After leaving Jeremy’s apartment of oral-tastic orgasmic on Monday night, I was reeling. I had never experienced such stimulation without the aid of Paco, a small, vibrating device I kept in my nightstand drawer. As I laid in bed that night relishing in my post-ribs-Ketel One-multiple orgasm glory, I knew I had to see Jeremy again, hopefully sooner rather than later.
By Wednesday night the sexual tension via text message between Jeremy and me had rebuilt itself. We met at Opal, both knowing that drinks were just an obligatory precursor before heading to Jeremy’s apartment to get down to business. Fifteen minutes later over some futile conversation about our days at work and potential weekend plans, I had polished off my Captain and Diet, and he his Amstel Light. After deciding that a second drink was completely unnecessary under such circumstances, Jeremy paid our tab and we headed out.
Upon walking through his door, Jeremy excused himself to the restroom and instructed me to make myself at home. I went straight to the freezer to find the bottle of Ketel One that I had tapped into only forty-eight hours before and poured myself a potent cocktail. Since Jeremy still hadn’t come out of the bathroom, I kicked off my heels, sprawled out on his bed, and turned on Chelsea Lately. It was already 11:00pm and I was ready to get this show on the road.
Chelsea cut to a commercial and I was beginning to get restless when suddenly I heard powerful honking-type noises coming from the bathroom. By now he had been in there a good ten to twelve minutes and I could only assume that he was addressing some sort of an issue pertaining to Brown Town, but the intense nose-blowing had thrown me for a loop.
The visuals going through my mind were almost vomit-inducing. I had come here for one thing and didn’t appreciate it being delayed with this extended lavatory break. I was starting to feel very awkward, which rarely happens, so I tried to focus on the Verizon Wireless commercial while slugging down the remainder of my drink. There was more nose-blowing which was then followed by a hacking cough and the sound of running water.
What the hell was he doing in there? Caulking his tile, reading Sports Illustrated cover-to-cover, nose hair plucking, tending to a flock of geese? Maybe he was a closet drug addict, but usually I can pick up on those things within, at most, twenty minutes. I started to contemplate sneaking out the front door when he finally emerged. He didn’t even seem phased that he had just spent almost an entirety of a thirty-minute TV show in his bathroom snot rocketing and doing who knows what else while I was in the next room waiting.
I was unsure of what to say in this situation, so I just kept my glass to my lips and my hand on the remote.
He looked at the TV and said with all casualness and absolutely no embarrassment, “Oh isn’t this your favorite show or something?”
Ummm didn’t you just spend an entire interview with Cloris Leachman, a whole Chuy skit, and three commercial breaks making goose-like mating calls in your bathroom? I thought to myself.
My drink was gone, Chelsea was over, and I wanted to go home, but Jeremy had begun to undress himself, clearly still intent on completing our business at hand. He loosened his tie, unbuttoned his shirt, and stripped down to his tighty whities.
Luckily he had turned the lights off before he started this striptease so he couldn’t see the look of appall that had involuntarily surfaced on my face in light of his underwear choice. The only men who can rock tighty whities are gay boys in crotch-rocking premium denim or David Beckham with his sculpted abs and glistening tan in his half-nude Armani ad—Jeremy happened to be neither.
He laid down next me and looked like he was finally ready to get down to business, so I decided to look past the bathroom episode and the underwear choice in light of the good things that were about to come. All I was looking for was a repeat performance of Monday and I had faith that I would now get it. If I had only known what kind of performance Jeremy was looking for in Round Two of our rendezvous, I just may have snuck out when I had the chance…
Monday, July 27, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Part II: From Menage a Trois to Dinner for Two
After being sidetracked last week with my faux-boyfriend’s ballsy dumping moves, it’s time to refocus my storytelling on my potential as a future stepmother to a boy with a threesome-addicted father…
Friday night’s brief encounter with Jeremy during happy hour had led to some harmless, drunken texting as I finished out my night at East End. Saturday morning, when I groggily rolled over to turn on The Soup and contemplate my life choices from the night before (life choices = Jack Daniels consumption), I saw my Blackberry flashing red, indicating a new message. I couldn’t wait to see which pathetic, intoxicated old flame had texted me at 4:00am in hopes of a late-night booty call. But surprisingly, the text awaiting me was not from 4:00am, but rather from Jeremy at 8:03am describing his level of erectness from thinking about me.
