The Secret

Sunday afternoon started out innocently enough - but it soon became the most crazy/random night of our lives so far in New York.

Aries & I met at 6pm for a drink at The Standard Biergarten. We had a few weak mojitos and decided to grab a quick bite at the new Gansevoort restaurant, Carte Blanche. Over chicken meatballs and cucumber martinis, a plan was formed. Maybe it was the balmy summer evening or a sense of a life without consequence, but soon Aries & I had that mischevious sparkle in our eyes. Our very obviously impared waiter regaled us with stories from his first years in New York for over 45 minutes, while I texted my contacts to see if we could find a little herbal refreshment.

The texts came back - they couldn't help us. Aries, being the more charming of the two of us, sweetly asked our waiter for guidance. Unfortunately, he was fresh out. (His tip did a nosedive after that!) Determined, we pressed on.

Aries and I tried six places including The Spotted Pig, The Jane, Employee's Only... we thought the bartenders might be able to help, but no luck. Soon, we had made our way from Meatpacking down to Greenwich. We stopped in a dive bar for a fortifying shot of Seagrams Sweet Tea Vodka (yum!) and continued our quest. While walking down a random street, we spoke loudly of our dashed dreams. No sooner than I had said defeatedly, "Guess I'll have to take a Xanex instead" did our knights in shining armour appear.

"Xanex?" the man said. He was standing on the streetcorner outside of a shop with his friends. We explained our predicament. Their eyes lit up; they could totally help us. Giving each other a glance of solidarity, Aries and I entered the shop. We both felt at ease with these guys and as we passed it around, we got to chatting. One guy told me he was raised by an adventure junkie - he swam with jellyfish at age 7, sharks at 9. His father was always pushing him to be tougher, and as a result he very rarely feels afraid. The owner of the shop and I chatted about what a great feeling it must be to be your own boss. It was a lovely, relaxed evening. I kept thinking it was like that book, The Secret, that I never read. We believed it would happen - and we reached our (albeit minor) goal.

Aries & I decided to go around 11, after all - it was a school night. After being sworn to secrecy, we started to leave. I looked over at Aries and realized that her face had gone totally pale, even her lips were white. As we were walking out, I turned around to talk to her and see if she was ok, and I realized she wasn't responding. Suddenly, she sank to the floor and completely passed out.

My mind went blank. We all hunched down over her, completely silent. I remember thinking to myself that I should wait before I began to panic. I looked up and locked eyes with the owner; we shared a calm stare. Within five seconds, she was awake again. She sat up slowly and I told her not to worry, she was only out for a few seconds. She kept saying that she'd never passed out before - I'd never seen someone pass out before! We both went outside to get some fresh air and gather ourselves. The men were really helpful, bringing us water and making sure she was feeling better. We figured out that it was probably a mix of the insane amount of walking we did, combined with heat, dehydration, and a little too much of a good thing.

When Aries felt stronger, we thanked the guys profusely and I put her in a cab.

At least now, they'll never forget us!


*scorpio*

The Mind of the Man

From this weeks New York Magazine.

My takeaway is thus: If you're single & dating in NYC you can bet that the man you're dining with has been laid at least once that week.

I stand by my statement that men under 30 are undateable in this town. Notice that the diarist below is starting to realize he may want something long-term. Experience has taught me the man in question does not actually get serious about being monogomous until their early thirties. He'll ride the sex/guilt rollercoaster for at least another two years before changing his lifestyle. It will take him about 6 months after changing his lifestyle to find the woman he will marry.

Also - when I'm single, I'm QUITE like this man in attitude, excitability, and guilt (I just don't actually go home with most! I feel like one night stands are way less satisfying for women than men, although the diarist below seems to have some enticing skills...) It's easy to go off the rails here.
***
Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek behind doors left slightly ajar. This week, the Single Guy Juggling Five Girls in One Week: 29, male, single, East Village, straight.

DAY ONE
10:17 a.m.: Sitting at my desk in a haze from the weekend. Single life is great, but it's also fucking exhausting. I'm hanging with Redhead on Tuesday, taking Brunette to a concert Thursday, and I have two different online dates tentatively planned. I also need to see Gabs at some point and follow up with this girl I took home from a charity event last week.

1:25 p.m.: Blondie invites me over for dinner. We've been dating on and off for years, whenever both of us are single. She's very much in love with me, and the sex is just amazing. But I know she's not "the one," and I purposefully keep her at a distance. I waver between guilt, feeling like things could work if I just chilled the fuck out, and extreme fear of commitment. Basically, when it comes to love and relationships, I am utterly insane.
1:30 p.m.: I accept Blondie's invitation.
7:14 p.m.: I arrive at her place for dinner. She is cooking and wearing a ridiculously hot dress; her ass looks amazing. I'm already fighting the urge to lean against her and let my hands wander.
8:19 p.m.: Finishing our wine and talking about our families. It's clear she wants more than a weekly hangout and bone sesh, but I just can't bring myself to commit to anything more.
8:50 p.m.: Blondie is on the couch when I come out of the bathroom. I kiss her and then she starts to give me head while I'm standing up. Eventually, I pull her dress above her head, pick her up, and carry her to the bedroom.
9 p.m.: After I go down on her on the bed, we go at it in missionary. Then we roll over and she rides me methodically until she has an orgasm. I love a woman who knows her body. I can't hold it anymore and finish off just after she does.
9:37 p.m.: I can tell she is dying to go again, but I'm just exhausted. So I give her more head instead. I can always tell when she's about to come because her hands start to shake. She pulls the shit out of my hair when she has an orgasm, and it always hurts. But I love giving head. We listen to some music and fall asleep.

