a syndication of my blog, minus the drug references. Problem is, how can I commit to a column and monogamy at the same time? Nobody gives a crap about monogamy. Well, there is something else I’ve been thinking of writing about.

            A couple weeks ago I joined some new dating websites. They’re all about setting up dates for dollars, and it’s been kind of awesome so far. The men on these sites are middle-aged and too socially awkward (“busy with work”) to find people who will date them for them. They have expendable income like the real housewives of Jersey have dignity, and they’re on the prowl for young girls to spoil and justify their existence. I’m so down to be that girl. Like most college kids, I owe thousands of dollars in loans and the threat of homelessness looming come May. But this threat is very real for me. I’ve been homeless before. I don’t have my old high school bedroom waiting for me with ironed sheets and pictures of the gals still taped to the walls. That’s all gone.

            So what do I have? A $300 gift certificate to a spa that some finance/executive/producer/whatever emailed to me to show he’s serious. $100 for going out to a 5 Star restaurant with the most boring old dude obsessed with Montauk I’ve ever met. Some hilariously creepy messages about fetish requests. An alias. A dad who’s going to lose his apartment if he can’t find some money fast. I want to see what I can do with this.

            Now the crossroads. The cracks. I explained the situation to J. I want to be with him, and I can push my WALLS AND BAGGAGE aside to be his girlfriend, but I don’t want to give up these dates yet.

            “Why do you want this title?” I asked him. It must be questions like this that have had others close to me suggest I was high functioning autistic in the past. I think it’s just a pr­­­­oduct of absent parental guidance and no TV until high school. “I want it because we like each other and want to keep spending time together,” J told me. “But naming our relationship won’t give us that. We already have that.” Three hours of exhausting discussion later, I was J’s girlfriend, and he agreed with my conditions, but I know it breaks his heart a little. “Just get the money you need and we can move on,” he said. “But I’d really appreciate if you didn’t blog about it.”

            It’s that awful place where you actually need to figure out what you want. For me it’s between J, my blog, and fast cash and presents. I want them all. In another time and place I would be able to stomp my foot and declare J my priority. Where I stand, though, I want to keep writing, even if it’s just for a mere 18 followers and whatever random biddies get through a break up by reading. It’s a project that excites me, that doesn’t harm my body, and wow what a prospect! Where I stand, the walls of my dorm are closing in, the paint chipping, as my dad and little brother call me to say they have to move, leave the apartment, no money for retirement. My brother doesn’t need that. The start of a healthy adult relationship, a project that’s drawing me from my regular doom and gloom attitude and drugged up cave, and the opportunity to keep my family and then graduated me housed. Fucking choices. My guess is that the cracks will turn to holes, and the holes will become the majority, and I’ll lose everything before I can answer that question of what I want. Whose cracked heart I can paint over and mend.

Anywayz, get excited for a whole new level of creepy messages!

“Dear White Goddess, Will you please shit on my chest. I will provide you 700 for the pleasure each time we meet. I have wanted to be shit upon by a white girl. Never tried that before.

I will answer any question you have.

Your dark skinned slave”

extra $$ ?

Hey hope you are doing well I was wondering if you might be interested in an easy arrangement. I have a slight foot fetish so I am into feet on girls and was wondering if you might be willing to sell some of your old socks or shoes? I am looking for a girl that would be turned on by the fact that a guy is getting off to their feet/socks/shoes. I would pay for the shipping too and all that I ask if that you skype or webcam chat me for a few minutes showing me that you wore the socks/shoes, not looking for anything on webcam more than feet! Also if you have a roommate or friend that would be interested as well both of you could sell your socks/shoes and we could make a competition out of it with whoevers socks I liked best getting some extra $$. If you would be interested message me back and let me know thanks!

Underrated

Today three of my favorite friends were dressed in black. “Is that your Valentine’s Day statement?” I asked. They all looked down at their clothes, shrugged, and said something along the lines of, “Oh, no, this is just coincidence.” New Yorkers wear a lot of black. In fact, I hardly noticed anyone walking around in pink and red like the ol’ High School days. Remember making cards and cutting out hearts and cupids in 1^st grade? Giving them out to all our friends, parents, and crushes if you were bold? Well I remember this one bitch, popular, naturally, coming to class with a bag of Valentines for just about everyone but me. This curly-haired elementary school hoe would make fun of me for shopping at the sale section of a thrift store called Affordables, which was a big deal at a private school where you were a leper if you didn’t shop at Limited Too or have a tennis court and/or swimming pool in your backyard. My point is that this holiday is overrated, and I’m not just saying that because I’m bitter, which I happen to be.

