Filed under: at the bar | Tags: assholes, babies, boys, brooklyn, Greenpoint, hipsters, models, NYC, thugs, whiskey, williamsburg
The Super Models:
It was after 2 AM, and we were glowing with the lascivious social lubricant formerly known as whiskey. We skipped past McCarren Park into Greenpoint and slithered our way past the stumbling eb and flow of horny hipsters waiting for the next hottest thing to pursue into the poorly ventilated dance floor of No Name Bar. We danced under the air-conditioning vent attentively tracking our periphery for hot boys. The minimal eye-candy and plethora of other bars that surrounded us lead us back through the crowd and into the fresh air that partnered so well with chain smoking.
We walked up the street to Matchless hunting for ‘rawrs’– our not-so-discrete coined euphemism for objectifying attractive guys. And as we disappointedly scanned the bar, finding our precarious first-world-problem atypical for a Friday night in Brooklyn, we wondered why we ever left Night Of Joy and its smorgasbord of gregarious dapper fellas. We had naively assumed that all of Williamsburg and its surroundings would be brushed with a heavy coat of Rawr-City-USA. So we left in 30 seconds flat.
We walked across the street to Enids and immediately caught eyes with the (only) two cute boys seated at the corner table, ordered drinks, and sat at the table next to them, the back of my chair an inch away from the Australian one. They sat facing each other, and we sat facing each other, waiting. As the one turned towards us to say something, we quickly enquired about their matching hats, which quickly led to the inevitable introduction that includes: name, age, occupation. With another round of whiskey shots and unification of our two teams we inquisitively inquired about their careers as models, unsure if their bashful admissions to being paid to be beautiful by Marc Jacobs and Armani were true. As the conversation folded into more worldly topic, their lack of interesting things to say, and their invitation to smoke a joint with them outside, was enough to make us believe them.
We left the bar as it was about to close and we quickly paired off into archways of nearby nooks, got stoned, and madeout. Although they seemed to keep an eye out for cabs, we had clairvoyantly decided we had gotten everything we wanted to get out of these guys– namely an ego boost without the sexual dissatisfaction that all models are humans that are not that smart and in no-way guaranteed to be bedroom experts.
When they finally managed to catch a Town Car, one of them held the door open for us as the other one leaned against the trunk. We shook our heads in how presumptuous they were and let them know we weren’t going with them. They seemed shocked, and the impatient cabbie seemed quite aware of the situation. With final kisses and goodbyes, we let them know we work sleeping together, without them, and we held hands skipping away.
The Swedish Guy:
He sat next to me and sipped on his tea. As I waited to order a drink, he asked me what I was having. He knew the bartender and ordered my drink for me. He unbuttoned the gold buttons of his black peacoat and asked me my name, which led to the conversation that goes something like, “Oh I’m just visiting my bestfriend. I don’t live here.” He’d been living in the Lower East Side for 7 years, after studying advertising at the University of Hawaii, and now he owned his own nightclub in the Meatpacking District. He slid his business card over to me. I asked him what brought him to Williamsburg then, and he said he liked exotic hipster girls with great tits. And on that note, he immediately branded himself as a complete pompous douchebag, but inquisitive me wanted to soak up the juicy material that only aristocratic European boneheads could provide.
After elaborating on the successes of his club and his newly-launched limited-edition shoe line (which triggered the sliding of a second business card) he finally asked me what I did and where I went to school. “Berkeley, that’s a music school right?”
“No, you’re thinking of Berklee College of Music; that’s in Boston. University of California, Berkeley, is in California.”
“Oh right, that’s in the valley, right?”
“No, it’s in Berkeley… it’s a pretty prestigious university. You’ve really never heard of it?”
Whatever triggered our political conversation was a 1-way road to dear-God-I-hope-fools-like-this-are-few-and-far-in-between. And he said, “Do you know what the problem is with Jews and Muslims.”
“Please, enlighten me.”
