Tag Archives: blind date

Rant from Richmond, VA

I’ve been a bit distracted, trying to get papers signed and the bar bought. Or at least semi-owned. It’s an extremely long, stressful, expensive, red-tape-laden process. Mired as I am, I haven’t had the time or inclination to blog. Laura, one of my devoted readers (and commenters), took it upon herself to make a plea: “Surely youre not going to let unsolicited comments deter you from further writing (or your own added comments)?”

Actually, Laura, nothing could possibly deter me from further writing, most especially not the senseless rantings of an anonymous troll. As one of my faithful followers, you should know that I don’t usually blog every day. With the exception of Yes-Vember!, which was a challenge I gave myself to write once a day, I’m lucky if I get something up once or twice a week. It’s been, hmm, less than a week now since the big Man Bun Meltdown post. So have no fear, I shall blog again. It just won’t be today. Because, dear friends — and trolls — the great interwebz has provided me with something even better: someone else’s hilarious rant. My friend Corinne posted this link to my timeline and I was weeping while reading it. No, it wasn’t me on this date (the post was from the Richmond, VA Craigslist “Missed Connections”), but man, it sure could’ve been. I’m passing it along because, not only is it laugh-out-loud funny, it is true. It’s true about so many men. And here’s proof that I’m not the only one on dates with these losers! Nor am I the only woman disgusted by these pathetic men. I wish I could meet the author of this gem:

To the guy on the Tinder date Tues night.. – w4m (Boulevard Burgers and Brews) 

Hi. You were on a date. Clearly a first date. And definitely from a dating website, based on some things that were said. 

Obviously, we both know the date didn’t go well. But it could have. You could have gotten laid. She wanted to like you. Sadly, you shit the bed in seemingly every way possible. Even though you’re a helpless loser, and giant blowhard douchebag, I’m gonna try to critique your lackluster performance, to hopefully help you refrain from making the same socially retarded mistakes. Not so much to help you ( that would be futile, as you’re helpless and probably wouldn’t know a vagina from a flesh wound), but so hopefully you don’t waste another poor girl’s time and embarrass the shit out of her in a public place, like you did on this fateful eve. 

Here is a list of ways you screwed the pooch, like a monkey fucking a football, and ways to try to avoid future bedshitting:

1. First, don’t talk so goddamn loud, so assholes like me, and everyone in the restaurant, can hear every moronic thing that comes out of your mouth. That’s how you get called out on the Internet like this. 

2. If you’re gonna whine like a little bitch, try waiting at least 5 minutes into the first date. And if you ever want to see what of a vagina looks like in person, and especially if you want to feel what it’s like to be inside of one, I highly recommend not whining at all.. but especially not about the decision a girl makes in an attempt to be accomodating. It’s fucking shitty. And rude. I don’t know if you noticed, but there were no empty seats anywhere… she offered to let you take the last seat at the bar, and she would stand until something else opened up. Instead of being a man and saying “no, you sit.. I’ll stand until something becomes available.”, like someone with at least an average sized penis would say.. you had to profess your childish displeasure and say, like the whitest of white people, “well, this is the most awkward situation in human history.” But actually, no, fuckwad… the most awkward situation would be to have not done what she had said and just stand hovering around waiting for a table or seat to open up and lean over pepole for drinks.. which is the only alternative to her plan, which you so openly and obnoxiously shat upon.. 

3. The next part is hard to put into words.. Due to the futility of trying to teach you how to talk to women, because you’ll clearly never be able to do that no matter what anyone says, I’m gonna try to express this in such a way that hits home. Because your only hope of passing on your shitty, sloppy, ogre-like genetics, is to do the complete opposite of what you did. So.. if the things you said during the first ten minutes of the date were what you think you should say to impress women… then next time you try to talk to a woman, think about what you should say… and then say the complete fucking opposite shit. Or better yet, shut your dumbass mouth and let her get a word in edgewise. Ask her about her interests. Anything other than the 15 minute rant you went on, that was littered with douchey, transparent, false-confidence, thinly veiled by self-loving self-compliments and compulsive lies.. it was the most pathetic display of self-aggrandization I’ve ever witnessed. By far. So much of what you said was clearly bullshit.. the rest may not have been.. but was definitely unnecessary. And the way you incoherently strung it all together.. it was blatantly obvious you were trying to make yourself sound interesting and cool. But instead, you came across as a pompous, jackass, know-it-all, blowhard who thinks he is way cooler than he is.. the amazing part, is that through this entire diatriblical monolog, she listened. She still gave you a chance. She still wanted to like you. But before I move on to how you eventually totally fumbled your opportunity to lose your 30+ year virginity, I’d like to dig into a couple things you said that really struck a nerve. Now.. keep in mind.. I didn’t listen to all of your horseshit. I had to order drinks and food and make conversation of my own. I’m sure I missed some real doozies.. but I’m gonna just dig into a few that stood out. 

