The novelty of “doing as the Villagers do” swiftly wore off as soon as I stepped foot into Yankee Jim’s apartment. Now back in my zip code and my senses somewhat in tact, I realized Jim wasn’t exactly what I was looking for in a man, let alone a Thursday night date. While I was unsure of exactly what it was that I was looking for, I was one hundred percent certain that it was not a twenty-four year old with sub-par communication skills, an alarmingly strong affection for Chinese culture, and the inability to buy a girl a drink at a proper bar.
“So do you want a drink?” Jim inquired as I set my clutch down on his kitchen table and carefully surveyed his apartment. “I have beer or wine.”
I followed Jim’s gaze to his kitchen counter, where an unrefrigerated, uncapped box of Franzia wine sat and I quickly said, “Beer sounds great.”
He handed me a can of Bud Light and we settled on his couch. After approximately five minutes of awkward conversation without the buffer of an ungodly rock band to speak over, it became abundantly clear that we had very little to absolutely nothing in common.
Before I could say, “Well, I better head home,” Jim was suddenly leading me to his bedroom, trying to de-shoe and de-shirt me simultaneously as we fell onto his bed.
“Why don’t you take your shoes off and stay awhile?” he whispered, in an attempted sexy voice that I was not nearly intoxicated enough to succumb to.
In fact, his attempted intonation made me feel more so embarrassed for him, rather than turned on, considering that this probably wasn't the first time he's used such a "voice" and it most definitely wasn't the first time it failed. Moreover, my black Mary Janes weren’t exactly smelling like lilies and lollipops these days, so it was best for both involved parties that they remain on my feet rather than on Jim’s bedroom floor.
“I really do have to leave. I have to get to the office early tomorrow. I actually have a presentation with our president, so I can’t be tired and hungover.” I explained with a twist of untruthfulness.
“But I had a really great time tonight. Thanks.” As I completed my trifecta of lies, I opened Jim’s front door and stepped into the hallway.
As I went to give Jim an obligatory goodbye kiss on the cheek, he went in for the kill, suddenly trying reenact the hallway scene from Unfaithful. While I had been told many a time that I resembled Diane Lane, Yankee Jim was hardly Oliver Martinez—in fact, he couldn’t even pass for a third cousin twice removed, West Virginia style. Plus, based on our brief roll around on his bed a few minutes earlier, it appeared that Jim didn’t have much to offer in the “chopstick” arena, even after a year-long stint in China.
I firmly said goodbye before any neighbors could poke their heads out of their doors to witness dejection at its finest and headed down the stairs. As I was about to hail a cab on the corner of 81st and Third, Jim burst through his front door in a skintight grey and white argyle sweater, clearly intended to be worn by a child between the ages of ten to twelve rather than a six-foot tall twenty-something with a slight beer gut.
“Are you sure you have to leave?” he called after me.
“Yep!” I called back as I frantically flailed my arm for a vacant taxi to pull over. I wasn’t sure if I was more appalled at his overall desperation or the fact that he owned a sweater of that size and consciously put it on in a final, despairing attempt to get a girl to sleep with him.
And there I was, standing in front of Gobo, practically desperation roadkill. This had to stop immediately. In a city of eight million people, one would think that it wouldn’t be so difficult to find an acutely acceptable man, if not a mildly attractive, semi-charming man, to spend a few evenings out with. But clearly, I was doing something wrong.
As the cab sped up Third Avenue, heading toward the Love Shack, I thought that perhaps I should stop picking up men in bars—at least for a week or two. Good thing next week I’ll be auctioned off as a date at a charity event…and if I don’t get bought, I’m heading straight to the bar.