Sex and the Upper East Side

Starved & Sexless on the Upper East Side

2011-08-28T18:30:00.005-04:00

It was a hot summer night. A looming thunderstorm had been lurking in the stratosphere since noon and the city smelled of on-the-verge-of-combusting trash. It was before the talks of Hurricane Irene, before the lines out the door of Fairway and H&H, and before drugstore’s shelves had become barren of bottled water and batteries. Just a typical summer Thursday and I was ready for another typical Thursday happy hour.

I bobbed and weaved my way past the gawking tourists that cluttered Bryant Park, wondering how they could be so oblivious to the fact that hundreds of people were trying to simply walk down the sidewalk all the while marveling at the fact that a skyscraper could make so many Asians closer to drooling than my grandmother on her Vicodens and afternoon vodka. Eventually, after a few shoulder checks and death glares, I made it to the blessed East Side to meet Emily on the corner of 42nd and Lex.

“So where exactly is this meat market happy hour you’ve been speaking so highly of since Monday?’ I asked as we hailed a cab.

The destination was The Thompson Hotel on the Lower East Side and the occasion was a happy hour being held by Emily’s friend’s boyfriend and two of his co-workers who worked at a predominately male insurance brokerage firm of about three thousand employees.

“Our odds are looking good. Apparently there are some good-looking gents at this company,” Emily elucidated with an enthusiasm I hadn’t seen since we met the “founders” of Five Guys.

Hmmm…insurance dudes, I thought to myself. Geeks, schisters, studs? I wasn’t sure of what we were about to encounter, but I was hell bent on a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and I always loved an excuse not to take the subway home.

What Emily and I walked into was no less a meat market than Ottomanelli’s on a Saturday morning, as prime rib and New York strips virtually spilled onto the sidewalk of York Avenue. It looked as if we had a diverse crowd to work our way through—definitely a few dorks, definitely some schisters, a little ethnicity, maybe a few misplaced hipsters, and very few X chromosomes.

After catching up with Emily on some weekly gossip, it was time to part the testosterone seas and assess what kind of cuts of beef we were really dealing with in the unchartered waters of the Lower East Side.

Eventually, with Emily nowhere to be found, I got myself into an inescapable conversation with Matty and Mark, two Dockers-donning Manhattanites who were neither full-on geeks or schisters, but most definitely could absolutely never be defined into any type of “stud” categorization. Obligingly, I asked the not-so-dynamic duo where they called their place of employment.

“Well, Bacchus—wait, your name is Bacchus, right?” Matty paused to confirm as I restrained myself from rolling eyes and walking away. I politely nodded, but he had already continued speaking.

“We work at this little company called ING. Maybe you’ve heard of it,” he chuckled as he nudged Mark, as if he had just made the wittiest joke of 2011 in the Tri-State area. Soon thereafter, the conversation turned to Matty’s ex-girlfriend in Long Island and I politely excused myself to the bathroom before I was forced to stab myself in the thigh with my rusted apartment keys.

I staggered through the crowd, noticing that my five glasses of wine and no dinner had quite the affect on both my long distance vision and ability to properly walk in my four inch heels. I eventually found Emily and the rest of our estrogen-fueled group. As we were deciding whether to stay or to head back to home base on the Upper East Side, a gentleman in a lavender and white gingham-patterned button down with a navy tie and black rimmed glasses rolled up. He was well dressed and he was surely handsome, but this was all lost as my stomach longed for a morsel of food and my feet yearned for freedom from my nude patent peep-toes. He could have been Michael Chiklis, shirtless and chasing down a drug dealer in The Shield and I wouldn’t have cared at this point in my stomach-eating-itself, wine-induced stupor.

“Oh hey, Jimmy!” our friend Bonnie exclaimed. “I haven’t seen you all night. Have you met my girls?”

The dapper, but suspiciously too well dressed Jimmy shook his head no as Bonnie continued on with the introductions. “Girls, this is Jimmy Papabeariezzo. Jimmy, these are my girls.”

As I was about to excuse myself from the gaggle circled around Bonnie and Jimmy, this Jimmy character decided to strike up a conversation with who else but me? I politely smiled, told him my name, all the while mapping out when I could end the conversation and hail a cab home.

“So where do you live, Bacchus? In the city?” Jimmy asked in such a manly yet soothing voice that I had to wonder why he was in the insurance field instead of doing voiceover work for National Geographic documentaries.

“I live on the Upper East Side,” I politely replied. With that, Jimmy perked right up.

“Is that so? I do too,” he eagerly added.

“And how did you end in the neighborhood?” I courteously asked while trying to decide if I’d be ordering takeout from Gracie Mews or Yuko for dinner.

“Well, when I moved here a about five years ago, my girlfriend at the time—“

“Wait,” I rudely interrupted with confusion. “You’re not gay?”

Jimmy’s jaw immediately dropped to the floor, his face flooded with confusion and insult. I had clearly just ruined my chances for a cab-share back to the ‘hood. Here’s to another lonely, Sauvignon Blac-hazed ride back to the Upper East Side. Definitely going with the burger after this doozy…

Sex & the Upper East Side Heads to the Hamptons

2011-07-10T15:00:00.006-04:00

My friends were dropping like flies. First went Pookie, engaged to her college beau of seven years. Next came Jenny Saurs, then Annie Smalls. I was one of the few left standing in my close-knit group of Upper East Side friends, still searching for that uptown prince. Who would have thought that a handsome, witty, intellectual, non-chain-smoking, employed man with a functioning air conditioner and a similar affinity for all things vodka and Law & Order was so much to ask for in a city of eight million people?

Instead, my past six years of drinking, dating, and dwelling in a jaded city that never sleeps had left me with men who still relied on their mothers to make their lunches and do their laundry; men who thought the answers to their woe-is-me sad state of life’s affairs was at the bottom of a bottle whiskey and a carton of Marlboro Lights; and men who thought it was acceptable to lie and cheat their way through a relationship. Sure there had been a pseudo-African prince, a LeBron James look-a-like, and a few unforgettably sexy cab rides in there, but those sure as hell hadn’t landed me in a stable, secure relationship accessorized with a diamond ring.

So what better way to forget the John Does of the past than with a girls’ weekend in the Hamptons? I’d spent a summer in the Hamptons years past with my first New York summer love, The Captain. It was before the days of Gossip Girl and The Real Housewives of New York, where my only impression, before stepping off that green Jitney was an episode of Sex & the City where Samantha had picked up a bad case of crabs. Luckily, rather than a creepy STD, The Captain showed me a whole new world, Aladdin-Jasmine style, complete with sunset yacht rides, Vueve, and oysters on the half shell. So here I was, years later, with my best gals, my stars and stripes bikini, and a few penis straws just to get us in the bachelorette spirit.

Emily and I were the only singletons on our girls getaway/bachelorette party/happy engagement weekend, with Emily in her usual verge-of-blackout, don’t-be-shocked-if-she-drools state and me coming off a week-long (doctor’s prescribed) pill binge, so accompanied by a slew of engagement rings, we were quite the unapproachable force of women to be reckoned with—or so we thought.

Discounting the eighty-seven year old blind man who proclaimed us to be the best looking group of ladies in the Hamptons that summer as he stumbled out of the Saltwater Grill, we thought we were free and clear of being hit on for the remainder of the weekend. But luckily, for material’s sake, that was far from the case. Apparently, half-conscious girls and diamond rings don’t scare off boys in the Hamptons.

Next came Phil, a twenty-four year old who bought us a round of drinks with his father’s Amex at Dunk Deck, and proceeded to talk our ears off for approximately thirty minutes about how Boy Meets World was the most underrated show of the 1990’s as his father nodded approvingly from across the pool. Emily then proceeded to give Phil a fake number after emptying her glass and we all could only hope we wouldn’t run into him back in the neighborhood—after all, there’s only so much one can discuss if Fred Savage is involved.

After a sloppy Sunday at Boardy Barn, a cab driver named Tiger, and a beer shot-gunning party that rivaled that of a college football team, post-game victory, it was off to The Drift to see the Tin Lizzie vets in action, wearing red, white and blue Spandex from head to toe. It was a sea of Vineyard Vines and Ithaca stripes, with talk of what year they gradated from Cornell and where their shore house was on Dune Road. There wasn't one non-button-up shirt in the house, creating an alarming landscape of pastels and collars.

I had never planned on meeting my uptown prince out East, considering the Hamptons are essentially the drinkers of the Upper East Side transplanted for the summer weekends that fall between Memorial Day and Labor Day, but I knew I was in singles hell when a twenty-something in a pink button-down and khaki pants asked me if I vacationed in Nantucket.

“Do I look like I vacation in Nantucket?” I asked politely as possible, as I motioned to my friends who had just shot-gunned their seventeenth beers of the day in the middle of the bar, which was (proudly) followed up with a College of Wooster-style “boneyard” finish.

I didn’t own an ounce of Khaki, despised Vera Bradley and was disgusted by Lily Pulitzer. I appreciate men who wear t-shirts that fit them properly, rather than Schmediums, and I don’t give a sh*t if you know how to sail a boat or were on your Ivy League school’s rowing team. I want nothing to do with Massachusetts’ vacation towns or the men that frequent them. Again, is that so much to ask in a bar filled with single, good-looking men?

I finally threw in my towel, and my liver, after a nineteen year old asked me if I had kids because I was twenty-eight and lived on the Upper East Side. Have your balls even dropped? I thought to myself as I shook my head at his confused face framed with floppy, verge-of-Bieber hair.

So on that note, happy Hamptons, Upper East Side! Let the summer games begin and congrats to those (a.k.a. my BKM ladies) who never have to worry about playing those games again! And until then for this Sex & the Upper East Side gal, my search for summer love continues…

A Single Girl’s Guide to Summer in the City: Typecasting

2011-06-30T15:10:00.001-04:00

Shore houses, Hamptons shares, street fairs, and sunning in Central Park. Summer in the city is known for many things, but one of my favorites for this sizzling season is the singles scene. So as we bar hop and barbeque our way to September, it’s just as important for us single ladies to know what kind of wolf packs we’re dealing with out there as it is to reapply our SPF 50 every two hours. Drum roll please! Here’s the rundown (a.k.a warning) on which single men of the city to be on the lookout for drinking in bars near you this summer.

The Sugar Fiend
Typically Sugar Fiends can be found populating bars with extensive scotch menus and a wine list that Thomas Jefferson would envy from his grave. These men are either eternal bachelors or divorcees looking for un-Botoxed, childless women that will serve as the “sugar” to their “daddy” role. If you’re looking for a fatherly figure that will sweep you off your feet to East Hampton for a long weekend, given that he is able-bodied enough to still operate a mobile device, give this man your number. But if a few gray hairs and alimony freak you out, focus your sugar on a guy that won’t potentially have a daughter your age.

The Pick-up Artist
Opening lines such as, “Excuse me, I think you have something in your eye. Nope, it's just a sparkle,” or “I was blinded by your beauty so I'm going to need your name and number for insurance reasons,” are blatant warning signs that you’re on the verge of being had by a Pick-up Artist. Their lines sometimes make us laugh, are usually flattering, and can often lead to a free drink or a future date if you’re so inclined to hear the punch line. The Pick-up Artist gets a lot of hate, but his success rates are admittedly much higher than that of a guy who is too shy to do more than smile across the bar. If their line wasn’t offensive and delivered with a cute smile, give a Pick-up Artist some props for his somewhat skewed attempt at gallantry and take him up on his drink offer.

The Gnat
So maybe you had a too few many margaritas, your beer goggles fell off, and in your blinded haze of tequila, salt, and lime you gave a less-than-appealing man your digits. Somehow, ignoring his phone calls and giving and one-word answers to his texts are taken as a sign you’re interested in happy hour next week. The bad news? You’ve got yourself a Gnat. The buzzing won’t stop even with the endless swatting and call ducking you’re doing. The best route here? The truth. Let him know you’re not interested and you apologize for giving the wrong impression. Hey, Cuervo makes us all do crazy things at least one night a summer!

The Danny Zuko
Summer lovin’ can have you a blast with this boy of summer! He’s cute, he’s witty, he loves Golden Retrievers, and looks sexy in swim trunks. You fantasize of walking hand-in-hand through Central Park next fall as the leaves turn and your relationship deepens. But beware if there’s no talk of tailgates for Giants games or any type of future for that matter—you’ve just been Sandy-ed and we can only hope that you’re not wearing black Spandex from head to toe. If you find yourself falling hard for your Danny Zuko, lay it all on the line before you’re singing on the bleachers by yourself come October.

Whatever happens this summer, roll with it, ladies. It wouldn’t be a single summer in the city without a few Danny Zuko’s and Pick-up artists trying to buy us drinks, after all!

Sweet Tooth

2011-06-12T10:05:00.012-04:00

It was a hot, sticky summer night on the Upper East Side and Emily and I were ready for some good old-fashioned Saturday night prowling. After coming off a somewhat desolate, pitiable spring season in terms of all things sex, dating, and love, we wanted to start summer off on the right open-toed, slingback, four-inch heeled feet. In our oh-so-wise opinions this couldn't be too hard considering Emily's spring had consisted of men pissing in her oven and turning up in a bloodied heap on her doorstep at 4:00am, while mine had been so grievously filled with a string of first dates that never made it to second dates or second base, for that matter.

Considering that my most recent first-and-last date had been with a twenty-five year old who made dinner conversation by asking me my favorite color and bitching about his terrible job in real estate finance (yawn), I concluded that perhaps I was focusing on the wrong age range. I had dated plenty of men in the late-twenties to early-thirties age range, and clearly that hadn't panned out seeing that I was dining alone on sushi on a Saturday night contemplating which Upper East Side bars to lurk that evening.

Two salmon-avocado rolls later I concluded that Emily and I needed to take it to the next age range that night. Men in the thirty-five to forty range surely had something to offer, as they were more financially stable and (hopefully) less inclined to dedicate a night out to getting completely blacked out in an effort to find which equally drunk girl they could convince to leave the bar and help them "walk their dog." We didn't need full on sugar daddies here, just something a little closer. I couldn't do the full-on AARP, insulin-toting, arthritic scene no matter how many pairs of Louboutin's and European vacations were promised to me, but I could do with something slightly sweeter in the form of a good-looking, roommate-less, financially stable, physically fit, sarcastically witty, cat-hating thirty-five year old.

I made plans to meet Emily at T-Bar on 74th and Third. With a cocktail menu offering cucumber sake and jalepeno margaritas, I could only hope that the men drinking these fine spirits were not the same ones who drank out of fish bowls at Brother Jimmy's. I saddled up to the bar and began to study the cocktail menu contemplating martini or mojito as I awaited Emily's arrival. As I was trying to get the bartender's attention to order a drink, I quickly took stock of the clientele. Was that an oxygen tank in the corner and a Panama Jack hat atop a fifty-five year old's head? Cheese and rice, there was no way in suffering, purgatory hell that this was going to be our watering hole for the evening.

The bartender had began to saunter in my direction while a gray haired, weathered man in a black button-down that could be from no other catalog but L.L. Bean tried to catch my eye, I pretended that my phone had rang.

"Oh hey, Emily. I have the wrong bar? No way! I'm such an ass. I'll be right there." I conversed with myself as I put down the cocktail menu, grabbed my purse, and headed for the door.

As soon as my little high-heeled feet hit the sidewalk, I placed an actual call to Emily, aborting our T-Bar mission. We decided to relocate our prowling to Baroanda, an oh-so-Euro in feel Italian restaurant that back in the days of The Englishman and The Italian had been a bumpin' spot. What I encountered when I walked in put yesterday's fortune cookie from my fried rice lunch of "The good old days are present too," to sh*t shame with its empty bar and half-filled dining room of couples. No Englishmen, no Italians, no hope.

Since I couldn't walk out of yet another bar within a fifteen minute time span, I slugged down a fourteen dollar glass of Sauvignon Blanc. As soon as Emily arrived and slugged down her fourteen dollar glass of Sauvignon Blanc, we decided to take our mission south of the border to Rosa Mexicano. That plan quickly went to hell in a taco shell when we walked in and were hit with a stench of wet garbage and refried beans. This was no environment for properly drinking and/or picking up men. We quickly hailed a cab and headed to Whiskey Blue on Lex. This would be our final stop of the night, regardless of senior citizened clientele or aromas of rotting burritos--we were far too sober for bar hopping in this haphazard manner.

We traipsed with confidence and thirst into the crowded bar, weaving our way through a group of gentlemen hanging at the bar. Their eyes followed our asses as we stepped up to the bar. They were well dressed and clearly over thirty-five--ok, clearly over forty. As we were about to order, one of the men asked, "Can I buy you ladies a drink?"

Hell yes you can, I thought to myself. I just took eighteen cabs to get here. I smiled as sweetly as I possibly could, studying his face and trying to determine how many years beyond forty he really was. As long as he was more sugar and less daddy, he would do for our first round...

Notches in the Bedpost

2011-05-29T10:55:00.002-04:00

My little social experiment to assess whether the notches in my bedpost were actually just notches or rather grooves of deep-rooted, hidden love got off to a bangin’ start—quite literally. It was a bottle of red, a bottle of white, me, Alejandro, and Mrs. Alejandro who was fresh off the boat from Spain at a cozy French restaurant in the East Village. Mrs. Alejandro was a character straight out of Notting Hill with her hair in a banana clip square on the top of her head and a fondness for date pudding. After we dropped off the slightly tipsy Mrs., it was off to the Upper East Side by way of an inappropriate cab ride that may or may not haunt that cab driver forever. One broken bed later and I knew that Alejandro would never just be another notch in my bedpost—but what about the other men I had dated over my past six years on the Upper East Side? Had I missed my Romeo in a haze of Jameson?

As I sat in my parent’s garage in the dark, locked out after a night of drinking with my college girlfriends, I had a lot to contemplate. Should I go “haute homeless” and sleep in the backseat of one of the cars or get down and dirty Little House on the Prairie-style and call it a night on the tool bench? Were the notches of my date-capades past worth revisiting or should I go back to the Brooks Brother-banker dog and pony show of fresh meat? Or should I just ride it out in a garage and wait for Professor Plum and his lead pipe to come put me out of my misery?

So I put together a list of the past twenty men I had gone on at least one date (or something to that effect) with over my 2,190 days on the Upper East Side. It was an average of 3.33 dates per year, with some of the men being boyfriends of one year plus, some of the men being one-time, never-speak-to-again dates, and the rest being something in between:

20. Alejandro
19. The Young Pup
18. Miggy Fuego
17. J.R. Corduroy
16. Andre from the Corner
15. Johnny the Sake Enthusiast
14. The Fonz
13. Jason
12. Billy Blue
11. The Accountant
10. Benjamin
9. The Trader
8. Jeremy
7. Hershey
6. The Realtor
5. Jimmy Bats
4. The Attorney
3. The Valentine
2. Brady Follows
1. The Englishman

After compiling this very diverse, inter-continental, multi-occupational list, I realized there were quite a few I just couldn’t justify indulging in, even if they were my own sloppy seconds. It was time to check this list twice, Christmas-in-July-style and find out what qualities I really was looking for in a man--and more importantly, qualities that I wanted to steer beyond clear of. Nothing like a little naughty elf-work to start off the summer…

Blasts from the Past

2011-05-15T19:06:00.002-04:00

It’s been a slow spring in all things dating and love for this Sex & the Upper East Sider. Sure, there had been a few dates here and there, and that one notable middle-of-the-bar makeout session with a twenty-six year old last weekend, but Susan Miller (unfortunately) wasn’t lying when she predicted that my May would consist of a lot of couch time—alone.

As it turned out, April dates don’t bring May orgasms. April started with Johnny who was a radiologist by day and a drunk, divorced dad by night that got smashed Samurai-style on our sushi date. I’d never seen sake consumed with such speed and enthusiasm, but he put Asian drunkenness to shame that night after consuming an entire rice paddy’s worth of Uncle Ben’s favorite stuff. Not to mention that he lived in Brooklyn, and as we all know, long distance never works out—my ass isn’t leaving Manhattan for a man who is highly likely to blackout within the first forty-five minutes of our date. That’s just bad sex waiting to happen.

Then there was Andre who picked me up on the corner of 82nd and Third on his way to Pisa Pizza. While I wasn’t sure if being picked up on a street corner was better or worse than being picked up in a bar, Andre did deserve a little street cred for being the first man in 2011 to buy me flowers. But the fact that Andre was slightly man-orexic, didn’t drink, and was in the middle of finalizing his divorce led me to decide that my adoration of food and alcohol, in addition to my predilection for legally single men, wouldn’t exactly mesh with Andre’s current lifestyle. Needless to say, Andre didn’t make it to May.

Then May hit. First, there were the emails from Alejandro. Then came BBM’s from The Realtor, followed by texts from Miggy Fuego and J.R. Corduroy—all blasts from the past. I had been seriously considering taking off the month of May from dating to focus on drinking with my girlfriends and of course, focusing on my couch as Ms. Miller so eruditely suggested, but then I saw the preview for What’s Your Number?, a romantic comedy starring Anna Farris that’s trailer is surely going to be far funnier than the actual movie itself. In the movie, Anna Farris’ character contemplates whether she overlooked her one true love in all of the men she had dated, and as a result, revisits her twenty ex-boyfriends to determine if she had made a wrong choice somewhere along her merry dating way.

There was no intricate storyline or complex characters here, and definitely no Academy Award nominations in the works, but it was food for thought for my little Sex & the Upper East Side world. Suddenly, four men of my last twenty relationships had come out of the woodwork in less than a week’s time. Coincidence or aligning of my astrological moons? There was only one way to find out.

As “they” say (they being a non-existent, ersatz group of allegedly very wise and all-knowing people), everyone deserves a second chance, and as Jean Nidetch once said, “It's choice--not chance--that determines your destiny.”

Although Nidetch was probably talking about making proper food choices in an effort to lose weight considering she is the founder of Weight Watchers, I’m almost positive that her wise words can apply too to my verge-of-pathetic dating life. Perhaps I had made some wrong choices in the past, just like Nidetch’s overweight followers who order Big Mac’s rather than grilled chicken salads with the dressing on the side. And perhaps some of the schmuck’s from my relationships past did deserve a second chance. Maybe I shouldn’t dump someone just because they wear terribly ugly shoes or say “aks” in stead of “ask”. One drink with each couldn’t hurt, right?

Wannabe Slut

2011-04-30T12:44:00.002-04:00

I started off my last article, “Why Men Aren’t Married” with the promise to make a few ridiculous statements, and ended the piece with a pledge to rebuttal any lamentable arguments. Kudos to Anonymous #2, who wrote:

I’m a pussy? How do you know? Listen, men aren’t afraid of commitment. We just learn early in our dating lives that they’re a lot more work. Now I have to concede that sometimes it’s worth it. That goes for both men and women. When we find the right person, it’s all worth it. Or at least that’s what I like to believe. In the meantime, I’ll keep showing women glimpses of sensibility, they’ll keep confusing it for vulnerability, and women like yourself will keeping finding themselves in the morning—dignity in tow-- walking past my dirty bathroom in your hunt for a cab.

Anon #2, was it in your dirty apartment that I left my dignity at? I've been looking for it for weeks now!

But in all seriousness, Anon #2 does make a compelling point that perhaps men just learn earlier (or are more accepting of this fact than women) that dating is work. And perhaps men are wiser for not partaking in unnecessary “work” with women they know are not “the one”—they’re holding off on the mother workload until the right lady comes along. I can’t say I don’t see the validity in avoiding excessive work. And for the record, Anon #2, I rarely sleepover and don’t hook-up with men who lack the courtesy to hail a cab for me.

And while there were some other notable comments with valid points, my favorite came from Anonymous #3, who so eloquently posted:

I randomly came across this website, and was intrigued to read something good given I have alight day at work. No hate, but the writer of this blog is such a wanna be slut. I don't if she cares to even read this comments - but the reason you get dumped by so many kids (from 2 articles I read here) is because you are a complete waste of human skin. Get a life, you will not have the "Sex and the City" people making a show on your crap.

Well, Anon #3, I’d hate to see you on a “heavy” day at work. I can only hope that for your co-workers sake, you did not take out any rage that my latest posting may have caused you on someone for the paper jam in the copier or stapling your PowerPoint presentation on the wrong corner that day.

And yes, I do get dumped, Anon #3. I tend to stay away from dating “kids” as it is somewhat of a legality issue in this country, but I’m a single, twenty-eight year old Manhattanite who happens to like vodka. This means that I go out to bars, often meet men, sometimes exchange numbers, and henceforth go on dates the subsequent weekend. Sometimes these dates lead to relationships that can last anywhere from four weeks to nine months, depending, and sometimes they only lead to just one, single date. This is called dating, and as a result, people get dumped. This is a fact of life, Anon #3, albeit not always a sanguine one, but a fact nonetheless.

And just to clear up any confusion, because I date and sometimes get dumped, I’m a waste of life? Because I have relationships that don’t pan out to a royal wedding in Buckingham Palace with an Alexander McQueen gown, I need a life? Because I may have sex with someone out of wedlock, I’m a wannabe slut? Sounds like hate to me, Anon #3.

I clearly hit a sore spot somewhere with you, Anon #3, but my mother raised me properly, and as a result, I refuse to call someone whom I have never met and couldn’t pick out of a crowd if my “waste of human skin” depended on it, insulting and insolent names. Perhaps you don’t like strong women articulating their opinions, or conceivably, maybe I hit the nail on the head of why one of your past relationships failed. But all’s fair in love and blogging, so I hope your little dirge to Bacchus G’ues made your “light” day at work even lighter—sounds like you may need more than a light day, but what do I know as a wannabe slut, anyways?

And for the record, there's no "wannabe" to slut, but we can cover that lesson another day. Let's stick to the basics of dating for this week...

Why Men Aren't Married

2011-04-16T18:13:00.003-04:00

Last I left it in the world of Sex & the Upper East Side, I was telling writer Tracy McMillan to suck it in response to her article “Why You’re Not Married.” Although I deemed about 97.6% of her reasoning as complete bollywash, I liked her style. She was calling out those pathetic girls who spent their lunch hours online building their own engagement rings the day after they had a second somewhat decent date and then wondered why that phone call for a third date never came.