Shocked by such a comprehensive description of someone’s morning wood in my post-whiskey haze, the only response I could come up was: You’re quite the early riser (literally), with which he responded: Early and often ;+)
Considering he was closer to my parents’ age and I was closer to his son’s age, I had to give Jeremy credit for both his sexual vigor and text messaging skills. Hell, my father couldn’t even find the power button on his cell phone, let own text message with emoticons.
Our text messaging affair continued for the remainder of the weekend and by Monday, the sexual tension via Verizon Wireless had to finally be addressed with some good old-fashioned human contact. He asked me to come over straight after work. While I was not offended by his forwardness, I had to decline his offer—I watched way too much Law & Order to ever consider going to a complete stranger’s apartment without a can of mace or an Uzi.
We decided to meet at Houston’s on 54th and Third, a mere three blocks from his apartment. While some girls may have been offended by the fact that he initially wanted to skip dinner/drinks in order to get directly to business, and then, chose the closest establishment that served alcohol from his apartment when he was denied his first choice, I actually appreciated his candor—it was the sign of a true businessman in my book.
But what I appreciated even more was that my dinner consisted of two Ketel One on the rocks, very dirty, and a rack of ribs—talk about a way to a girl’s heart. Who needs sushi and a Cosmo when you can have vodka in its proper state with a little BBQ to wash it down?
After some tableside making out and minimal, yet obligatory, first date conversating, it was time for Jeremy and I to address the real reason we had met. At this point, I was unconcerned with the seven year old son and the un-finalized divorce—all I could hope was that Jeremy was packing more heat and less hair than I had encountered with The Trader.
Five minutes later we were in his apartment, where I had a dozen roses waiting for me. If the vodka and ribs hadn’t initially sealed the deal, these surely would have. Minutes later we had crossed into the threshold of his bachelor-pad bedroom, no time to be wasted. Before I knew it, I was in oral orgasm heaven. No wonder younger women went for older men—it wasn’t just about money, it was about experience and stamina.
He finally came up for air and I praised his technique.
“I have a lot of this built up. My wife would never let me do this to her.” Jeremy explained.
“Well your wife is a fool.” I asserted as I looked on the floor for my clothes.
Jeremy watched as I redressed myself. “Where are you going? You don’t want to stay?” he asked, with confusion.
“I have an early meeting.” I lied.
He wrapped my flowers in plastic and I headed for the door. After the amazing below-the-waist experience I had just had, I didn’t want to ruin it with an awkward morning-after situation. If only I had known the situation I would encounter two days later when I stepped back through Jeremy’s door. Never judge a man by his first performance…
Friday night’s brief encounter with Jeremy during happy hour had led to some harmless, drunken texting as I finished out my night at East End. Saturday morning, when I groggily rolled over to turn on The Soup and contemplate my life choices from the night before (life choices = Jack Daniels consumption), I saw my Blackberry flashing red, indicating a new message. I couldn’t wait to see which pathetic, intoxicated old flame had texted me at 4:00am in hopes of a late-night booty call. But surprisingly, the text awaiting me was not from 4:00am, but rather from Jeremy at 8:03am describing his level of erectness from thinking about me.
Shocked by such a comprehensive description of someone’s morning wood in my post-whiskey haze, the only response I could come up was: You’re quite the early riser (literally), with which he responded: Early and often ;+)
Considering he was closer to my parents’ age and I was closer to his son’s age, I had to give Jeremy credit for both his sexual vigor and text messaging skills. Hell, my father couldn’t even find the power button on his cell phone, let own text message with emoticons.