The worst thing about Valentine’s Day is that you always remember your old Valentine’s Days. Or, to be more precise, you remember the ones you wish you forgot. One year ago today I was living on a goat farm in Washington with my kind of almost boyfriend. He was a cherubic Eastern European with a Cheshire cat grin that literally sent chills down my spine. It was the kind of love where my hand felt safe on his cheek. The kind of love where you spend all day in bed together without the idea of actually doing anything ever crossing your mind. The kind where you cannot and will not stop touching each other. Even in front of parents. Even on the subway. Where you repeatedly search his face for flaws and can never find even one. Where the thought of his exes shuts you down. His over-bite is adorable. You love his backne. The mushy, oozing, ooey-gooey love that you can squeeze like Playdough, but the kind of guy that can’t be contained like it. I waited a year for commitment that he could never promise me. Clearly I don’t subscribe to the position of monogamy or else. In fact, that was never what I necessarily wanted from him. I just wanted him to follow through on his promises, to write or call when he was away, to show me he loved me and not just say it. That’s what I mean by commitment. He didn’t know how, and after a year, I had to admit that he probably never would. And, even harder to admit, that this was the case, at least, with me.

Last Valentine’s Day we had gotten in a fight about something, probably related to our lack of future. He gave me a pink stuffed dog from Walmart which only made me cry more. I’m down with any excuse to eat chocolate, maybe get some presents, but there is so much fucking pressure on Feb. 14th and signs and emails that tell me to “love yourself” or “cherish your friends” can seriously go play with their goddamn metaphorical dicks. The highlight of my day was hanging out with my younger brother, and writing this list of stuff we think is underrated. Thankfully, if my memory fails (as it so often does with things that go well), I’ve got the internets keepin its eye out for me with this blog as proof that there are ways to get past pink stuffed dogs from Walmart.

Underrated

·       Aspirin tastes like candy

·       Cake batter, the flavor

·       Bath towels that make you look like you’re wearing a kilt

·       Two sunny side up eggs with a bacon smile

·       Drawing emotional faces on your fingers. Then enact a fight seen. I.e. Milo always yells at Maggie for forgetting mascara.

·       Russian roulette

·       Being seduced by a man with a moustache

·       Naturally occurring Cyclops animals

·       Food costumes for babies. Have you ever seen a baby dressed as a s(t)ack of pancakes? Unreal.

·       Two handfuls of kittens

·       Pirate names

·       Relationship advice books from the ‘60s…“If you find your wife crying, not to worry; she’s just menstruating.”

·       Google tasks. It strikes a line through completed tasks. I would sleep with Google tasks.

·       Adoption. The world is overpopulated. Anyone younger than me can leave.

·       Butter gets its own knife

·       The elderly referring to technology. “No hand-computers at the table!”

·       Heelys, snuggies, bulletproof hoodies

·       Japanese emoticons

·       Pigging out at McDonald’s

·       Candy companies are adding more peanut butter to their products. Peanut butter is the new chocolate.

·       One animal species feeding another animal species.

·       Googly eyes

·       Dead cats. They’re still cute.

·       Books that make you laugh out loud

·       Grandmas that can take a drink

Going Out with a Bang

Pop culture glamorizes sex like the Hamburgler does burgers, but often sex doesn’t come with the extra pickles. Or worse, too many pickles. First: condoms. You have to wear them. It’s basic procedure. You make sure you wash your hands after using the bathroom, you shower every day or two, you work-out a few times a week, you wear a condom. Fine. That doesn’t change the fact that a guy is wearing an ultra-tight poncho around his dick and the girl’s inner thighs smell like latex. Plus, they can come off—in her. Second of all: positions. As great as sex on drugs can feel, sometimes the out-of-body experience just makes me giggle or grimace, depending on the position. Sex standing up would probably be an easy fix, but I’m a midget. The logistics don’t work out. There are many more anti-sexy sex elements, and I came to discover a new one with L: talking about anti-sexy sex elements (ASSEs) with the person you’re having sex with, while having sex.

            At this point, L and I had basically just been friends. With the exception of nighttime cuddling, we were having pretty successful HOAFS (see entry 1/24/12).  I had been feeling detached enough from L to start thinking about settling down with J, and reentering the world of monogamy will be good for me. Even so, it’s scary as fuck. Can’t-find-a-job-and-now-have-to-move-back-home-and-taste-dad’s-drunken-anchovie/Gordon’s-inventions-SCARY. And with my history of serial, long-term, monogamous relationships, I have to be sure before I start something like that with J. C’s faded into the background, but L has been the untied lace on my shoe of commitment.