In the most matter-of-fact way possible he turned and said, “Well, neither of them know how to integrate into society. They can’t assimilate. What Iran really needs is a war with Israel. That way, the Iranian government will weaken and the people will be able to have another revolution.”
I tried to be facetious, “How insightful. So much good always happens when innocent people die.” I checked my phone again. “I’ve really got to get going. It was a pleasure meeting you.” I left his business cards where he handed them to me.
He kissed me on the cheek unphased by my reaction to his ignorant arrogance and mentioned once again, “You should visit my club before you leave. I promise, you’ll have an awesome time.”
Thugs in McCarren Park:
We basked in the 77 degree hot sun, watching the league of shirtless boys running 200 meter dashes back and forth. I was waiting for the most adorable boy in Williamsburg– the cutest redhead in the world, just a little over a year old with a bashful smile, sporting a Nirvana T-shirt eager to share his bounty of strawberries and carrot sticks with me. His mom and I had become good friends during my previous visit to NY and I had so been looking forward to meeting him. He was only just learning how to walk and faired better on concrete than grass, on which lumps of dirt and availability of sticks provided far too many exciting reasons to crawl and grab stuff. As he absentmindedly and eagerly blocked and amused traffic on the paved path like a drunken geriatric, he caught the eye of two thuggish dudes strutting.
One had his shirt off, with a chest full of tattoos and a chain belt slinging from his baggy jeans. The other wore a wife beater, and they walked in unison, smiling at my little buddy, they couldn’t keep their eyes off of him. And as they walked past our picnic blanket they turned their gaze and checked out the cutest baby in Williamsburg again and again.
I couldn’t let the comedic moment slip through my fingers. I pushed back my shoulders and sat up straight, held my hands up like I was going to do some gang sign or start a fight, and I said outloud, “What, you want one?!”
With a wink and a sideways pointy finger, that kind that says, “Home girl, you funny,” these baby-loving thugs were totally amused.
Filed under: cat lady, love, love letter | Tags: Alcatraz, bedford, brooklyn, cats, Chuck Bass, Ed Westwick, JFK, Lady Liberty, love letters, magnetic fields, Miranda July, NYC, San Francisco, Soho, williamsburg
I didn’t think that when I got off the Bedford stop at 8:15 AM two Saturdays ago, I would be falling in love. And as I trudged my carry-on through your streets up to the warehouse on Kent Avenue with windowless bedrooms, I was too smitten to realize how weak I was getting in the knees for all the adventures that were about to ensue… all the faces and the places and moments that have become snow-globe souvenirs that I can’t help turning over in my heart. My heart is heavy for you.
All the dapper boys in coffee shops with their double-glance smiles sipping Americanos and typing on Macbooks were more than hot-melting eye-candy but ideal distractions from the press release I needed to finish while working remotely, dipping my spicy chocolate chip cookie in my coffee, reminding me that I would be back in my office in San Francisco too soon enough. When all I wanted to do was to sit at a bar and sip on Brooklyn Lager and shamelessly flirt with stylish Jewish boys in glasses and Mr. Rogers sweaters, I was realizing how unhappy I would be, now, without you. And as the only boy back home texted me about his emotional baggage and unrelenting desire to be my bestfriend with benefits instead of anything else, I told him I wasn’t interested in anything he had to offer anymore, anyway.
And as the sunset behind Lady Liberty, I thought about Alcatraz. My world back home felt like a prison, 4 lackluster walls filled with routines and familiar faces as familiar as the back of my hand. And I didn’t want to leave you. I could have easily spent the whole afternoon drinking with an old friend at the Softspot on Bedford chatting with the only bartender I’ve ever met who reminds me of Miranda July.
And while 21 year-old-me was pathetically jealous of 26 year-old-me the night Ed Westwick wrapped his arm around my waist as we sipped on whiskey, he called me charming and pretty as I giggled and blushed glowing with anticipation of the imminent bragging rights of my celebrity encounter. And when I said goodbye to Ed, and ended up in the Lower East Side cutting in line with two boys down a flight of marble-white stairs into a chandeliered white cave filled with gregarious attractive gay men and a Grey Goose open bar, I lost faith in the Castro.