A. “I like to be on the frontier.. in the wilderness.. places mankind doesn’t usually go..” 
Yeah.. we get it.. you’re a “man of adventure”. But you sound more like you’re misquoting the beginning of a Star Trek episode. Don’t lie.. you’re a fucking Trekky. If there was a movie about Trekkies.. you’d be cast as the lead role. Because you’re the quintessential geeky white guy who has a Leonard Nemoy poster above his bed.

B. “I once led my family on a 20 mile hike through Vienna.. I was 12 years old. It just goes to show how strong of a person I am. And my thirst for adventure..”
Geezus,bro… The Vienna part is fine.. being 12… whatever..even though anyone with half a brain, excluding you, knows that your family wasn’t following a 12 year old through the mountains of Austria. Someone else knew where the fuck you were going. But yeah… I’m sure they let you walk in the front.. nice job kiddo.. but anyway… the issue is with your assertion that it shows how strong you are.. I mean.. what? Who fucking says that? What kind of socially awkward asshole says that about themself? It was unreal. I couldn’t believe you said that dumb shit. “It just goes to show how strong of a person I am”? What exactly were you trying to accomplish with that? Who were you trying to convince? Because you’re definitely not strong.. first of all.. you carry yourself like a huge, out of shape, pussy.. but also.. strong people don’t talk about how strong they are. They just prove it through actions. And by not acting like a bitch. You did neither of those, nor are you likely capable.

C. “I’m a highly intelligent person.” 
Ummm… no you’re not. Because even a half-wit could have, at minimum gotten a second date with that girl. You weren’t even intelligent enough to shut the fuck up. 

D. “I was living like a King at Virginia Tech…” 
What the fuck does that even mean? What a load of horseshit. Don’t pretend like you’ve ever meant anything to anyone. You certainly never had any meaningful friends. Not only do I know that because you’re such a self-centered blowhard that no one would ever want to spend more than 5 minutes around you, but also, if you did, they would have told you to tone down your obnoxious horsefuck and taught you how to talk to people outside of Comic-cons and Star Trek conventions. But they didn’t. Because they never existed. And if you meant “living like a king” meaning “getting laid”, which is what it seemed you were implying.. well.. that’s a fucking joke. That’s never happened. Ever. At least not by someone who consciously gave consent. 

E. “At the time I was 6% body fat”. 
Ha! Lies. No you fucking weren’t. You’ve never ever been 6% body fat. Ever. Or even 16%. Ever. You don’t have the frame for it. And your posture says you’ve been a fat turd since you were a little Cheetoh-eating chubby kid. Between your neck fat, sausage fingers, and overall body type… I can safely say that if you’ve ever been 6% body fat, I’d suck your microdick, live on TV during the Super Bowl halftime show. That’s how confident I am that you are full of shit. But I wouldn’t have to. Because that’s a lie. And it’s the dumbest lie ever. Look, dude.. you’re clearly not 6% body fat now.. and your date has never been either… in fact.. she’s a decent sized girl, and probably doesn’t want to think about body fat. She’s probably self-conscious about her weight, and probably doesn’t want to hear some fat guy try to impress her by talking about some fairy tale about how he used to look like an Olympic swimmer. It may have been the dumbest thing you said. Oh wait… no it wasn’t. 