Our text messaging affair continued for the remainder of the weekend and by Monday, the sexual tension via Verizon Wireless had to finally be addressed with some good old-fashioned human contact. He asked me to come over straight after work. While I was not offended by his forwardness, I had to decline his offer—I watched way too much Law & Order to ever consider going to a complete stranger’s apartment without a can of mace or an Uzi.
We decided to meet at Houston’s on 54th and Third, a mere three blocks from his apartment. While some girls may have been offended by the fact that he initially wanted to skip dinner/drinks in order to get directly to business, and then, chose the closest establishment that served alcohol from his apartment when he was denied his first choice, I actually appreciated his candor—it was the sign of a true businessman in my book.
But what I appreciated even more was that my dinner consisted of two Ketel One on the rocks, very dirty, and a rack of ribs—talk about a way to a girl’s heart. Who needs sushi and a Cosmo when you can have vodka in its proper state with a little BBQ to wash it down?
After some tableside making out and minimal, yet obligatory, first date conversating, it was time for Jeremy and I to address the real reason we had met. At this point, I was unconcerned with the seven year old son and the un-finalized divorce—all I could hope was that Jeremy was packing more heat and less hair than I had encountered with The Trader.
Five minutes later we were in his apartment, where I had a dozen roses waiting for me. If the vodka and ribs hadn’t initially sealed the deal, these surely would have. Minutes later we had crossed into the threshold of his bachelor-pad bedroom, no time to be wasted. Before I knew it, I was in oral orgasm heaven. No wonder younger women went for older men—it wasn’t just about money, it was about experience and stamina.
He finally came up for air and I praised his technique.
“I have a lot of this built up. My wife would never let me do this to her.” Jeremy explained.
“Well your wife is a fool.” I asserted as I looked on the floor for my clothes.
Jeremy watched as I redressed myself. “Where are you going? You don’t want to stay?” he asked, with confusion.
“I have an early meeting.” I lied.
He wrapped my flowers in plastic and I headed for the door. After the amazing below-the-waist experience I had just had, I didn’t want to ruin it with an awkward morning-after situation. If only I had known the situation I would encounter two days later when I stepped back through Jeremy’s door. Never judge a man by his first performance…
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
Dumped
So we’ve all been dumped before and it’s never a great feeling, but this past week I experienced a new kind of dumping that I had never known existed—I was dumped by someone who was not even my boyfriend. Here’s how it went down…
I started dating The Trader a few weeks after The Attorney and I had broken up. I had gotten the whole post-break-up hook-up out of the way with Hershey and was focused on living the single life and avoiding unsolicited ass-smacking and baby mama drama.
Our first date went great and we immediately made plans for the following weekend. For the next two months I saw The Trader once or twice a week, but we never had any sort of “commitment” talk, so I can’t say I exactly kept my tongue in my mouth.
Last week we had plans to go out, and because I hadn’t seen him in two weeks since he had cancelled on me the weekend before, he had given me a solid no-rain-check policy for our mid-week date. He had declared his excitement to see me numerous times and had already made plans to take me to the beach that Friday. So how could this go wrong, you ask?
I emailed him around five o’clock to see when and where he wanted to meet, only to get an email back asking if I would mind if he, instead of hanging out with me, went to the Yankees game with his best friend. Apparently, in a city of eight million people, his friend could not find a single soul to accompany him to the game, except for, of course, The Trader.
Infuriated that I had been cancelled on twice by someone with a hairy back, I angrily responded to his email. I wrote:
I can’t make it to the beach Friday. If you ever want to hangout, head uptown. I work every Friday at Mad River from 7:00-10:00pm. At this point, I refuse to make plans with you.