Now, I’ve decided, it’s my turn to do some calling out and ridiculous statement making on this dreary Saturday on the Upper East Side. So listen up, gentlemen. Enough of this “I haven’t met the one” propaganda or “I’m just not ready to settle down” bullshit. No one wants to die alone. No one wants to grow old a la prunes, Nexium, and The View alone. So stop feeding yourself and your nagging mother these bogus lines. Here are the real reasons why you’re not married:

1. You’re disgusting. College is long over. You haven’t lived with your mother in at least five years (or so I hope). It’s time that you either a) learn how to do dishes, clean toilets, and find out the multiple cleaning capabilities that a Swiffer has to offer; or b) pay someone to do this all for you on a monthly basis. No woman wants to spend the night at an apartment where there is pee on the toilet seat and pubic hairs crusted to the shower wall.

Additionally, no woman wants to spend the rest of her life with a man that cannot even contribute to some household chores, whether it be physically or financially. And if you can’t get a woman to spend the night at your bachelor pad because it’s that disgusting, then you’re most likely not going to get a woman to stay on dishes-piled-high, mold-growing-in-the-bathroom lockdown with you for the next twenty-five years either.

2. You’re needy. Again, girlfriends are not mothers. Girlfriends are also not sous chefs, sex machines, maids, therapists, or entertainers. So yes, when you’ve had a rough day, of course we’ll be there to listen. And sure, we will cook you dinner from time to time. But if its Saturday morning and you’re ready to hit up H & H Bagels and Starbucks and I want to continue to sleep, the solution to this predicament is very simple—go pick up half a dozen bagels, lox spread, and two cups of coffee yourself and bring it home for breakfast in bed.

It’s essential for a man to be able to independently care for himself and be able to fulfill his own needs. You shouldn’t need anyone’s suggestions or guidance to complete simple tasks. You should be able to fill your own Saturday afternoon with errands and entertainment of your own choosing. No one wants a clinger or a helpless child. Women should only have to deal with that when they’re actually raising their own children that they birthed from their own wombs (teachers excluded on this one). So learn how to pay your own bills, drop off your own dry cleaning, socialize in group settings, and utilize Internet porn when necessary.

3. No one wants to have sex with you for the rest of their lives. Maybe it’s because you’re a chain smoker and you have to stop for a breather thirty-five seconds before climax. Maybe it’s because you’re oddly hairy, overweight, or have morning breath worse than a grizzly bear who just gnawed on a dead deer for eight hours. Or maybe you’re just terrible in bed. Use your fingers. Use your tongue. If these concepts are foreign to you, then you better be blowing minds Tommy Gunn-style in the arena of thrusting. Never had a f*ck buddy? Never been drunk dialed for a late night booty call? Well that’s a sure fire sign that you’re probably terrible and/or disgusting in the sack. And with stats like that, a woman dedicating you as the last notch on her bedpost is highly unlikely. Man-scape, brush your teeth, and read some how-to’s.

4. You’re a pussy. You mean to tell me that you’ll never settle down, you’ll never walk down an aisle and exchange vows, you’ll never intentionally procreate, all because you’re afraid of getting hurt? I hate to use the p-word, but it’s really the only word to appropriately convey this point. So you’ve been burned once and it hurt like hell. Maybe you had a breakdown in your boss’s office one day at lunch. Maybe you turned into a stalker for a short period of time after the break-up (yes, restraining orders fall under the stalking category). Maybe you couldn’t get it up for another woman unless you were blackout drunk for a good six months after it was over.

Regardless, that’s no excuse to avoid future serious relationships. The whole tough guy act is, quite frankly, pathetic. You’re not “above” relationships because you’re better than them, because you don’t need a woman, because you like being a bachelor, or because you’re okay with having casual sex for the rest of your sexually-capable life. Be a real man and acknowledge that this little act is actually because you’re a pussy and are afraid to put yourself in a vulnerable position.

5. You don’t have enough money. Out of college and still on the family plan? Couch surfing because you can’t afford to pay rent? Febreezing the hell out of your jeans and suit jackets because dry cleaning is not in the budget? Most women won’t admit it, but money is an important factor when it comes establishing a relationship with a man. Love can only take you so far. If you’re unable to provide for yourself now, how will you provide for her and any unborn children in the future? And how will you be able to afford that ridiculous engagement ring she’s spent three of her lunch hours designing? It’s an ugly truth, but a truth nonetheless. Just throwing it out there…

So there it is, gents. Read ‘em and weep. And you can fight me on them, but the truth of the matter is that I will probably rebuttal the hell out of your lamentable arguments.

Why I'm Not Married

2011-03-31T09:55:00.005-04:00

Considering I had just spent almost an entire year of my life dating a man who, when I asked for his help one Saturday afternoon during an allergic reaction where my breathing became irregular due to the closing of my airways, told me to call someone who lived closer as he had his own problems to deal with, I knew it was for real over this time around (in addition to the other thirty-seven failed attempts). I was done giving, and certainly done letting him take pieces of my heart here, and there, and oh, over there too whenever he damn well pleased. There was no question that I would ever again entertain a relationship with a man who wasn’t willing to hop in a cab from a few zip codes away to hold my hand while the Benadryl kicked in and I realized I wasn’t going to die alone in my apartment like the cat lady who talked herself to sleep every night in apartment six.

So when a coworker sent me an article titled “Why You’re Not Married” written by TV writer Tracy McMillan, I turned around from my desk and said, “Do I even need to read this? I think we all know that I’m not married because I choose to have relationships with people who would take my death over missing the second half of a Tottenham soccer match.”

All of us have friends, sisters, coworkers, etc. who are borderline obsessed with finding husbands, fixated on having a ring on their finger before the age of thirty, as if it’s some sort of precondition to living the rest of your life. From age five they know the exact cut of the diamond on their engagement ring, what kind of flowers will comprise their centerpieces, what font their invitations will be printed in, the list goes on with monotony. But I had never been one to obsess over weddings and just thinking about seating arrangements and all that “something borrowed, something blue” bullshit was enough to make me want to projectile vomit wedding cake everywhere.

Nonetheless, the truth of the matter was that I too eventually wanted to get married. I would be lying if I said I didn’t, full of complete malarkey if I swore that I was an independent woman who didn’t need (or want) some crapshoot of an institution to make me feel like a contributing member of society. And maybe, just maybe, that was one of the reasons I had dealt with Alejandro’s joke of an effort for so long. Foolish of me? Yes. But atypical of a woman in her late twenties who has invested both time and deep-felt emotions into a relationship? Absolutely not.

I clearly wasn’t married because I hadn’t found the right man to settle down with, but there were probably a number of other reasons as well, in which I decided were in my best interest to explore since I was once again ready to pound the single gal pavement. In her article, McMillan laid out six key reasons as to why the unmarried woman reading her article was not yet married: 1) you’re a bitch; 2) you’re shallow; 3) you’re a slut; 4) you’re a liar; 5) you’re selfish; and 6) you’re not good enough.

Well suck me sideways and call me Sally, I thought to myself. I wasn’t about to take McMillian’s theories to the grave as gospel, but I was damn well woman enough to admit that I fell into a few of the above-named categories. Could I be a bitch? Umm, I’m a New York Aquarian who refuses to deal with incompetent cab drivers and straight men who order Cosmopolitans when I’m behind the bar—hardly abnormal “bitch” circumstances if you ask me. Cab drivers who don’t know how to get on the FDR North from 82nd Street more than deserve a verbal licking peppered with F-bombs just the same as non-tipping, Cosmo-slurping men deserve to be publicly embarrassed for both their drink choice and cheapness. Does that make me un-marriable? NO! (Yes, grammar Nazis—I made that word up).

Had I stopped seeing a man because I hated his shoes or the fact that he wore corduroys every day of his life? Yes, check that shallow box. Had I had one night stands and booty calls? Story of my early twenties—and guess what? I’m totally ok with it. Ahhh the liar thing—yep told a few of those in my days, both to the men I was dating and even more destructively, to myself. And in terms of the whole selfish jazz, well, according to Alejandro I was the most selfish person this side of Fifth Avenue, but if being selfish means cooking your loved one dinner, staying in unheated apartments in the dead of winter just to be next to them, and leaving flowers, candy, and DVD’s just to brighten a day here and there, then I’d love me a selfish East Sider.

And lastly, the old “not good enough” mindset is an obstacle we all encounter whether we’re feeling fat one day or can’t imagine that the Ryan Gosling look-a-like that lives down the hall would ever give you a shot in hell unless he was thirteen shots deep in Cuervo. We can’t all be 100% confident all of the time. Feelings of inadequacy, as well as the five other premises McMillan addressed, are not actually reasons I’m not married, my coworkers aren’t married, or my college girlfriends aren’t married—they’re the things that make us all human. No one’s character is flawless and whether you have one, or all six, of McMillan’s “Why You’re Not Married” prongs doesn’t take you out of the running as marriage material. They simply make you a completely normal, single woman dating and living in the twenty-first century. Eventually, a man will come along who accepts these so-called flaws, but to him they won’t be deal breakers—they will be the imperfections that make you you.

So while I wait for some African prince to come and sweep me off my feet on the corner of 82nd Street, I’m staying me. Suck it, McMillan.

Old Habits Die Hard

2011-03-20T15:01:00.002-04:00

Alfonso never called when I returned from Vegas, but Alejandro did. With my shattered dreams of 82nd Street happiness with The Fonz so quickly flushed down a York Avenue sewer, Alejandro’s phone call had come at an opportune time for him, when I was vulnerable, dateless, and desperately seeking someone to rip my clothes off. I knew women who had gone six months or more without sex—for me, that was not an option.

One night couldn’t hurt, right? Everyone needs a slump-breaker, right? A little meaningless sex never hurt before, with say, someone like The Realtor, so I would just slap a “meaningless” label right on Alejandro this time around and call it a f*ck.

We scheduled a day and a time to meet for dinner, but when that day finally rolled around, the hunger I had was not for a strip steak with a glass of Cabernet. So I texted Alejandro that we’d be skipping dinner and I’d see him at his apartment by 6:30pm.

I let myself into his apartment (since I still had his goddamn key) to find him standing there in the very same suit I had met him in, going through his mail. I walked over to him, not even bothering to say hello, pulled him to me, and the rest was history. I came to tangled in his bed sheets, my stockings still on my right leg. I had to get out of there before any talks of feelings, emotions, and where we went wrong this past time (as well as the thirty-three other attempts) in sustaining a somewhat normal, working relationship.

I quickly gathered my clothes that were strewn about Alejandro’s apartment while he took his usual post-coital shower. When he emerged from the bathroom, I was fully clothed, coat buttoned, ready to make my exit.

“You can’t stay? Do you want to order dinner?” he asked as I reached for my handbag and checked my BlackBerry.

“You know how I roll, Alejandro. The old bump-and-run!” I smiled as I kissed him goodbye and headed for his front door.

“You know, we should probably go to dinner and actually talk about everything,” he called after me.

I laughed to myself and rolled my eyes as I opened the door to leave. “Yeah, ok, sounds good,” I obligingly replied. We both knew our “talks” never got us anywhere—they either led us to his bed or with me storming out of his apartment and defriending him on Facebook on my cab ride home as I fled back to the Upper East Side in a rage.

We eventually fell back into our old routines, and suddenly I was being introduced and referred to as his girlfriend once again. But old habits die hard, and when Vladimir came into town for a fifteen day visit (most likely to attend some sniper convention or check in on his enriched uranium that was stashed somewhere in Alejandro’s apartment), as usual, I was sent to the back burner.

For the first five days of Vladimir’s visit, I didn’t even receive a phone call. I would get an occasional one line email or text every so often assuring me that they were still alive after yet another night of binge drinking, chain smoking, and pool playing in their leather jackets from bar to bar in Murray Hill.

By Day Six, I was fed up. I too had a leather jacket and loved vodka and AK-47’s. So when I expressed my distaste for being ignored by way of a snarky text message to Alejandro, it was not well received by its intended audience. Our textual conversation led to a phone call where I was scolded in a tone that my own father would never even use with me, not even after I was caught smoking a “doobie” my sophomore year of high school.

“Bacchus, I really don’t have time text you back and forth for twenty minutes. We’re late leaving for the bar and I had a long day at work,” he snidely retorted with irritation and infuriation dripping from his voice.

F*cking wanker! I thought to myself as my jaw dropped in shock at both the hurtful tone and beyond rude words he had just had the cajones to say to someone he allegedly cared about. And then the bastard hung up on me. I stared at the phone in disbelief. It was time for me to grow some cajones myself so I hit redial and waited for him to pick up, which only took seven and a half rings.

“Listen Alejandro, the way you just spoke to me was really hurtful. I’m upset,” I said, trying not to let my voice crack and/or throw my phone across the room.

“And I just told you I don’t have time for this. We’re walking out the door right now. I have to go,” and again he hung up. I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or make copies of his apartment keys for every homeless person from here to 35th Street.

The old idiom “Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me,” sprung to mind—but who exactly did the shame go to for times three through forty-three? It was pretty clear that I had to kick my Alejandro habit once and for all, but at this point he probably wouldn’t even notice if I broke free. Could you volunteer for that Intervention show? Or did meth or the big H have to be incorporated into your foolish, foolish life to qualify for air time?

If only Jimmy Bats didn’t have a damn girlfriend, I would never have needed this pitiful habit…

Lab Geeks & Escarole Freaks

2011-03-07T20:42:00.007-05:00

The next morning I woke up slightly hungover from my over-indulgence of Black Russians and good old-fashioned dice rolling at the craps table from the night before. I was three hundred dollars richer and had a sexy science teacher waiting for me back in Manhattan, so a little cotton mouth and nausea didn’t faze me one bit (well, for the first five minutes).

As if the bags under my eyes weren’t a dead giveaway, I wolfed down a slice of pizza and a Diet Coke for breakfast to cure the hangover that I totally didn’t have (because why would I have one in a professional setting on a business trip, right?). I chatted with my co-workers about who got too inebriated at dinner the night before (sadly, I wasn’t even in the running), who acted like a real bitch (surprisingly, I wasn’t in the running), and about how the new receptionist was quickly climbing the corporate ladder a la a tight mini skirt and a boss’s open-door/open-pants policy (again, not in the running, but I may have considered this category if said boss didn’t have daughters older than I—the economy is still sh*t, after all).

My right hand counterpart in all things handbags, hot yoga, and wine, Teeny Baggolini, helped me put the finishing touches on my text message back to The Fonz:

Hey Alfonso! It’s Bacchus. Thanks for the call yesterday. I’m out in Vegas for work, but I’d love to meet up when I get back.

So it wasn’t my most profound or witty of texts, but in my vodka withdrawal/post-pizza haze, it was the best my little fingers could type out at that stage in the morning. The Fonz’s reply was simple, to the point, and of course incorporated science (well, sort of):

Hey. Cool. That sounds great. Enjoying the heat?

He’s such a little scientist, I thought to myself as I shook my head and chuckled.

And I knew that deep down The Fonz was probably way more profound and witty, but he was no doubt far too busy building one of those volcanoes that erupts with baking soda or preaching about barometric pressure or something, so there was no way I could hold his complete lackluster, lab geek response against him.

As it turned out, I wasn’t the only gal in Vegas getting asked out on a date from the East Coast. By 10:30am, Teeny had received a date inquiry by way of The Book (jury still out on this method, folks):

Hey Teeny, nice re-meeting you the other day. I was getting over being sick and was trying not relapse/spread the germ love.

Pause. Ummm, really? I felt awkward just reading it. What exactly is germ love? I could only hope it wasn’t something that had made its way to the Upper East Side. Un-pause:

I have a whole free range chicken in the fridge and a head of escarole waiting to be chopped into a salad, but my roommates are all out of town. You interested in a home cooked meal?

“Where the eff did you pick up this germ-loving, escarole chopping, free-range freak from?” I asked with concern. Suddenly, Alfonso’s humdrum reply wasn’t so bad.

“A house party in Brooklyn,” Teeny replied with apprehension while frowning at her phone.

“What did I tell you about picking up men in Brooklyn?” I scolded as I shook my finger at her.

But before I went off on hipsters from Brooklyn who thought they were cooler than the rest of New York society for absolutely no reason other than the fact that they wear dirty jeans, tight t-shirts, and find out about really cool music way before everyone else, I realized that maybe Facebook Free-Range Freddy wasn’t as bad as we so speedily set him out to be.

Here was a guy, that even in his deepest of germ-ed out fogs, put himself out there, took a chance on a girl he just “re-met”, took a chance that Teeny wasn’t the vegetarian she was, and offered to make the girl dinner. Lord knew that not-a-one in any of the five burroughs had ever offered to cook me an entire bird.

So here’s to men with balls and chickens in their freezers. And for any men out there without a Teeny to cook for, I’ve got both an open mind and an open stomach…and on a good night other things could open up as well (vodka highly suggested, but not necessarily required).

Playing the Field

2011-02-28T09:23:00.004-05:00

After six too many Magners on ice at Southern Hospitality, Alfonso’s package seemed all things Grade-A. He was a junior high science teacher, originally from Upstate, lived on my very same street, loved trivia, and hated cats. I couldn’t help but envision a Trivia Tuesday at Mad River here or burritos at Blockhead’s there with The Fonz in our oh-so-fairy-taled future, for us to happily frolic arm-in-arm home to our happy little Upper East Side block. Screw cabs to Murray Hill.

The night wore on and our speech got more slurred, our vision more blurred. Alfonso and his sidekick were the first to throw in their drinking towels, but before they settled up their tab, Alfonso asked for my digits.

“So do you think I could have your number? I’d love to grab a drink sometime.” The Fonz asked with his little glint of Zac Efron eyes.

I hadn’t given out my number for this purpose in quite some time (aside from when I gave out fake numbers to blind drunk, under-tipping twenty-two year olds when I was behind the bar trying to hustle for a few George Washington’s). Still reeling on my I-don’t-need-no-Euro high from earlier in the week and Cee Lo Green’s “F*ck You” appropriately playing in the background, I continued my leap of faith and gave the man my number. Why the hell not see if The Fonz’s Grade-A package could turn into an Easy A?

After Alfonso was safely out of earshot, Emily, Annie Smalls, and Jenny Saurs all gave their approvals, with Emily slurring, “Oh yes, Bacchus. I like him. Let’s do a shot.”

Perhaps my friends were just trying to provide me with some much-needed support after my eleventh fallout with Alejandro or perhaps Alfonso would prove to be a good bar-side snag, but either way, I stumbled home with a certainty in my step that I could get over Alejandro once and for all.

I didn’t hear from Alfonso for the rest of the weekend, not even a nice-to-meet-you text the next morning. By Saturday I was frowning at my phone, checking for reception and restarting it several times. I didn’t expect him to take me out a mere twenty-four hours later, but some sort of signal-of-life/I-can’t-wait-to-meet-for-a-drink message would have been nice. But perhaps I was out of practice on this whole dating scene from being wrapped up in my world of Alejandro for the past nine months.

But all things Alfonso and thoughts I tried so hard not to have of Alejandro had to but put to the back burner as I headed off to Las Vegas for work. I spent my Valentine’s Day with two co-workers and George the bartender at The Cosmopolitan and unfortunately for me, my Ketel One on the rocks with jalapeno-stuffed olives was as dirty as my Hallmark holiday of love got.

But then, as luck would have, the vodka gods were looking down on me. My cell phone rang and an unknown number popped up onto the screen. Could it be The Fonz? Or was it just one of my buyers cancelling an appointment for the following day? I hit ignore and hoped for the best.

Hey Bacchus, how’s it going? It’s Alfonso, umm, from the other night. Just calling to say hello and see if you wanted to get together this week. Umm, ok, well hope you’re well and talk to you soon. Ok…bye.

Suddenly “You Make My Dreams” by Hall & Oates was playing in my personal background, just like in 500 Days of Summer. I was filled with joy and hope that good, dateable guys did actually exist on the Upper East Side and I took it straight to the craps table.

After a hot winning streak, I cashed in my chips for the few hundo I had won and called it a night. In the morning I would carefully draft my reply to The Fonz, but in the meantime, cheers to playing the field on the tables in Vegas and in bars on the Upper East Side…

A Leap of Faith and a Cardigan

2011-02-12T17:00:00.002-05:00

In terms of all things love (and sex), I started 2011 on a slow (and sexless) foot. But as fate and hormones would have it, Alejandro and I couldn’t stay away from each other any longer. I had received multiple phone calls, texts, and BBM’s from him and had managed to stay strong since our one heated night back in December until this cold winter’s night. I finally agreed to see him at one of the apartment complexes he was selling on 82nd Street after an open house.

As we sat in the beautifully furnished, two bedroom apartment on the fourth floor that my fashion industry-salaried ass could only dream of living a non-rental life in, we stared at each other in between small talk of fashion week and the real estate market.

And then, just as I had expected, Alejandro turned the conversation serious as he confessed, “Bacchus, I miss you so much. I want us to make this work and give us another shot.”

It was a conversation we had had at least three times, but the strength I had once had just a few short weeks back uncontrollably dissipated. Over the next few weeks, we fell back into our old routines of Saturday night movies, I Shouldn’t Be Alive marathons, and weeknight “home-cooked” dinners a la Alejandro’s freezer. Eventually, I got that key to his apartment back—and even a drawer and a few hangers in his closet this time around so I would no longer have to do the “eat, bang, and run” routine on work nights.

Something was missing from our somewhat domesticated lifestyle, but I couldn’t put my finger on what exactly it was until one night after a long day at work and an even longer hot Vinyasa class. As I sauntered over to his apartment (as was always the case), sweaty, stressed, and downright exhausted, I texted him to inquire about our evening’s dinner plans. His reply was not one that impressed me.

I already cooked dinner for myself. Just got done eating.

I don’t know if it was from severe dehydration after sweating in a room over one hundred degrees for an hour or the stresses or work, but this answer was not acceptable to me. As I stood in line at Subway to get my own dinner since Alejandro had so selfishly forgotten to cook me any dinner or even wait for me to get home to dine with, I realized what was missing and why I was frustrated during round 343 of Alejandro and I’s go at some sort of a proper relationship—I was merely an afterthought to the man.

When I arrived to his apartment with my footlong and bad attitude, I knew something of epic proportions may go down. My birthday was coming up and I would be spending it in Dallas for work, but I had yet to hear about any spectacular, thoughtful birthday plans from Alejandro before I departed for the Dirty South. So when I asked Alejandro what his weekend plans were and his reply of a boys night out and an eight-hour real estate class did not meet those spectacular birthday plans I was hoping that he was planning on surprising me with, I realized he hadn’t even remembered my birthday or business trip because it wasn’t something that involved him.

I was done being an afterthought, a girlfriend of convenience. I wanted a boyfriend who would wait an additional twenty minutes for me to arrive home to eat, no matter how hungry he was; a boyfriend who would cook enough for two; and a boyfriend who would remember my freaking birthday. So I grabbed an empty Trader Joe’s bag, emptied out my drawer, slid my clothes off their hangers, and packed up every single item I owned that was in Alejandro’s apartment right down to the used razor on the ledge of his shower.

“Am I ever going to see you again?” he asked as I headed for the door. But there was nothing left for me to say that I hadn’t said a dozen times before, so I simply walked out.

As I headed out of his apartment building to hail a cab and return to my Upper East Side life that I had left behind in Murray Hill for far too long, the Trader Joe’s bag filled with my work clothes and hair dryer of course broke, its contents spilling everywhere.

F*cking Trader Joe hippies can’t even make a proper f*cking paper grocery bag.

I could have easily thrown in the towel and headed back upstairs to Alejandro for another bag and another conversation regarding our ever-failing relationship, but it was time for me to make that jump once and for all. So I scooped up my belongings, stuffed what would fit into my purse, and hailed a cab to head to uptown without shedding one tear.

The following night as I waited for Emily, Jenny Saurs, and Annie Smalls to meet me at Southern Hospitality for a celebratory I-don’t-need-no-man drink, I found an open seat at the bar. I turned to the man next to it to ask if it was free and I found a Zac Efron look alike sipping on a Stella.

“I like your shirt,” he commented as he looked me up and down. I looked down at the smoking skull on my tee with glee, thanking the Upper East Side gods for placing this little hot number next to me (and that I had pulled this shirt out of my dirty laundry in a last minute wardrobe change).

“I like your cardigan,” I replied, smiling. Yes, he was wearing a cardigan—but in a Mr. Rogers-meets-hipster/I’m-not-afraid-to-rock-geriatric-clothing kind of way that was damn sexy.

“My name’s Alfonso. You come here often?” he asked as he extended his hand.

Now, now I do, Fonz. Bottoms up to leaps of faith and cardigans…

Health, Happiness & Hangovers in 2011

2011-01-16T12:50:00.006-05:00

Unfortunately for me, 2011 did not start out with a bang. Instead I spent my New Year’s Eve behind the bar at Saloon with half-conscious twenty-one year olds tipping on every other drink all the while trying to stuff one dollar bills down my shirt in an effort to bribe me to kiss them when the ball dropped. Unfortunately for them, I was not in the hooking and/or pedophiliac mode and I therefore remained un-kissed (and thankfully, un-fondled) at the strike of twelve.

It turns out I wasn’t the only one who started 2011 off with inappropriate men. As Emily and I sat at the Stumble Inn and recounted the year past, she decided to recount her weekend past as well. Her on-again/off-again lover of the past two years, Bucky Badgerstein, had graced her with his belligerently drunk presence at 3:00am on Saturday—the same Bucky Badgerstein who she professed her undying lust for one drunken night by texting “I want your hard dick…in my soul.”

As seventeen too many Spotted Cows would have it, Bucky and Emily got down and dirty that night as Bucky whispered not-so-sweet nothings in Emily’s ear—so not-so-sweet that it can’t even be recounted in a blog about sex. Post-coital, Bucky decided it was time for a restroom break. He arose from a tangled pile of blankets in his beer-bellied haze to stumble to the bathroom. A half-asleep Emily suddenly heard a ruckus in the kitchen—could it be elves coming to bake her favorite cinnamon rolls to cure her morning hangover? Or perhaps her roommate making late-night Stouffer’s lasagna? She heard the oven door open, but no clanking of pots of pans, no whirring of a hand blender preparing the cream cheese frosting—only a solid stream of liquid hitting a baking rack.

Emily heard the oven door close and then nothing. Bucky never made it back to her bed. Instead, Emily found him stark naked in the fetal position on her couch, shivering and slurring his way to Sunday morning. She walked over to her stove to find it on at a cool 425 degrees as she later found out “to burn the germs off.”