            I’ve spoken with a few friends about having feelings before big changes. Like, just that hint of intuition you feel in your gut when you know you could develop a crush on someone, or, cardigans are going to come back (2002 – called it), or, Chuck and Blaire are going to get married on a drunken Tuesday morning on top of alpacas in Tijuana, Mexico. I had a feelingthat this particular morning, waking up next to L, would be our last. “Ready to get up?” I asked. Strangely, I’m pretty sure he had that feeling too. That’s my explanation for why he otherwise randomly said, “Sure. Or, we could have sex.” He hadn’t pulled that shit in ages. Then I made a sound from the back of my throat that I wish I could say I hadn’t made in ages. It’s this really squeaky, high-pitched noise I make when I’m stalling. It sounds like “Eeeehhhh…” and has a hint of Jewish bubby. The sex wasn’t off to a good start.

            A few “Eeeehhhh…well, I don’t know, ehhhh maybe. Wait, yeah. Ok. Wait, no. Ok, yeah”s later, sex was happening. At least, I could see it happening; I could feel it happening; but all I could hear was a suitemate licking oatmeal off a spoon over in the kitchen. “Ok. You’re not into it,” I said.

            “Huh? What do you mean?” he countered, like he needed me to spell it out for him.

            “You’re not into it. I can tell. Youcan tell.” He tried to ignore it, and then said, “I just…can’t really feel anything in this position.” What? You can’t feel anything!? Do you not have a penis?

            “Ok…”

            “And, it’s just kind of cold and wet.”

            Yeah, it was. Sex is. Sometimes. But you don’t say that to the person with whom you’re having it. You write about in your goddamn diary. Maybe you bring it up with a friend when you’re both on drugs or there’s an awkward silence. I couldn’t believe that I was straddling him at that moment as opposed to standing with my arms crossed, one knee bent, slouched, leather jacket, jaw puffed out and glaring(Eyes. Of. Fury.), as I knew I should be. I got up. “I’m going to the bathroom now.”

            From the other side of the bathroom door L said, “Um, I’m going to get going now.”

            “I’ll walk you out.”

            We stood by the front door. “You don’t have to leave,” I said. “We can still get brunch like we planned.”

            “Yeah?” he asked.

            “Yeah. Let’s just be friends. But like, real friends.”

            “So, no more sleeping in the same bed?”

            “No.”

            “Ok.”

            I can’t let people go. He’s totally useless to me but I hold on anyway. We had brunch, and it was actually pleasant. The next day, though, he called me to talk about why he was feeling depressed. “Thanks for talking. I always call you first because I know you’ll pick up.” Then it sank it. He knows I’ll pick up. I’ll pick up. Nobody else but the girl he’s known for a month who had the worst sex of her life with him will pick up. No, no. That was it. He called again a few days later, yesterday, and I didn’t pick up. Baby steps.

This kid should have read my blog. Condoms!!!

1.     ohiohiohiohio

Hey i just got rid of the chlamydia that ive had for the past 6 years. Ive been waiting for this moment to finally hang out with you (you look like you dont have chlamydia. Right?)Sent from the OkCupid app

J for Jamaica?

            I’ve been meaning to write this entry about J for a while. The problem has been that I’m starting to see him somewhat seriously, and I don’t know how to write about something real. Can I, in good conscience, be honest about the events that have transpired between us, knowing full well that he may some day read this? That it might hurt him? I’m trying to retain a strand of girlish humanity, as hard as the countless hours relentlessly judging hipsters on OkCupid with Anna have made me. The part of me that swoons over cute texts and wants to keep reading them again and again like a well-written sandwich-porn-story is still there.

            I like J a lot. He’s full of funny one-liners like “gluten and dairy free pizza sounds like dating someone without genitals or a sense of humor.” I don’t even hate that he’ll text me that and then proceed to tweet it after he gets my positive feedback. He’s self-deprecating in the best way. The other night he came out with my friends and me. Rachel said, “Everyone looks so feminine and made up!” and J said, “Oh thank you for noticing.” Well, right now I’m hopped up on Oxycontin so I think it’s as good a time as any to just write this bitch like I know I have to.

            Last week I was cat-sitting at a great apartment in Midtown. I love the place, because the owner is a stoner/alcoholic in her fifties who bakes with me and makes a mean brisket. I invited J over to the apartment. He came in a man scarf holding one red rose.