4. Try not to flirt with the hot-as-fuck bartender while on a date. I know… it’s tough.. she was clearly into you.. the way she half-assed answered your stupid questions.. the way she walked away mid sentence.. yeah.. you totally got it bro.. you should probably go back and tell her how fucking cool you are. You’ll have your balls on her chin in no time… but seriously… for fuck’s sake.. don’t do that. Not only because the bartender is so far out of your league, you shouldn’t even be allowed to address her directly, but because it alienates your date. That’s really where you lost her. All you did was talk about your shitty self to her.. but then you start asking the bartender questions.. and calling her pet names and shit. Gross, dude.. wtf… get a grip. Meanwhile the only vagina on earth you had a chance with is staring off into space and rapidly losing interest by the second. I could literally see it in her eyes. A similar sort of disgust as in the eyes of the bartender for having to talk to your creepy, socially inept, self.

5. This is really where the train went off the rails… again… it’s so complex, it’s hard to express in words.. but your know-it-all blowhard mentality really bit you in your 60%bodyfat ass on this one, genius.. Sports.. you started talking about sports. Your problem was.. like everything else you talked about… you talked as though you were an expert. A fucking knowledgeable beacon of information. Sports.. I mean.. any dickwad can look at you and see that you’ve never so much as picked up a ball of any variety in your entire, uncoordinated-ass life. But I’ll be damned if you didn’t talk like you did. So.. first it was football.. you obviously went to VA Tech. Well.. she mentioned some other college football team.. now.. normally a real man could have been playful with it and made.. *gasp*… conversation. But no. Being the little bitch that you are, you had to get all defensive and basically try to talk down to her about how she doesn’t know football.. “Ugh.. are you serious? They never beat VA Tech.. the only teams that beat Tech are SEC teams like Alabama.. ” First of all… that’s horseshit. VA Tech hasn’t been relevant in top 25 college football since like 2004 or some shit. But SEC teams aren’t the only teams that beat Tech. Tech didn’t even win their own conference. I knew right then you were out of your league.. but you said it with such conviction. You had her convinced you knew what you were talking about. Probably because of the way you talked down to her.

So then.. she says she likes college softball.. and for some reason, you decide to bully her about it. I still can’t figure out why. “I hate to burst your little bubble.. but no one gives a shit about softball. No one.” First of all… why does her bubble have to be little. What kind of demeaning shit is that? Second, why, for the love of god would you shit on her interests like that? It’s the first fucking thing you’ve allowed her to say about herself all night. And you shit all over it, like a pigeon on a park bench. Why? That’s really dumb. It’s as if you didn’t really want pussy. And it’s one thing if you didn’t like the girl.. you were actively trying to impress her. Mind-boggling stuff here.. 
So then it gets good.. then you show your ignorance and say that there isn’t even a world series of college baseball or softball.. and she’s like “umm.. yeah there is.” But you dig your heels in.. “no.. there isn’t.” At this point, she’s over your shit.. and frustratedly says.. “yes there is. And it comes on TV on ESPN.” Yet again you challenge her. “Do I have to Google this to prove you wrong.” Disgusted by your false hubris, she laughs.. “Go ahead..” (this is my favorite part) Now you know you’re probably wrong.. which you hate to admit.. so you get super defensive.. and say this unbelievable gem.. “Did you even read my profile? Anywhere in my profile did it say I’m a sports fan? I’m not.” 

Hahahahahahahahaha! What, dude!? “My profile”?! Wtf is that shit about? You’re gonna bring up your online dating profile as a justification for your ignorance about a subject on which you had JUST pretended to be an expert? Classic. Way to really hit it home, that you’re probably the biggest loser in the city of Richmond. You had just shit on her about Tech football… SEC teams… softball.. but now when called out about a lie you stated as fact, you’re gonna throw it in her face that she’s dumb because your online dating profile never mentioned being a sports fan? Just… wow. It was an amazing moment. She laughed at you. And rightfully so. Then she called you out for demeaning her.. and your response was “well.. you picked a great place to go. This restaurant is great.” She laughed again and grabbed her jacket.. Way to backtrack, idiot. Talk about too little, too late. You shit on this girl for a solid hour, and when she calls you out, you compliment the restaurant she chose, that employs the bartender you unsuccessfully hit on in front of her? Well played. 

I left at that point. But as I walked out, she had grabbed her jacket… before the food even came.. and was telling you how she was over your shit. I couldn’t imagine she stayed longer than 5 more minutes. I know damn well she never wants to see you again. But I hope you learn from this. Because she didn’t deserve that embarrassment. If you’re gonna somehow magically go on dates with women you fool via media messages, at least pretend to be man enough not to totally make an ass of both of you. It’s just the right thing to do. 