That night, The Trader called me twice and I refused to answer. I knew he was calling to apologize for cancelling on me yet again, but I was too irritated and angry to be bothered with having an awkward phone conversation. I decided to focus on positive things for the rest of the evening, which included making the ever-important decision of which pair of J Brands to buy and slamming vodka down my face.
The next evening, when I was preparing for a fabulous girls’ night out, I got another phone call from The Trader. Here it is, I thought. The infamous apology phone call and I decided to answer this time.
“Hey you.” I answered the phone.
“Hey there.” he answered. “I wanted to talk to you.”
Ahhh, it was finally coming, I thought to myself. I was about to begin gloating when he went on to state the reason for his call.
“So I just don’t think we have any chemistry and I don’t think we should see each other anymore.” The Trader declared.
I diverted my attention from the Farrah Fawcett special on E! and actually laughed out loud.
“Haha. Wait…what?” I asked with both surprise and confusion.
The Trader went on to repeat himself, “I don’t think we should hang out anymore.”
I was speechless with confusion, so the only reply I could come up with was, “Ummm, OK.”
“So maybe I’ll see you at Mad River sometime.” he ended with.
“OK , yeah, see you around.” and I hung up the phone.
In the thirty-five seconds that I was on the phone, Farrah Fawcett had gone from Charlie’s Angel to mother of a drug addicted son and I had gone from single girl on the dating scene to being dumped by someone who wasn’t even my boyfriend.
I immediately texted my mother, an instant source of comfort in my time of need:
BacchusG: The Trader just dumped my ass!
Mom: Uh oh! R u upset? What did he say?
BacchusG: That he didn’t think there was chemistry between us and we shouldn’t hang out anymore. I haven’t even hung out with him in two weeks! I mean, hello! I was out rendezvousing last week, which he may have figured out from last week’s article.
Mom: Were you even that into him?
BacchusG: Well I was definitely more wild than he was. But I guess I wasn’t too into him or I wouldn’t have hooked up with a 42-year-old.
Mom: Who is this 42-year-old?
BacchusG: A man closer to your age with a son closer to my age.
Mom: Are you using PROTECTION?!
In terms of wearing a seatbelt in a cab, then no, I was not using protection. But in terms of making sure I took my drink with me to the bathroom at a bar to avoid being ruphied, then yes, I was using protection. But obviously my mother wasn’t grasping the concept that I had just been dumped by a guy who was not even my boyfriend. Was this even possible?
BacchusG: I should have known when I saw all of those ugly shoes in his closet.
Mom: BacchusG! Stop judging people by their shoes.
BacchusG: It happens to be a very accurate method!
Since my mother was not comprehending the severity of the situation, I franticly BBM-ed Jenny Saurs. She replied with a reassuring assertion that The Trader was too similar to The Attorney and it never would have worked out anyways.
What my mother and Jenny Saurs weren’t getting is that I was not heart-broken here, I was angry. New York men who work in finance think that just because they make great money, girls' panties will immediately drop for them when they mention that they work for JP Morgan, Goldman Sachs or Morgan Stanley—and they also think they can break up with girls who aren’t their girlfriends. What these men need to realize is that they’re a dime a dozen in this town and for every fallen trader, there’s always another one in a blue Brooks Brothers dress shirt waiting in the wings...
I started dating The Trader a few weeks after The Attorney and I had broken up. I had gotten the whole post-break-up hook-up out of the way with Hershey and was focused on living the single life and avoiding unsolicited ass-smacking and baby mama drama.
Our first date went great and we immediately made plans for the following weekend. For the next two months I saw The Trader once or twice a week, but we never had any sort of “commitment” talk, so I can’t say I exactly kept my tongue in my mouth.
Last week we had plans to go out, and because I hadn’t seen him in two weeks since he had cancelled on me the weekend before, he had given me a solid no-rain-check policy for our mid-week date. He had declared his excitement to see me numerous times and had already made plans to take me to the beach that Friday. So how could this go wrong, you ask?