As Emily and I sat at the bar, laughing at the ridiculousness of the men that we put up with, Brady Follows (aka The Hebrew Hammer) and Pepsi Wankerstein sauntered up to the bar to say hello, two whiskey-Coke loving fellows from our old school days of blacking out at Mad River.

“Hey Bacchus, remember when you came over to my apartment and drank nine bloody Mary’s and smoked a pack of Marlboro Menthol Lights out my kitchen window?” Brady recounted from years past.

I sat at the bar perplexed with my chin resting on my hand as I sipped my Magner’s on ice. “I don’t remember, but it sounds about right,” I replied with puzzlement.

“And then we watched the season finale of So You Think You Can Dance,” he elaborated. Well if that doesn’t sound like one of my creepier nights, I don’t know what does.

I was racking my brain, but the memory was just not there. God only knew what else I didn’t remember, which I decided was probably for the best based on this small snippet of a story.

“Yeah, not ringing a bell. But I do remember when your dad walked in and found us passed out on your bed and I mistook him for Carlos, the bar back from Mad River. And then I had to borrow your t-shirt that had “Super Sexy” written in red velvet on the front. That was a damn good t-shirt.” I recalled as I also silently recalled how months later The Attorney eventually adopted that shirt, unknowingly that it was from a night I spent with another man. “And if it makes you feel any better, I don’t remember 85% of college.”

“Yeah, I don’t think my Jewish father with white hair appreciated being confused with a 5’ 4” Hispanic man from south of the border,” Brady chuckled. “And no, that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

As we laughed on, Pepsi brooded in the background, obsessively checking his BlackBerry.

“What’s his deal tonight?” I asked, nodding toward the sulking Pepsi.

“He’s agonizing over his long-distance relationship with a Swiss chick he picked up on Euro night at Tin Lizzie. They communicate via Facebook now that her semester abroad has ended,” Brady explained.

“Well if that doesn’t make for a lasting relationship, I don’t know what does,” I declared as Brady, Emily, and I clanked our glasses together for a cheers.

Keep drinking, Upper East Side—it can only get better (and fuzzier) from here. Here’s to health, happiness, and hangovers in 2011…

Goodbye 2010

2010-12-30T21:09:00.001-05:00

Unsurprisingly, my meeting with Alejandro did not go as planned. When I walked into the bar, there he sat with a vodka and coke, in a light blue button down with those bright blue eyes and his dark wavy hair at just the length I liked. The knot in my stomach grew as I took a deep breath and pulled up a bar stool next to him. We held the old obligatory cordial conversation routine of how have you beens and what’s news that were required to be asked, but in reality, the questions’ answers were immaterial. I didn’t care that he had scored a hat-trick at soccer on Tuesday night and my story of falling on a patch of black ice outside of Mad River after a few too many glasses of wine at trivia night was completely irrelevant as to why we were now uncomfortably sitting at a bar with a bag of my belongings between us.

The conversation quickly turned when Alejandro addressed our break, “I’ve really missed you, Bacchus. But when I said I needed a break, some time to sort things out, I didn’t mean a full on break up as you so eloquently wrote about.”

“Well I don’t do breaks, Alejandro. You’re either with me or you’re not,” I replied with my voice cracking, willing the tears that had welled up in my eyes to magically evaporate just as quickly as they had sprung.

“Why does everything have to be so black and white with you? There’s never any room for a little bit of grey. I just needed some time.” Ironically, Pearl Jam’s “Better Man” was playing in the background.

I excused myself and went into the bathroom before a public emotional breakdown could ensue. I wasn’t about to be that sad, pathetic girl crying in her beer, slightly hyperventilating with snot running out her nose—that move was so 2009.

I looked in the mirror and took a few deep breaths, wondering when this rollercoaster ride of love with Alejandro would end—or would it? Maybe he was right, maybe a little grey now and then was ok. But I had never been one for grey.

I returned to my seat and faced him, unsure of what to say next. Alejandro grabbed my hand and looked me in the eyes, “You know I care about you, Bacchus.”

I held his hand tight and didn’t want to let go. Our hand holding turned into a hug, the hug into a kiss, and the kiss into another, and another, and another. One thing that was for certain is that I was grey about whether all of this was wrong or right—it felt so right in the moment, but any outsider looking in would have said, what a fool that girl is, she better be blind drunk with an IV of Jameson straight to her liver.

Before I knew it, we were heading out the door and south on Third Avenue, Alejandro’s one hand carrying my bag of belongings, his other squeezing my hand tight, leading me back to his apartment, back to where this whole ride of ups, downs, and spinning around and around had started. And if you’re confused about what happened next, I hope you’re extremely high on salvia.

As I spent a week in Ohio for the holidays, everyone wanted to know if I had in fact gotten my stuff back from Alejandro, were we still together? I smiled and nodded, telling my grandmother, my uncle, Cakes, Chico, La Bamba, Rulalenska, St. Nick, and hell, even the waitress at Coccia House that everything was great. But deep down I knew it was still a situation of grey—except it was a shade of grey I was now willing to accept, whether right, wrong, un-black, un-white, or just plain foolish.

When my flight back to New York was cancelled due to the Blizzard of 2010, I was forced to rent a car and drive back to the city unless I wanted to stay in Ohio until March of 2011 (not an option as much as I love sledding off the back of a tractor and drinking Jack Daniels before noon). So it was me, a white 2010 Nissan Versa, 479.2 miles of open road, and eight hours of country music to reflect on the past year. So thank you Kenny, Tim, Taylor, Carrie, and even you too, you oldster Reba—you’ve soothed my soul with all the twang an Ohio girl could ask for under severe highway hypnosis.

And what a year 2010 has been in love, hangovers, and that brief quarter life crisis. So goodbye 2010 and goodbye to the bullshit of Billy Blue; goodbye to drooling, farting, snoring Jason who wanted to be “held like a baby” and left behind his sweaty socks as a parting gift; goodbye to Yankee Jim who so gracelessly tried to recreate the hallway scene from Unfaithful; goodbye to Guitar Jim who may or may not have cheated on his girlfriend had he had one more shot of chilled Stoli O; and lastly, goodbye to Jimmy Bats (sigh), the one who got away—ok, the one I could never have. And as for Alejandro, it wasn’t quite time to say adios just yet.

Who knows what 2011 will bring in all things love, but here’s to a new year of sex and hangovers on the Upper East Side!

The Un-Perfect Match

2010-12-12T13:56:00.003-05:00

Chilled Stoli O shots paired with Ricky Roche’s live music at Tin Lizzie the night prior had left me less than calm, cool, and collected as I prepared for my “neutral” meeting with Alejandro. Rather, I was experiencing the next-day-shakes as I sweated out vodka and tried to cover up the bags under my eyes with my two-year-old Chantecaille concealer. I was less than prepared and could have used at least ninety minutes more sleep, but it was time to end this Alejandro love rollercoaster once and for all.

Before heading out the door, I sat down at the island in my kitchen to have a cup of much-needed detoxifying green tea and do a little Facebook stalking in an effort to calm my nerves. As I was perusing my 1,351 “Friends'” most recent status updates, a glint of something black and shiny caught my eye. In the middle of my pile of junk mail and irrelevant documents (including my Social Security statement which would be null and void thirty years from now) was my black patent Claire’s Boutique wallet from high school that my Dad had come across in our basement when digging out the Christmas decorations over Thanksgiving.

Aside from the Subway Club card, the only other interesting thing of note in my old wallet was my high school boyfriend’s senior picture. Even more noteworthy than the fact that he looked about fourteen (which, in turn, made me feel like somewhat of a pedophile) was the note he had written on the back of the photo.

My clumsy, ticklish, cute, cuddly Bacchus. I’ll never forget our first date at Jenny’s house where I puked and passed out, yet you still wanted to go out with me.

Christ, I knew how to pick ‘em even back then. Well, at least I’m consistent, I thought to myself as I read on.

How could I ever say no to you, considering you are the perfect match for me. I’ll never forget you or the million memories we have. Love, Jameson

I smiled to myself as I put the photo back into my wallet. How easy dating was back then. You told your friends who you had a crush on, then they told your crush’s friends, then your crush’s friends told your crush, and before you knew it, you were skipping school to lose your virginity in a less-than-romantic setting with a more-than-awkward sequence of fumbling, grabbing, grasping, and heavy breathing that lasted, at most, twenty-five seconds.

For a good two years Jameson and I were the perfect match for each other, in a world where your biggest concern was making sure your hair was perfectly curled for the Friday night football game and who’s parents would be out of town for Homecoming weekend. Thoughts and stress of work, renewing apartment leases, health insurance, and 401k’s never crossed our minds—how could they with the impending stress of prom, college applications, and getting caught drinking the weekend before summer began?

The simple words on the back of a picture, written almost ten years ago, put into perspective the lack of perfect matches in my life. If Alejandro had been the perfect match for me, I wouldn’t be heading to The Black Sheep in Murray Hill, our “neutral” location, to have our final talk. I suddenly had a knot in my stomach, in addition to the nausea I had had since waking up that morning.

As I got out of the cab, lost in my thoughts of how to make this talk as quick and painless as possible, I was suddenly jarred to the present as a passerby going in the opposite direction rammed directly into my left shoulder.

Jesus, people’s sidewalk manners in this neighborhood are atrocious, I thought to myself as I made a vow to not come back to Murray Hill until 2011.

“Oh, excuse me,” the passerby mumbled as he turned around to acknowledge that we were simply walking down a sidewalk rather than engaging in a game of rugby in the middle of Third Avenue. I bit my tongue to hold back the rude remark I would have loved to fire back at the violent sidewalk walker. I looked up as I went to formulate a more socially acceptable response to find The Realtor grinning at me, ear to ear.

“You asshole. Learn how to walk.” I replied as I punched him in his left shoulder. I was completely unsurprised that of all days, of all neighborhoods, in front of all the bars in Manhattan, I would run into this ex-lover as I was on my way to meet an ex-boyfriend. If this was a sign from God, I supposed that I better take it.

“What are you doing down here, anyways?” he asked. I looked back and forth, hoping Alejandro was already inside, as I really didn’t need to be making any awkward introductions in my hungover, emotionally vulnerable state.

“Oh, I know why you’re here,” The Realtor replied knowingly before I could answer. “I forgot he lived in this neighborhood.”

“I’m just getting the rest of my stuff,” I justified and turned to walk into the bar.

“I expect a call later tonight—unless of course, he conveniently forgets to bring your stuff,” he laughed in jest as I gave him the finger and opened the door to the bar. One non-perfect match down for the night, one more to go…

Ex-pired

2010-11-29T21:04:00.005-05:00

Unsurprisingly, Alejandro never called the next day to have our “talk” that he had promised we would have regarding the “break” he decided we were going on the night before. I laid in bed, watching my phone, willing it to ring, in a hungover haze of Jameson and Café Patron from the night before, never having felt more dejected and discarded, feeling more and more like the butt of those Marlboro Lights that Alejandro was always smoking.

Six months of dating and he couldn’t even take five minutes out of his day to do the respectful thing? I thought to myself as I shook my head, which ferociously pounded in response.

It wasn’t as if we had been together just a few short weeks—it had been half of a year for Christ’s sake and for this Sex & the Upper East Sider, that was no interval of fidelity to be taken lightly. Shame on Alejandro for so easily disregarding me and shame on me for not seeing through his bullshit sooner.

After cursing out my laptop for not picking up a wireless signal strong enough to stream the Damages episode next in my queue on Netflix, I decided that it was time to stop feeling sorry for myself. I got out of bed, threw on my gym clothes, and booked a ticket to L.A. to visit my best friend for the following weekend. This “break” wasn’t anything a little yoga, Chelsea Handler, and the Hollywood Hills couldn’t fix.

I came back from L.A. reinvigorated and rested, ready to take back the Upper East Side by storm. I don’t know if it was the magical touch of Chuy’s tiny midget hand or the inhalation of a new smog, but Alejandro was old news in my little black book by the time my plane touched down on that LaGuardia tarmac—that is, until I recalled that I still had to pick up the rest of my belongings from his apartment.

As I was behind the bar during a slow shift, I mustered up a little mettle and texted Alejandro to see when I could stop by for my stuff. As I hit send, I heard two customers rustle up to the bar and I looked up only to find Billy Blue and his sidekick, Abu. I rolled my eyes and shook my head, but had to smile.

“And what brings you to this fine establishment today, gentlemen?” I derisively asked.

“Well, you can always count on a good Irishman, can’t you?” Billy answered with matched derisiveness, grinning ear to ear, mocking my last article’s ending note.

“I think what Billy meant to ask was, are you going to give him another shot? And if the answer is no, are you ready to give me a shot?” Abu piped in as I opened two bottles of Coors Light. Billy and I both ignored Abu.

“Bacchus, do you know what today marks?” Billy asked and I inquisitively shook my head no, waiting for some sort of dramatic reply. “It’s the one year anniversary of my sister’s wedding. Didn’t we have such a wonderful time?”

“Well I sure as hell hope she and her husband last longer than we did and that he doesn’t have eight different girls on the side, as you did.” I quickly replied looking him square in the face with my eyebrows raised as I handed him and Abu their tab.

Billy handed me his credit and explained, “You see, Bacchus, I’m very much like this credit card. I’m willing to give you my credit card number, the name on the card, even the expiration date. But I never give up that three digit security code on the back. And from what I’ve read, it sounds like you should stop giving out your security code…because that’s when you become the victim of fraud.”

Jesus, where do I find these freaks? I asked myself. I’ve got to stop picking up men in bars—especially men from the continent of Europe.

I took the card from Billy, processing his somewhat ridiculous analogy. But as Billy and Abu headed out the door, on to the next bar, and on to torture the next bartender, I realized Ole Blue just might be onto something, after all. Maybe I had too easily given up my “security code” to Alejandro, and here I was, fraud-ridden and alone after I had so willingly offered him that code to my heart.

I was still processing the wisdom of Billy Blue when I felt a vibration in my pocket. It was a response from Alejandro.

Let’s meet tomorrow. Somewhere neutral. I will bring your things.

I sighed and replied with a simple “ok”. It was time to wrap up this case of “fraud” once and for all. If only had I known what that simple “ok” would lead to…

Wankers & Whiskey

2010-11-17T19:08:00.004-05:00

After receiving Alejandro’s message stating his refusal to see or speak with me after my somewhat dramatic, or if spun by a Euro, “ridiculous” outburst via BBM the night prior, I was in no mood for Halloween tricks or treats. Thankfully, the mental health gods were looking upon me as I already had an appointment with my shrink on the books for that afternoon. As I trudged up Second Avenue on that gloomy fall day, dodging dog dung and construction workers’ cat calls all the way to 91st Street, I replayed the chain of events in my head—just how “ridiculous” had I been with Alejandro last night?

I had called Alejandro after my bartending shift around 1:00am to see if I should meet him at either his apartment or a bar. After my phone call went unanswered and unreturned, I sent over a quick, two-line BBM inquiring about his whereabouts. Thanks to the modern day technologies of BlackBerry Messenger, I was then able to see that my message to Alejandro was not only successfully delivered to his phone, but also read by the phone’s owner (a.k.a. Alejandro for anyone who isn’t following this simple rundown of “ridiculousness”). It was then that it became apparent that my boyfriend of six months was quite simply ignoring me.

I found this behavior unacceptable and unsettling--and this wasn't the first red flag to be raised recently. Two nights prior I had taken him out for a fabulous birthday dinner at Flex Mussels and was denied “dessert” when we got home due to too much wine and the old “I’m tired” excuse. Hell, The Realtor and Jeremy were well over thirty and I had never heard any hackneyed horseshit from them in love affairs past. So in between the denial of sex and blatantly being ignored, as well as a few other of life's factors, I was upset, suspicious, and downright pissed. Hence, the string of "ridiculous" BBM's that followed.

I plopped down into Dr. Zemkoff’s chair and poured out my heart, a few tears, and a buck seventy-five. An empty wallet, a few Kleenex, and two new prescriptions later, I found myself on the M15 to Murray Hill. Alejandro's and my relationship was suddenly staring the porcelain gods in the face and I was latrine-bent on giving it my all before it flushed itself down the toilet and into the Hudson River. I picked up a dozen yellow roses, a package of Reese’s Cups, and scribbled an apology note. “Ridiculous” behavior fixed.

A few hours later Alejandro called to thank me for the flowers. I was all smiles as he went on and on about how thoughtful I was and how he appreciated my efforts to apologize. But my smile quickly vanished when Alejandro said, “I think we should take a break.”

Tears sprung to my eyes for the second time that day. “Wait, what?” I stammered with confusion as my heart sank and my stomach tied itself into a knot.

“Just for like two weeks . I think we just need to take a step back,” Alejandro explained with that English accent that suddenly wasn’t so charming. Wanker!

I was no foolish girl who pumped herself full of fables and falsehoods in an effort to avert the negative thoughts of lying, cheating, and/or scumbag boyfriends. I was a jaded New Yorker who had played (and lost) this dating game a few too many times and I had received Alejandro’s message loud and clear.

“But I really do think we can make this work,” he droned on. “Let’s sit down tomorrow and talk face to face.”

Translation: I don’t feel like dealing with girl drama tonight. I’d rather go out and drink with my friends.

“I don’t think there’s really anything to discuss at this point.” I snidely replied while trying to muffle a sniffle. “If you really wanted to talk about it, you would talk to me tonight.”

As Alejandro retorted to my somewhat cutting commentary, I slipped on my jacket, grabbed my keys and purse, and slammed my door behind me. I found myself in front of Bailey’s Corner Pub. I said goodbye to Alejandro and walked into the bar with mascara running down my face.

“Jameson and ginger, please.” I ordered. In an uncertain world full of assholes and Englishmen, it’s good to know that you can always count on an Irishman…

Crossing Park Avenue

2010-10-29T10:53:00.013-04:00

All Billy Blue bullshit aside, I had more important things in life to worry about than the mind games and trolls he would bring to whatever bar I was working at this week. About two months ago I entered into what I like to call my quarter-life crisis where I quit my miserable job making eighty cold calls a day at a market research firm so I could avoid jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge, to rather spend my days focusing on my writing career while continually kicking myself for ever quitting my job in the fashion industry, and bartending all along the way to pay the bills (which sadly no longer even included basic cable).

About one month into the "post-real job" phase of my quarter-life crisis, between dealing with beyond inebriated Europeans who vomited on each other and non-tipping college kids who called me fat, I quickly grew sick of working full-time in the bar industry. I felt like a vampire, going to bed at 4:00am, waking up at 2:00pm, and wandering from Starbucks to Starbucks on the Upper East Side just so I wasn't stuck in the lonely melancholy of my silent, cableless apartment for hours on end. It was a sad, pathetic version of Twilight, sans the blood and flock of 'tweens following me around.

Not only was my professional career and mental stability at a crossroads, so was my relationship with Alejandro. I felt as if I was crossing Park Avenue but didn't make the light in time, so there I was, standing on the center median with the dying tulips of the summer past, with cars and cabs whizzing by me on each side.

On one side of the avenue I had my friends like Annie Smalls, Jenny Saurs, and Pookie. Annie had just moved into a new apartment with her boyfriend while Jenny and her boyfriend had just bought an apartment together in Hoboken, spending the past month thigh-high in bathroom renovations and the trials and tribulations of picking out a new mattress. Then there was Pookie who was recently engaged, her free time now consumed with wedding dresses, flowers, venues, and one very demanding, soon-to-be mother-in-law.

Conversely, on the opposite side of the street were friends like Emily, who was still recovering from her traumatic Saturday night of bringing home a 5'11'' nameless blonde in a Red Bull and vodka haze. After coming to in the shower with flashbacks of the Stumble Inn and penetration, she found the nameless man face down and naked on her futon. In between a slurred conversation and Emily trying to push the John Doe out the door with his pants still in his hands at 6:30am on Sunday morning, a phone call to Emily's mother back in Wisconsin was somehow placed, and a conversation that a mother should never hear was overheard from an odd 900 miles away.

And then there was me and my relationship with Alejandro smack dab in the middle. Over the few months we'd been dating, we had established the boyfriend-girlfriend titles, the exclusivity, the routines, and more. But between my new lifestyle as a writer/bartender working five nights a week and Alejandro's schedule as a real estate broker with only Saturdays off, I didn't get to see him as much as I used to back in my nine-to-five days. One of us was always tired or hungover or stressed. We enjoyed each other's company, no doubt, but life in general was tough, not to mention the pressures of New York City, the high cost of living, and the even higher cost of stress that came with it all. So last night when a customer berated me for not making his Cosmopolitan with Absolut, although he never specifically ordered Absolut, I had reached my breaking point (and for the record, no straight man should ever order a Cosmopolitan in public, and this man was straight, and therefore deserves a Cosmo made with rubbing alcohol).

So when my shift wrapped up around 12:30am and I called Alejandro only to be sent straight to voicemail as he was out drinking with his friends, all of my pent up anger and frustrations of failed careers, relationships, making rent, and goddamn Cosmopolitans came out in an irate string of BBM's to Alejandro--not one of my finest moments.

I finally received a reply to my relentless messages this morning at 11:17am saying:

Your behavior is ridiculous. I don't want to see you today or tonight. Please respect my decision.

And Alejandro was right. My behavior had been ridiculous and I couldn't take it back. So there I was, stuck in the middle of Park Avenue, alone.

So Happy Halloween, Upper East Side. I'll be the lonely, somewhat slutty Chilean miner at the end of the bar drinking alone...

Game Day

2010-10-15T13:59:00.018-04:00

I woke up on Sunday morning back to feeling warm and fuzzy about Alejandro with my overly premature thoughts of what a wonderful boyfriend he would turn out to be, albeit one week into our courtship. But visions of feeding each other ice cream while watching romantic comedies and frolicking on the beaches of Spain aside, it was Sunday Funday and I was forced to immerse myself from my mound of blankets and pillows deep inside my cozy cave of a bedroom in the Love Shack and head to Tin Lizzie for a day of football, beer towers, flip cup, and dance parties.

As I was behind the bar stocking cups, limes, straws, ice, and any other item a bar could possibly need for a twelve hour day of serving keg after keg of Bud Light and bottle after bottle of Jameson, a familiar couple walked up to the bar and ordered a bucket of beers. I eyed them up and down as they returned my stare, racking my brain as to why they looked so familiar. Had I worked with this woman in my prior professional life in the fashion industry? Had they been customers at one of the many bars I had slung drinks at around the neighborhood? Or had I accidentally made out with this man one drunken night before (or while) he had put that huge rock on his girlfriend's finger and soon that bucket of Bud Lights that I had just handed over would be analyzed in a crime scene lab in the "UES Girl Slain by Beer Bottle" investigation?

And then from my fuzziest of fuzz memories, I finally placed these two patrons' faces. It was Billy Blue's brother and fiance who lived in Connecticut and whom I had met almost a year prior at their sister's wedding. Of all the hundreds of bars on the island of Manhattan, if this couple had come all the way from Connecticut to watch a little Sunday football at the one bar I was working at, it could only mean one thing--Billy Blue wasn't far behind them.

After an awkward re-introduction, it was confirmed that Billy Blue was in fact on his way. And then his brother asked, "So did you ever see much of Billy after the wedding? It seemed like you two had a great time together."

"Oh yeah, we saw each other a few times after that," I said casually, trying to hide the look of shock and confusion on my face.

Billy clearly hadn't kept his family in the loop that we had ended up dating after the wedding for several months, but then again, why would he considering he had also been dating at least one other woman during our time together. This two-timing was confirmed one day last winter when a woman named Jenny emailed me, stating:

Apparently "Billy Blue" is "Billy Two"! I also got the same invite to his sister's wedding, the same date at Pio Pio, etc. I saw him during the same time span, which is sickening, but true. He name dropped your site more than once in an attempt to get me to read it.

I never wrote back to Jenny, but I hoped that she had moved on to bigger (yes, in that region) and better (yep, that too) men as I had. No woman, aside from serial killers and baby shakers, deserved a cheating man.

And as predicted, not twenty minutes later did Billy Blue saunter into the bar with his latest lady in tow.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't Billy Blue." I said, forcing an unheartfelt smile as he saddled up to the bar, notably without his new girlfriend.

"What? No kiss on the cheek hello?" he impishly asked.

"What? No introduction?" I shot back, gesturing at his girlfriend who was eyeing us from her bar stool at his brother's table.

"Isn't this crazy!? Of all the bars in Manhattan we came to the one you were working at!" he smiled coyly and looked around, as if this were some chance encounter. But that twinkle in his eye that I used to see no longer shone, and that mischievous smile of his was now just plain obnoxious.

"What can I get you to drink?" I asked, rolling my eyes and ignoring his last comment, as I clearly did not believe that he had come to Tin Lizzie unintentionally.

Eventually, after Billy realized that I had no interest in continuing with his little mind games, or even a conversation for that matter, he headed back to the table to join his brother, girlfriend, and company. He never returned to the bar that day to order another round, but instead sent someone else from his group (aside from the girlfriend) each time. Finally, in due all-day-drinking course, with no further communication between the two of us, Billy and his girlfriend staggered out of the bar without a goodbye or a tip. And for the first time in my bartending life, I could honestly say that that was one drunk man's money I did not want.

Ironically enough, the NYPD motto is "Faithful Unto Death" and I could only hope for Billy Blue's new Sue that he would carry out that maxim both on the streets and in the bedroom this time around. But until my next Blue encounter, whether it be via text or being tracked down wherever I was bartending, I had much more important things to worry about, such as my outfit for tonight's KY Jelly wrestling match at Saloon. Here's to love and lubrication, Upper East Siders...

Stood Up: The Aftermath

2010-09-27T08:23:00.006-04:00

Saturday morning I woke up after a restless night's sleep with my BlackBerry clenched desperately in my hand. While I did have two Facebook friend requests, an email from my mother regarding health insurance, and a text message (a.k.a. booty call S.O.S.) from a hook-up of many moons past un-so-slyly saying, Hey, its been awhile. Are you out? at 2:56 A.M., I sadly did not have a missed call, text, email, BBM, smoke signal, message in a bottle, or any other possible form of communication from Alejandro explaining why he never showed up for last night's scheduled rendezvous.

As I wallowed in the aftermath of my shattered Teenage Dream over some Bagel Express and The Daily 10, soaking up the fully deserved twelve to eighteen hours to feel sorry for myself, I received an influx of communiqué from multiple friends who were attempting to recover from last night's debaucherous (and somewhat lewd) acts.