Good luck losing your virginity. You’re gonna fucking need it, pal.

May-December Mugging-Date

A story from NearSay, swiped (almost verbatim) from The LowDownNY (byline Ed Litvak), reports [and I am just pulling Mr. Litvak’s whole article, fully quoted]:

“Police are looking for a man who stole a wallet and iphone from a woman during a blind date on the Lower East Side.  It happened Friday, March 9. The woman, 50, spent some time with her date (who she met online) at Lucky Jack’s on Orchard Street.  She only noticed her personal belongings missing after leaving the man at the 2nd Avenue/East Houston subway station. It’s unclear exactly when and where the theft occurred.
Police believe the suspect is 25-30 years old.  He’s about 6’1″, 165 pounds and went by the name “Hayden.”  If you have any information about this crime, call Crimestoppers at 800-577-tips.”

Okay, I’m not here to comment on the ethics of online journalism. But I would like to point out that the woman was 50 and her iPhone-swiping date was 25-30. I can hear many readers saying, “Cougar bitch got what she deserved! Dating a dude half her age? Pfft!” She’s actually too old to be a cougar (as am I), since the term was coined for 30- to 40-somethings preying upon men fewer than 10 years their junior. Anyway, it is one of the many reasons I’m reluctant to date men who are considerably younger. Aside from the notch in the belt aspect or check that off my who-I’ve-fucked list (Asian chick? Black chick? Older woman? Woman over 50?), both of which fall under the oddities and experiences umbrella, there’s the fear of becoming a victim. Not being paranoid by nature, my mind wouldn’t have gone to “I’ll get robbed!” but, well, here’s real-life evidence that it’s a possibility. And they only had a few drinks together. Imagine if she’d taken him home. He might’ve walked off with even more. And since, well, let’s be honest, the main reason a 50-year-old woman would make a date with a 25-year-old guy would most likely be for an athletic romp between the sheets, the chances of the woman inviting him home weren’t exactly inconceivable.

Obviously any woman (or man) who invites a stranger into their home runs the risk of getting ripped off. It’s yet another peril of blind dating. Add in the whole May-December dynamic and, given that society considers it scandalous — particularly when the May is the man and the  woman,December — and a younger guy may be right in believing he has some sort of upper hand.

I’ve said I don’t want to be some kid’s punch line. I feel there’s less a chance of that happening if I were to meet a younger guy in person: in a bar or at a party. Planning to meet someone from an online dating site when there are a could of decades between us just doesn’t sound…smart. Of course, it’s working for at least one friend of mine. She has her sex delivered, hot and fast, just like a pizza. [wink] And that’s all it is: hot, fast sex. They don’t have much to talk about since, well, what does a 22-year-old have to say to someone twice his age? The few times I’ve wound up in bed with a guy that much younger, I was shitfaced drunk and not much in the mood for conversation. Which leads me back to not being completely opposed to a May-December hook-up of my own. Just not via OKCupid.  It’d be nice to have a young man charm the pants off of me. But you can be sure I’ll keep a close eye on my iPhone!

Cunty

I’ve been so busy lately that I haven’t been keeping up with my bloggage. However, what little I have had time to post has generated interest…and outrage. Okay, perhaps outrage is an exaggeration. But when I’m busy I don’t spend hours mulling over my responses. I just dash off what initially comes to mind. Which often comes out sounding cunty. It could be said that I am cunty; I do, after all, have the word CUNT tattooed right on my body. Hey, truth in advertising! However, to those who know me, they get my cuntiness right along with my kindness. I can be both, as can most women. It is so very difficult to convey kindness through the ether—or the printed word—as is the conveyance of many emotions.

I’m exhausted. I am over dating people who are so terribly mismatched with me—and me with them. I don’t want to give up, though. Should I? I’m happy to be bartending so I can meet men in what I consider to be my natural habitat, especially while making money instead of spending it. And while they’re drinking and I’m not! I’ve been saying for a while now that meeting guys in bars has been my MO for so many years that it’s really the only process that makes sense to me!

So yeah, the sassy, snarky, cunty responses and the cunty part of my personality that’s been (unfortunately) emerging on many of my recent dates may, indeed, be a valid facet of who I am. Thankfully when I’m behind the bar, my happy and helpful side is what’s shown. Which means if you want to meet the most sincere me, you’ll have to come visit. And order up an Ass Juice! WOOT!