DAY TWO
6:45 a.m.: Alarm is sounding and Blondie is guaranteed to be horny. I hate morning sex, but she loves it and doesn't care that I hate it.
6:47 a.m.: All hopes of a quiet exit are dashed. I feel her hand cup my balls, and she starts stroking me. At least she knows how to get me hard! I spoon her and have sex with her from behind. Then I roll her over and we finish doggy-style.
10:54 a.m.: Thinking I need to have a talk with Blondie. As great as the sex is, it's just not fair for me to string her along, and the guilt is starting to eat away at me. I wish I could just love her like a normal person.
2:26 p.m.: Plans for the rest of the week are set. I'm starting to entertain the possibility that I might have sex with five different women this week.
4:31 p.m.: Making contingency plans in case Redhead's "thing she wants to tell me" has nothing to do with sex. I plan to bail early if things aren't going well. Gabs is attending a party uptown and will certainly be DTF later. I tee her up for a booty call just in case.
6:15 p.m.: Redhead needs to reschedule. I'm really not disappointed.
7:04 p.m.: Arrange to meet Gabs at 9. We met about a month ago on a drunken Saturday afternoon and fucked that night.
9:25 p.m.: I am at Gabs's apartment giving her a massage, which always makes me hard. I roll her on her back, and she goes straight into giving me a blow job. Talk about an alpha-male position. I hold the back of her head and finger her with the other. I am in complete control of her, and I can tell she loves it.
9:32 p.m.: Having very hot missionary sex. She is very loud.
9:34 p.m.: I'm about to finish myself when Gabs attempts to slip a finger in my ass. I pucker up instantly and squirm like I've been Tasered. I hate ass play. She laughs at my skittishness and takes her hand away, and I finish shortly after.

DAY THREE
6:45 a.m.: Alarm sounds, and I quickly jump out of bed knowing that Gabs will try to sexually assault me if I don't. I could probably muster up the energy for a morning breath-laden bone sesh, but I'm already thinking about tonight's date with Online Girl. I tell her I have an early meeting and skip out the door.
11:16 a.m.: Figuring out who I haven't followed up with this week. Since my girlfriend dumped me in October, I have met more than twenty girls and had sex with approximately eleven of them (including a few former flings). Most, if not all, of these encounters have a shelf life of three to five weeks. Juggling all of it is complicated and exhausting, not to mention expensive. I know that such behavior is not normal and likely a mechanism for avoiding true intimacy. I know I am capable of loving the shit out of someone if I could just get out of my own way. But hey, no rest for the weary, right?
1:33 p.m.: Take a walk during lunch, and it's beautiful outside. I'm starting to get excited for eye-fucking weather. I hope Online Girl is wearing a sexy outfit tonight.
7:32 p.m.: Getting an awkward vibe from Online Girl on our date. We've hung out a few times, fucked a few times, and I genuinely think she could be GF material. But she's been distant, and her body language speaks volumes. I have a strong feeling I won't be getting into her pants tonight.
8:15 p.m.: Online Girl says she has to wake up early, which is code for "you're not getting any tonight." I'm disappointed things haven't worked out, but I'm also not crushed about it. We have an awkward hug goodbye. I don't expect I'll ever see her again.
9:07 p.m.: Texting with Online #2 about our Friday plans. Despite the fact that we've never met in person, she wants to meet up in a group, and we both agree to bring single friends.
9:48 p.m.: Seriously considering jerking off, but my Internet just went out. There is no hope without porn, so I go to bed.

DAY FOUR
7:04 a.m.: Consider a morning jerk sesh but still no Internet. I also want to have a full magazine in the chamber for Brunette tonight. Brunette, petite with perfect tits, is perhaps the hottest girl I've ever had sex with.
11:02 a.m.: E-mailing my buddies and trying to get them interested in hanging out with Online #2 and her friends. I promise them they are hot, a complete lie since I have no idea what they look like. One of them replies all to my e-mail, "Get ready for Slut-fest 2011!" I promise we are not assholes. This is just how guys talk to each other.
7:31 p.m.: Brunette and I are absolutely pounding drinks. She seems to be in a relaxed mood, and we keep brushing up to each other. I place my hand on her back and she accepts my affection. I instantly get a semi.
9:40 p.m.: Brunette and I are quite drunk and making out everywhere.
11:30 p.m.: At Brunette's apartment in Queens, ripping each other's clothes off in her kitchen. I am completely shit-faced. We start having sex on the countertop.
11:38 p.m.: In Brunette's bedroom, having an old-fashioned hair-pulling, ass-slapping, drunken romp. We can see our reflections in her mirror. We switch to doggy-style, and I have a Patrick Bateman moment in front of my reflection. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't flexing. Brunette reaches between her legs and holds my balls while I finish.
11:42 p.m.: Brunette is resting her head on my chest, and we are about to pass out. Lights are still on, and I realize that I just fucked with my socks on. Oops.