I emailed him around five o’clock to see when and where he wanted to meet, only to get an email back asking if I would mind if he, instead of hanging out with me, went to the Yankees game with his best friend. Apparently, in a city of eight million people, his friend could not find a single soul to accompany him to the game, except for, of course, The Trader.
Infuriated that I had been cancelled on twice by someone with a hairy back, I angrily responded to his email. I wrote:
I can’t make it to the beach Friday. If you ever want to hangout, head uptown. I work every Friday at Mad River from 7:00-10:00pm. At this point, I refuse to make plans with you.
That night, The Trader called me twice and I refused to answer. I knew he was calling to apologize for cancelling on me yet again, but I was too irritated and angry to be bothered with having an awkward phone conversation. I decided to focus on positive things for the rest of the evening, which included making the ever-important decision of which pair of J Brands to buy and slamming vodka down my face.
The next evening, when I was preparing for a fabulous girls’ night out, I got another phone call from The Trader. Here it is, I thought. The infamous apology phone call and I decided to answer this time.
“Hey you.” I answered the phone.
“Hey there.” he answered. “I wanted to talk to you.”
Ahhh, it was finally coming, I thought to myself. I was about to begin gloating when he went on to state the reason for his call.
“So I just don’t think we have any chemistry and I don’t think we should see each other anymore.” The Trader declared.
I diverted my attention from the Farrah Fawcett special on E! and actually laughed out loud.
“Haha. Wait…what?” I asked with both surprise and confusion.
The Trader went on to repeat himself, “I don’t think we should hang out anymore.”
I was speechless with confusion, so the only reply I could come up with was, “Ummm, OK.”
“So maybe I’ll see you at Mad River sometime.” he ended with.
“OK , yeah, see you around.” and I hung up the phone.
In the thirty-five seconds that I was on the phone, Farrah Fawcett had gone from Charlie’s Angel to mother of a drug addicted son and I had gone from single girl on the dating scene to being dumped by someone who wasn’t even my boyfriend.
I immediately texted my mother, an instant source of comfort in my time of need:
BacchusG: The Trader just dumped my ass!
Mom: Uh oh! R u upset? What did he say?
BacchusG: That he didn’t think there was chemistry between us and we shouldn’t hang out anymore. I haven’t even hung out with him in two weeks! I mean, hello! I was out rendezvousing last week, which he may have figured out from last week’s article.
Mom: Were you even that into him?
BacchusG: Well I was definitely more wild than he was. But I guess I wasn’t too into him or I wouldn’t have hooked up with a 42-year-old.
Mom: Who is this 42-year-old?
BacchusG: A man closer to your age with a son closer to my age.
Mom: Are you using PROTECTION?!
In terms of wearing a seatbelt in a cab, then no, I was not using protection. But in terms of making sure I took my drink with me to the bathroom at a bar to avoid being ruphied, then yes, I was using protection. But obviously my mother wasn’t grasping the concept that I had just been dumped by a guy who was not even my boyfriend. Was this even possible?
BacchusG: I should have known when I saw all of those ugly shoes in his closet.
Mom: BacchusG! Stop judging people by their shoes.
BacchusG: It happens to be a very accurate method!
Since my mother was not comprehending the severity of the situation, I franticly BBM-ed Jenny Saurs. She replied with a reassuring assertion that The Trader was too similar to The Attorney and it never would have worked out anyways.
What my mother and Jenny Saurs weren’t getting is that I was not heart-broken here, I was angry. New York men who work in finance think that just because they make great money, girls' panties will immediately drop for them when they mention that they work for JP Morgan, Goldman Sachs or Morgan Stanley—and they also think they can break up with girls who aren’t their girlfriends. What these men need to realize is that they’re a dime a dozen in this town and for every fallen trader, there’s always another one in a blue Brooks Brothers dress shirt waiting in the wings...
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