Starring up into the massive ginkgo biloba trees in SoHo, with their aerodynamic Jurassic Autumn leaves glowing in the street lights, I felt my heart flutter knowing it was our last night together as we sang New York, New York on our subway ride back to Brooklyn. And when everyone followed my lead and shushed the obnoxiously talkative chick at the comedy show after I told her to “shutup,” I patted my back with affirmation. It seemed that there were appropriate times for being a jerk and stealing someone’s cab, and I was really good at getting us home.
At 4 PM and 4 AM while eating either a lox bagel or pizza, I realized I never really liked burritos all that much. After 2 AM was when our real adventures would ensue. Dancing in 5 inch platforms until 8:30 AM, I tried to turn every moment into a waking minute so that my time with you wouldn’t end. I took a picture as the sun set into a million shades of fuchsia and violet behind the L-line on my way to JFK Airport, and as I charged my phone while waiting at Gate 21, I stared at the photo with cliche regrets of leaving you.
When I come back from San Francisco, I’m never leaving you. When the winter snow melts, I’ll pack my bags and join you by springtime. I want you to meet my cat.
Filed under: assholes | Tags: assholes, boys, cheaters, douchebags, facebook, haters, love, lovers, luv
For the last couple months, a boy that I briefly dated years ago has been making a shitty attempt at rekindling… whatever it was he thought we had. He moved out East years ago, and recently added me on FB. Regardless of the fact that his Facebook says he’s in a ‘domestic partnership’ with a lovely girl.
Today I received the following FB message from her…
I am sorry that N. is being an utter asshole. I had a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach yesterday. We were going apple picking then he was supposed to come over to his parents and I nor his mom could get a hold of him as he said his phone was dead. Now I can see that he was hanging around the house fucking about with other girls online.
You are correct in what you said to him that his actions speak much about his character. I am completely devastated after reading his messages to you. You are smart to call him on his bullshit because he is full of it. We haven’t had an open relationship since April 2010 per his request. We live together, he doesn’t have a job and I pretty much take care of everything. He never mentioned to me that he was going to California to see anyone.
You are also correct in assuming that I would be very hurt. I’m hurt that he wants kids with you. I’m hurt that he speaks so sweetly to you. In hurt that he loves you.
You seem particularly intelligent and I am glad that you are not falling for his bullshit
The reason I decided to tell you was to save you the pain of dealing with him later because he is a habitual liar. He did this to his ex as well from what I’ve found out.
I can assure you that I’m not a horrible bitch and I don’t harbor any ill feelings towards you. I’m just very hurt by N.’s actions.
And this was my response…
Thank you for reaching out! I’m really sorry you’re hurting… from one girl to another, I REALLY appreciate your candidness. I’m sorry you’re heartbroken by a guy that doesn’t deserve you. The world is full of selfish men, so the only thing us ladies can do is keep an eye out for each other.
Everything N. was saying was just incredibly bizarre, dumbfounded, hasty, and not to mention sketchy. I don’t think he’s in love with me, but probably just likes the idea of a girl far away from everything he’s every known. It’s easy to romanticize something if they’re not your reality. Bottom line is, boys don’t change, only their needs do.
This isn’t about you, and what you’re not bringing into his life and your relationship and home with him. Or what his ex didn’t bring into his life. Or however he thinks that coming to California will be an exciting new change with a new girl in a new world. It’s about him being an unhappy human being, and sucking the devotion out of women like you.
How could he so passively say you’re okay with him coming out here to see me? Ridiculous. What ever happened to chivalry?
I’m really glad you found out who he really is.
All the best,
Filed under: dating, texting | Tags: cheesy pick-up lines, Google, start-up hipster nerds, Start-ups, Whole Foods
I was debating over sushi at Whole Foods during my lunch break. I had it down to two options. I can’t remember what they were. I eat sushi everyday. As I was gathering my chopsticks and soy sauce packet, the tall skinny boy with shaggy hair and sashami bowl in his hand turned to me and asked, “Do we work at the same start-up?”