DAY FIVE
8:48 a.m.: Wake up in a head-splitting haze, but also realize that I am hard, which is a rarity for me in the morning. I roll on top of Brunette, and I can tell that she has the same idea. We have missionary hangover sex and I come pretty quickly.
9:04 a.m.: Brunette's apartment looks like a murder scene. Clothes and jewelry are everywhere. I briefly recall last night's shit-show before realizing I'm late to work. Kiss Brunette goodbye and split.
5:37 p.m.: Texting back and forth with Online #2 to figure out a meeting place. We decide on an East Village dive. Considering how hung over I am, I can't believe I'm going out tonight, but I have a feeling things could get interesting.
10:17 p.m.: Online #2 and her friends arrive. They are all quite hot, but instantly give off a meatpacking-club-scene-cokehead vibe. Not good. They join us at a table and we pair off.
11:01 p.m.: After nearly 45 minutes of painful and awkward conversation, my three friends get up to buy a round. One leans in and whispers to me that he "can't take this shit anymore. These girls are crazy." I nod in acknowledgment and tell Online #2 I'm going to join my buddies at the bar for a minute.
11:05 p.m.: We all split out the front door without saying goodbye. Kind of a dick move, but those girls deserved it. I can't stand that whole scene.
11:16 p.m.: I send a "hey what are you up to" text to every single girl in my phone, except for Blondie. I know she hates it when I booty call her. Gabs agrees to meet up with me later. After that debacle with Online #2, I'm playing it safe tonight.
2:15 a.m.: Meet Gabs at my apartment. She pushes me onto the bed and immediately starts blowing me. She has great attention to detail and uses her hands very well. After about two minutes, I pull her up so she is straddling my face, and I return the favor. We fuck with her on top, and she has at least two orgasms. I take pride in that. I finish and we pass out.

DAY SIX
10 a.m.: Surprisingly not hung over. Thankfully Gabs has to leave, and I pretend to still be asleep until she does.
11:47 a.m.: I can already tell tonight is going to be an utter shit-show. Eight of us, all guys, have dinner reservations. I'm not making plans with any girls tonight and instead am hoping for the best.
2:16 p.m.: Blondie texts and says she is annoyed that I haven't been in touch all week. This is part of our usual cycle. We hang out for a while, and one of us gets too attached. Then we argue, don't talk for a while, and eventually rekindle things. I apologize to her and make plans to see her tomorrow. Brief pangs of guilt subside.
10:15 p.m.: After several beers, multiple tequila shots, group singing, shit talking, and one massive vomiting session in the bathroom, my buddies and I stumble out of the restaurant. I am teetering on the edge of a blackout. Naturally, we head to a bar.
11 or 12 something: Dancing and making out with some girl. I have no idea what her name is or how old she is. I am completely wasted. I reach into her jeans and finger her on the dance floor. She is not wearing panties.
2:43 a.m.: Back at my apartment with No-Name Girl. My buddy is hooking up with her friend in my kitchen. No-Name Girl is on my couch with her jeans around her ankles, and I have her feet above her head. She asks if I have a condom, and I grab one. But I really have to piss, so we fool around a little bit more and I tell her to wait while I use the bathroom.
2:49 a.m.: I come out of the bathroom and No-Name Girl, her friend, and my buddy are all gone. I am quite perplexed but way too drunk to properly analyze the situation. So I pass out.

DAY SEVEN
10:06 a.m.: Very hungover and trying to remember what happened last night. There are a few opened, mostly full beers sitting around my apartment and an opened but unused condom on my coffeetable. I recall coming home with my friend and those two girls, but I have no idea why they all left. I try calling my friend to make some sense of what happened, but no answer.
11:22 a.m.: Friend calls me back and tells me that when I went to the bathroom, No-Name Girl rushed into the kitchen and wanted to leave right away. So he left with them and split a cab home. Neither of us have a clue why she wanted to leave. Basically, I have no idea who this girl is, how old she is, where she is from, or why she left so suddenly after apparently wanting to come home with me. In fact, I probably wouldn't recognize her in a lineup right now. Life is a mystery.
6:07 p.m.: Blondie texts me to say she wants to hang out tonight. I'm exhausted, but hanging out with her always somehow makes me feel better.
8:27 p.m.: Sunday whammies. All of this running around really isn't very fulfilling. Though it can be fun at times, I can't help but feel like I'm selling myself short. I really do want a girlfriend and somebody to love.
8:29 p.m.: Jerking off to Jenna Haze on PornHub. She looks like an ex-girlfriend of mine. I broke up with her after six months for reasons I don't understand.
9 p.m.: Pop an Ambien and crash hard.