You can find me at Double Down Saloon, 14 Avenue A, Wednesdays and Saturdays from noon till 8pm. And yes, this is a bit of shameless self-promotion. It’s also an open invitation to all my friends, fans and foes to come stalk me or say hello. While you’re free to come and go as you please, I am, quite literally, trapped behind the bar!

Friday’s Cognitive Dissonance

It began at lunch with the last of the married men in my marathon. I was prepared to be underwhelmed, the jaded cynic in me, perhaps. Instead I found myself on the verge of tears more than once, as The Poet posed personal questions. He observed that I was extremely guarded and spent time in pursuit of the “real me.” It was an interesting and emotional conversation.

But back to the dissonance. Here I was having lunch with a lovely man — polite, attractive, successful, engaging — who bragged about his honor student daughter and wonderful wife. But he wasn’t completely perfect. Because if I’d asked him back to my apartment he most likely would’ve agreed in an instant. And instantly become a cheater. Ah, perhaps not so lovely. But I kinda knew the circumstances going in. Which had me puzzling, in between sharing our life stories, whether good people can be bad.

By the time The Poet helped me to my door with an unwieldy package, met by the barking foster dogs, I was in a rush to prepare for my early evening plans. I had less than an hour to get ready, which included changing out of my Garanimals-like afternoon ensemble and into something more suitably punk rock. Once I’d applied heavier eye makeup and shrugged on my motocycle jacket, I dashed out the door to meet my friend Rob and his girlfriend at Joe’s Pub for “DanceNOW [NYC] Presents Alley of the Dolls, This is not a sequel.” The show was a bizarre mélange of performance art and dance, comedy and song, and a poke at show business, all loosely in homage to “Valley of the Dolls.” It had a sassy retro Sixties tang.

When the performance wrapped, we jumped into Rob’s truck and headed to Williamsburg for a chihuahua wedding. You heard right. The “puptials” of Rev. Jen Jr. and Taco took place in the spacious outdoor garden of Lucky Dog bar on Bedford Ave. The proud parents of the bride and groom, Reverend Jen Miller and Holly Waggytail DeRito (yes, the grande dame of the agency I foster dogs for) held the happy couple in their arms and read their dogs’ vows, with Faceboy officiating the ceremony. As one might assume, the festivities were attended by quite a colorful cast of characters, including photographer Alex Colby and his pretty Penthouse Managing Editor wife Christine, comic artist and dessert blogger Abby Denson, Carmen Mofongo, my Balloon Chain co-worker and Lucky Dog bartender Moonshine Shorey, and armloads of adorable dogs. Moonshine had the night off because he was on his way to his gig with Jugger Nut at C Squat. Which was where Rob, his girlfriend and I were headed next!

Approaching the block we knew immediately where the show was; the shitfaced  dirtbag lying on the sidewalk, slurring obscenities, made it a giveaway. I slid in the door and stood aside. Everyone was in an agitated state about the sidewalk scene. A droopy-eyed, stringy-haired hippy was telling the dreadlocked dude running the door, “I don’t know the guy, man. I mean, he’s not a friend of mine. I picked him up in Asheville but I gotta watch his back. He’s my homeboy.” Meanwhile, the guy is still rolling around on the sidewalk with everyone screaming at him to get up, get out, move on.

I paid my five bucks, got my hand Sharpied and waited for Rob and his girlfriend. They slipped in and handed me a 24-ounce PBR. Cracking up, I crowed, “I just became the hottest old broad in the building!” A guy nodded in agreement and said, “Yeah, you did!” We made our way toward the noise, stepping over half-passed out gutterpunks and straggly hangers-on. A small balcony overlooked a basement with walls covered in graffiti. Our timing was perfect; kids were shoving equipment around the stage in anticipation of Jugger Nut.

The room was like a scene from a movie: Sweaty kids were milling around, an old man was perched on a chair, hipsters were photographing each other with the cell phones. It was an impressive collection of nightcrawlers. And because I never go anywhere without running into someone I know, I bumped into Nicola.

Before I’d had a chance to finish my 24-ounce, the band came onstage in a cacophony of keyboards, drums, guitars and feedback. After a bit of ear abuse, the music was actually quite good! People were nodding and dancing or ducking for cover. My friend Moonshine isn’t a musician, he’s an adjunct to the band, a six-foot-plus performance artist of sorts, his painted face and voodoo accoutrements augmented by blood and chicken feet. He stalked into the pit and the parted.