“I doubt it. There’s only 10 people in my company.”
“Oh, I thought you looked familiar.”
“What start-up do you work at?”
“Google isn’t a start-up. Everyone knows that.”
“What’s your name?”
“That’s a lovely name. Nice to meet you, I’m S__. What are you up to?”
“Besides buying sushi? I guess walking back to my office and sitting in front of my desk and eating it.”
“Cool, me too. We have something in common.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
I should have guessed.
“I’ve never seen you getting sushi here before.”
He scratched his head and grabbed a pair of chopsticks and tapped them on the back of his hand and said, “Yeah, I don’t really need to go out for lunch.”
I rolled my eyes and said, “Oh right, you work at that really awesome start-up that gives you lunches. I didn’t know you guys had an office in this part of the city.”
“Oh yeah, I work downtown. I Just had a meeting out here today. So you want to get lunch sometime?”
“Yeah, sure. I do it almost everyday.”
He took out his iPhone and asked me for my digits.
He sent me a text around 6:30… “Hope you had a lovely day! How’s Saturday sound for lunch?”
Filed under: assholes, stilettos | Tags: assholes, douchebags, exbfs, jeffrey campbell, Litas, shoe therapy
X: today i lost my brother he was 32. i’m writing you to tell you how much i love you and that i’m so sorry for the way i treated you. i’m not so foolish as to ask for your forgiveness or think that you would give it. but i’m in so much pain i just needed to tell you that i love you. idk i’m not thinking i just reach out to those i care most for in this world when i feel like i’m dying. goodbye-
P: i’ve been through your pain, and i understand how much it hurts, and how lonely you must feel. but you can save your sorries, because you are the cruelest, vainest, most selfish person i have ever known, and if you continue to treat people the way you do, you’re going to die alone.
X: my brother just killed himself and you tell me i’m going to die alone if dot dot dot. there is no need to kick me why i’m down or to address our your issues with my failures. I contacted you because of your experience in this process and my general affection for your person. if you want the truth of the matter i don’t feel guilty for the way i acted and with this letter of yours the way i treated you becomes retroactively valid. there is a small gradient of people with experiences similar to my own now. of this gradient there is a small portion who are my friends but alas there is only one who i’ve loved and that is you. the thing about hindsight is that you only see what has happened but you forgo the future and how it makes the purely contingent necessary. i would like to speak with you . here is my number 239-233 -7288 call or don’t call but know i’m not the same person not after today.
prank calls highly encouraged.
P: i don’t care what you would like. you’re affection means nothing to me. you treated me like shit, and i have no sympathy for you. so fuck you. and fuck your pain. you’re a shit human being. and you can deal with your pain alone.
X: is this b/c you flew across the country to see me & when you got back home i couldn’t be bothered to, ummm like, call & talk to you? that wasn’t halal , i guess? : P
my bad P dawg that must of hurt & cost a lot of monies.
it’s okay P___ I forgive you for what you’ve said
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: breakups, chemistry, dating, fickle boys, relationships, San Francisco, sex, the mission
It all begins with a lie. My lie. One that I was fully invested in concealing. I was working as a dominatrix when we met, but I couldn’t possibly tell him about it. Ironically, those first few weeks were the best part of our relationship– punctuated with hotel sex and drugs and Catholic school girl uniforms, and the Ivy Room in the old haunted bordello. How do you tell the guy you’re into that you spend your day in a leather pencil skirt beating rich sado-masochistic perverts without him thinking less of you? So I didn’t. I just sexted him all day between clients. And I fell for his sweet nothings. And I quit my job for one that is more socially acceptable.
A month later, came the talk: I’m struggling. I feel like you like me more than I like you. I’m not comfortable with being boyfriend/girlfriend. The sexting stopped. The sweet nothings stopped. I gave him the benefit of the doubt. I assumed he was busy with work and the honeymoon phase was over and it was just his emotional baggage of being in a relationship for 4 years speaking.