*scorpio*

A Confession...

I like to 'try on' relationships: see what it feels like to be serious with someone, play house, even talk wedding. But in the back of my head there is always and endpoint. It's as if I believe that no relationship lasts forever, and happiness in love is fleeting. And if it seems like it may last, I ensure it doesn't. I'm only comfortable giving my heart away when I know I'll take it back. I've always done this. I've never made it over a year: I just have this intrinsic belief that it won't last. It's imbedded so much that I didn't even realize it ... until I left my last boyfriend.

I told myself I would be fine - better off, even - but I wasn't. And I couldn't understand why my old getting-over-him tricks didn't work. Months went by; a year even. But it was like my heart thumped his name. I couldn't move on... despite how I tried. It was terrifying. I didn't understand. And then I looked around me, at other relationships, and realized it didn't always have to end. Love doesn't have to mean pain. It doesn't always have to explode/implode so catastrophically. I was always looking for the ways it would fail, the inevitable destruction, and protecting myself against it by leaving first. It's the oldest story - but to me it was like the scales had been lifted from my lids.

I watched my younger brother with his live-in love, and how easy & solid it was. He recently casually mentioned to me that she was his best friend. I thought about that for weeks - I didn't know it was possible.

See, my parents' divorce was epic, and as the eldest I bore the brunt of it. I would bring my brother into my room when I heard the yelling, and we would play loud music to drown it out. I would play games with him when my mom would take us away in the middle of the night. He told me that he didn't remember the fighting, which means of course that I was successful in protecting him. It also means that he believes in love. He believes it can be safe & happy. And I'm so happy that he feels that way. I only just realized I could have what he does. Just because I saw a spectacular failure doesn't mean I'm destined to repeat it. I don't always have to be hunting for the fatal flaw. I don't have to destroy before I am destroyed. And most of all, my partner & I can be on the same team.

It was like something finally clicked... I'm allowed to trust men. And that's when I realized that more than anything in the world, I wanted him back. The one man who made even a grocery store visit magical (and I loathe the grocery store). The guy that I was always excited to see, even after a year of dating. I realized I'd made a huge mistake. Love doesn't have to be a prison. Real love doesn't come around that often. My stomach ached as I realized how carelessly I'd discarded mine.

Every day, I'm wracked with regret. And what hurts the most is the fact that I did it to myself. In all my machinations to protect my heart - I ended up fatally wounding it.


*scorpio*

Same Schtick / Different Face

Last night I had my date with the Muslim mystery man. I went mainly out of curiosity… I’ve never dated a Muslim before and I thought I might learn something.

Instead, he engaged me in the same pedestrian, pedantic (and surprisingly prevalent) discourse about male/female relations in NYC.

Apparently – and brace yourself here because this is a brand-new concept:
Men want gorgeous women.
Women want rich men.

Sigh.

Every single man I’ve dated since I moved here four years ago (with the exception of my ex) has launched into this topic with vigor. It’s inevitable. It doesn’t matter how intelligent or substantive they are—they seem to truly believe that women chose men based on their bank accounts rather than good old-fashioned compatibility. And don’t even get me started on “needing the most beautiful woman” regardless of her personality.
I refuse to believe that all men are that vapid.

And conversations like this- especially on dates- make me feel more alone than ever.

Not to be pedestrian myself, but … what ever happened to love?

*scorpio*

Prey

I watched him walk across the room in the mirror's reflection, freezing up like a shy little school girl when he stopped behind me. Our brief exchange of words was short and generic. Over the next hour, I found my eyes always wandering in his direction, feeling pangs of jealousy when he would speak to other blondes.

Finally, I became the center of his attention. He approached me with an aggressive charisma that you only imagine Mick Jagger could pull off. For the next hour, I was putty in his hands. He had complete control of my body and mind. My head was spinning and I tried not to let him catch me staring at him. My eyes drank in all of the little details; his hand distressed Levis that hung on his hips just low enough for me to see the outline of his amazing abs. His body was like a chiseled rock from head to toe. The outline of his chest, shoulders, and bulging biceps could not be covered by his perfectly torn, worn in white cotton t-shirt. I traced the faint outlines of the hibiscus tattoos that would eventually become a colorful sleeve, seriously hot! His face was sweet, intense, and aged in a sexy way like a Clint Eastwood character in some cowboy movie. His shoes were expensive, as well as the masculine chain with amethyst pendant that dangled in front of me like a carrot. He had style, charm, and a body to back it all up.

His crystal light blue eyes pierced me with his intense, sometimes icy stare. He started to tease me with his body in unpredictable movements. At times he would be straddling my legs, his crotch just hovering above my right knee, other times he would gently grab my face and turn me in whichever direction pleased him most. He would run his hands through my hair, with a gentle yet powerful motion. He stood in front of me, in a strong straddled position, grabbed my face with one hand as the other ran through my hair and ended pressing against my breast and resting for a moment. The passion and focus behind his eyes and movements intimidated me. The few words I did manage to speak became an immediate unspoken understanding. We were strangers, but in sync with our desires.