Emily was trying to recuperate from her thwarting horny-turned-slightly-poetic late night text to an ex stating, I want your hard dick...in my soul; Lenny awkwardly (and impressively) got hand blasted by a thirty-five year old engaged woman in the middle of a Vince Neil concert; Jimmy John got his monkey unsuccessfully spanked by an unnamed girl whose name he already forgot (although he did know that her friend's name was Destiny, who contrary to popular belief, was not an exotic dancer or escort of any sort); and Mumbles, sadly, woke up in the corner of his room naked and alone. I wasn't exactly sure what went on in the Upper East Side last night, but there for shit sure wasn't any true love or Teenage Dreams, let alone proper communication or acceptable sexual acts for persons over the age of seventeen.

As I spent the rest of my Saturday afternoon watching bad TV in my Ohio State sweats with the good company of my blankies (yes, my blankies from childhood), I suddenly saw my Facebook Internet tab flashing. I clicked on it to find an instant message from Alejandro. I didn't know whether to be excited, angry, or simply glad to know he was alive--he had spent his evening multiple vodka bottles deep with a bunch of Russians, after all.

Luckily for Alejandro, based on his hurried typing, the Russians hadn't gotten drunk enough to where they had played that finger chopping "game" with cigar cutters:

Bacchus, I'm so very sorry I never showed last night. My phone died, then I drunkenly left it in the cab, but luckily Hadar was still in the cab, but I didn't have the cab come to your place because I forgot your address because I didn't write it down because I was in the middle of the Russian party. And I couldn't call you when I got home to let you know I was not coming because my phone, which was dead anyways, was in the cab with Hadar.

If Alejandro had a nickel for every glass of vodka he drank last night and a dime for every "because" he just gave me, it seemed like he would be a very rich man who I should probably at least get another few drinks out of. But all becauses aside, I did, imprudently or not, believe his vodka-infused spun tale. I sighed and thoughtfully considered how I should respond.

I hope you can accept my apology, Bacchus, as I would love to see you again. But I understand if you think I should just sod off.

I could hear his relentless apology in that sexy British accent and I had to smile--and after about thirty-six seconds of contemplation, I decided that I had to forgive him too.

As long as you promise to never leave me staring out a window again, I wrote.

And promise he did. Hell, if the likes of Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton got second, third, and fourth chances after multiple DUI's and drug arrests (apart from the country of Japan), then a vodka-chugging European with a bad hangover and what seemed like a genuine apology definitely deserved another chance.

Here's to hand jobs, regrettable text messages, and second chances, Upper East Side...

Teenage Dream

2010-09-06T20:25:00.003-04:00

Well it turned out that the rumors swirling around Spaniards and good sex were absolutely, undeniably, irrefutably true. As I relished in my warm fuzzy Alejandro feelings of the night before and hummed Katy Perry's "Teenage Dream" while cold-calling my day away, I received my customary, monthly text from Billy Blue.

Wow, Bacchus! You base a relationship on if a guy is good in bed?! LOL. Your next blog should be "How I Prioritize My Relationships."

I rolled my eyes and replied with a snarky comment, but after I hit send, I realized that Billy Blue's idea actually wasn't half bad. As I stared at my computer pretending to prospect (ok, stalk) potential clients on LinkedIn, I gave some hard thought to what was really important to me in terms of relationships and the kind of man I wanted to be with. And I then realized, oddly and scarily enough, that Katy Perry was actually onto something too.

I wanted to be with a man who thought I was pretty without any makeup on; who thinks I'm funny, even when I'm not (which, let's face it, is quite the rarity); and who I can let my walls come down with. I could do without the whole making forts out of bed sheets bit she threw in as a filler in the third verse, but as cheesy as it was, I did want a guy who could make my heart stop when he looked at me--what girl wouldn't? I was sick of all these New York schmucks with the same Brooks Brothers shirts and bullshit lines just looking for their next lay. Enough was enough and I wanted to the real thing, dammit.

So it was now officially my mission to find my "Teenage Dream" guy and after a week of bliss and one unforgettable night at the Love Shack, I was confident that Alejandro could fulfill all of my unrealistic, idealistic dreams of good men and true love in Manhattan. Who would have guessed that a pop singer and a narcotics detective could help open my eyes to what I really wanted in my Sex & the Upper East Side life, but at this point, I'd take it.

That evening I went out for a multi-hour happy hour with my co-workers and as I finally plopped in a cab to head home to air conditioning and some Friday Night Lights, I received a call from an unrecognized number. I picked up, wondering if it'd be some old flame of years past looking for some late night action or a telemarketer based in India, not realizing it was 11:00pm on a Friday night in the U.S. of A.

"Hey you," a sexy British accent cooed with a slight slur over a racket of noise that was either a bar or a war zone. "It's Alejandro. My phone battery died but I wanted to see if you'd like to meet up for a nightcap."

I could hardly hear him but did manage to catch "meet up" and I was sold.

"Sure, I'd love to. I'm actually in a cab headed home though. Where are you?" I asked, trying not to sound overly eager.

"This crazy Russian party with Vladimir and my boss. But we're leaving shortly. How about I just come 'round to your place?" Alejandro suggested.

Direct and forward--exactly what I was looking for based on both last night's performance and the six vodka sodas that I had just consumed. I gave him my address and he told me he'd be there within a half hour. I could only imagine what went down at a "Russian" party, but had to assume that it involved excessive vodka consumption, a little AK-47 talk, and a handful of leather jackets.

When I walked into my apartment I immediately brushed my teeth, made my bed, and touched up my twelve hour old make-up job, although based on his level of intoxication that was conveyed in our two minute conversation, I highly doubted my primping would matter.

After forty-five minutes passed and still no Alejandro, I was on the verge of a vodka coma, dying to put on some boy shorts and cuddle up with a box of Girl Scout cookies. I reluctantly called the random number that he had rang me on almost an hour ago, only for it to be answered by an unfamiliar voice of a man named Hadar who informed me that Alejandro had left the party shortly after we had spoke.

I hung up defeated, discomfited, and down right ready for bed. I stood at my bedroom window for ten more minutes, hoping that the difference between New Yorker time and European time would eventually coincide. But much to my disappointment, Alejandro never surfaced on my stoop. I went to bed that night with a crushed Teenage Dream, wondering if it would ever be repaired...

Eleven Blocks to the Love Shack

2010-08-29T13:58:00.023-04:00

While slightly disheveled and considerably hungover, I staggered into work the next day still reeling from my previous night's encounter with the very charming Alejandro. I settled in at my desk with my morning coffee and protein bar, unable to focus on my fourteen unopened emails and the eighty phones calls I was required to make between now and 5:30pm.

"Well someone got laid last night," quipped Giggles, my balding, beer-bellied teammate who lived for the New York Jets and Kentucky Fried Chicken. For someone who was more excited for the NFL season to start than his upcoming nuptials, I could tell he was more than eager to find out why I looked like the cat who had swallowed the canary, or in this case, the girl who had been kissed by a European.

"I actually kept my pants on, Giggles, but thanks for your vote of promiscuity," I retorted. "And I'd love to hear what went on under the covers in your house last night, but considering you only get laid when you bring home a commission check and payday is a week and a half away, I'll assume you have nothing to report."

My other teammate and our manager chuckled while our fourth teammate, who had the potential to go postal at any moment, silently surfed plentyoffish.com for his next coffee date. As I launched into my lengthy anecdote of Alejandro, Vladimir, leather jackets, and too much sangria, I felt like Carrie Bradshaw as she brunched with Charlotte, Samantha, and Miranda in an episode of season six, excessively excited and overly optimistic about her relationship with Jack Berger that didn't actually exist, as they had yet to go on their first date. But rather than have three women feign excitement and pledge support of my fictional relationship with a man I had known for twelve hours over mimosas and Eggs Benedict, I had four co-workers chortling and eye rolling as they prepared themselves for a day of cold calling and rejection from CFO's and EVP's who had absolutely no interest in market research.

Needless to say, in between daydreaming of my next encounter with Alejandro and the anticipation of the "day after text", I was extremely unproductive that morning. At 11:30am it finally arrived, asking if I was free for lunch. We met at a cafe a few blocks from my office where we spent more time making out than eating, much to the dismay of the other patrons who were attempting to gag down their paninis and Pellegrinos in between our hour of lip-locking, hand-handing, and eye-gazing. But in my opinion, our romantic antics were far more appropriate and endurable for a lunch crowd than the near pornographic scenes I had seen in the dark corners of The East End on a Saturday night.

By the time Thursday night came around, I had seen Alejandro on three separate occasions and couldn't have been more smitten. This was the best three day "relationship" in my New York dating history and I was ready to take our "relationship" to the next level. But I had to ask myself, was it appropriate in such short time?

I didn't want to come off as some sort of "fast" American woman, but my pocket rocket could only get me so far. And while I realized that this wasn't the age of Little Women and chastity belts (hell, that thing was long gone, anyways), I hadn't dated anyone in quite sometime where I had been properly courted--where it wasn't their primary interest to get in my pants by using the classic "let's go back to my place for a drink" line two hours into a first date. Alejandro's gentlemanly approach was refreshing (and rare) and I didn't want to take it for granted.

I calculated the number of dates Alejandro and I had been on in order to assess if I could in fact take this to the next level. After all, if he was terrible in bed, this could go no further. Monday's meeting technically counted as two dates, as there were two different locations over the span of several hours, then lunch on Tuesday, and the tour of the condo he was currently selling on East 82nd Street on Wednesday made Thursday's date number five. It could take people a month to get as far as I had gotten in a week, so kudos to me for such efficiency.

As we finished our drinks at Tin Lizzie, Vladimir in black leathered tow, I demurely suggested that Alejandro come back to the Love Shack for the evening. As he handed Vladimir his keys and finished his vodka and coke, he jokingly said, "You must have heard that the Spanish are good lovers."

Spanish, English, Uzbekistanian, first date, fifth date, I didn't care. I grabbed his hand and led him out of the bar and up Second Avenue, eleven blocks to the Love Shack...

Mission Man-Picking: Accomplished

2010-08-16T15:00:00.047-04:00

After three too many martinis and coming to peace with the fact that I had no other option for picking up men in Manhattan than in a bar, Alejandro had whisked me off my staggering feet to a bar in Murray Hill. The bar was (predictably) a stone's throw away from his apartment--the very same apartment where he was currently housing a leather-rocking Russian and God only knows how many tonnes of enriched uranium. Yet, I was so smitten (and perhaps somewhat unsober) that the sixty blocks between me and my bed and the looming hangover between now and tomorrow morning didn't phase me one bit.

As Alejandro, the Russian, and I gathered around a small outdoor table piled with bread, olives, various tapas, and pitchers of sangria, Europeans suddenly flocked from all directions. One from behind a set of burgundy velvet curtains, another emerging from behind the bar, and yet another from the depths of the kitchen. They were all speaking in tongues with arms flailing and wine glasses clinking (ok, so they may have been proper Romance languages such as French and Spanish, with a little Russian here and there, but tongues nonetheless to the girl who could hardly speak English at this point in the night).

Should I Purell my cheeks? I wondered to myself. The European from the kitchen smelled of Grand Marnier, curry, and mutton--who knew what he was gnawing on back there that could have now transplanted itself on either, if not both, of my cheeks. It was a wonder that Europe hadn't seen a bubonic plague, Black Death-style, since the fourteenth century based on all of the cheek kissing that these people partook in with complete strangers.

"Would you like to have a cigarette with me?" Alejandro offered, diverting me from my thoughts of pandemics and sanitizer.

He pulled out a pack of Nat Shermans from the inside pocket of his suit jacket as the Russian pulled out a pack of Marlboro Reds. I was impressed by Alejandro's classy tobacco preference and was surprised when the Russian didn't light two cigarettes at the same time--there was no way that Vladimir didn't have a black lung.

I was also relieved by the fact that Alejandro hadn't offered me a "fag" as many an Englishman from across the pond would have. Ask any of the NARS make-up artists at Barneys what smoking a fag is in this town and you'd never venture past Splash in Chelsea after dark or remotely think of a cigarette ever again. I mean, if I ever wanted to hear about fags, loos, and shopping trolleys, I could just turn on the BBC, for John, Paul, George, and Ringo's sake.

Alejandro was not only charming and handsome, but completely intriguing and unlike any other man I had ever met in New York. He was in high-end real estate and spoke more languages than Jason Bourne and The Pope combined. With a Belgian/French father, an Italian/Czech mother, born in Spain and brought up in London, Alejandro was a bona fide European mutt.

My Ohio roots paled in comparison. Brie and pinot noir were as far as I could get in French and my Spanish consisted solely of requests for condiments, garnishes, and alcohol that I had developed through my interaction with Mad River's bar backs over the past four years. Hell, I couldn't even find Belgium on a map.

Alejandro extinguished his cigarette and stepped closer. "I'd really like to kiss you right now, but I'm not sure if I should," he said with asking eyes.

"Well, I think you should," I replied, holding his gaze. I had kissed both an Englishman and a realtor before, but they paled in comparison to this Second Avenue lip-lock.

The imaginary fireworks that lit up the East side's skyline and the oh-so-real fireworks below my belt during Alejandro and my's first kiss were a reality check that my American girl ass needed to call it a night before my vodka hallucinations could continue--or worse, before I decided that I wanted to see the nuclear warfare bunker otherwise known as Alejandro's apartment in search of some European lovin'. I wisely hailed a cab and said goodbye to Alejandro and his international crew of chain-smoking Russians and mutton-eating Moroccans.

Only time will tell what Alejandro will bring for me and Sex & the Upper East Side...but for this week, Mission Man-Picking was officially accomplished.

"Man-Picking" in the Big Apple's Orchard

2010-07-30T07:33:00.023-04:00

As the handsome Englishman made his way towards my barstool, I had only a few moments to contemplate if I truly did want to go back to my old ways of man-picking from this orchard of bars on the Upper East Side. But where else would I man-pick if it weren’t for bars? Perhaps bars weren’t the most appropriate or desirable places for man-picking, but in a city of eight million people, what was?

I didn’t exactly hangout in libraries, bookstores, or museums, so the quintessential scene of meeting Mr. Right while staring at the same Edgar Degas painting or reaching for the last copy of The Alchemist on opposite sides of a bookshelf were out. The subway was out too, as I only took it ten times per week, to and from work, in which every minute of my time spent commuting those few short stops to Midtown was consumed by playing Gem XXL on my BlackBerry—no time for prospecting when I’m trying to beat level thirteen and haven’t even had my morning coffee.

Sidewalks were a no-go—I was a fast walker with a sick dodge-and-weave, so the likelihood of me accidentally running into anyone, let alone a good-looking, single man with a job and a sense of humor, was virtually unfeasible. My time spent in Carl Schurz Park was dedicated to sunning and reading. I’ve seen many a girl try the old “Can I pet your dog?” trick in this setting, which I find both creepy and desperate, so parks weren’t going to get me far either. If I ever ask to pet anybody's dog, it better be under the covers, in the dark, with some role-playing involved, rather than a public setting in broad daylight.

At least in bars you know that you share one common interest—drinking. And in my personal opinion, after my brief “orchard” assessment of places to man-pick, a bar was the most viable option for this Big Apple girl to start (or should I say, revert to).

As he sauntered up to me, casually and relaxed with drink in hand, I turned to face him. He was wearing a well-tailored navy pinstripe suit with a light blue shirt, no tie, and proper footwear—lace-up, pointed-toe oxfords, appropriately shined—just as I would expect from a European. Test number one passed.

“And how is your…rum and coke this evening?” I inquired, knowing I couldn’t be as far off on calling his drink as he was on calling my apparent martini a margarita.

“Ahhh, vodka and coke, but close enough,” he smiled as I looked inquisitively at his glass. Rum and coke, fine. Whiskey and coke, yes. Vodka and coke? Not something I served (or sipped) often. He must have sensed my skepticism about his drink choice because he immediately pointed to his friend and said, “I’m with a Russian. You drink what they tell you to.”

I politely laughed and followed his gaze to the man whom he had been previously standing next to. Buzz cut light hair with steel blue eyes, a black turtleneck, a black leather jacket and a look of grim death—he was definitely Russian. He studied me with his eyes of ice as he silently sipped his vodka and coke, closely watching my interaction with his friend, the Brit. I smiled nervously, all the while wondering if he was hiding an AK-47 under that leather jacket of his—why else would anybody be wearing a leather jacket in the dead eighty-nine degree heat of July?

"I'm Alejandro," he introduced himself and stuck out his hand. I took it and hastily returned the introduction, confused as to why an Englishman bore the name of a Lady Gaga song. I had deemed him for an Oliver, maybe a Simon, possibly even a Jack, but Alejandro? What kind of tea was his mother sipping with her crumpets?

"And that's Vladimir. He's just storing some enriched uranium at my apartment until he heads home next week," Alejandro jokingly chided. Vladimir narrowed his eyes and nodded once, to acknowledge the introduction.

Note to self: do not go home with this man. Ever.

"Oh, well enriched uranium does nothing for me. I'm far more interested in nuclear warfare these days, anyways," I joked in return with uncertainty, hoping the Russian wouldn't come over and Taser the vodka right out of me for mentioning nuclear.

I wasn't sure how dangerous enriched uranium was these days, but a few drinks later, Alejandro had practically charmed the pants right off me with his damn accent and indisputable magnetism and the Russian had finally warmed up to me (or at least I interpreted it as that when he finally removed his leather jacket).

I was highly uncertain as to who or what I had just plucked from the Big Apple's "orchard" but I was for certain that he was no Yankee Jim, Billy Blue, Benjamin, or any other man I had met in New York City to date, so I said to myself, why not a second date?

Hot Town, Summer (and Single) in the City

2010-07-17T18:41:00.002-04:00

July brought somewhat a sense of relief in terms of my dating life—it was a new month, a new quarter, and there were no charity auctions or remnants of last month’s “roadkill” looming on the horizon. I could get back to bar hopping and number collecting while enjoying the ninety-seven degree horrendously humid, disgustingly sticky, putrid smelling days of summer on the Upper East Side, with the city’s pleasant soundtrack of incessant jack hammering, construction worker catcalling, and horn-honking along Second Avenue playing in the background. Life was good.

So when Tiny invited me to her boss’s Fourth of July party at his swanky Westside apartment with perfect views of the Hudson River, I gladly accepted. Tiny’s boss ran a luxury magazine and the party was intended for clients and friends to rub shoulders, network, and most importantly, have an amazing view of the fireworks in an air conditioned, Zabars’ catered locale with endless amounts of alcohol.

But when the lights dimmed and the fireworks began to light up the Hudson, people suddenly began coupling off. Twosomes were hand-holding in the name of John Hancock, French kissing in the name of freedom, and suddenly my love for the Constitution was overshadowed by the fact that Independence Day had abruptly turned into a romantic holiday. Hell, even the short, slightly pudgy man in a hideous Paul Smith shirt with pesto encrusted in his teeth had found a companion to lock lips with. I finished off the last of the champagne and headed home, confused and disappointed as to where my pyrotechnics were for this unexpectedly amorous holiday. I would have even been satisfied with just a few firecrackers of some sort, but instead, I went home to a snack of turkey bacon and an episode of Law & Order from 1993.

The next weekend I headed home to Ohio for my college roommate Paige’s wedding. She was one of my dearest friends in the world and was marrying a friend of mine from high school who had spotted her across the bar during my twenty-first birthday celebration oh-so-many years ago. I was quite proud to say that I had been the reason for their meeting, considering it was the one positive, lasting relationship that came out of my college dating career, even if I was a third-party in the matter.

It ended up I was the only singleton in the wedding party and the only single gal left in our group of seven girlfriends from college. Three were now married, one with a baby on the way, and the other three had serious, long-term boyfriends—all top-notch men, at that. I clearly had taken a different fork in the road after college and that fork then took me straight to the reception hall’s bar.

After the wedding festivities ended, I headed up to Northern Michigan with my family for a few days of rest and relaxation at our lake house. As I soaked up the sun with a few Coronas and some Tim McGraw, I came to the realization that I needed to stop feeling sorry for my single self. No more “woe is me, I’m all alone.” I was ready to come back to the city and enjoy the last half of my summer with my girlfriends, a few good books, and multiple bottles of vodka.

So my first night back in New York, I met a few girlfriends for some always-needed after-work drinks at Capital Grille. As I sipped (ok, slugged) my first martini, a tall, dark, handsome man at the end of the bar caught my eye. I heard him speaking in what sounded like Russian to the man he was with, but I quickly refocused on my girls and my gossip—I couldn’t be sidetracked after my proclamation to be proud, single, and okay with going home to bacon and reruns instead of random men only a short forty-eight hours earlier.

As the dashing foreigner caught me staring down the bar at him for the third time, he held my gaze and smiled.

“How’s your margarita?” he asked in a British accent.

The accent instantly melted me and before I could slide off my chair at the sound of an Englishman, I regained my composure and sat up straight in my barstool. I looked down at my pineapple vodka martini and then reverted back to his green eyes.

“It’s delicious.” I smiled.

And all proclamations of independence and singledom went out the door and straight up Third Avenue…

In the Name of Charity

2010-06-30T07:17:00.005-04:00

The second quarter of 2010 has brought many new and interesting challenges and adventures to my fabulous Upper East Side life—a new job, circus classes, palm readings, a brief stint as a semi-pro wrestling league ring girl, and a few random, fuzzy memories below the Madison-Dixon line. So when a friend-of-a-friend asked me if I would be willing to be auctioned off as a date for the Change for Change annual charity event at Tenjune, between my natural charitable nature and my newfound ardor for trying new things (whether or not it involved spandex, carnies, or Italian flags being ripped off of me by a sweaty wrestler named Pauly V), the fact that my past few dates had taken me to all-time new lows, I eagerly sent in my bio and headshot in hopes that a handsome, charming man comparable to Coach Taylor from Friday Night Lights who fostered a fondness for Jack Daniels, The Wire, New York Times crosswords, and cheese, would bid his big bucks for a night on the town with Bacchus.

While the other auctionees’ bios included playful idioms like “Do you like your salsa extra spicy?” and “Don’t be afraid to bid—she doesn’t bite.” I keep mine short and sweet, light on the sweet, yet heavy on the things that most straight men like—bars, sex, and football:

Bacchus is an oil and gas expert by day and a bartender and sex columnist extraordinaire by night with strong sideline interests in trivia and whiskey. You can take the girl out of Ohio, but you can’t take the Ohio out of the girl—don’t mess with her Ohio State Buckeyes or country music.

While at the time of publication, the sex part of sex columnist had been dropped by the editorial staff and I was hardly an oil and gas expert at any time of the day, let alone an entire day, I still felt confident that my brief, yet highly indicative bio highlighted my fun and fabulous, down-to-earth (but perhaps sometimes unsober) personality and would, in turn, bring Change for Change a fair shot at earning a few bucks for all things charity on a hot summer night in June.

And then the news was broken to me—not only did I have to be the first to walk the auction plank (which was actually a makeshift runway in the middle of Tenjune’s dance floor), but my date, although it did net the highest retail value, was two tickets to a Broadway play and dinner for two at Dell’anima. How did a yoga guru score Jets tickets and an attorney who was “looking for a man to light up her campfire” get awarded Bon Jovi/Kid Rock concert tickets?

While my main concern was to raise some notable capital for the charity, I was also (selfishly) hoping that this act of benevolence would bring me both a warm, fuzzy feeling for my do-gooding and a quality date for a random weeknight that would typically be spent watching re-runs of Law & Order. But now, it appeared that this auction had the utmost potential to completely quash any confidence, self-esteem, and sense of worth that I had left (which was minimal after subjecting myself to cheering on grown men sporting spandex and eyeliner while performing Triple Nelsons on each other the weekend prior). One lack of a fell swoop from a bidder’s paddle and I was either heading straight to my shrink the next morning or a Ben & Jerry’s factory that night.

Before the auction began, we were encouraged to mingle with the bidders in an effort deepen their pockets through a few flirtatious smiles and far from a few cocktails. After speaking to two separate groups of gentlemen who informed me that they had absolutely no interest in seeing a Broadway play and would be going for the Giants tickets, regardless of whether a troll or a good-looking woman was attached, panic began to set in.

I moved on to a third group of gentleman, who began to discuss the oil and gas industry with me. By now I had downed at least four drinks and was quite preoccupied with mentally preparing myself for full-on rejection under a spotlight in front of three hundred people, so when one innocent bidder said to me, “Isn’t the oil industry dying? It’s all about renewable energy and solar power and stuff, right?”

I looked the bidder straight in eyes and confidently stated, “If you think the oil industry is dead, you’re a fool.”

Before he could respond, which most likely wouldn’t have been a nice and/or intelligent reply, I was summoned backstage, as the auction was about to begin. While my catwalk strut and the bidding war that ensued is a bit fuzzy due to the bright lights and my blood alcohol level, I ended up going for a few hundred bucks, all in the name of charity.

While I’ve yet to go on my date with Calvin, the man who so generously bought me, it looks like I may be back to my old ways of picking up men in bars by no later than Thursday happy hour this week…

Third Avenue's Desperation Roadkill

2010-06-19T16:05:00.007-04:00

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.

FDR, Take me home, To the zip code I belong...

2010-05-31T16:56:00.002-04:00

As Tiny and I headed to the address Yankee Jim had sent via text, I was still reeling from our hardly paranormal but verge-of-magical experience with the toothless, braless, drooling palm reader. My hopes of having a head-over-heels-into-hangover night with Jim was exceedingly (as well as unrealistically) high. From the bullshit of Billy Blue, to the babysitting incidents of Jason, to the intermittent dates with Burrito Boy and Mr. Born-and-Bred Upper East Side, I was far overdue to meet a spectacular, single, successful man with a few morals and somewhat of a personal hygiene routine.

Upon arriving at the “venue” where Jim had directed us, I swiftly descended from the la-la-land of fairytale endings to the grim reality of a dirty side street in the heart of Greenwich Village. I looked shamefacedly at Tiny, wondering how quickly I could transport us to either the Upper East Side or some sort of fairytale Wonderland where it was completely acceptable to constantly pop pills and feed your pet cat marijuana, considering my fairytale hopes were currently being washed down the sewer alongside a drunk NYU student’s vomit.