So he squeezed me into his life when he could, not as often as before, the signs were all there. I just failed to see them because I only felt them when we weren’t together. Perhaps I was too doting, the challenge was gone, the guard was down. Perhaps it was too much that I got him a birthday present that he totally loved. He’d won the game, so what’s the fun in being the winner. He just wasn’t smitten anymore. I’d fallen for his bait and he was ready to throw me back in the water but I was sweet enough, nice enough, cute enough to hold on for a little longer.
When I invited him to come camping with my bestest friends and I, it was with immediate reservation. I was worried that what would happen is what happened. We had an amazing time. We hiked, and swam, and tripped for hours. We took ecstasy and had tent sex. He bonded with my friends, and they all thought he was swell. But that was the last time we were together. I hadn’t seen him in the last 3 weeks; he was gone on business for most of it, but he made no efforts. I didn’t hear much from him. And then I didn’t hear anything from him. He wouldn’t pick up my calls or respond to my texts, and I knew it was over, but I just wasn’t going to let him blow me off after 4 months. So I pulled some crazy-girl moves.
What happened was almost serendipitous, but not quite. I walked the 9 blocks south and 3 blocks east from my apartment to his nostalgically aching over all the places that would now be placeholders of things we’d done together. When I got to his apartment, he wasn’t home, his roommate let me in, I was going to write a note. I did write a note. Hey, I came over to see what you’re up to. Anyway, let me know what’s up. And I grabbed a necklace that I had left in his room. And then I noticed his laptop was on. So I read his gchat with his co-worker. Something about a girl name N___ whose skirt he was trying to chase but wasn’t giving him the time of day. So he had suggested they go to the Latin American Club so he could “creep” on her (since she works at the bar down the street).
So I headed in that direction. I didn’t know what I was going to say. I felt my heart pounding in my chest and my hands felt clammy and I didn’t know if I should walk fast or slow. On my way there, I ran into my friend Leslie serendipitously. She was standing outside of the Make Out Room waiting for friends who were late. I told her what happened. So she came with me, so I could pretend it was all an accident. And there he was.
“Hey how’s it going?”
“Oh hey, good to see you. How have you been?”
“Why have you been ignoring me?”
“I’m sorry, I’ve just been really busy and I’m leaving again tomorrow at 6 am. And I just don’t feel any chemistry with you.”
“Can we talk for a minute?”
“No, I’m here with my co-worker having a drink. She’s leaving soon. We can talk after.”
So I stood with Leslie at a table, had 2 beers while he finished his 1 drink, slowly. And then his co-worked left and he beckoned me over. We went outside and walked around the corner.
“I’m just not good with confrontation. I just don’t feel chemistry with you anymore. I’m sorry. I think you’re really great, and sweet, and nice, but I just don’t feel the same.”
“So you’re not attracted to me anymore. I was just supposed to pick-up on the cues that you were ignoring me.”
“Chemistry is more complicated than that. It’s not just attraction. There’s a lot of emotions involved. It’s just how dating works. You date someone for while, and then it’s over.”
“But all the things you said in the beginning, you sucked me in. I fell for it. You just met someone else.”
“No, I’ve only been in town for 5 days. How could I have met someone else?”
“Why did you come on that trip then if you weren’t feeling chemistry with me? Now I have to be burdened with those memories, that I had so much fun with you, but it was all a lie. That trip was really important to me. I invited you into my circle of friends I’ve known for 7 years because you were important to me. You shouldn’t have came.”
“Look, I think you’re really great. And your friends are really great. I had a fun time. What’s the big deal, it was just a weekend.”
“If you like someone else, just tell me. Why can’t you just be honest.”
“No, I haven’t met anyone else. 2 months ago we had that talk, and I thought I would give it another chance. And I just don’t feel like we have chemistry. You’re really great and sweet, and I’m really sorry, I just don’t feel the same way. And I’m going to be gone for all of September. I just can’t be in a relationship anyway. I thought I would give a try, but I’m sorry. The chemistry is just not there.”