As he finished, he turned to me eagerly seeking my approval. We exchanged a slight smile and decided to go our separate ways. I watched as he packed up his Louis Vuitton tote and as I turned to walk away he said "it was a pleasure to meet you". Then he put on his RayBan's and walked out the door.

He was like the man I have been waiting four years to meet in New York City, but I had to remind myself that it was and will always be just a crush. You see, my orgasmic moment was all in my head and my new found love interest is my new gay hairstylist at John Frieda. At least I walked away with beautiful hair which is more satisfaction than most men have given me in this town.

*Aries*

Stealing the Ball

When I was a girl, my family would spend summers at Chautauqua. (They all still do, while I’m chained to my desk). The kids would all go to Club, where we would while away the days playing variations of classic American sports: bennis (baseball & tennis combined), cricket, dodgeball, etc. Inevitably, in every one of these games, a pumped-up boy would lunge himself in front of a very capable girl, just moments before she was to catch the ball. Having no confidence in her abilities, he would try to ‘save her’ and steal some glory for himself. Of course, the cocktail of velocity & adrenaline almost certainly resulted in a fumble. Whereas the girl was perfectly in place for a solid catch, the boy’s hubris would force a loss.

I re-learned this lesson as a teen as well. I remember very distinctly, in high school, beginning to answer the teacher’s question. Invariably, a boy would butt in, effectively cutting me off. In college, I raged against this (and became a bit of a strident feminist along the way). I would fight for my turn to speak, and if I was cut off, I would interrupt. It felt good to be able to stand up for myself. After all, I had a brain and I deserved a chance to use it.

Then I moved into a field with very little male ego… fashion. Sure, there’s ego, but it’s not mixed with testosterone and a desire to constantly jockey for position. My feminism settled into a nicely encapsulated “men & women are equal” party line. I slowly forgot those early hard lessons. (Plus, I started wearing 5 inch heels so everyone would have to pay attention to me!)

Last night at the gym, I was reminded of the incredible irrationality of the male ego. I work out at one of those classic old school gyms where you rack the machine weights yourself. It’s underground and massive and everyone pretty much ignores each other. (Coming from the SoHo Equinox which is basically a pick-up joint, this was a welcome repose). I walked in last night around 10 pm, expecting it to be mostly empty. It is. I’m the only woman in the gym of six men. I bee-lined for the leg press machine, intending to bang out a quick leg rotation and be on my way home. The machine had 100 lbs on each side. I started to slide one 50lb weight off the right side, and was about to place it on the ground, when I hear a man get up from his machine behind me and approach.

“I can help with that”. I survey him up & down. The man is about 50, in jeans, and only hopes he could be my height.

“No, I’ve got it” I reply.

“I insist, after all I was just using it. I should’ve unracked it.”

I acquiesce, and stand by as he slowly lifts one 50lb off one side. He asks me how much I usually press. I said, “It’s been a while, but I’ll start with 100, thank you.”

He counters, “Why don’t we start you off with just the bar?”

My mouth just about drops to the floor. Just the bar? Just the bar?!!? If I can’t lift 100 with both legs then I wouldn’t be able to support my own body weight. Who does he think I am? Some little girl who doesn’t know her way around a gym?

I’m incensed. I say, “No, I want 100.” He looks at me patronizingly.

“Please stop, I don’t need your help,” I say as I move toward the machine. He goes back to his sad little calf raises as I lower myself into the machine. I am fuming. I can’t believe some old man has the balls to tell me I can’t lift what I think I can. It’s not even that much weight. I’m practically 6 feet tall and I’m a mesomorph. I am strong & capable. It’s very important for me as a woman to be physically capable. I like to walk around the city with confidence that I can handle myself in most situations. But I am so angry at this exchange, I end up pumping out a few too many reps. It’s a miracle I was able to even walk home. I knew I would have to settle for flats in the morning.

Still, it was worth it to prove that man wrong. Later, a male friend of mine elucidated the exchange for me. Apparently, the old guy was embarrassed that I was about to lift half of what he was lifting. His fragile ego couldn’t handle the thought so he did what guys do best when faced with a threat; he stumbled in and tried to "steal the ball".

The male ego: puffs up like a big balloon… and pops just as easily.

I’m just tired of tiptoeing around it.

*scorpio*

Friday Night Lights

Friday night found us splitting a cab to Grammercy for a new friend's birthday party. We brought Prosecco for the apartment party, thinking it surely must be like all of the other pseudo-casual apartment parties.

We were dead wrong.

First, there was a cute little red carpet and velvet rope. When we opened the door-to a very chic apartment- we were greeted by the bartender, mixing up the most incredible cocktails. We perused the menu, and quickly decided on the 'First Orgasm' as we glanced around the apartment. We quickly realized we would not be needed the bottle of Prosecco as one entire wall was devoted to a gorgeous display of hundreds of bottles. In the corner, a DJ spun music so cool I wasn't even familiar. As the party began to heat up, I found myself talking to the man who decided to make red carpets rentable for the common man.