I’m not sure I could ever find the right words to properly describe the scene and how it actually felt. It was like being in a time warp. Like being beamed back to the 80s. The floor was slimy with beer and a bedraggled chick in nothing but boots and a silver sequin miniskirt kept slipping in it. The crowd thrashed in the pit, slamming into each other just like the old days. The whole place smelled like sweat and cigarette smoke and beer. It was fuckin’ awesome!

The show lasted just the right amount of time and as the room cleared I couldn’t contain my excitement. “The underground lives!” I kept saying with a huge smile on my face. I couldn’t believe it! I was so invigorated I couldn’t just go home and go to sleep, so I strolled through Tompkins Square Park to Double Down. It was packed with too many irritating people but I wound up at the far end of the bar chatting with an interesting couple. He was in a heavy metal t-shirt and she looked like she maybe watched too much “Jersey Shore.” But we commiserated about the East Village asshole invasion and, astonishingly, Burning Man! He was leaving the next day for India. Sometimes life is full of surprises!

Anyway, I stumbled to the deli for a turkey sandwich which I didn’t remember eating the next morning as I marveled over my day of dissonance: the enjoyable Poet, dance show at Joe’s Pub, the chihuahua wedding, the C Squat Jugger Nut slamfest and the pleasant company over my nightcap at Double Down. It was an amazing dozen hours!

Nice Guys…

So during my somewhat short-lived Married Man Marathon last week, I’d have to say that everyone I met was very nice. Nice is a strange word. A non-committal sort of word. The one guy I had planned on meeting but didn’t considered himself a “good guy” or whatever, but yet, there he is looking to cheat on his wife. I got into an argument the other night with a friend who called all the men on Ashley Madison douche bags, simply because, well, they’re on Ashley Madison. It’s painting many men, with almost as many motivations, with one pretty sloppy paintbrush. I’ll venture that the larger percentage of men on there are douche bags. A thousand faceless penises can’t be wrong! But there are some guys whose hearts are in the right places, even if they’re looking to put there penises in the wrong ones.

Probably my most enjoyable date was with “Mike,” who traveled a considerable distance to meet me for lunch. We hung out and chatted long after we’d finished eating and he even accompanied me on an errand, eventually helping me to my door, where my two current foster dogs barked up such a storm that he ran off with his tail between his legs. Okay, that’s not quite accurate but it sure rolled off my tongue…er, fingertips!

Seriously, “Mike” had sent me a long series of thoughtful, well written emails, not the least of which contained the tear-inducing poem I’d mentioned a few posts ago. [See below.] Our conversation centered around our motivations for being on the site and “Mike” asked me questions no one else ever has. He wondered what makes me happy, what I’m really looking for, and he genuinely seemed interested. I had a very difficult time answering and I told him, admitting out loud for what may have been the first time ever, that I don’t know what I really want, and I don’t know if it’s because I’m afraid I’ll never get it or I’m afraid to even think about it…either way, I’m never been able to even get in touch with what I really, really want. It was both an intellectually and emotionally stimulating afternoon.

Since that meeting I’ve been asking myself those questions. I’ve also been feeling quite agitated. I’m not sure if the two are related. I certainly hope not. Because if they are, I’d better get in touch with what I want soon before I chase away all my friends!

In the midst of last week’s marathon — and my meals with other male friends — I went on a real date, a date with a single guy, someone I was pretty excited to meet. And I had an amazing time. The afternoon turned into evening, there were beers, his best friend and making out in a bar. Pretty perfect. Good enough to make a second date! He actually made a cameo appearance in my Saturday night; as he put it, he “parachuted in,” and we agreed it didn’t count as a second date. That was Sunday night. A delicious home-cooked meal at his place followed by more conversation and making out. I’ll save my sexual neuroses for another post but I will say I enjoyed myself, even if I kept my clothes on. Our evening ended watching the news of Bin Laden’s death on TV, sharing the historical  moment, before I headed for the subway home.