            Neither was okay.

            I’m trying to be less judgmental, though. At least he didn’t have a murse. But why do man scarves always look ridiculous?

Ok, this is fine. I can do this. I can write this. But if anyone shows this to J, I’ll spread rumors about your rabid case of crabs.

            I flat-out didn’t know how to react to the rose. “Oh…um…what do I do with it?” He just kind of stared at me, so I put it in a vase. We ordered sushi and he showed me some of the stories he’s published. He’s a really fucking good writer. He’s better than I am. Reading his stories made me want to up my game. It also made me want to come clean about this blog. I can see a future with him, so I figured it would be better to tell him sooner rather than later.

            “I’m writing a blog about OkCupid dates.”

            He laughed. “Can I read it?”

            “Fuck no.” Hmm. Maybe I shouldn’t have responded so intensely. That just made him curious. He started to hop around like a puppy asking for snacks.

            “Well,” he finally said, “as long as it’s not about the guys you’re sleeping with the day after you sleep with me, I don’t think I’d mind.”

            “HA! HA.HA.” Remember who I saw that morning? Remember what I did that morning? I was actually worse than he was joking about.

            I also soon discovered that J’s a sports freak. He sent me long incomprehensible texts the next day about the Superbowl. Some of them were also his Facebook statuses. Weeeeiiiird. I’m like the intermediary between his real-time thoughts and his published thoughts. I bet I could get him to publish ridiculous things on Facebook/Twitter like “I’m lurking outside Barnard with no pants” if I told him I’d find it funny. Or, “I’m lurking outside Barnard with no pants and a gyro.” But that would only be worth it if he actually had a gyro, and it was for me.

            I guess all in all it doesn’t matter, because J is TAKING ME TO JAMIACA. 5 days. All expenses paid. And we’re leaving on 4/20. FOURMUTHAFUCKINTWENTY. That’s like going to Mexico on Cinco de Mayo, or Northwest Germany on Hitler’s birthday (too soon?). I started to zone out the two times he explained to me how he got the tickets, but the fact remains that we are going to Jamaica and I couldn’t be more pumped. My childhood vacations consisted of listening to my professor dad give lectures at C-list universities during school breaks, me bonding with the full-figured students next to me in the lecture hall about over-eating the cafeteria carrot cake. “There’s your future if you don’t shape up,” my dad would tell me after his lectures.

            Yeah, it’s soon to go on vacation with J. We’ve only known each other a month, but he said there’s no way he wouldn’t want to be dating me by April, and there’s no way I wouldn’t want to go to Jamaica in April. There’s going to be an open bar. Is there any phrase in the English language more poetic than “open bar?”

            The apartment/cat owner called me the day she came back. “The apartment looks great. Thanks for staying over, and thank you also for the rose. It was very sweet.” I couldn’t remember at first what she was talking about. Then I realized I had left J’s red rose in a vase on the table. There’s some pretty sweet irony in that.

        Other things I’m dealing with: J has broached the subject of monogamy. I can see it, but I still have some loose ends to cut off with L. Plus, I’m trying to write a blog here! Possible solutions? Well, let me backtrack. I mentioned I’m on Oxycontin. I should explain. I just had my wisdom teeth removed. That puts me out $1,000 that I don’t have. Barnard won’t cover it and my parents aren’t employed enough for that kind of insurance. But it was an emergency. They were starting to grow in and it really hurt. My Colloquium on Lit Theory professor brought in crunchy cookies to class the other day. I tried to eat one but ended up making strange grandma noises and drooling a little in the process. As a staunch supporter of No Moist Half-nibbled Cookie Left Behind, I had to finish it. But it was a hardship. So I just had the surgery and now the dentist wants to get paid. This guy makes me start talking out of a mostly closed mouth like Blake Lively and then he has the nerve to charge me. So … I can be monogamous and date old dudes for money, right? Plot twist!

Jan 11, 2012 – 11:57pm

I’m sorry, I don’t have anything clever to say. I know it is customary on this site to try to come up with a brilliant hook line. I could come up with some bullshit reason to talk to you about something you listed as one of your “six favorite things”.

Or try to be witty and call you out on a unnoticeable typo. I could say something absurd and see if you’re willing to play along.

I don’t know. I don’t care. I hate being on here enough as it is. I was just hopping you would be willing to this step with me.

and yes I will continue to bombard you with messages until I get an answer from you.