He had quite the interesting story, and a completely viable business (thanks to the age of internet celebrity and reality tv, it seems everyone needs a red carpet these days). I waffled between being intruiged by his business, and being put off by the man himself. He was way too close to me, for one. Secondly, he had a small chip in his front tooth (this is how close he was!). Third, and most important, he made two or three rather vulgar jokes. Now, I'm no prude, but these jokes were more of the bathroom variety than the bedroom... something I'm just not interested in hearing. Especially when they were passing out cake.

The clincher though, was when the party was moving to the next venue, I watched as he rolled up the carpet and moved the velvet rope inside. Call me a snob, but once a man rolls up a dirty well-tread carpet, the moment just kind of loses it's magic, doesn't it?

After collecting our Marc Jacobs giftbags (!), we headed to the next venue... from there, the night was a blur...

Can you tell where we are?

Single Malt

Riddle me this... who goes to a chic Tribeca banker bar, orders up a Laphroaig neat, and ends up getting picked up by a tea-drinking Muslim?

I do.


In his defense, he was pretty hot. But what's a foul-mouthed post-feminist workaholic woman supposed to do with a practicing Muslim who has never even tasted alcohol... much less the simple beauty that is an Islay scotch?


The answer: Screw.


Obviously, I passed. He has to at least pretend he's interested in my personality. And he sure as shit better know his scotch.

*scorpio*

The Wandering Eye

I was recently digging for photos of my new Dolce & Gabanna boy when I stumbled upon this link:

http://www.gq.com/style/street-style/201009/gordon-von-steiner-new-york-fashion-week-wandering-eye-spring-2011#slide=1

I mean, it's no wonder men who move to New York never want to commit. It is appropriately titled "The Wandering Eye". Men now get a regular slideshow of unrealistic options. Thanks GQ

*women of New York*

Day Trading

So… I got the new job! I quit my old place of employ almost immediately and took a week of staycation before starting at my new office. Think of it as a palate cleanser. I didn’t want to bring all of the animosity and stress from my last job to the new one. Everyone here seems great (and totally undeserving of my blind rage). It was everything I’d ever dreamed it could be. Honestly, it’s so easy to entertain yourself in this town that I barely noticed I wasn’t working. Several of my friends are in Education so they were free for frolicking. (Completely random that my closest friends & all family members are in Education—I am obviously the chic black sheep.) I did some late-night dancing, some lunching… and took myself out to an afternoon movie on a whim after signing at my new company. I just wandered over to the theater to see what was playing next, and grabbed a ticket for The Expendables.

As I was getting a drink, I felt someone’s eyes on my legs. Ignoring his glance, I went to settle in at the near-empty theater, in the front row, with my book. Suddenly a man sat down one seat over from me and tried to pick me up. It was pretty impressive actually. But first things first. “Why are you in a movie at 3pm on a Thursday?” I asked him, the subtext being… are you unemployed?

Turns out he was an international hedge fund owner based in Singapore, who had spotted me earlier and told his friend that if we ended up in the same theater it must be fate. I countered, “Or the fact that only a few movies are playing at this time”. He liked that and slipped me his card, telling me we should meet for a drink after the film. I told him maybe, and he headed up to sit with his friend.

The Expendables turned out to be awful. Like, every 80’s macho man cliché all rolled into one. I ended up taking a nap in the front row for about an hour, and barely missed a thing. I contemplated going home as soon as I saw that the movie was “written” by Sylvester Stalone… but I also kinda wanted to see what was up with the guy. So I waited.

Finally, it ended. He came down the stairs with his friend and we went out for drinks in Bryant Park. I immediately noticed that his friend look like Brad freaking Pitt. Of course. They ordered a few bottles of wine and some appetizers and filled me in on their lives. Both from Bulgaria, they had grown up under the Communist regime. They met at Stanford and had been best friends for the fifteen years since. Perhaps it was the wine, but their stories of Communism & hardship & striving for America were incredible. The Brad Pitt look-a-like was definitely a better English speaker and apparently also based in New York full time. As he filled me in on his life, I contemplated pulling off ‘the switch’.

Almost as if they could read my mind, they basically asked me to choose. I took a long gulp of wine and weighed my options. Guy #1 was ballsy for sure- picking me up in a movie theater. He lived in Singapore and traveled often. He was also more cocky and untouchable. Guy #2 was gorgeous, and a self-proclaimed sweetheart. He worked in the city as a trader and was out of the office by 7 each night (the holy grail in terms of bankers hours). He had also just broken off his engagement.

Guess who I chose?

Commitment-phobe to the core, I chose Guy #1. The long-distance sold me. And, after all, he had made the effort. But, don’t think I am going to let Guy #2 slip by… he needs some time to heal (it had only been two weeks since his broken engagement!) but then I am going to swoop in for sure. Here’s what got me about Guy #2: He said that he’s looking for a wife & he got engaged rather quickly to the ex. He asked me why girls don’t seem to like sweet men, as he keeps getting rejected. (Unbelievable, right?)

I explained it to him as plainly as I could. If you’re sweet, we think you’re sweet to everyone and that it doesn’t mean anything. The trick is to only reveal your vulnerability after a few months of dating, so that it seems special. It’s simple economics- supply & demand. You would think a trader would know that!