The “venue” was allegedly a music hall, littered with what I at first believed to be homeless people, but upon closer inspection, realized that they were actually the musicians whom were about to perform as the evening’s headliners. Jim rushed out to meet us at the door, where we were demanded to pay a ten dollar cover by a Neo-Nazi-type bouncer.

As we handed over our cash, Jim repeatedly apologized about there being cover, yet never offered to cough up an extra ten spot or two on our behalves. Considering Tiny and I had just paid that same small fortune for an ancient troll to stroke our palms and blindly speculate what our futures held, I was completely fine with contributing another ten dollars to the homeless musicians who desperately needed a shower, as well as new black eyeliner (to enhance their stage presence, of course)—but I was most certainly not fine with the lack of chivalry from Jim. I wasn’t expecting him to present me with a dozen roses and a bottle of Veuve, but I had traveled through many zip codes to meet up with him, even after his numerous flake-outs the weeks prior.

With our hands stamped and skeptical attitudes in full check, we saddled up to the bar. Jim gripped his half-full Bud Light with his back to the bar, making it very clear that he would not be ordering another drink anytime soon either for himself, his date (me, or so I thought until this point), or his date’s friend. Tiny and I ordered our own round and quickly let the chugging process begin—it was time to get our blood alcohol levels back up in order to endure whatever musical performance was about to begin in this unfamiliar environment of dirty, unbuttoned flannel shirts and cheapskate dates.

As the band started their first set and my Bud Lights began to flow through my veins, I warmed up to Jim, attempting to have a somewhat interesting conversation over the screeching guitar and squealing lead singer's vocals that some might call music.

“So when did you graduate?” I asked, about twelve octaves louder than I typically spoke, directly into Jim’s eardrum, just to ensure our conversation would not come to an awkward halt and we would have to either uncomfortably stare at each other or nod our heads to the off beats of the band.

“2008, from Fordham,” Jim bellowed back.

“Wait, I don’t think I heard you,” I awkwardly laughed over the clamor of the homeless rockers. “Did you say ’08 or ’98?”

“2008” he confirmed, as he held up a peace sign to indicate the correct decade as I about fell off my chair. “And I just got back from China about six months ago—I was doing Teach for America over there.”

Well this explains a lot, I thought to myself. He’s hardly legal and has been paid in rice and bamboo for the past eighteen months. No wonder he couldn’t spring for our cover or our beers. I was surprised he wasn’t thinner, given his financial circumstances, but I do suppose a diet of rice, beer and high sodium soy sauce over a year’s time would slightly bloat just about anyone.

Jim clearly was not concerned about my age, because rather than continuing our conversation, he leaned over and kissed me. When in the Village, do as the Villagers do, I thought as I kissed him right back.

Before I knew it, we were in a cab, headed back to the Upper East Side. I knew as soon as my ass hit the taxi’s pleather seats that this would be a one-night-only, rob-the-cradle special. Clearly I wasn’t going to find my Prince below 59th Street, so why not ride this out ‘til “The End” and wake up in a proper neighborhood?

Lucky Letter J

2010-05-19T19:52:00.006-04:00

It was another Tuesday at Mad River as I strolled in at a quarter to eight, sweaty from an intense session of squats and cycling at Boom, smelling of sweat mixed with a spritz of my signature Lanvin Eclat D’Arpege, ready for my weekly Alex Trebek-inspired trivia night stint. And who do I see leisurely lounging at a table in the back, Yankee hat slightly sideways, sipping a Coors Light draft from a plastic cup, but Yankee Jim.

I internally rolled my eyes and sighed, ready for the awkward Groundhog Day conversation that was about to ensue, as I obligingly approached his table for a courtesy hello—he was one of my most consistent Trivia Tuesday groupies, after all.

“Hey Bacchus, how are you?” Yankee Jim somewhat tautly asked.

“Oh hey, what’s going on?” I replied as I tried to play it off that I hadn’t seen him from the moment I walked in and was simply walking by.

“Listen, I’m sorry I never called last week. I ended up going home to see my mom.” he explained.

Although New Jersey was a somewhat uncouth and undesirable destination (in my book of travel preferences, at least) I was most certain that it was at least civilized enough to have reliable cell phone service, considering that the cast of the Jersey Shore seemed more than capable of texting, BBM-ing and Foursquaring from their mobile devices.

“Oh, no worries.” I waved off as I headed back to the kitchen to give my weekly “que tal” to the cooks and pick up my turkey burger and side salad.

Jim’s attempts to make engaging conversation and witty comments between rounds over the next two hours were both noted and dismissed. After the previous week’s bullshit antics from Jim’s across the board, my interest in Yankee Jim could have been equated with a gay man’s interest in a NASCAR race.

As I packed up my belongings and said my goodbyes after the evening’s games had come to an end, Yankee Jim stopped me before I could sneak out the side door.

“So what are you up to this week? Do you have plans Thursday?” he inquired for approximately the fifth time in the past six weeks.

“Umm, probably just happy hour with some co-workers. Nothing notable,” I offhandedly replied.

“Okay, well I’ll call you and we can meet up for some drinks, okay?” he eagerly suggested.

I raised my eyebrows and literally laughed out loud as I said goodbye and walked outside to hail a cab. At this point it would have benefited both of us to revert our conversations to weekly trivia-girl-to-patron/patron-to-trivia-girl courtesy hellos in an effort to save both time and oxygen.

Fast forward to Thursday happy hour with Tiny and Lindsay. As I was bitching about the frustrating week of love I had had the week prior, I suddenly received a text message from none other than Yankee Jim, asking if I wanted to meet for a drink.

The fear of bad karma for speaking too soon mixed with the two dirty martinis that I had knocked back in a matter of forty-five minutes, I responded with a yes, on the condition that I would be bringing a wingman.

Of course, Jim was inconveniently well below 59th Street, but the vodka flowing in my veins had put a little adventurous pep in my step, so Tiny and I hopped in a cab and headed down to the unchartered territory of theVillage, a neighborhood ridden with hipsters and falafel stands.

As we headed to where Jim and his co-workers were happy hour-ing, we passed a palm reader, who beckoned us in, waving through her window. She was old, overweight, toothless and bra-less, but only charged $10, so we un-soberly couldn’t resist to see what our futures held.

As she grasped my wrist with one hand, caressing the lines of my palm with her other, she asked, while intermittently spitting through her gums, “Do the letters M, S, or J mean anything to you? They hold something very powerful and important in your future.”

M was for my nephew, S (I hoped) for sex, and J—could it be for Yankee Jim?? I excitedly paid my oh-so-economically appropriate tab, grabbed Tiny, and headed to meet Jim, ready for my magical future of M’s, S’s, and J’s that would for certain bring me a good man and multiple, magical orgasms.

Ends up, magical wasn’t exactly how my night ended up…

Mixed Signals

2010-04-26T23:34:00.004-04:00

My tryst with Jason didn’t last past the weekend. By Sunday Funday it became abundantly clear that the only avenue our companionship was going down was that of a pro bono babysitting gig. First, he managed to get beyond intoxicated by 3:30 PM on the Day of Rest, requiring constant supervision and damage control to the point where my three nephews, ages four and under, could be considered dream charges from the pearly gates of above.

Subsequent to getting kicked out of Johnny Fox’s, he managed to lose his cell phone in the five block cab ride to East End, which was followed up by demands to be hand-fed a cheeseburger and French fries. He then topped off this considerably sloppy display by stumbling to my apartment while repeatedly requesting to be “held like a baby” until he passed out. For the next two and a half hours Jason proceeded to drool, fart and snore in my bed. Oh, and did I mention that he randomly left his socks in my bathroom garbage can? Unfortunately for me, I can’t make this stuff up.

Monday brought Yankee Jim, one of my Mad River Trivia Tuesday groupies. After taking down my number a few weeks prior, asking to have drinks on two separate occasions, only to never call either time (unless I accidentally had his contact information saved as invisible with a silent ringer), it was quite an awkward conversation when Jenny Saurs and I ran into him on our way to Boom for spinning. His broken promises were then followed-up with a third request for drinks later in the week. At this point, I think Dan Quayle spelling potato correctly would have been a more viable option than ever counting on drinks with this clown.

Thursday brought Guitar Jim, an acoustic crooner from Tin Lizzie who I couldn’t resist after his rendition of “Chicken Fried.” When his sets ended our connection had only just begun. After hours of heavy boozing and twirling on the empty dance floor (as all the other patrons who had to work the next morning were responsible enough to go home at a decent hour), we found ourselves at the bar, staring at each other wondering who would make a move first—until Guitar Jim professed with a guilty face, “I have to tell you something.”

“Let me guess. You have a girlfriend.” I deplored, looking him dead in the face, less than amused.

“How’d you know?” Guitar Jim asked with astonishment.

Welcome to New York, jack ass, I thought to myself as I rolled my eyes and turned back to the bar to order another beer from Pookie.

“I’m really sorry. Just to let you know, I’d love to take you home and #$@% you, but I just can’t.” he confessed.

“Well it sounds like you maybe shouldn’t have a girlfriend if you’re interested in #$@%ing other girls,” I said. I finished off my beer and put on my coat as Guitar Jim awkwardly stared at me with longing eyes.

“It was nice meeting you...” he called after me as I headed out the door to hail a cab. What a waste of three hours and a hangover that was.

Then came Saturday. Annie Smalls and I carefully plotted out our bar hopping for the evening, starting at Saloon, then swinging through Tin Lizzie, in order to specifically conclude our evening at East End, which not only was closest to the Love Shack but also where my latest crush (ok crush of two plus years, but who’s counting?) would be bartending until closing time.

Jimmy Bats and I had known each other for many years and after seeing him earlier in the week, our chemistry of years past had resurrected itself (in both my mind and Jenny Saurs’ hopeful mind, at least). There had been some playful email correspondence and a few flirtatious texts the days leading up to Saturday and I was excited to see what an intoxicated late-night would bring for the two of us.

Turns out nothing—a little investigative work by Betty revealed that Jimmy Bats had been dating someone for a good month. Between Yankee Jim, Guitar Jim, and Jimmy Bats, I felt dejected, rejected and any other “-jected” that would make a girl feel like a bag of second-hand clothes that even a homeless person didn’t want.

To top it off, I broke my Blackberry and lost my favorite lip gloss that week. So why so many mixed signals from all of these men—or were they in my head, Jason Derulo-style? Hopefully they weren’t all in my head so I didn’t start having to pop pills again, but regardless, it was time to refocus my energies—short-term: a man with a Hamptons summer share; long-term: a bald Englishman.

The Love Shack: Open For Business

2010-04-14T22:49:00.004-04:00

After a long and desiccating first quarter, my love life was finally starting to look up. I had gotten two separate proposals for threesomes within one day—the first being a coworker whom I sit across from for eight hours a day, five days a week after he took three too many Sambuca shots at a company happy hour; the second being Jeremy, who still refused to jump ship on his eight month-old proposition that I had yet to take him up on, despite his undying, everlasting inclination for me to have clear pores and plaque-free teeth.

Once Friday at 5:30pm hit, I was ready to get my prowl on. I met up with my girlfriend Lindsay and her coworker Jason at a bar in midtown for a few weekend kick-off drinks. Whether it was the four vodka sodas on an empty stomach or the fact that I hadn’t been touched by a man aside from an ass grab so graciously bestowed by Paco, the Mad River barback, in over forty days now, I instantly fancied Jason.

He was in sales of some sort (completely irrelevant at this point in my sex hiatus-turned-slump), sporting Diesel jeans, a ratty Bob Marley t-shirt, and sneakers that he had either owned since 1995 or had just returned from a minefield in Iran. He was a cross between Jesse Metcalf and a Berenstain Bear—and he couldn’t have been more attractive at that moment in time.

Not only did I find it perfectly normal that one of Jason’s parents may have been a children’s book character who dwelled in a tree, I was excited by his compulsive and lively behavior. One minute he was demanding the bartender to turn on The Mets game so he could watch Jerry Manuel’s failed attempts of putting together a batting order that would fail to produce even one base hit over the course of nine innings; the next minute he was chain smoking and slamming shots of tequila—my night was looking up. What girl couldn’t resist a Marlboro-puffing, Cuervo-chugging, maniacal Mets fan?

Eventually we made our way uptown to meet Annie Smalls, Jenny Saurs and the Joe-mance at Danny & Eddie’s on 85th and Second for a few late night Bud Light bottles and some nudie photo hunt. Jenny and Annie were slightly confused on both where and when I had picked up such an inebriated calamity of a drinking sidekick who wouldn’t stop rambling on about the Mets while intermittently drooling on himself and doing a few spin moves for every refrain of Taylor Swift’s “Love Story” but nonetheless, they were happy that I had found a potential slump-kicker (for my sake), who was extremely entertaining (for their sake). I was just glad he didn’t smell like a burrito.

Eventually our seven-some turned into a twosome, leaving Jason and I at the end of the bar, un-sober and famished. We headed to Gracie’s on the corner for some late-night French toast and mozzarella sticks, a great end to our seven-hour stint of heavy drinking.

It was a nice night, and despite my four-inch Mary Janes that were on the verge of severing my ankle from my foot, I decided I could skip a cab and stumble the few blocks home. As Jason and I arrived at the stoop of the Love Shack, I was ready for either an awkward goodbye or a forthright game of tonsil hockey.

Instead, Jason said, “I’m about to piss down my leg. Can I use your bathroom?”

Well he surely wasn’t romantic or smooth, but he wasn’t an ass-grabbing barback or a random accountant who, based on his stench, seemingly moonlighted at Taco Bell, so I led him to my front door. I was hoping his bathroom line, albeit uncouth, was just a way to get his foot in the Love Shack’s door.

Turned out that I was right…

Big Apple Meets Sin City

2010-03-29T21:49:00.004-04:00

As the winter months dwindled and the urine-drenched snow slowly melted into the late days of March, so had my love life. At this point I would bet my next student loan payment that my mother was getting more under-the-covers action than I was getting late-night booty texts—or had I just exceeded my monthly unlimited text messaging quota?

My last hook-up had been with a twenty-five year old accountant who reeked of a Blockhead’s Jamaican Jerk Burrito and had an overabundance of Rihanna songs on his iPod, both of which I had failed to notice under my herbal/vodka spell until the next morning when I had to take both my sheets and my dignity to the Laundromat.

My last date, on the other hand, had been much more enjoyable--sushi and Sauvignon Blanc at Atlantic Grill with a thirty-something who was born and bred on the Upper East Side. But if it weren’t for the fact that he didn’t own a pair of jeans, excessively used the word “obvi”, or had put the JG Melon’s bartender’s son through college on his consumption of Bloody Bulls alone, I may have been a bit keener about a second date.

And even though I was sticking to my celibacy guns, I still longed for some sort of male interaction--perhaps a good, old-fashioned night of dry humping or even a quick game of tonsil hockey in a dark corner of a bar? The closest I had come was when an AARP member had accidentally grabbed my left breast in an attempt to reach for the rail during a rough ride on the 6 train.

It was then that I realized that a tube of K-Y Jelly and my purple Pocket Rocket could only provide so much love, day in and day out. Luckily, I was headed to Las Vegas for the weekend for my best friend Rumi’s bachelorette party.

Aside from the fact that I had to call my mother six hours into my trip to beg for money, I spent the rest of my weekend letting it ride by night and drinking poolside by day with eleven of my favorite ladies in a city full of sin. What better way to get rid of those New York dating blues?

And although I left half of next month’s rent behind at a blackjack table (I’ll be back, Nancy, I’ll be back!), I did make it back to New York with one coherent, somewhat clairvoyant thought--while men come and go, vibrator batteries die, and lube dries up if you leave the lid off, girlfriends are forever.

Good Friday, here I come.

True Love vs. True Reality

2010-03-15T22:56:00.003-04:00

Shortly after declaring my newfound Catholicism and deciding to abstain from pre-marital sex for the Lenten season, I found myself sitting with four of my dearest friends discussing dating and relationships over burgers and cottage fries at J.G. Melon’s. Three of the five of us were currently in serious, long-term, monogamous relationships, with two of those three having never experienced the dating cesspool of New York City.

As I looked around the table, I noted that my three comrades in these long-term, monogamous relationships had met their most-likely, basically 100% future husbands outside of New York, two being relationships from college, one an instance of miraculousness, as having stemmed from a random encounter on a one week cruise to the Bahamas.

That left Kay and me, single and sexless, annoyed and disgusted, and dismally discouraged with the current dating opportunities (or lack thereof) on the 22.7 square miles of this island.

“I just realized something.” I declared. Four sets of eyes started at me, wondering if I was going to announce something profound or just that I had forgotten to take my birth control pill that morning.

“True love does not exist in this town.” I stated bluntly.

“OK, Debbie Downer,” Jenny Saurs started. “Just because you haven’t seen a penis for the past seven days except in the form of vibrating silicone does not mean your dating life is over.”

“No I’m totally serious here, and by the way, I’m 100% ok with having my sexual companion as an inanimate object that resides in my nightstand drawer,” I began.

“But really, can you name one couple who fell in love in this city and went on to wedded bliss? And I’m not talking about the majority of our guy friends who decided to get girlfriends this past winter solely to have a consistent source of vagina and a warm body to keep their heating bills down—I’m talking can’t-live-without-you, want-to-be-your-baby-Daddy, I-would-never-consider-screwing-my-secretary true love. Name one couple who defies my theory.”

As Jenny Saurs, Annie Smalls, Pookie, and Kay went on to name couple after couple who were in happy, blissfully faithful relationships that were headed towards an altar and didn’t involve random drunken hook-up’s when their significant other was out-of-town, these couples were results of either high school, college, or hometown relationships or else another instance that placed them in the non-NYC couple category.

After a good fifteen-minute roundtable dialogue on all of the non-city couples that existed within our network of friends and coworkers, we could only name one pair who challenged my theory —a duo of abnormally tall, verge-of-circus-sideshow lovebirds. And I wasn’t even sure they counted, considering they breathed in a different layer of the ozone than the rest of us Manhattanites.

So the fact that between five girls listing every couple we knew that lived in the city, we could only come up with one, somewhat weak, example that proved my theory solid. Whether or not my theory derived from the lack of a male touch in the past few weeks or my pessimism regarding my zip code’s dating scene, one thing was for damn sure—I was right.

But I sure hope that eventually I can be proven wrong, because let’s face it, all my hometown has to offer in terms of single men is a few mullets, some flannel, and Dairy Queen Blizzards. Oh, and Amish buggies.

I won't be going back to find my true love at this point....

Are You There, Cupid? It's Me, Bacchus.

2010-02-24T20:12:00.007-05:00

My breakup with Billy Blue was initially painless, comprised of a mere twenty-seven words in the form of two texts messages after our Super Bowl Sunday plans were squashed by his inability to arrive anywhere on time. As my father always said in his pre-John Wayne, Tommy Lasorda-esque days, “To be early is to be on time; to be on time is to be late; and to be late is inexcusable.”

Bacchus: No seriously, do your own thing. I’m gonna do my own thing. We prob should just do that going forward. This really isn’t working for me.

Billy Blue: Ok.

And there you had it. Two New York Aquarians breaking up--emotionless and haste-free.

After receiving such a concise response from Billy, I knew that I had made the right decision to walk away—to walk away not only from his traditions of tardiness, but also his need to constantly play with my mind and my heart. Had I been looking for that kind of facet in a relationship, I would have just gone camping with a confused transvestite and a bag of ecstasy for a long weekend.

Not only was I certain about my decision to end things with Billy, I was now certain that Billy’s “Monkey Bar” approach to dating that he had always joked about had been in full motion for at least a good week (don’t let go of one until you have a hold of the next). Otherwise, I would have gotten at least a full sentence in response; otherwise, he would have inquired as to why “this” wasn’t working for me; otherwise, there would have some sense of remorse.

For the following week I was sorrow-free, refusing to mourn my first “loss” of 2010. With my friends constantly reminding me of why I was better off without Billy Blue (he was a burrough-er, his Barney Rubble nickname was all too accurate, his beer gut was multiplying by each Sunday Funday), I felt a newfound freedom that I had missed for the past ninety days.

And because I myself did not practice the “Monkey Bar” approach, I woke up on the morning of Sunday, February 14th Valentine-less. Luckily I had planned something far more interesting than a box of chocolates and a sappy romantic comedy for my annual night of love.

Enter Danyelle from Passion Parties. Who needed a Valentine, a boyfriend, or even a blow-up doll when there was a sexpert and her table full of toys to be utilized on this Hallmark holiday? So rather than ordering in Chinese and crying over American Express commercials, I spent my Valentine’s Day testing cooling clit creams, warming anal oils, masturbation sleeves, nipple nibblers, pulsating pocket rockets, and vibrators that somehow incorporated cute, pink bunny rabbits into their quivering silicone cylinders.

$200 and a bottle of vodka later I was so confident that I didn’t need a man for Valentine’s Day or the next forty days and forty nights that I declared myself celibate for Lent.

Good thing I’m not actually Catholic…

The Wisdom of Chocolate

2010-02-07T14:33:00.003-05:00

It was another frigid Friday on the Upper East Side and I had just had a week from the depths of hell at work. The last thing I wanted to do was serve over-consuming, under-tipping twenty-something’s who didn’t know the difference between Popov and Belvedere for the next three hours until my weekend could officially begin.

Not to mention that I had only seen Billy Blue once in the past two weeks, partly due to the fact he had been on a cruise for one week, but also because my busy schedule paired with his overtime-filled work schedule made it very difficult to find a common time for us to share even one drink together. I was frustrated, tired and confused in all sectors of my life.

And ever since Billy had left for his cruise, something in me had changed. A week without calls, texts or emails from him led me from smitten to skeptic. I had been so blissful in those early stages that I failed to see the blaring red flags—his constant mind games, his wingman diversions, the fact that he was constantly a good hour late when coming to meet me and my friends, the fact that he technically had a girlfriend the first night we met at the Mad River/NY Easy Dates singles event, the fact that he had so easily lied when his ex-girlfriend called as he looked straight at me and told me it was his friend Sam.

Why was he attending a singles event when he wasn’t single? Why was he picking up women, including myself, when he was a taken man? Why did he find it funny to tell me about the set of twins he and Sam had met on the cruise and had I seen the pictures online yet? These questions and the fact that he had gone from one serious relationship to the next since the age of twenty-one weighed on my mind. He clearly had independence issues, as well as punctuality issues, and perhaps fidelity issues to boot.

And then Hershey walked in, beautiful and fashionable, as always, in a cream cashmere sweater, sexy denim and au courant alpine boots. I hadn’t seen him since late October and he was a breath of fresh air in my dismal night. As we caught up on each other’s lives, we of course stumbled upon the topic of our current relationships, where I filled him in on Billy Blue, and he then filled me in on his current fling.

And then Billy Blue walked in. I hadn’t been expecting him and rather than being overcome with happiness and glee that he had gotten out of work early to see me, I only became more confused as my emotions sputtered into a muddied, murky mess.

I pointed him out to Hershey, who immediately assigned him the moniker of Barney Rubble. Hershey then asked me, his chocolate eyes filled with sincerity, “Bacchus, are you happy with your Barney Rubble?”

I hadn’t even bothered to ask myself that question over the course of my past few week’s uncertainty. I couldn’t say I was completely unhappy, but the initial novelty of Billy Blue had worn off, only to uncover the true Mr. Blue—a man with an overflowing, overlapping closet of ex-girlfriend skeletons, a man who found it amusing to toy with my mind and my heart. I wanted the original Mr. Blue back, before I knew of his past, before he made me cry, when his mind games entertained me, when he was still trying to charm me.

“You’re always looking for the next story, aren’t you Bacchus?” Hershey commented when I couldn’t answer his initial question.

Hershey was right—I was always looking for the next story, but only because I still haven’t found the story that has a happy ending...

62 Days of Billy Blue

2010-01-11T23:50:00.006-05:00

It’s been sixty-two days since I’ve known Billy Blue.

There’s been laughter and stories, surprises and sex,

Kissing and car rides, casinos and craps,

Photo booths, sangria, sushi and beers.

And on day sixty-one, there were tears.

And that’s when I realized, all the warning signs were there.

It was for Billy Blue that I truly did care.

Wherever you live, whatever you do,

There’s always that moment when you know it’s true.

When lust turns to like, or like turns to love;

That you might actually have feelings, when push comes to shove.

Wedding stories momentarily aside, I had a highly un-Aquarian “oh shit” moment last night when I realized that my feelings for Billy Blue were actually feelings—feelings I couldn’t brush off or leave behind in a bar or at the bottom of an empty bottle of Jack. Somewhere in the past sixty-two days I had lost control of my emotions and suddenly Billy was not just another Benjamin or Realtor or Trader or Attorney. My on/off switch unexpectedly shorted out and there I was, stuck with feelings.

So how can you avoid this sneak attack of sentiment? Just look for these telltale signs so you can better prepare yourself for those oxygen-depraving, heart-stopping, gut-wrenching moments when you realize that emotions really can come true in New York.

Jealousy
By the time you’ve hit age twenty-five, you’ve most likely had at least two post-junior high relationships, been cheated on, and had a minimum of one heart wrenching break-up that either resulted in a borderline eating disorder or required weekly attendance at your local AA chapter—essentially, a dating graveyard. So why do we (ok why did I) get jealous just hearing about our current partner’s hairy ex from college who permanently smelled like curry or seeing an old picture on Facebook that was never untagged? It’s because we want to have what they once shared together and more. Essentially, we want to stick around longer, outperform, outlook, and outsex our predecessors.

Fear
I should have smelled my emotions sneaking up on me from a mile away when Billy told me he was going out with a friend to play “wingman” for the night. The knot I instantly got in my stomach was an unkind reminder of when The Attorney played “wingman” one night with one of his friends—and so graciously ended up with another woman in his bed the next morning. When the fear of potentially losing someone enters the picture, you’re a goner for control over your feelings. White flag should be a full staff.

Approval from Your Friends
If your friends don’t like your significant other, whether they’re sober or inebriated, it’s usually for a damn good reason that you’re too stubborn (or drunk) to see. But once you know your friends have given their stamp of approval (and it hasn’t happened since 2007), your emotional guard instantly, and uncontrollably, goes down, making you more at ease with all those happy thoughts in your head that you can now free.

Lack of Flaws
Impatience, sub-par driving skills, and a tendency to avoid talking about feelings are just a few of my flaws—we all have them. If I had a dollar for every sneeze, chew, ugly shoe, bad pair of jeans, or obsession with Fantasy Football that annoyed me in my past relationships, I’d be a rich woman who could finally stop slinging Coors Lights on Friday nights. But when you can’t see your significant other’s flaws or choose to overlook them, all I have to say is one and a half words: DONE-ZO!