Oh my…this post is rambling a bit. I told you I was out of sorts! Anyway, what I’ve been trying to tell you about is nice guys. My past 10 days have been blessed with the companionship of — and meals with — nice men. They show me why I could never make a practice of seeing guys for “grocery dates” just as I never was able to pull off being a pro domme. Either I like you or I don’t; if I don’t, I’m pretty terrible at faking it, even for food. Or cash. Which then puts me in the position of thinking a bit harder about my motivations for being on Ashley Madison. Or even OkCupid. I know what I want. And I don’t know that I’ll ever find it online.

Here’s the lovely poem from “Mike”:

The faces of Abby
Are so many they seem
Expressions fantastic
Each costume a scene

The vamp and the pirate
The southwestern lace
In satin and leather
Her lovely tanned face

Celebrations, parades
Shrill sounds and bright lights
They gather and rave
And share her long nights

The promotions and stars
Demands of the game
Pushing new boundaries
Again and again

Words fly from the keyboard
Appointments, deadlines
Her cups brimming full
Overflowing in time

Her spirit grows restless
For a gentleman past
Quiet tears and sweet sorrow
Loving memories last

To delight her young heart
In a life of extremes
She beckons for someone
To fulfill her new dream

One after the other
The suitors they ply
Her attention to hold
Her affections to try

A scientist poet
With a heart to sojourn
Her heart to romance
My passions to burn

Perhaps we will meld
Like lovers embrace
But I hope to at least
Glimpse Abby’s true face

In that mid-marathon lunch meeting, he did get to glimpse my true face. And as I try to focus on the things I really, really do want, well, it just makes me sad.

Married Man Marathon Derailed!

Tonight’s “date” told me he would be in a class til 8:30. He texted me a half-hour earlier and I didn’t check my phone til 8:15. By then he was already on his way home. To be honest, I had totally forgotten about meeting him. Originally we were going to get together before his class. But I have been having a helluva time keeping all these faceless torsos straight!

If this texting exchange doesn’t put you to sleep, you will probably find yourself asking why I bother… [Everything is written as it was texted. No edits.]

7:56pm
Hey – its Sam. Up for that how ya doin beverage – or another night?

8:14pm
Are you done with your class?
I’m not in Chelsea, I’m further north. Where are you?

8:41
Okay then. Guess you went home. You’d said 8:30. Sorry I missed you!

Hey – yeah… Was kinda slowly walking to the train in the rain. I’m sure I just missed you by seconds lol. Oh well – hopefully you’ll give me another shot?!

Maybe!

So you’re sayin there’s a chance!? Oh yeah!

Well I feel a little like you blew me off. But whatever!

9:00pm
No – really. I was just kinda standing there for a good 1/2 hour thinking the same thing…

You told me 8:30. You texted me before 8. I responded before 8:30. So I didn’t blow you off. It’s cool, no worries. You need to get back to a wife and suburbia!

I live on the upper upper east… No suburbia for me lol!

Well what’s your hurry then? You couldn’t give me 15 minutes? Sorry. Go home.

Well just cause its not suburbia doesn’t mean I didn’t have to be home. Its cool – sorry if I peeved you

I forget everyone else is on a tight leash.

Yeah… Its kinda true. Gimme another shot. I’m a good guy (lol!)

Well, no offense, but given the circumstances it’s tough to believe you’re THAT good of a guy. You do realize we connected on a site for people looking to cheat on their spouses. That said, I’m sure you’re a nice guy. But if we schedule another meeting and you text me a half hour early and then head home, well, that won’t really work for me. I was ready to meet up at or after 8:30 as you’d said. Ya know?

9:54
Ok – goooood point on the spouse thing…

10:16
I did say 8:30. Thought I said 8. That is certainly my bad…

No worries. I had said we’d meet up before your class. Which I probably could’ve but I spaced…

11:20pm
Well – where there’s a will there’s a way. We can try again.

We can.

Why Am I On Ashley Madison?

The question has come up a few times now: What’s a single woman doing on Ashley Madison? Sure, there are a few other unfettered folks on there but the site’s tag line is, after all, “Life is short. Have an affair.” It’s a hook-up service for the hitched. I have a few reasons for putting a profile up on this tacky “cheaters’” site and none of them are what I would classify as simple.