*scorpio*

Fragments

Three months since you’d last kissed me goodbye, pressing my mouth firmly, warmly, to yours. Your hand on the back of my head as if to ensure I wouldn’t disappear: before I watched you turn to walk away and felt, for the first time, my life without you in it.

One month since I’d knocked on your door, cold and bruised from an ice skating fall, and said only, “I couldn’t imagine spending my birthday without you.” After that, there were no words. Only fumbling and your warmth and the spicy-sweet scent of your skin.

Last night, in my cool blue room, the streetlight streaming across the white sheets, the lone candle flickering bedside; I undressed you. You came over, cold to the touch, but your eyes shined with warmth, love and pride. You had a surprise for me: The suit we’d picked out together, only a month before. I took as long as I could to unwrap you… the stiffness of your coat as it slid off your shoulders, the warmth of your chest radiating through the crisp white shirt. The cufflink surprise, “You shouldn’t have” at your wrists. I wanted to stay in those moments forever. I told myself to burn these images in my memory.

And then after, lying with you, the cool breeze from the frigid New York wind served as our only reminder of a world beyond our warm, safe haven. Casablanca plays on the TV as we remind each other of famous lines. Soon, I feel your breath slow on my chest, your nose burrows in my neck to soak up my scent. Grace Kelly comes back for her love, unable to bear the separation.

I know her pain.

***
Six months later, you’ll take a joy ride on a friends motorcycle one warm summer afternoon. You’ll speed down the street, impulsively revving the engine until you feel that familiar rush of adrenaline. The others are inside--there’s no one to watch you swerve to miss an animal, only to go barreling straight into a street sign.

Your body breaks with the impact: the right hip shatters, the right leg snaps furiously, the bones protrude through both your arms. You’re found in a ditch, your helmet 30 feet from the crash site. (You were never one for details).

I'm awoken by a phone call at 2 AM. You almost died, our friend said. You very nearly lost your leg. It will be months before you can get out of a wheelchair. You may never be the same. As I steel myself against the news, I realize, a part of me has always been waiting for this call.

I think of how we ended- with finality- just two months prior. And how much has changed since then. You feel so far away. I want to rush to your side: hold your head, reassure you, ‘save’ you from yet another disaster of your own design…but I won’t.
You don’t belong to me anymore.


I once called you broken. I now fear you forever will be.


*scorpio*

JUNE: The Fadeout

We met at a rooftop party in SoHo during one of the first inclement days of summer. He was tall enough to catch my eye, and young enough that I was sure of my upper hand. We spent the rest of the evening in stereotypical Manhattan behavior- nearly missing each other at each of our following venues.

He unsuccessfully tried to meet me at Provocateur (toughest door in the city), I pity-followed him to Greenhouse, where I walked right in but couldn’t suss him out amongst the sweaty B & T. He valiantly offered to meet me at Rose Bar, but I knew he couldn’t get in and saved him the trouble.

We planned to meet at another rooftop, Highbar, the following week. I accidentally walked right past him. I should’ve left then.

Instead, we spent several weeks together, meeting for dinner and drinks, tanning in Central Park, hitting jazz bars, and lounging around, talking about our lives. After a month of bi-weekly dates, I met him to celebrate my brand new job offer. He toasted me over champagne, and I hinted that the celebration wasn’t over yet.

We tumbled into a cab together after a few too many cucumber martini’s worked their way through my system. (I’m no good at brand-new sex, I always need a pre-coital cocktail to calm my nerves). Once upstairs in his large, modern, FiDi apartment, I stall by taking a call from my best friend, chatting nervously. He finally takes the phone from my hand and puts it down. We begin to kiss and undress…

I wake the next morning to him sitting on the edge of the bed, carefully brushing my hair from my face…such a sweet, unexpected gesture for a budding relationship. I wake slowly and roll over to him. He kisses me hello and tells me to enjoy sleeping in, as he works punishing bankers hours and has to be out by 6 am.

When I rouse myself at 9, I notice that he has quite obviously left his bank statement out on the nightstand with the total number facing up, in big bold letters. Having dated my fair share of bankers, I know this move all too well. Every banker whose house I’ve awoken in has found a way to prominently display his net worth in a completely obvious manner. I call it his “Deal-Sealer”. Men seem to think this is all women need to know.

Of course, the figure doesn’t seal the deal for me, (but it certainly doesn’t hurt).

Over the next few weeks, I notice his work has begun to pick up. Sure, we still see each other, just not with the regularity to which I had become accustomed. He sends me sweet texts daily, so I resolve to be understanding about his work hours. After all, if you want to date a successful man in the city, you have to put up with certain inconveniences.

Then there was the time I went all the way down to his apartment only to find he’d fallen asleep and I was locked out. And the time I gathered my friends to meet him, only to have him be a no-show. And finally, the time I canceled all my Labor Day plans to go to his beach house… but ended up tanning in Central Park, alone, because of a work emergency.