I can only hope that these four warning signals can help you to identify and better prepare yourself for any “oh shit, I have feelings” moments in your relationship futures. Hangovers happen, and apparently so do emotions. Who knew what 2010 would bring?

Wedding Crasher: Pre-Ceremony

2010-01-02T12:58:00.003-05:00

As I uncomfortably writhed in the passenger seat of Billy Blue’s car, all I could think about was the fact that I was both a replacement date and a rebound. I exhaled deeply and attempted to cross my legs, which was highly unsuccessful considering my dress was a few stitches short of being a knee-to-tit corset.

I kept reminding myself that at least Billy called me by the proper name during sex and hadn’t tried to sever my nipple off as my past few rendezvous had. Hopefully I wouldn’t have to break it off with him in the middle of his sister’s wedding like I had to do with Benjamin in the middle of Mad River, because I was a long way from Manhattan.

After a few wrong turns and a few awkward silences, we pulled into the hotel parking lot where the entire male portion of the wedding party was waiting for Billy’s arrival. It was game time.

I was introduced to Billy’s brothers, Brady and Brannan, as well as the groom, his father and his two brothers, who all hailed from El Salvador. An Irish-El Salvadorian wedding? Would one end of the dance floor be Riverdancing while the other end would be two-stepping a merengue? This reception had potential to be awkwardly interesting.

Before I could say “mucho gusto” to the groomsmen, everyone began to pile into an awaiting black stretch limo. It was clearly for the men of the wedding party, so I turned towards Billy’s car, expecting us to follow behind.

“Oh no, we’re going with them,” Billy informed me.

Hmmm, I thought to myself. Riding in the limo to a wedding with a date I had known for a week and a groom and his groomsmen I had known for approximately cinco minutos probably isn’t entirely appropriate.

But what choice did I have? So I piled in and cracked open a beer just like the rest of them.

As we pulled up to the church, I realized that I may appear to be some sort of “entertainment” as we exited the limo. Billy sensed my concern as the El Salvadorians opened the limo door to make their wedding debut to the awaiting crowd.

“Why don’t you wait a few minutes and just get out after we all have?” he suggested.

I waited a good two minutes, as I watched Billy get pulled away to take family photos. I was on my own. I finished off my second beer, took a deep breath, and stepped out. I tried not to draw attention toward myself, but the awaiting crowd definitely noticed a mysterious woman emerge from the groom’s limo. Thank god I hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before—the two beers I had just classily slugged put me somewhat at ease.

I saw two AARP-eligible women blatantly staring at me and decided to befriend them. For some illogical reason, I decided it may be easier to penetrate a circle of retirees rather than people closer to my own age.

“Are you here for the Blue wedding?” the taller, gray-haired woman affably inquired.

“I am,” I said with relief. She seemed somewhat welcoming. “My name is Bacchus.”

“Well I’m Margaret-Mary and this is Mary-Margaret,” she introduced herself and her shorter, white-haired sidekick, as they both stared at me, waiting for an explanation of who I was and why I was here.

“Who is she?” Mary-Margaret asked Margaret-Mary, as if I were suddenly invisible.

“I’m Billy’s date,” I graciously informed them.

A look of confusion subsided on both of their faces as I desperately looked around for Billy, who was still taking pictures in a courtyard a good fifty yards away.

“Who is she?” Mary-Margaret asked her counterpart, again completely ignoring that fact that I was still part of the conversation.

“She’s with Billy!” Margaret-Mary explained with annoyance.

Mary-Margaret turned to me, finally acknowledging my existence. “What was your name again?”

“Bacchus,” I answered, as she looked on with sheer confusion and doubt. I realized this would be only the first of many awkward introductions to come.

I should have stayed in the limo and polished off those last twelve beers…

Wedding Crasher: Part II

2009-12-24T12:59:00.003-05:00

Saturday morning I was in full primp mode. Nails painted, eyebrows tweezed, legs shaved, Spanx squeezed into. Then came the wardrobe crisis—black, strapless Nanette Lepore or fun, flirty polka dots with a tulle underlay? Would the Irish folk appreciate my electric blue suede peep-toes with the ruffle detail, or should I keep it classic in black satin? I decided to text Billy Blue to see exactly what sort of nuptials I was about to attend.

BB: After wedding we party on a boat. Boarding is at 6:30 P.M.

BOAT!? BOAT!? My stomach dropped and panic set in. The last time I was on a boat was this past summer for a Mad River-sponsored booze cruise, in which I was a deep shade of olive green, nauseas and unable to consume alcohol for the entirety of the three-hour ride. Frantically, I dug through my drawers to find my bottle of Dramamine, which had expired six months ago but was my only saving grace at this point considering Billy was picking me up in less than twenty minutes.

I did a final spritz of my Lanvin D’Arpege and was out the door to my awaiting chariot (ok so it was an ’01 Volvo with a missing sideview mirror, but a chariot nonetheless). Billy looked dashing in his tux. I took a deep breath and buckled my seat belt. Here goes nothing, I thought to myself. If nothing else, this is great material.

“So is this one of those super long wedding ceremonies or are they an “in-and-out, let’s get to the party” kind of couple?” I inquired about the ceremony. I was hoping it was the latter but, of course, it was the former.

“What do you consider long?” Billy asked as he handed me the program for the ceremony, which was a good twelve pages, front and back, ten-point font.

“Umm, anything more than twenty minutes.” I replied without ease. I didn’t like to stay in churches for an extended period of time, for fear that the walls would start to tremble or a fire would spontaneously combust in the pew where I was sitting.

“We’re Roman Catholic. It’s definitely more than twenty minutes.” Billy replied with a chuckle.

I decided to change the topic. Why dwell on the fact that I would be in a church longer on this day than I had been cumulatively for the past three years?

“So, any pertinent information I should know about your family members? Any topics that shouldn’t be broached?” I asked.

“Well, let’s not discuss your sex columnist hobby for starters. My mother would croak,” he replied.

“Understandable,” I respectfully responded, nodding my head assertively. Little did Billy know that my mother is one of my biggest supporters and has read every single article I’ve ever written.

“Also, umm, well you might get some weird looks when I introduce you to people,” Billy added with uncertainty.

I nervously laughed, unsure of where his comment was going. “And why would that be?” I asked, unconvinced that I wanted a truthful answer.

“Well, everyone will be expecting my ex as my date. And most of my relatives have met her before, at least once, so they might just be a little surprised to see someone new,” he answered.

I let this information process for a minute before responding. “So when exactly did you two break-up? And how long did you date?” I asked as I nervously fiddled with my Blackberry. This car ride was getting more and more awkward by the minute.

“We broke up a few months ago and were together for almost two years.”

My head involuntarily rolled back and I stared in silence at the ceiling of his car. F*ck me.

“So I’m your back-up date.” I stated rather than asked.

“Well she was originally invited, back when we were together. So…yes?” he replied with severe hesitation, his eyes darting back and forth between me and the Long Island Expressway.

Back when we were together? It was effing sixty days ago! It hit me all at once. Not only was I the back-up date, I was the rebound…

Wedding Crasher: Part I

2009-12-14T22:02:00.002-05:00

It was a Friday morning and I could barely keep my eyes open or my breakfast down. I had had a fabulous date with Billy Blue the night before that started at Pio Pio and ended in my bedroom after two pitchers of sangria. Two orgasms and one hangover later, I found myself counting down the hours at job number one before heading to job number two when my weekend could officially begin. I desperately needed a bed and an IV, but instead I had a full inbox and a project due by five o’clock.

As I was attempting to coherently answer an email from my boss, my Blackberry’s familiar ding and flashing red light alerted me that I had just received a text message. It was from my beloved Billy Blue.

BB: I wasn’t sure if you said that you could make tomorrow’s event. I understand if you can’t.

“Tomorrow’s event” was actually his sister’s wedding, and in my hardly-sober haze, I had forgotten that Billy had so kindly invited me the night before during our date. We had only known each other for approximately one week and sixteen hours, but apparently he could tell that I would be great wedding date material. And I had to admit, I was happy to hear that he wouldn’t be spending his weekend with some other date whom might have the opportunity to enjoy the same performance I had received at the Love Shack a short twelve hours ago.

But my pounding head was trying to convey to my texting fingers that it was too soon for me to meet Billy’s entire family, including his sixty-seven cousins who were flying in from Ireland. I quickly surveyed three of my co-workers who had not consumed a massive amount of headache-inducing sulfites on their Thursday night to confirm my reservations. They all agreed it was too soon into our relationship to attend such an important family event, as well as reminded me that I probably should have looked in the mirror before heading to work this morning. Confused and offended, I headed back to my desk to reply to Billy.

BG: I do want to go but probably shouldn’t. What if you don’t like me in a week?

BB: I don’t place rules on anything. Whatever happens happens.

While I rarely abided by rules, I did have both lunch plans and a birthday party to attend on Saturday, so I declined his invitation and tried to revert my focus back on work. I immediately regretted my decision but knew it was too late to revoke my declination. I left job number one dismal and dehydrated only to head to Mad River to sling Coors Light and cranberry vodkas to over-consuming, under-tipping customers for the next three hours.

Upon my arrival to the bar, I immediately called a conference with Annie Smalls and Jenny Saurs to discuss my piss-poor decision of the afternoon.

“What’s that white stuff on your shirt? It looks like…ummm…you know…” Annie interrupted my frenzied explanation of “to-go or not-to-go.” I looked down to find a suspicious white substance crusted on my shirt, but that was the least of my worries at this point in my dim day.

Jenny saw my despair and broke it down for me, “Bacchus, since when do you follow rules? Weddings are fun and they’re Irish so you really can’t go wrong. Just shut up and go! And put some blush on or something. You look like a member of the Addams Family with all that paleness.”

Finally, the answer I had been looking for (aside from the comment about the insipid state of my skin). I quickly texted Billy and told him that I had changed my mind and that I was in for the wedding. After not hearing back from him for a good forty-five minutes, I was certain that I had already been replaced by a back-up date.

He finally replied with instructions to be ready by one o’clock. I went straight to bed after my shift, making sure to put on extra eye cream and take an on-the-verge-of-toxic dosage of vitamins. I needed my A-game if I were going to meet this man’s mother in addition to dozens of crazy Irish folk. If only I had known that I was, in fact, the back-up date…

And the Award Goes To....

2009-12-09T09:07:00.004-05:00

Thanks for tuning in to my titillating 2009. Here are this year's fabulously reprehensible Sex & the Upper East Side Award winners...

Most Scandalous Rendezvous
Eat your heart out, Carrie Prejean! The Donald ain't got nothin' on you. Congratulations to our winner Leigh Lewis for Most Scandalous Rendezvous. Nothing like a little job security during a recession year...

Leigh Lewis: 48%

The Realtor: 26%

Jeremy: 13%

Hershey: 13%

Best Walk of Shame
Hats off to The Valentine and Benjamin--their walks of shame were so defaming our voters couldn't decide who was sorrier as they sauntered back to their respective zip codes.

The Valentine: 35%

Benjamin: 35%

The Accountant: 18%

Harry: 12%

Dick Move of the Year
Jimmy Whisk by a land slide! Commiserations not-so-much--this kid still has a sick Gossip Girl move that works like a charm every Monday night during prime-time.

Jimmy Whisk: 70%

Bacchus/Juan Jose: 15%

Bacchus: 10%

The Trader: 5%

Man of the Year
And the most coveted award of the 'hood goes to my personal pick, as well as the constituents', Billy Blue. The UES clearly hearts my newest heartthrob. We hardly know him, but so far this fresh meat has been nothing but fabulous. Let's hope he sticks around for 2010...

Billy Blue: 52%

The Realtor: 21%

Jimmy Whisk: 10%

Jeremy: 10%

Benjamin: 7%

Hershey: 0%

Happy holidays! Bottoms up, pants down.

xoxo,
Bacchus

2009 Sex & the Upper East Side Award Nominees

2009-11-29T12:49:00.013-05:00

There were orgasms, there were hangovers, there were walks of shame, there were morning afters of glory. There were dirty talkers, dads, and speed daters. There were Englishmen and Irishmen, attorneys and accountants. And most importantly, there was sex. 2009 has been good to me.

With the year coming to an end, I thought it most appropriate to review my sex-capades of 2009 and honor the good, the bad, the “oh shit’s” and the “oh yeses.” So here are the nominees…

Most Scandalous Rendezvous
From Jon Gosselin abandoning his herd of eight children for a hardly legal woman to Levi Johnson knocking up Sarah Palin’s daughter, 2009 was full of sex and scandal. What neighborhood rendezvous topped the Sex & the Upper East Side chart this year?

Leigh Lewis
blowing her boss—at the office
Sexnomics-How to Get a Raise

The Realtor
talk about a titillating taxi ride
The Realtor

Jeremy
threesome anyone?
From Menage a Trois to Dinner for Two

Hershey
a secret nugget uncovered on Facebook
From Speed Dater to Step Mom

Vote Here

Best Walk of Shame
Whether it was me crawling home in the wee hours of the morning or a “dismissal” from the Love Shack, there were quite a few people partaking in their very own walks of shame this year on the Upper East Side.

The Valentine
be mine...never again
The Year Cupid Played Hooky

Harry
little white lie for a little white man
57 Inches

Benjamin
as the Ting Tings would say, that's not my name
Pillow Talk: The Dismissal

The Accountant
nipple biters not welcome
The Accountant

Vote Here

Dick Move of the Year
It’s not all sugar plums and doormen buildings on the Upper East Side. Who pulled the illest Kanye on Taylor move in the ‘hood this year?

The Trader
since when were you my boyfriend?
Dumped

Jimmy Whisk
he steals, he scores
Loose Lucy

Bacchus
giving doesn't always mean getting in my book
Selfish Lover

Bacchus/Juan Jose
nothing like a good Irish exit
Ditched

Vote Here

Man of the Year
Whether they were good in bed, hotter than Lebron, or it was lust at first sight, somebody has to be the best!

Hershey
the hottest chocolate you can get in this zip code

Jeremy
Tongue of the Year

The Realtor
making cab rides sexy since 1975

Benjamin
is there a Shit Show of the Year category?

Billy Blue
fresh meat, yet already one of my faves

Jimmy Whisk
don’t hate the player, hate the game

Vote Here

Cast your votes by Sunday, December 6th and stayed tuned for the results. Email me, call me, text me, hand deliver with a bottle of Jack. Votes accepted in all forms.

Email: sexandtheuppereastside@gmail.com
Facebook: Bacchus G’ues

Billy Blue

2009-11-23T19:41:00.008-05:00

Continued from last week’s Single in the City...

“Hi. Who are you?” I asked, instantly drawn to this complete stranger. He was magnetic.

“I’m Billy Blue,” he said with a charming smile and sparking blue eyes.

“I’m Bacchus,” I returned, unable to come up with something witty to say, unable to focus on anything else in the room.

After staring at each other for the better half of Black Eyed Peas' “I Gotta Feelin’” I noticed some skitterish movement to my right. I was forced to break my eye lockdown with Billy to acknowledge the man who had so rudely interrupted our staring contest.

“Oh, this is my friend Robin, who I came here with,” Billy hurriedly introduced me to his sidekick. I quickly sized up Billy’s wingman and knew I had to divert him elsewhere.

“Oh, well this is Jenna,” I said as I ungracefully grabbed for my girlfriend who was a good five to six feet away, trapped in a conversation with an AARP member who had somehow managed to make his way to the upstairs bar without requiring an emergency hip replacement.

I was ready and willing to pawn Jenna off on Robin so that Billy and I could get back to staring at each other. I didn't know if Robin was gay, straight, employed, homeless, herpes-ridden, or secretly obsessed with Dungeons & Dragons, and unfortunately for Jenna's sake, I couldn't have cared less.

Billy and I chatted each other up for a good forty-five minutes, acknowledging Robin and Jenna only when utterly necessary. He was originally from Ireland, had a college education, didn't live with his mother, didn't own any cats, and was one of NYPD’s finest. I practically melted and simultaneously orgasmed right then and there in the middle of Mad River. Had I found my very own Detective Stabler, who fought crime by day and could consume liver-damaging amounts of whiskey by night? There was a god.

Eventually, Billy and Robin headed back downstairs as Jimmy Whisk and I closed the upstairs bar and wrapped up the very successful Single in the City happy hour. Soon thereafter I made my way downstairs, spotting Billy and Robin across the bar. As I made my way towards my godsend and his wingman, I saw Robin violently kicking Billy in the shin in an effort to give him a heads up that I was about to find him talking to two girls. I laughed and shook my head as I approached, with Robin awkwardly trying to make small talk as Billy blushed and stammered.

But I wasn’t worried about Billy talking to two women over the age of thirty wearing mom jeans with bad roots—I knew that I would be the one who would eventually seal the deal with Billy. And within one week, I had more than sealed the deal…

Single in the City

2009-11-15T19:13:00.002-05:00

This past Thursday night, rather than meet up with Annie Smalls and Jenny Saurs for after-work drinks, I paired with dating experts New York Easy Dates and threw “Single in the City,” a happy hour for New York City-based singles. Ranging from twenty-something’s to early forty-something’s, one hundred single people of all heights, races, and professions with an affinity for dollar drinks and the hopes of finding love (or at least a potential Friday night date) crowded into the upstairs bar of Mad River for a good two hours of mingling with complete, but more importantly, single, strangers. While a few brave souls arrived solo, trying to portray an air of cool confidence as they saddled up to the bar to order their first drink, most attendees came with at least one sidekick to cling on to until a solid connection with a fellow singleton had been made.

As the singles filed in and I handed out name tags and directed any thirst and/or nerves towards the bar, I found myself asking, why hadn’t I attended more singles events in the past? While I’ve been rocking the single life for quite some time since The Attorney and I broke up last winter, I had only ever attended one event specifically for singles in all these months (see Three Minutes in Heaven). Not only did my past singles event experience provide me with some great writing material, I also got in a phenomenal Wicker Park make-out session as a result of my attendance. Why wouldn’t I want to take the guess work out of walking into a bar and wondering who, of the attractive, straight men in proper footwear, were available for flirting and perhaps a future fling?

As I made my rounds playing hostess, making sure the attendees were mingling, having fun, and drinking heavily, wondering why I didn’t do this more often, I had two gentlemen ask me how I normally met single men. As I recalled the dates, pick-up’s, and hook-ups of my past single year, I realized that the majority of the men I’ve dated in my New York life have been friends-of-friends, co-workers-of-friends, roommates-of-friends, or at the very least, acquaintances-of-friends. Aside from my rendezvous with threesome-loving, divorce-pending, face-washing-Nazi Jeremy and my short-lived dalliance with speed-dating Brooklyn Joe, The Attorney, Hershey, The Englishman, The Trader, The Realtor, The Accountant, and Benjamin had all come to fruition through mutual friends.

Eventually, the event died down and people exchanged business cards and phone numbers, promising each other emails and Facebook friend requests. I decided that perhaps I should jump on the singles event train. Although I at least knew the basics of what I was getting into when hooking up with a friend of a friend (excluding The Accountant’s surprise attack on my nipples), how bad could a few drinks with a complete stranger really be?

As I watched the singletons slowly file out, a tall, striking man with a navy blue sweater and a self-assurance that I hadn’t seen in the past two hours sauntered in.

“Hi. Who are you?” I asked, instantly drawn to this complete stranger. He was magnetic.

“I’m guessing you’re not here for the singles happy hour since it’s over and you’re not wearing a wristband,” I added, noticing his wristband-free wrist.

“I’m Billy Blue,” he said with a charming smile.

And then I boarded the “complete stranger” train…

Loose Lucy: Part II

2009-11-08T09:46:00.004-05:00

Continued from last week’s “Loose Lucy”…

“Lucy seemed disappointed and a little confused about the whole not having a reservation thing, so I suggested we just go back to my place and order in. It worked like a charm too. Before I knew it, she was on my couch kicking her shoes off and making herself comfortable,” Jimmy recounted with pride.

“I’m totally pulling the diner trick next weekend,” Johnny announced.

“So what happened next? You spoon fed her home fries and the rest is history?” I asked.

Johnny and Jimmy looked at each other knowingly.

“I did make the effort to call the diner, but I lied and told her the line was busy and we would have to call back in five minutes. Again, Lucy was skeptical that a diner on the Upper East Side at 4:00 A.M. could be harder to get into than Buddakan on a Thursday night, but I just skimmed over those minor details and got down to business,” Jimmy explained.

“We started with the basics—making out and heavy petting. But after I took off her shirt and suggested we head into my bedroom, she freaked. She told me that she felt guilty for hooking up with me because she had been talking to Johnny the past few weeks and did in fact like him—she shouldn’t be hooking up with another guy, let alone one of his best friends.”

“So I scoffed, rolled my eyes while shaking my head, took her hands into mine and said, ‘So Lucy, Johnny didn’t tell you, did he?’ Lucy of course shook her head no, looking very worried and confused, as she sat topless with unzipped pants on my living room couch,” Jimmy went on.

“So with all seriousness, I said to her, ‘Lucy, Johnny has a serious a girlfriend. They have been together for over a year and a half. I can’t believe he never told you.’ Well that was all she needed to hear. She stood up, grabbed my hand, and pulled me into my bedroom.”

“You’re such an asshole, Whisk,” Johnny said, pounding his fist on the table. “I can’t believe you ever sealed this deal with Lucy.”

Johnny had of course heard this story before, in fact the very next morning when Jimmy conference called him and six of their other friends who lived together in a house in Brooklyn. But today’s recount was just another painful reminder of both the girlfriend Johnny lacked and the ass he never got from Lucy.

“Well, not only did I seal the deal the old-fashioned way, but my sexual prowess also brought out the freak in her,” Jimmy smugly explained.

“What’d she do? A little dirty talk, ass smacking, hot wax? How freaky can you get the first time you hook up with someone—especially someone you’ve only known for a total of ninety minutes who refuses to feed you?” I asked.

“Well Bacchus, I highly doubt food was on Lucy’s mind when she turned around and asked me to take the alternate route, if you know what I mean,” Jimmy professed with all seriousness.

A loud gasp escaped our table as my, Annie, and Otis’s jaws hit the floor and Johnny buried his head in his hands, wishing Jimmy had never walked into Tin Lizzie that Saturday night.

Jimmy sat back in his chair, beaming with pride as he sucked down the rest of his Heineken. “What can I say, I’m pretty irresistible.”

“What I actually find mind boggling about your little late night rendezvous with Lucy is, number one, that she invited you to visit Browntown the very first time you hooked up; and number two, that she actually forgot the name of someone who she was intimate with in Browntown. Maybe you weren’t as good as you thought, considering she totally erased your name from her Browntown database,” I insinuated.

“That’s a great point, Bacchus,” Johnny agreed. “You must have been pretty awful, Jimbo. I’m surprised she didn’t send you her therapy bill.”

“How could she send him her bill when she didn’t even remember his name?” Annie reminded the table as Johnny, Otis, and I laughed on.

“It happens to everyone.” Jimmy said in an attempt to defend both his ego and Lucy’s lack of memory. “Watch me seal this deal one more time.”

And with that, Jimmy got up from our table, sauntered over to Lucy for a second time that day, all smiles and charm.

“Lucy is skewing single men’s expectations for one night stands. She needs to start hanging out below 60th street.” I declared. “I thought the Upper East Side was supposed to be classy?”

“Not with you in this zip code, Bacchus.” Jimmy Whisk said as he slid back into his seat. “Why don’t you tell us about your latest sexcapade now?”

Loose Lucy

2009-10-27T13:48:00.003-04:00

After a Sunday afternoon facial delight at Skin Thera P, I headed up to Manny’s On Second (formerly Blondie’s East) to meet Jimmy Whisk, Annie Smalls, and Annie’s boyfriend Otis for a little Sunday Funday action. As we ordered a pitcher of beer and a few bloody Mary’s, I caught Jimmy Whisk eyeing up the backside of a tall, attractive brunette in a tight, green t-shirt standing at the bar as our waitress repeatedly asked him what he would like to drink.

I kicked his shin under the table to get his attention, “Jimmy, you haven’t even had a beer yet. Keep your pants on and order a damn drink.”

Flustered, Jimmy quickly ordered a Heineken and immediately returned his focus to the girl at the bar.

“I think I slept with her,” he finally divulged. Before we could ask for further details, Jimmy had scooted his chair out from the table and beelined toward the mystery girl.

Annie, Otis and I carefully watched their brief interaction and couldn’t help but notice it was somewhat awkward, even from our seats across the bar. He swiftly returned to his seat at our table and immediately chugged his beer before any of us could ask what the hell kind of interaction the usually suave Jimmy Whisk had just had with the girl in the green.

Jimmy finally came up for air and admitted, “She had forgotten my name.”

As Annie, Otis and I cracked up, Johnny Fuego sauntered over to our table and pulled up a chair. Johnny Fuego was Jimmy’s childhood friend from Brooklyn who fought fire by day and moonlighted at Tin Lizzie on Saturday nights.

“Johnny, you’ll never guess who’s here,” Jimmy chuckled as he pointed towards the bar.

“It’s just some broad he slept with, which could be almost any semi-attractive, single girl with two breasts and most of her body parts intact that has walked through the doors of Mad River within the past six months.” I interposed, rolling my eyes.

“Actually, Jimmy and Lucy spent a very magical night together—after her he pilfered her away from me.” Johnny Fuego cynically stated.

“That’s pretty dick, Jimmy. You know Johnny never gets laid.” I said as I poured Johnny a much needed beer from our pitcher of Coors Light.

“So what happened with Lucy, anyways?” Annie Smalls asked.

“Well one Saturday night after I closed up Mad River, I headed over to Tin Lizzie to see Johnny,” Jimmy began. “When I got there I found him talking to this smokin’ girl named Lucy. So I pulled up a stool at the bar and joined in on the conversation. Johnny was too busy dancing on the bar and doing shots of Jameson to remind me that he had been casually dating this girl, so I took my fair shot at her. Plus, there was no way in hell Fuego would ever seal the deal with Lucy when it came down to it, anyways.”

“Asshole.” Johnny muttered under his breath as Jimmy continued his story.

“Wait so you knew Johnny liked her!?” I interrupted. “You are an asshole.”