Let’s start with the fact that I’ve been single for a year now and mostly unhappy about it. My last boyfriend and I split primarily due to circumstances. He had a job in California, I needed to be in New York. We didn’t really have a “let’s break up” moment. There wasn’t a neat and tidy “end.” Even today, after all this time, I believe I’m still in love with him. And that lingering love has been a serious obstacle in my pursuit of…happiness. Between loving him and moving on. And eventually falling in love with someone else.

Thus I’ve been dabbling in online dating and have experienced the most luck with OkCupid. But it’s been so long since I’ve felt attracted to anyone that I don’t even know what it feels like anymore. And since I’ve never really dated – in the old-fashioned sense of the word, where a woman meets a guy who asks her out on an actual date – I truly don’t know how to conduct myself. So I’m getting some practice. Like going on an interview for a job you don’t want.

It’d be too easy to say that the average attached, Ashley Madison man is taller and better looking than the single losers I’ve been finding online. However, it appears to be true. I could quote all the studies and stats that say married men make more money and it’s not difficult to grasp that if a person experiences success in one aspect of their life, other successful aspects logistically follow. And I certainly don’t want to get into the whole “All the good ones are taken” conversation but, man, sometimes it sure seems like they are. That a man is “taken” does not, in any way, make him more appealing to me. In fact, just the opposite. But some of these guys are pretty damn appealing!

I’ve felt less pressure to find “the one,” mostly because so many of these men are married. I can experiment with finding “chemistry” without all the other crap. On “regular” blind dates (which all online dates, essentially, are) the pressure involved with sitting down across from a stranger and immediately asking “Do I want to fuck/marry this guy?” can be too much. Who can live up to those sort of expectations? Shouldn’t it be more about “Do I enjoy this person?” and have the future be reassuringly amorphous (as it always, realistically, is….) Of course, the obvious drawback would be “clicking” with or, god forbid, falling in love with, someone who’s inconveniently married.

My favorite aspect of being on Ashley Madison is how easily I’m able to be brutal. The guy’s 5’8”? Delete! He doesn’t know the difference between “your” and “you’re”? Delete. His opening salvo is “Hey, baby, wanna play?” Goodbye. He sends me his “private showcase” key, which reveals the dreaded headless naked bathroom mirror self-portrait. DELETE! I feel no obligation to give anyone the benefit of the doubt. He’s just some married dude! Of course, given that there is the odd single guy, I could accidentally delete a potential dream date. But why bother if he doesn’t make the cut? I’m not quite sure why I’m so much less callous on OkCupid. Why I feel a need to be polite on singles’ sites that I don’t feel on Ashley Madison. Being ruthless is sublimely liberating! I can tell him his photos are embarrassing; that he does not, as a matter of fact, look 10 years younger; I have no problem saying, “Yo, dude, that was kind of offensive!” I love not really giving a shit if a guy writes me back, calls me again or blows me off completely. Dirty hair, dirty laundry, who the hell cares? There wasn’t any hope for a future with the guy anyway. The surprising thing is that most of these men seem to actually appreciate the honesty! I guess it’s one more thing that’s been missing in their lives. Which leads me to:

There are hundreds of men on Ashley Madison who have been “imprisoned” by their lives: marriages, wives, kids, jobs, BORING or stagnating or otherwise suffocating existences. I have been living – and continue to live – a pretty wild life by comparison to most and even emailing me – or meeting me for a drink — seems to “satisfy” an “I’m looking for…something” craving these men have. Who knows what will happen next? Maybe I’ll scare the guy back to his wife. Maybe I’ll inspire him to get that inevitable divorce. At the very least I hope to be able to give people a little taste of what their life isn’t, a glimpse of what they may be missing, and what they THINK they want but perhaps don’t, really, in the end.

I’d be guilty of telling only the partial truth if I didn’t admit to being somewhat interested in a few free meals…or free beers. These married dudes have jobs and money, in addition to their wives, and if they’re looking to hang out with someone who might give them a little thrill – be it in bed or a Starbucks — why not make them pay? Honestly, I’m not that much of mercenary. But it does make it easier to rationalize accepting the “charity.”

So you see, my motivations are somewhat complicated. I love to meet new people. I love to help people. Maybe it’s the closeted shrink in me. I’m not sure. I enjoy being enjoyed…appreciate feeling appreciated. In the end, it’s all an ego boost. And then some guy writes me a poem. No one’s ever written me a poem. And I cry. Maybe that’s why I’m Ashley Madison.