Still, I was somewhat mollified when the beach trip materialized the following weekend. I packed my bikini and Prosecco in the car with him & his friends, and we were off. I was looking forward to his place on the water and a fun night out. When we arrived, I realized I really was dating a 27-year-old boy. The house was obviously a rental and so run down that it felt like a necessity to keep my shoes on at all times, including the shower—especially the shower.

Regardless, I made the best of it, joking with his fratty friends, taking shots of Jager and trying to socialize long enough that it wouldn’t be too awkward when I pulled him into the bedroom. Apparently, I cannot hold my alcohol like a college girl any longer, because I totally blacked out. I woke up next to him in the morning and confessed that I didn’t remember a single detail of the night before. I apologized for what I was sure was my bad behavior but he insisted I had done nothing untoward. Still, it was disconcerting that I didn’t remember we’d had sex four times (according to him).

We spent the afternoon on the beach, throwing the football around with his friends and splashing in the water. He brought Thoreau to the beach and we engaged in a spirited political discussion. I started to think that perhaps there was more to him than I thought. Maybe, he could be great boyfriend material.

He walked me to the train, holding my hand the whole way. He handed me the ticket, tilted my face to his, and held it in his hands. He kissed me deeply and said, “Don’t worry, we have the whole summer”.

I flinched.
I knew immediately that it was over.

***

The following Wednesday, I stood in head-to-toe Dolce & Gabbana, waiting for him to pick me up at 10. At 9:30, he texted me saying “It looks like it’s going to be 10:30”.

10:30 came and went.

At 11:30, I took off my makeup and hung my clothes, and crawled into the safety of my covers. He wasn’t going to call. He wasn’t going to come over.

I would never see him again.

***

This, ladies, is the classic New York Fadeout, and there is only one way to survive it. DELETE.

There is no point in playing the what-if game. (What if he lost his phone? What if he was hit by a car? What if he was in a freak accident rendering his thumbs unable to text?)
Let me save you the trouble right now… he’s FINE. Maybe he never really liked you, maybe he just wanted to get laid, maybe he lost interest, maybe he’s afraid because he likes you so much (this one is highly unlikely, but popular amongst the slighted).

The best thing to do is delete him before he can delete you, move on, and vow to never speak of him again.

Welcome to dating in Manhattan

*scorpio*

Reality TV vs. Reality

I have dated at least 4 if not more Reality TV veterans whose true character was only revealed once the cameras stopped rolling. Below are the four worst offenders.

1. Millionaire Matchmaker (Bravo)
I actually met this man at an event in Los Angeles when he was normal, a.k.a. before he embarrassed himself and possibly anyone who ever knew him on national television. He was respectful, intelligent, tall, dark, and handsome. A few dates later he offered me a plane ticket to come to visit him, however I declined to move out of the LA LA Land and back to New York City. He contacted me in the city and after a few flirtatious phone calls and one face-to-face rendevous. I was being offered another plane ticket, only this time it was only on Southwest?? I would have had to take a train over 2 hours towards the Hamptons to fly on the preferred airline of cheap assholes. I told him “No”. Then he countered the offer with any airport in New York City as long as I researched a cheap ticket?!?! I really had to laugh at this point and told him I would get back to him. The next thing I remember, I was walking to brunch on the Lower East Side when I get a call from my stepmother telling me to sit down. Apparently, my new love affair would be cut short as Romeo had proposed to his first date on a classy show called the Millionaire Matchmaker. Our brief rendezvous at the W hotel was not a Real Estate conference, but a live taping of him and his fiancé promoting the network on a morning show. I told him to never call me again as I would never be interested in a man of his character, or lack there of. (Shockingly enough, he went on the second season!)

2. The Bachelor (ABC)
I met him at a wedding, which you would think would be innocent enough. A few dates and romantic sleepovers quickly turned into solo bubble baths in his grandmother's luxury 5th Avenue apartment, terrible 80's porn, and awkward behavior that could be a link to his coming out of the closet moment. This bachelor was clearly not a prince, he just played one on TV.

3.The Fifth Wheel (MTV)
I thought I had it made with his blueberry pancake and goat cheese omelet breakfasts after nights of amazing sex until I realized he screamed like a girl at the sight of bugs and winced in fear at incredibly unrealistic reenactments of Shark Week on the Discovery Channel.

4. Queer Eye for the Straight Guy (Bravo)
The Queers on Queer Eye failed to teach the 35-year-old DJ how to behave like an adult. My New Years Eve was full of promise with dinner at The Waverly Inn with his actress friend and her entourage ready to party from Los Angeles. Instead the night became tainted with his constant crude penis jokes, including actual thrusting movements with a Grey Goose bottle at Bungalow 8. I took a gypsy limo home, sitting in the back with a Lasa apsa wearing a bow tie. I could have been driven by Michael Jackson and not even noticed after the night of horrors I just endured.

The lesson here is that all these guys have strange personality glitches that drive them to find fame on reality TV. Look at Jake Pavelka and every other douche looking for their 15 minutes even at the expense of their morals and dignity. My advice is: RUN away as fast as you can!!

*aries*