Jimmy ignored our comments and carried on with his legend of Lucy, “It was getting late and I wanted to get the show on the road, so I told Lucy that Johnny wouldn’t be done closing up the bar for awhile and that I could walk her home. I could tell she was torn between waiting for Johnny and leaving with me, but I think we all know what she ended up choosing.”

“On the way home she mentioned hitting up a diner, but I knew it was best to just get her home—my home, that is. I made sure that we crossed Second Avenue before passing Midnight Express so she couldn’t sneak in the door and order the bacon, egg, and cheese she had been talking about since 86^th street. When she saw we were passing the diner from the opposite side of the avenue and suggested we go in, I told her it looked way too busy and we would never be able to get a table, even at 4:30am,” Jimmy explained.

“She seemed disappointed and a little confused about the whole not having a reservation thing, so I suggested we just go back to my place and order in. It worked like a charm too. Before I knew it, she was on my couch kicking her shoes off and making herself comfortable.” Jimmy recounted with pride.

“I’m totally pulling the diner trick next weekend.” Johnny announced.

“So what happened next? You spoon fed her home fries and the rest is history?” I asked.

Johnny and Jimmy looked at each other knowingly.

“Let’s just say it turned into the most interesting late night snack I’ve ever had…”

Stay tuned to find out what made Lucy so loose…

The Accountant

2009-10-19T23:35:00.005-04:00

It was a cool fall night and I had just wrapped up my usual Friday night happy hour stint at Mad River. Jenny Saurs had consumed an entire bottle of Firefly Sweet Tea vodka during our ninety minute shift and was now hallucinating ants and pizza bagels. Annie Smalls had headed home for a date night and Jimmy Whisk was manning the bar until the last Bud Light-chugging, Jagermeister-slamming, former frat boy crawled out of the bar and headed home to drool himself to sleep.

That left Red Rider and me to fend for ourselves on the Upper East Side. Predictably, we headed a few blocks up and over to East End. Not fifteen minutes in, Red Rider had found himself a spot in a game of beer pong with three blondes and I was left to chat with our friend Mumbles. As Mumbles was burbling on about a below-the-belt injury he had sustained during a recent street hockey game, I felt a vibration in my back pocket. It was a text message from my latest beau de semaine, The Accountant.

I had met The Accountant a few weeks ago when a mutual friend and he had come into Mad River for a few beers. He reminded me of Paul Rudd a la the incestuous stepbrother in Clueless, and although he hailed from New Jersey, he sported respectable denim and proper footwear. We spent the evening flirting and playing eye footsy*, but unfortunately, no tonsil hockey or hanky panky for Bacchus that night.

Over the next week we developed a textual relationship via Verizon Wireless, complete with picture messages and emoticons. But tonight it was time to take our relationship to a non-cellular level.

The Accountant was coming from the Yankees game and wanted to meet up. I parted ways with Mumbles and Red Rider and met The Accountant a block up at The Bullpen. He had clearly had an intoxicating time at the game, but I had no room to judge considering my liver-damaging level of Jack Daniels consumption over the past four hours.

We commenced our “date” with a shot, his chilled Stoli O, mine J.D., followed by a short game of darts that ended after my first two throws missed the board by a good three feet and my third throw narrowly missed an innocent bystander. It was time to go home to the Love Shack and I was bringing the Accountant with me.

We stumbled out of The Bullpen and swung through a bodega for some water when The Accountant spotted the produce section. He excitedly grabbed a package of strawberries and we were on our way. We headed straight to my room where The Accountant proceeded to feed me strawberries in between our make-out sessions. It was more sloppy than sexy, but I appreciated the effort and the Vitamin C.

Soon enough, the strawberries were out of the picture and so was my shirt. The Accountant’s fondling of my breasts accompanied by an occasional ass grab eventually led to a full on melon sucking session. While The Accountant was getting to oh-so-intimately know my rack, my gaze fell to the package of strawberries on my nightstand—the package of blue, fuzzy strawberries on my nightstand.

But before I could fully process the fact that I had just been force fed moldy strawberries by a slobbering berry lover, I felt a sharp pain on my left breast.

“Oh my god!” I cried out.

The Accountant came up for air, alarmed and confused.

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” he slurred.

“You just bit my nipple, you asshole!” I snapped.

“Oh really?” he asked with surprise.

“I can’t. You need to leave.” I said as I grabbed my shirt, guarding my throbbing boob with my arm and cursing under my breath.

After a good seven minute struggle of retying his shoes and putting on his coat, I guided The Accountant to my front door.

“But where I am supposed to go?” he asked, staggering towards my door.

“You can go curl up in a sewer for all I care, but you’re not staying here.” I replied, slamming the door shut as Red Rider came out of his room to see what the commotion was.

“What’s going on out here? Who was that guy?” Red Rider asked, half asleep, half drunk.

“That was The Accountant. He fed me moldy strawberries and bit my tit.” I unhappily informed him.

“Rough night, Bacchus, rough night.” Red Rider uttered as he shook his head and headed back to bed, leaving me alone in our living room, holding my punctured milk jug.

Bacch-tionary

*eye footsy [ahy foo t-see] n. First base to eye f*cking.

Sex & the UES: Saving Second Base

2009-10-13T12:36:00.001-04:00

Cans, melons, knockers, titties, pom poms, airbags, coconuts, jugs, hooters, headlights, chesticles, tatas, racks, honkers, pillows, milk-makers, ninnies. There are countless names for a woman’s breasts, as well as a myriad of things you can do with them: squeeze, nibble, suck, grab, twist, milk, motorboat, titty f*ck, bite, and lick.

The lists of comical names and stimulating activities that go with them are never ending—and so is the number of women who are affected by breast cancer each year. At any moment, breast cancer can strike anyone we know—our mothers, sisters, aunts, grandmothers, daughters, cousins, friends, neighbors, co-workers, our favorite barista at Starbucks. In fact, every three minutes another woman is diagnosed with breast cancer.

So how did I help to fight this devastating statistic? Rather than another Benjamin meets vodka meets All My Children drama-filled episode or a late-night backseat rendezvous with The Realtor, I focused my time and energy on a very different affair this weekend—breasts. Along with my teammates, I helped to raise more than $14,000 over the past nine months and dedicated my weekend to walking 39.2 miles with four thousand other participants.

But during my 39.2 mile trek through New York, I noticed that only a small percentage of my fellow walkers were men. They sported “Real Men Wear Pink” and “Save Second Base” t-shirts, rubber gloves for “Free Mammies”, and sadly, “Walking in memory of my wife/sister/mother” signs.

I decided to approach these few and far between men along the way and ask them why they were participating in the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer and what did they love so much about boobs that they were willing to walk a marathon and a half for them?

While their responses varied in terms of what they each liked to do with a set of hoo-ha’s, whether it be sucking the life out of a nipple or squeezing ‘til the sun don’t shine, the reasons they were walking alongside me were overwhelmingly consistent—someone they knew and loved had been affected by the disease.

October is Breast Cancer Awareness month. So whether you are a woman with her own fabulous rack of jugs or a man who values milk-makers, everyone can help in the fight to save second base. Do something today.

Back to storytelling next week…

Sex & the UES: Stalked

2009-09-30T18:19:00.004-04:00

(Continued from Ditched)

…Suddenly, I was in a cab, headed towards the Upper East Side—without Benjamin. I looked at Juan Jose with knowing eyes. He was right. Benjamin was not for me.

As our cab barreled up the FDR, weaving in and out of traffic, Benjamin incessantly called and I continuously sent him straight to voicemail. I was unsure of how I would even explain my abrupt Irish exit from Bar 13 to him and, truthfully, I was still in shock that I had just left my date behind. This was one of few moves I had never pulled before.

I closed my eyes and sighed as my phone rang for the fifth time in a row. I felt awful, but not awful enough to answer his call. Nevertheless, I knew I had to be somewhat considerate and let him know that I hadn’t taken a quick trip around the corner to Starbucks or been abducted by a sewer-dwelling serial killer—and most importantly, that I was not planning on coming back.

As my thumbs began flying over my Blackberry’s keypad, Juan Jose reached out and grabbed my hand.

“Who are you texting?” he calmly, but nosily asked.

“Juan Jose, I need to tell Benjamin something. We just deserted his ass at a bar.” I replied.

Juan Jose slowly took his hand off of mine and let my thumbs do the talking.

Bacchus: Hey. This isn’t going to work. Sorry.

Missed call from Benjamin.

Benjamin: Wait, what’s the problem? Should I just go back to Beauty Bar? Or did you go back uptown?

Two missed calls from Benjamin. My stomach was in knots and I couldn’t figure out why I felt so guilty about ditching a guy that couldn’t keep my name straight after a few beers and a little sexual arousal.

Benjamin: Hey, I don’t know what I did. What happened?

Missed call from Benjamin.

Bacchus: You totally ignored me when your friends came tonight. This just isn’t going to work.

Juan Jose and I pulled up in front of Danny & Eddy’s where Jenny Saurs, Annie Smalls, and their boyfriends were waiting for us. Through the window, they saw us arrive and stumbled out to greet us. Juan Jose went to pay for the cab, only to realize that his wallet was missing from his back pocket. The cab was, of course, a minivan, the largest and most awkward version a New York taxi cab can come in. As Juan Jose and I scoured the van with our asses in the air, squeezing between the captain’s seats, and blindly feeling for his limited edition leather Miu Miu wallet on the cab’s swine flu-infested, plague-ridden floor, Jenny Saurs and Annie Smalls watched with amusement while sucking down Marlboro Menthol Lights.

“You two are hot messes right now.” Jenny Saurs slurred as she exhaled a lungful of smoke.

“And where is Benjamin? The three of you left dinner so you could make it to the play on time.” Annie Smalls noted.

“Benjamin is actually still downtown,” I informed Annie as I pulled my phone out of my purse. There were five new text messages, all of which were from abandoned Ben—and he was no longer downtown.

Benjamin: I went to Mad River. Please talk to me. I’m up here by myself.

Bacchus: Babe, this just isn’t going to work.

Missed call from Benjamin.

Benjamin: This is almost the best relationship I’ve had after only a week. Please forgive my rough-around-the-edges friends. If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t be outside your apartment right now.

Almost the best week long relationship? What criterion was this honor even based on? And now he was at my apartment? Christ, I thought to myself. How did I not get the blue ribbon? And how the hell did he remember where I lived?

While stalkers were very Fall ’09 (both Vinny Chase and Serena Van der Woodsen had obtained them on their respective television shows within the past week), I began to panic that my non-fictional self had just acquired one in real life. This could potentially call for a restraining order, a billy club, and a six o’clock news debut.

Bacchus: Ok. Heading to Mad River. Meet me there.

It was time for me to resolve the situation, once and for all. Between my full-time job, bartending, and broadcasting my sex life on the Internet, my time was both valuable and limited—Benjamin was about to lose his time slot. At least there’s always The Realtor, who was a good lay, readily available on weekdays, and most importantly, drama-free.

Sex & the UES: Ditched

2009-09-24T23:24:00.004-04:00

It was Saturday evening and there was a buzz at my door. It was Benjamin returning to the Love Shack, the very Love Shack he had been so swiftly booted from less than twenty-four hours ago after drunkenly uttering an ex’s name during what would have been a sex-tacular time in bed. After accepting his apology this morning, we had reestablished our original Saturday night plans to have a nice dinner and head downtown for an indie play that my friend was producing. What Benjamin didn’t know was that I was bringing two of my trustiest sidekicks along for the ride.

After a quick make-up make-out session that left us both wanting more, we were obliged to leave our racing hormones behind in order to make it to dinner on time. As we walked to Nick’s around the corner, happily hand-in-hand, I informed him that our dinner for two was no more. Benjamin didn’t seem to mind that two of my dearest friends would be joining us, but after last night’s slip of tongue, how could he argue? He had met Annie Smalls the night before and was well aware that she packed a punch, but there was no way to prepare him for Juan Jose.

Juan Jose was my token gay sidekick, something that every girl in the fashion industry is presumed to have. Juan Jose hailed from Spain and was a makeup artist to celebrities and socialites alike, jet-setting to Hawaii one day and to Paris the next. He rarely had anything in common with the men I dated and had not approved of even one boyfriend to this day.

Juan Jose had seen me at my best and seen me at my worst. During an emotional breakdown/drunken stupor after my second heartbreak from The Attorney, Juan Jose came to my apartment, threw me in a cold shower, and told me to get my shit together and my ass to work. He was an honest man, but a damn good friend.

As we ate dinner, I could feel Juan Jose judging Benjamin, his stare across the table silently asking me why I had allowed a man who shopped at Sears into my pants. Hell, all seventy-five and a half inches of Hershey had been impeccably dressed from head to toe, and he hadn't even passed Juan Jose’s inspection. I knew this scientist from Belmar wouldn’t stand a chance under Juan Jose’s critical eye—but for once, I didn’t care. I was positive that after spending an evening with Benjamin, Juan Jose would see why I gave this St. John’s Bay-Rockport sporting science geek a second chance.

A few hours later we had made it through dinner on the Upper East Side and an off-Broadway play on the Lower East Side. It was time to start drinking. Per Juan Jose’s suggestion, we ventured a few blocks north and headed to Beauty Bar, a nail salon by day, a hotspot for non-hetero’s by night. But Benjamin never flinched. As soon as Benjamin excused himself to use the restroom, Juan Jose gave me the third degree.

“So do you really like this guy? Exactly how long have you been seeing him? Why is he so touchy-feely with you? This is the same guy who called you the wrong name last night, right?” he inquisitively rattled off.

“Umm, yes, a few weeks, is it awkward? Yes.” I quickly answered as Benjamin returned. Juan Jose and I immediately returned to our conversation about a pair of Dior Homme sneakers that he had just purchased while Benjamin silently wondered who Dior was and how could anyone spend over $100, let alone $500, on a pair of shoes.

After two rounds of drinks, we headed a few blocks away to Bar 13 where one of Benjamin’s friends from college was having a birthday gathering. In my opinion, our night had improved with both time and vodka consumption. I could tell that Benjamin was growing on Juan Jose by the drink—until suddenly, I was pushed off my bar stool. I angrily turned around to find an average height, average looking guy sporting a bedazzled Ed Hardy t-shirt and a New Jersey guido attitude.

“Umm, hi. Excuse me. You just pushed me off my seat. I was sitting there.” I bitchily snapped, pointing at the bar stool where The Guido now sat.

“Oh really? Well it didn’t look like you were using it.” The Guido replied with dickface attitude.

“Really, dude? She was f*cking sitting on the stool.” Juan Jose quickly stepped in while I tried to reclaim my seat.

“Aren’t you going to do something?” Juan Jose grumbled to Benjamin while staring The Guido down.

Benjamin was silent for a moment and then replied with embarrassment, “Ummm, that’s actually my friend.”

Juan Jose and I looked at each in disgust and disbelief while Benjamin tried to awkwardly introduce us.

“Oh, you know them?” The Guido chortled as he turned his back to us to order another drink from the bar.

Before either Benjamin or I could say another word, Juan Jose grabbed my arm and steered me to the corner of the bar.

“I don’t like this and I don’t like either of them.” Juan Jose irritably informed me as we walked away. “We need to go.”

Before I could respond to Juan Jose’s demands, Benjamin walked over to us to apologize for his friend. He informed us that the rest of his friends were upstairs and would we please come meet them. Juan Jose and I reluctantly followed Benjamin up the stairs to the bar’s rooftop. I could feel Juan Jose’s eyes burning through the back of my head as we weaved through the crowd towards Benjamin’s friends.

Upon introduction, Benjamin’s friends coldly said hello and quickly returned to their private conversations, turning their backs to Juan Jose and me. I could see Juan Jose’s face getting redder and eyes wider, bewildered at our current situation, while Benjamin didn’t even seem phased by the aura of impoliteness that encircled his group of friends.

Juan Jose grabbed my arm and excused both of us to the bathroom. Before we could walk away, Benjamin quietly suggested that we leave the bar. He could tell that we were both angry and uncomfortable, not to mention completely unimpressed with his choice of friends. We agreed to meet Benjamin outside—he would say his goodbyes while we hit up the bathroom.

But rather than heading towards the line for the bathroom, Juan Jose pulled me outside.

“We’re leaving. Now.” he ordered as he hailed a cab.

Suddenly I was in a cab, headed towards the Upper East Side—without Benjamin. I looked at Juan Jose with knowing eyes. He was right. Benjamin was not for me.

Sex & the UES: Second Chances

2009-09-16T22:17:00.002-04:00

On Saturday morning I groggily opened my eyes and felt for the TV remote in the folds of my tousled sheets. My head was pounding and my mouth tasted like stale Marlboro Lights and Velveeta Shells & Cheese. I turned the channel to E! to watch the last half of The Soup, despite the fact that I was still unable to completely open my eyes.

In my fuzzy haze, I started to recall last night’s events. I grimaced thinking about the chain of events that had gone down with Benjamin. I had really liked him despite his Kirk Cameron ala Growing Pains-inspired wardrobe. It had been refreshing to finally meet a guy in a non-bar setting, but it looked like I would have to revert to my old ways of man-handling in drinking establishments after last night’s name-calling calamity.

I reached for my phone on my nightstand. I needed to make sure that I hadn’t drunk dialed anyone too inappropriate during my Benjamin-bashing, beer-chugging fury at East End a mere seven hours ago.

There was a text sent to Hershey at 2:14 AM confirming that I was, in fact, single and the short, white boy I had been making out with at Mad River was absolutely not my “boo.” And of course, there were the texts I had been expecting—apologies and pleas for forgiveness from Benjamin.

Before I could give Benjamin’s requests for forgiveness further thought, there was a knock at my door. It was Annie Smalls and Red Rider wanting to discuss the Jess-fest that had taken place in my bedroom last night.

They plopped down on my bed and I read them Benjamin’s texts from the wee hours of the morning. I was still ranting about how degrading and offensive being called the wrong woman’s name was when I stopped myself. I hadn’t been this upset or angry over a guy since The Attorney, and I had actually dated him for a substantial part of my New York life. So why was I now so irate over a guy I had only known for a week and whose shoes made me throw up in my mouth every time I looked down at his feet?

“Maybe you actually like him, Bacchus. Which is totally fine…and human.” Annie Smalls suggested.

I scoffed at her suggestion and turned to Red Rider, who just looked at me and shrugged, indicating he was in agreement with Annie Smalls.

“Well even if I did like him, is what he did forgivable?” I asked.

“I think it’s something you can get over. You’ve gotten over worse, after all. I mean, it’s not like you found a skank from Staten Island in Benjamin’s bed like you did with The Attorney.” Red Rider reasoned.

Both Annie Smalls and Red Rider had valid points. I was used to having the ability to turn off my emotional “I-don’t –like-you-if-you-don’t-like-me” switch at any given moment and move on, but oddly, it wasn’t the case this time around.

Before I could acknowledge my roommates’ sound reasoning and thank them for their enlightenment, my phone rang—it was Benjamin. I decided at that moment that I would forgive him.

“This is Jess.” I answered the phone, laughing.

It was only appropriate to start off our let’s-start-over conversation with a snarky, sarcastic dig. Benjamin started to nervously laugh with me, not sure if I was going to ream him out or hear him out this time around.

“So it sounds like you’re a little happier than the last time I spoke to you.” he uneasily replied.

“Well, I am. I’m actually really glad you called.” I told him.

“Bacchus, can I take you out to dinner tonight?” Benjamin asked.

I happily accepted Benjamin’s invitation. I did like him and he did deserve a second chance. I was excited to see him and ready to move forward. I could see him in my two-to-three week future, maybe even a whole month. Who would’ve guessed we’d be having a very similar conversation the very next morning. Guess I’m a sucker for third chances too…

Pillow Talk: The Dismissal

2009-09-09T12:52:00.007-04:00

Continued from Pillow Talk on August 31st, 2009

…I was loving Benjamin so far—he was cute, smart, down-to-earth, and a great kisser. We had great chemistry and we were finally in a proper setting for addressing it. Eventually, things got hot and heavy. We were rounding third base and heading towards home.

And then he moaned in my ear, “Ohh, Jess.”

Jess was not my name.

“Umm, stop. You need to stop.” I said, flustered. This was a situation I had never encountered before and I wasn’t exactly sure how to properly broach this under-the-covers identification dilemma.

Benjamin pulled away from me with a look of confusion and asked with uncertainty, “Why, what’s wrong?”

“You just called me Jess.” I answered, with a less than amicable attitude.

Unfortunately, I was certain that he had called me Jess, rather than “Oh yes” or even “Jesus.” Jess was his ex-girlfriend from Queens whom he had previously dated before meeting me. We had discussed many of our past relationships on our last date, and I was now painfully remembering why I typically abided by my “I-don’t-give-a-shit-about-your-past-girlfriends-unless-you’re-disease-ridden-or-a-baby-daddy” policy. I made a mental note to immediately re-implement this policy for any future dates.

The gravity of the situation started to sink in. I was getting angrier and more offended by the minute. How could this Belmar-born, Sears-wearing, four-eyed science geek who lived in a windowless closet downtown forget my name in the middle of our fornication? And to think, I had ignored an eye-f*cking, lip-licking, impeccably dressed Hershey during my entire shift so I could come home to this? This was quite cruel punishment from above.

Benjamin looked down and was silent for a moment, while my glaring eyes burned through his bowed head.

“I did?” he meekly asked as he looked up, trying to act surprised that some other girl’s name had escaped his lips during our moment of intimacy. But he knew damn well that he had said this previous slor’s name—he didn’t even bother trying to deny it.

“Yes, you did and you need to leave right now.” I shot back.

“I do? Why?!” he asked with legitimate surprise.

“This isn’t an episode of Entourage, sweetheart. You need to leave my apartment right now.” I answered rudely.

It wasn’t rocket science. He was getting kicked out for a reason that he was clearly aware of and was one-hundred percent worthy of being kicked out for. I was not impressed with his lack of comprehension in this situation and he looked as if he were on the verge of tears. I was really going to lose my shit if this kid turned into a tear factory on me.

I rolled my eyes and sighed heavily. Benjamin had made no effort to redress himself, let alone move off of my bed. It was only 2:00am and I could still make it back out to the bars and get in at least a few more beers with my girlfriends before closing time if he would just put those unsightly, Unionbay jeans from a Kohl’s clearance rack back on his lower half and find the nearest exit.

I looked over to find Benjamin staring at me with pleading eyes.

“I’m really sorry.” he apologized.

“Well I don’t doubt that, but I’m completely offended and disgusted. Therefore, you still need to leave.” I replied with annoyance.

After an additional five minutes of apologetic banter, Benjamin got dressed and I let him escort himself out of my apartment. I was certain I would never see him again and I was ready to leave this little one week “relationship” in the past. It was time to chalk up another one under “waste of time” and continue on with my search for a somewhat decent, dateable guy in Manhattan who could handle the fact that I wrote, and wrote honestly, about sex for a part-time living and more importantly, would remember my name.

As soon as I heard my front door slam shut, I called Annie Smalls to see where I should meet her. I needed to let off some steam by way of Bud Light and Jack Daniels immediately. Annie was at East End and I couldn’t get there fast enough. I hailed a cab to take me the seven blocks to the bar. I couldn’t be bothered with speed walking in heels this angry and defeated.

While my mood was somewhat sour for the remainder of the evening, I managed to have a few good laughs with Annie Smalls. As John Lennon once sang, “I get by with a little help from my friends.” But unfortunately for me, and perhaps luckily for Benjamin, my friends can’t help that I’m a sucker for cute dorks and second chances…

Pillow Talk

2009-08-31T00:25:00.003-04:00

It was finally Friday night and I couldn’t have been more excited to start my weekend. My work week had been hectic, starting with a softball game on Monday, Trivia Night at Mad River on Tuesday, and a Britney Spears “concert” on Wednesday (concert in this case being a washed-up, pill-popping, nappy-haired pop star lethargically hip swaying and ass shaking while lip syncing). On Thursday, the extra bartending shift I had picked up turned near-fatal when a dirty, Jagermeister-covered piece of jagged metal sliced into right forearm.

By Friday morning, I was exhausted and on the cusp of gangrene. I couldn’t wait for 10:00pm to come, not only so I could be done working for two whole days, but more importantly, so I could hang out with Benjamin.

I had met Benjamin the past Saturday at a co-worker’s barbeque in New Jersey. He was my age, lived on Wall Street, and worked with my co-worker’s husband as a chemical engineer. His dorkish charm mixed with his Ryan Atwood a la The O.C. looks made me instantly smitten. We spent all day Sunday at the South Street Seaport and met for drinks before the concert on Wednesday. And I couldn’t wait to see him again.

Shortly after my shift started on Friday, he sauntered into Mad River and found a seat at the bar. Soon thereafter his college friend Bear joined him, and before I knew it, it was shot after shot of Jack followed by bottle after bottle of Bud Light. When my shift finally ended, I joined Benjamin and Bear on the other side of the bar. I could tell from Benjamin’s glazed, unfocused eyes and slight slur that he was not used to such excessive amounts of whiskey in one sitting. Since Benjamin still had a pulse and was able to make somewhat coherent sentences, we decided to head across the street to Gael Pub for one more beer with Bear.

After our final nightcap, we parted ways with Bear. I was exhausted and Benjamin was quite far from sober, so we hopped in a cab and headed back to my place. It was great to finally spend some alone time with Benjamin in a non-public setting—I was ready for more than PDA-ing in bars and on street corners.

We walked into my apartment and I led him down the hall, into my bedroom. I turned on my iPod and we settled in on my bed. Our kissing in between conversations eventually led to all kissing and no conversation. I was loving Benjamin so far—he was cute, smart, down-to-earth, and a great kisser. We had great chemistry and we were finally in a proper setting for addressing it. Eventually, things got hot and heavy. We were rounding third base and heading towards home.

And then he moaned in my ear, “Ohh, Jess.”

Jess was not my name.

The Realtor

2009-08-23T20:55:00.010-04:00

It was a sweltering Friday night in the dead heat of August and I was behind the bar at Mad River while everyone else in Manhattan was at their summer shore houses. There was not one good-looking man in the bar for me to flirt with to pass the time during my shift—hell, there were hardly even any customers to serve $1 cranberry vodkas to. Three shots of Jack Daniels and four Bud Light bottles later, I was still hot, tired, and cranky. I had had a stressful week at work and hadn’t been touched by a man in weeks—I needed some below-the-waist action and a small battery-operated device was not going to do the trick.