I don’t think I know what chemistry means anymore, just another copout excuse for nothing or anything, but he used the word repeatedly.
“What do you mean ‘no chemistry.’ Was it something I did or said? Are you just not attracted to me anymore?”
“No, it’s not that. Emotions are really complicated. It’s not something you did. I’m sorry. I’m really glad we were able to do this in person.”
…because I pulled some James-Bond-stalker-move, that’s the only reason we did this in person.
“When were you planning on doing this in person since you’ve been ignoring me and you have a 6 am flight?”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“You were just going to keep me hanging?”
“You’re a very sweet girl and you deserve a really awesome guy, and if you hate me, I understand. And I’m really sorry.”
“You just like someone else now. It’s fine I get it.”
“No, there is no other girl. I’ve hardly ben in town, how could I have met someone else?”
He apologized again. I told him it wasn’t good enough. I walked back into the bar and told Leslie what happened. He’s a coward. He was glad he could do it in person, but I never go to that bar, and the coincidence is too much for him to not know the truth. The irony is that he was stressing about a girl who was ignoring him, and he was too chicken-shit to admit it.
Perhaps it’s easier to woo a girl by telling her things about eloping to Vegas and moving in together while wining and dining her at the start of your relationship. It’s enough to not be serious, but enough to make you so smitten that you think he’s someone you could really imagine being with. Perhaps its just a fickle way to suck the devotion out of someone until the chemistry is all wrong and you’re ready to trade her in for the new model.
Filed under: casual sex, true love | Tags: English boys, Mexico, romantic comedies, Tequila, wedding
It was a curious feeling, of guilty apathy, an emotionless way of going through the motions, because in my mind, I was still trapped in the romantic-comedy portion of my life that had ended 72 hours prior. It felt like coming off of a roller coaster; something about it still tingled like a ghost. And her I was now, back to my regular Monday rendezvous as if the previous week had all been a dream. And as I sipped my glass of water anticipating the mechanical events that were about to occur with our mutual perfunctory disrobement, I felt bad. Because this was going to be the last Monday-sex appointment for a long time; he was going on some voyage of self discovery for the following six months through Asia. And instead of making the most of it, I was thinking about someone completely unavailable who lived over 5,000 miles away…
Ten days before, I had arrived in Baja California for the wedding of my English exboyfriend to his lovely Mexican bride whom he had met shortly after I had departed from London during my semester abroad. She had walked into the pub he worked at looking for a job, and she just so happened to be hot enough to get one. When the time came for her to return to Mexico, he followed her. It didn’t matter that they had nothing in common, that she liked Shakira, and he liked Jarvis Cocker, that their means of communication was limited by their inability to speak each others native tongues fluently. I’m sure they didn’t have philosophical, theological, or analytical conversations about the meaning of life or anything else; maybe that made it easier to be in love.
Two years later, I received an invitation for their wedding. Being the only American invited, of course I had to be a part of all this. But little did I suspect that the best-man would be everything included in my fetish-checklist for English boys. It didn’t matter that he he had a girlfriend back home in England; it didn’t matter that he was going back to her. There was a lot of tequila. And we were the main characters in a two-star romantic comedy staring Zooey Deschanel (the quirky alternative sexually-liberated American chick in onesys (or what the English like to call–playsuits) and Matt Smith (the cocky cynical chain-smoking Englishman in suspenders). (And perhaps Michael Showalter would play the groom (provided that he could fake an ample English accent) and Penelope Cruz would play the bride.) This wasn’t a movie with a great storyline: we were just wedding guests in a tropical resort, it was meant for us to say witty things and turn it into a steamy love affair, until our return tickets started ticking, reminding us it was time to go home. Our last day together was like you would expect it– a sex marathon punctuated with a bittersweetly sarcastic reminder that we would always have Baja. And like a flash. The bomb went off and I was back home. Back to this routine perfunctory fuck of a time. But even this was coming to an end. My utilitarian once-a-week-night stand was leaving for 6 months. Whatever. I kind of just wanted to get it over with.