I started to scan through my Blackberry to see who I could call on for a post-shift rendezvous. Before I could even get halfway through my contacts I heard someone call my name from the other side of the bar. Which balding, beer-bellied, unattractive, non-tipping customer needs another drink? I asked myself as I turned around. But there was no balding, beer-bellied, unattractive, non-tipping customer on the other side of the bar. Instead, I found a godsend—The Realtor.

I had met The Realtor the previous summer at a Mad River event. He was in his early thirties, well-dressed, soft spoken, and somewhat resembled Benjamin Bratt. He lived on the Upper East Side, a convenient three blocks from my apartment, drank Heineken Light, and chain smoked. Upon our introduction, I immediately knew that I would one day sleep with him. There was a chemistry between us that I couldn’t ignore—he had my panties dropping at hello.

So when I found myself face-to-face with The Realtor on this sticky summer night, I knew there was some higher force looking out for me above. After a little small talk, he ordered a beer and headed toward the back of the bar where a few of his friends were having dinner. As I served the next customer, I saw my Blackberry flashing red out of the corner of my eye.

It was a text message from The Realtor, which read: Hope you get a shift pay tonight.

I knew he was opening up the conversation for me to make a move—we had played this game many times before. So I replied with: I just hope I get laid tonight, really.

Our across-the-bar text messaging conversation proceeded to get more and more inappropriate with each of our replies.

The Realtor: You must be horny.

BacchusG: I hate that word. But yes, something like that.

The Realtor: OK, you must be in dire need to get f*cked then. Is that better?

BacchusG: Yes that’s much better and much more accurate. I get done at 10:00pm.

But rather than replying via text, The Realtor got up from his seat, sauntered over to the end of the bar, and whispered in my ear exactly what he wanted to do with me after my shift. Before I could even respond, he turned around and went back to his table. There was more sexual tension hanging in Mad River than the entire back room of Ricky’s could even tackle.

I couldn’t concentrate, let alone recall the three sole ingredients that comprised a Red Headed Slut. I looked at my watch to find, with utter disappointment, that it was only 8:37pm. My shift didn’t end for another eighty-three minutes and I couldn’t get my mind out of the gutter.

Soon thereafter, The Realtor and his friends finished their beers and got up to head to a bar in Murray Hill. As we said our goodbyes, The Realtor and I looked at each other with knowing eyes. We were both fully aware of what would happen come my shift’s end.

The second half of my shift dragged, but eventually the clock struck ten. As Jimmy Whisk doled out our tips, I got a text message from The Realtor: Pulling up in a cab now.

I quickly grabbed my money and headed outside just as my "chariot" pulled up (chariot being a yellow taxi cab reeking of tabouli and patchouli). The Realtor opened the door, I slid in, and gave the cabbie my address. But why wait to start our rendezvous when we had a perfectly good five-minute cab ride ahead of us? Let’s just say the cab driver must have been relieved that he only had to drive us ten blocks to our destination—who knows what would have happened in that backseat had I lived across town...

Selfish Lover: The Defense

2009-08-12T20:19:00.005-04:00

While spending my Saturday afternoon enjoying a facial at Skin Thera P, I couldn’t help but think about all of the comments and emails that flooded my inbox after last week’s posting of Selfish Lover while Connie picked, prodded, and poked my face. I found it extremely interesting how so many men took offense to the fact that I failed to reciprocate twice, as if men would never or have never dared to be selfish lovers themselves. So, I have decided to take this week to defend my actions against all of those “Anonymous” men who apparently get an orgasm for every orgasm they give.

Anonymous #1 stated: I think it was really nice of him to want you to spend the night and make you as comfortable as you could be. It sounds to me like he was "offering" not "demanding" as you say. You seriously misinterpret and assume the worst, my girlfriend does that and it's hugely annoying. And for not reciprocating - that's just plain wrong. Who do you think you are? I hope Jeremy realizes he can do much better.

The Defense: When I think of “really nice” I think of helping your neighbor carry their groceries, sending birthday cards, and buying your friends vibrators after a bad break-up. What does not come to mind is an invitation to stay over from a guy who is trying to nail me. If you invite a woman into your home strictly for a sexual encounter, as Jeremy did with me, an invitation to stay overnight is typically a given, especially at such a late hour in the evening.

And while I would not consider myself “assuming the worst” in the given situation, I would say it wouldn’t be totally out of line to do so, considering the whole holding-my-hands-behind-my-back move Jeremy pulled. Had I known I would be romping around in the WWF Raw ring, I would have worn my spandex singlet and brought a totally different type of game.

And if not reciprocating is “just plain wrong” I guess it’s a good thing we’re not dating. I wonder why your girlfriend always assumes the worst…

Anonymous #2 stated: Appropriate title. He rocks your world, again, and you leave him again? 3 strikes and you're out, so don't mess up next time ;+)

The Defense: Hi Jeremy.

Giggidy stated: anonymous is so Jeremy, and you are certainly a beeyatch.

The Defense: Hi Shapiro. Aren’t you glad you didn’t marry this beyatch in Vegas?

Anonymous #3 stated: Wow! He goes down on you twice in one week and you can't reciprocate.......Where's Leigh Lewis when you need her?

The Defense: We need to remember that Jeremy actually enjoys pleasuring women—he was in a multi-year marriage with a woman who would not permit said actions. When he declared that he had a lot of oral sexual energy built up the first time around, I decided to fully take advantage of it. I like to call it utilization of resources rather than a lack of reciprocation.

Leigh Lewis—your thoughts? I hope you’re enjoying that vibrator I sent you.

Anonymous #4 stated: As a guy I feel a need to point out that there are men out there who LOVE going down on girls all the time, without the need for reciprocation. I know because I happen to be one of them! Love your articles.

The Defense: Are you single?

Anonymous #5 stated: Ladies first. Not ladies first and second...Pig.

The Defense: Pig? After a large glass of vodka, an entire episode of Chelsea Lately, coercion of face washing and teeth brushing, and a near Stone Cold Steve Austin-style smack-down on a queen size bed, I’m a pig? I was exhausted and unfocused, confused and mascara-less, and not to mention, in the presence of tighty whities.

Furthermore, I recall many sexual encounters throughout my un-chastised years where my head dipped below the wasit of a man until climax, yet such measures were never reciprocated below my waist afterwards—are these men pigs? Women understand that they’re never going to get road head, back row Saturday matinee oral action with a side of popcorn, or mile high under-the-blanket lovin’ ever in our lives, so why can’t men understand that they don’t get an orgasm, let alone a blow job, for every sexual encounter they have?

Anonymous #6 stated: Bacchus - based upon your last comment it sounds like you've given before without recip and it bugged you, am I right? So you know how it feels. Don't bring past experiences into a new relationship i.e. punish new lovers for things old lovers did to you. You'll just keep getting it back.

The Defense: Miss Cleo or Dr. Phil? Either way, damn you’re good. But where were you when I woke up in a clown suit next to a Ringling Brother, a billy goat, and an empty bottle of Malibu? Please check your emails more consistently in the future.

Anonymous #7 stated: Ok let’s face it there are a few issues here. 1. expecting a girl to prepare for and spend the night in the way that he did was creepy, who does that? This is not the 50's and it is no longer referred to as "bedding someone", and for a good reason. Get real. I was 100% expecting him to pull a house coat out of the closet for her. To Anonymous who thinks this is "really nice", get a grip, grow a sack and I feel bad for your girlfriend. 2. Reciprocity requires a level of passion. Sounds like although he knew what he was doing in bed, he for one reason or another didn’t turn you on enough to be "worth it". 3. And as for running out - Thank God! We do NOT need another episode of Law and Order filmed on the UES "based loosely" on this murder suicide. He sounds like a pervert and you sound like a lot of fun! Keep it up lady!

The Defense: I don’t know who you are or what you do, but if I were a lesbian and you were a lesbian, I would totally call you. Cheers to your housecoat-free, sack-growing demands of these anonymous men who are too selfish themselves to ever consider giving without getting.

Crystalow stated: I hear that. You dont give just to receive, what are we? Eight? And seriously, you have more strength than I do. After his bathroom vacation, I would’ve bolted - awesome oral or not.

The Defense: Thank you for pointing out what a trooper I was in this whole situation. I could have easily bolted, as you said, but I chose to stay and weather the battle.

Closing Remarks: While I do believe that it is important to maintain an equal orgasm opportunity attitude in a sexual relationship, it’s not going to be one-for-one every time. As Margaret Thatcher once said, “You may have to fight a battle more than once to win it.”

And I say, “You might have to give thrice to receive once, but that once will be awfully nice.” So gentlemen, get off our backs so you can lay us on our backs—it will be worth it for all parties in the end.

Skin Thera P: 301 E. 81st Street at Second Ave. (More Info)

Selfish Lover

2009-08-02T23:35:00.006-04:00

So here I was in Jeremy’s bed, anticipating the same great things that had come to me (or I had come to) on Monday night. He laid his head down on the pillow next to me and I waited for him to make his move. Considering I had already been waiting for close to thirty minutes, I was starting to lose patience. I looked over at him, waiting for him to come in for the kill.

But rather than leaning over to kiss me, he asked, “Do you want to wash your face?”

I looked at him inquisitively, both stupefied and speechless. The only response I could muster was, “Ummm…”

“I promise you will look just as beautiful without any makeup.” he assured me.

While I had encountered a number of odd and a few highly inappropriate requests in the bedroom over the years, I had never faced this type of query. I didn’t know how else to respond, so I dutifully got up and headed to the bathroom, where I half expected to find a family of geese in the bathtub, considering the soundtrack that had come from there only minutes before. I found a clean washcloth and washed my face, per Jeremy’s request.

I returned to Jeremy’s bedroom and lay back down next to him. Let’s get this show on the road, I thought to myself. What other distractions pertaining to the bathroom could there be? I turned to face him again, this time with a make-up free face.

“Do you want to brush your teeth?” he asked.

Now I knew for a fact that my breath did not smell, nor my face, nor any other part of my body. All I had consumed since leaving my apartment was Captain Morgan and Ketel One, which in my opinion, could have only improved my breath—it wasn’t as if I had been drinking garlic-infused Natural Light the past six hours, for Christ’s sake. I had both brushed my teeth and thoroughly showered before meeting Jeremy at Opal and this was starting to get a little too Law & Order: SVU for me.

“What is going on here?” I demanded to know. “Does my breath smell? Are you some kind of clean freak or something?”

“No,” Jeremy calmly replied, “I just thought you would want to get ready for bed.”

“Oh am I staying here or something? I didn’t get that memo or else I might have brought a toothbrush and a bedtime story.” I quickly retorted.

“Well you’re invited to stay, just like you were on Monday, except you ran out of here before I could even ask you to.” Jeremy replied as he got up to find me a toothbrush.

Before I could argue, Jeremy had fished a toothbrush out of his dresser drawer.

“Here. It’s one of those one-time use toothbrushes. Just wet it a little.” he explained as he handed over the next step of my personal hygiene routine that he had devised for me.

How about we wet me a little? I thought.

Why he had a stockpile of these creepy toothbrushes that were most likely handed out at homeless shelters, I will never know, but I dutifully took the toothbrush down the hall and into the bathroom. I had never intended for either one of us to spend this much time in the bathroom. I had hardly even gotten any tonsil hockey action and it was already nearing midnight.

While I was pretty weirded out by the chain of events that had just taken place, from the noisy bathroom session, to the tighty whities, to the demands for face washing and teeth cleaning, I couldn’t give up now. That would have been like Sam Ronson giving up on Lindsay Lohan after living through her abandonment of heterosexuality, Cirque Lodge, and her role as a stripper in I Know Who Killed Me. Once you’ve come so far, you just have to ride out the storm—or in my case, the bathroom breaks.

Finally, Jeremy got down to business and it was even better than the first time. I knew I had stayed for a reason and this was it. As I was revering Jeremy for his golden tongue, he suddenly flipped me onto my stomach, grabbed my wrists, and put my hands behind my back. I turned around to find him watching us in the reflection of his mirror.

“What the hell is that?!” I shrieked.

“Oh do you not like that?” he innocently asked as he let go of my arms.

I wasn’t exactly in the mood to play Scott and Lacey Peterson here, so I stopped all activity and sat up on his bed. I couldn’t figure out if tonight’s chain of events was a result of our age difference or a sexual freakiness-personal hygiene difference. It appeared to be a little of both.

He obviously didn’t notice that I was not impressed nor turned on by his WWF Raw behind-the-back move because then he asked, “Can I know what it feels like to have your mouth on me?”

Unfortunately for Jeremy, he had no idea that this was one of my top bedroom behavior pet peeves. Never ask me for head and especially never do the whole head nudge towards the crotch region. While it may work on some girls and it may be selfish of me, I absolutely can’t stand a request for oral sex—I give blow jobs when I damn well feel like it, and after tonight’s string of events, this was not going to be giving night.

I stood up and started getting dressed. It was after midnight and I actually did have a meeting tomorrow.

“Where are you going? What are you doing?” Jeremy asked, with confusion.

“I’m going home. I want to sleep in my own bed.” I truthfully replied.

“You’re the most selfish lover I have ever met.” he replied.

“I’m just using you before you use me.” I explained as I kissed him on the cheek and headed for the front door.

A few somewhat angry text messages later, I never thought I would hear from Jeremy again. His quirky habits, seven-year-old son, unresolved divorce, and underwear preference just weren’t going to work for me. In a city like this, you have to be picky, or in my case, selfish, when it comes to dating men. But it ends up that Jeremy wasn't going to give up on me just quite yet…

Rendezvous Round Two

2009-07-27T12:16:00.002-04:00

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…

Part II: From Menage a Trois to Dinner for Two

2009-07-16T15:22:00.005-04:00

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…

Dumped

2009-07-07T09:46:00.019-04:00

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...

From Menage a Trois to Dinner for Two

2009-06-30T15:42:00.003-04:00

Reminiscing about my near hook-up with a much younger, shorter man last week got me thinking about my experience with someone from the opposite end of the spectrum—a distinguished, financially stable, forty-something divorcee with his own real estate company and a seven-year-old son. Although I had written off dads in the past, I decided that if I was going to become a stepmother, I might as well do it with a successful businessman who lived in mid-town rather than an ass-smacking, dirty-talking teacher from Brooklyn…

It was a Friday night during happy hour and, as usual, I was behind the bar slinging Coors Lights and whiskey-cokes to under-tipping Mad River patrons. I was having an exceptionally good hair and cleavage day and was looking forward to my shift’s end so that I could head to The East End for a few drinks with Jenny Saurs. As I was serving yet another draft beer in a plastic cup, an attractive man in a business suit sauntered up to the bar and ordered an Amstel Light, a Ketel One and soda, and two shots of Patron. He was clearly not the typical Mad River customer in terms of age, income, or quality of clothing. He reminded me of Jeremy Piven and stood with confidence and cockiness, two of my favorite qualities in a man. He had piercing blue eyes, which I could feel looking me up and down as I bent over to get his beer from the cooler.

As he handed me his Amex, he looked straight into my eyes and said with all seriousness, “I’m looking for a third.”

I paused before responding, wondering if my thought process was on the same path as his. Was he looking for a third shot of Patron? A third teammate for a hot game of Pictionary later? But with the way he was intently watching me, waiting for my response, I was almost certain that my dirty mind was on the same page as his dirty mind.

“A third, as in a third for a threesome?” I asked, holding his stare.

He ignored my question and looked me up and down again. While he was so intently surveying my assets, an attractive, dark-haired woman in her late thirties saddled up to the bar next to Jeremy and began to stare at me as well.

“Are you interested?” Jeremy coolly asked.

“Obviously.” I evenly replied and I walked to the other end of the bar to serve another customer. I had never been involved in a threesome before and was quite flattered to be asked by this attractive and seemingly sophisticated couple. The last time I had been asked was by a drug dealer and his third cousin’s uncle’s niece. I knew that I didn’t want to participate then or now, especially this sober, but there was something about Jeremy that I wasn’t ready to walk away from, so I kept up my act.

I glanced toward the end of the bar where Jeremy and his number two lady were standing, only to find them staring right back at me. I quickly scribbled down my number and walked back towards them.

“One question. Are you two married?” I asked Jeremy very matter-of-factly, without even bothering to look at Number Two.

Clearly this was a typical question asked by any threesome veteran and I wanted to appear as if this wasn’t my first ménage a trois. Plus, I sure as hell didn’t want to be dragged into a messy divorce down the road where I would be fighting with Number Two for Jeremy’s house in East Hampton when he decided to leave her because he had fallen madly in love with me.

Jeremy finally cracked a smile as he answered no and Number Two scowled and walked away. I was very glad that I was not going to have to encounter her in the bedroom later, as she seemed incredibly needy and attention starved. Jeremy and I said our goodbyes so he could chase down Number Two and he promised to call me later that night to “set something up.” While I wasn’t planning on seeing him ever again, I would at least be able to Internet stalk him since I had noted his last name and company from the credit card he had used to pay for his pre-threesome drinks.

Less than five minutes later I had a text from Jeremy, in which he broke the news to me that the threesome was off because Number Two didn’t like how Jeremy and I had been looking at each other. After gloating to myself for my dead-on judgment about Number Two, I broke the news to Jeremy that I had never been interested in a threesome from the start. Luckily, rather than responding with an angry text deeming me a whorish tease, he replied with: Interested in just me? ;+)

Who knew just how interested I would end up being come Monday at our dinner for two…

Sex & the UES: 57 Inches

2009-06-23T15:00:00.011-04:00

While spending a lazy Saturday in bed recovering from Friday night’s debauchery and late-night mac ‘n’ cheese party, I found myself watching two movies about women dating and/or sleeping with younger men. The first movie I watched was The Reader, a critically acclaimed movie with full frontal male nudity, which in my opinion, always adds to the quality and entertainment level of any cinematic presentation. The second movie I watched was I Could Never Be Your Woman, a romantic comedy that went straight to DVD and was free On Demand. Dating younger men is becoming a more acceptable social norm as we watch such movies and read Ashton’s constant Tweets about Demi—so why didn’t my experience with a younger man go as well as these Hollywood relationships? It ended up having nothing to do with age…

It was another Friday night at Mad River and I was wrapping up my bartending shift as a group of guys settled in at the bar. A blonde, Prince Harry-look-alike caught my eye and started chatting me up. After a few shots of Jameson I decided to join him on the other side of the bar, so I pulled up a stool for a few drinks. Three Bud Lights and some basic, ice-breaker questions later, I learned that Harry had just completed his junior year of college and was visiting his older brother, who lived on the UES, for the weekend. He was fascinated by my city-living, bar-hopping, sex-blogging lifestyle and was undoubtedly unconcerned that I was a good five years older, more mature and more financially stable than his keg-standing, class-skipping, cold-pizza-for-breakfast, frat boy self.

After increasing our blood alcohol levels to approximately twice the legal limit, we decided to head back to my place for a little late-night romp around. I stood up, slipped on my jacket, grabbed my purse and waited for Harry to follow suit. I knew he had been drinking for a few hours, but I hadn’t realized he was so intoxicated that he couldn’t get up off of his bar stool. But then he looked at me and said “Let’s do this.” I looked down only to realize he was standing—standing a good four inches below me when I wasn’t even wearing heels. I had seen this exact scenario on an episode of Sex & the City, but had never fathomed it would happen to me in real life.

I began to panic—little did Harry know that I had a fear of midgets and he was teetering between the classification of a small person and a leprechaun. But it was too late for me to revoke my invitation and before I knew it we were in a cab on the way to my apartment. Thankfully, my roommate was not home to witness this circus debacle that was taking place and I immediately beelined for my room, my mind racing on how to get this little man out of my love shack. My mind immediately went to Betsy, one of my girlfriends who I was supposed to meet for drinks after my shift. By now she had probably already taken at least seven shots of So-Co Lime, but I hoped with all of the optimism that I could muster in the company of a midget that she could help me to get out of this mess.

Harry sat down on my bed, waiting for me to make a move. Instead of me cozying up next to him, I slyly took my cell phone out of my purse and excused myself to the restroom. I frantically texted Betsy, instructing her to call me within the next two minutes and give me a dramatic reason of why I would need to immediately rush down to Murray Hill to attend to her intoxicated ass. I camped out in the bathroom for another ninety seconds, willing Betsy to pull through and call. Unfortunately for me, Betsy failed to communicate in any way, shape or form, and I was forced to come up with a new exit strategy.

I took a deep breath and headed back into my room where Harry had made himself at home—he was lounging on my bed watching Sportscenter, with his shirt off and folded neatly on my dresser.

“Oh, I see you figured out how to turn on my TV.” I commented, somewhat inhospitably.

Before Harry could respond, I hurriedly said, “I’ve got some bad news. I was supposed to meet my friend Betsy for drinks after my shift and now she is waiting for me downtown. She is really drunk and just punched a guy in the face, so I need to make sure she gets home safely.”

“Well, I can come with you.” Harry quickly volunteered.

“No!” I replied with panic.

“I mean, no, you don’t have to do that. Why don’t you just head back to Mad River and drink with your friends until I finish up with Betsy.” I suggested as I handed him his shirt.

Once Harry redressed himself and turned off Sportscenter, we headed outside and he hailed me a cab. I gave him a kiss on the cheek and promised I would call him later. As I waved goodbye from the backseat, I told the cab driver to take me to 92nd and First.

“But miss, we are on 95th and First.” he replied with confusion.

“You want tipped or not?” I asked, in which he responded with stepping on the gas.

After my short cab ride around the block, I stopped at my favorite late-night bodegda for a snack and headed home to watch Oprah. I never met up with Betsy, who ended up grabbing a complete stranger’s crotch and eating an entire pizza that night. And I most certainly never met up with Harry in his 57-inch glory at Mad River—how could I when Oprah was interviewing meth addicts?

In You Doesn't Always Mean Into You

2009-06-14T22:36:00.002-04:00

After spending a dreary Saturday in bed drinking wine and catching up on Denise Richards: Its Complicated, I decided that I should improve my entertainment standards and watch something with actual acting involved. After failing to find a Law & Order re-run, I decided to watch He’s Just Not That Into You. While it showcased a star-studded cast of actors intelligent enough to not procreate with Charlie Sheen, it also depicted just how desperate and pathetic single women can be. Although I have been guilty of tracking down a crush at the library after drinking a bottle of gin in college, occasional Facebook stalking, and a lot of drunken texting, I have yet to stoop to the embarrassing level of desperation that Ginnifer Goodwin’s character did in her quest for love. But why do so many women stoop to such a desperate low?

The movie left me not only wondering why women are often so despairingly consumed with finding true love, but also wanting to hear a man’s perspective on the dating world, so I met up with my single friend Jimmy Whisk for some afternoon Bloody Marys at Wicker Park. As the general manager of a popular Upper East Side bar, Jimmy pulls almost as much tail as Bret Michaels, sans a bandana or a bus. Apparently a pink polo and the words “I’ll definitely get you a bartending shift” have become an instant panty dropper for young, drunk girls barhopping in Manhattan.

Here is some insight into a single man’s mind—listen up, ladies:

Potential Girlfriend vs. Booty Call
How can you tell the difference whether you’re prospective dating material or just a one-time hook-up? According to Jimmy, if he tries to go all the way the first time, then he isn’t thinking about taking you home to mom. If he’s interested, he’ll be willing to wait and respectful enough to keep it PG-13 until at least the third date.

Dealbreakers: Bad Breath & Lingerers
While bad breath should be completely avoidable in today’s day and age of Altoids, tongue scrapers, and electric toothbrushes, halitosis is enough kill the mood or even morning wood. Excessive drinking and late night pizza never help the cause, so avoid the garlic knots and swish with some vodka before leaving the bar.

As for lingerers, if he’s not taking you to brunch or serving you breakfast in bed the morning after, it’s time for you head home. When he starts making excuses, such as “I hate to do this, but I need to head to work.” and it happens to be Sunday, you’ve overstayed you welcome and its likely you won’t be invited back.

Words of wisdom from Jimmy, “When a girl leaves early in the morning without me having to ask, it’s like getting something for Christmas that you didn’t even know you wanted.”

The Reverse Effect
So you have a drunken hook-up and wonder if it will eventually lead to a blissful relationship. You’re pretty, smart, and funny, plus you had great sex last night, so why wouldn’t he want to see you again? Unfortunately for any optimistic ladies out there, seldom does a one-night stand turn into anything more. While a relationship leads to sex, sex doesn’t necessarily lead to a relationship. Move on.

He’s Not Interested
More often than not, women fail to get the hint only because they don’t want to. It’s much easier to hope he’s going to call—or email or text or Facebook poke you—than admitting defeat. According to Jimmy, a guy is never going to have the consideration or the balls to be honest with a girl and simply tell her that he isn’t interested when it takes much less effort to simply avoid all communication or act like you lost your cell phone.

While the female population should not lose total hope when it comes to finding true love, or at least a suitable boyfriend, my afternoon with Jimmy Whisk gave me a much-needed reminder that men are often selfish and lazy. So in your quest for a man that will take you on a proper date and buy you breakfast the next morning, keep your pants on and be on the lookout for the Jimmy Whisks of the world lurking in a bar near you.

Dealbreakers

2009-06-06T15:23:00.003-04:00

We all have certain standards when it comes to dating—standards far higher than those upheld to a drunken one-night stand or a go-to weekday booty call. Dating standards typically center around basic criteria such as family values, a sense of humor, a college education, and a good job. But in the beginning stages of a relationship, when your energy is focused on the excitement and fun of a new person, it is all too easy to overlook, or even completely miss, certain details that should be blatant red flags, or what I like to call, dealbreakers. Read on for the top deal breakers in my book:

An unhealthy obsession or even a passionate like of anything Science Fiction. If your man talks about the cast of Battlestar Gallactica as if they’re his personal friends or has ever attended a Star Wars convention, he probably has a few other peculiar interests that will eventually come to light. And if he lives in his mother’s basement, there’s good chance he will remain there with his Jedi warrior figurine collection for the remainder of his adult life.

Ownership of anything spandex. Spandex is a material that should rarely be worn by anyone, let alone a heterosexual male. Singlets, Speedos, and biking shorts should only be found in the drawers of cross-dressers who frequent Splash on Friday nights or award-winning athletes. Even if he bikes in Central Park every weekend or is training for a Triathlon in July, he can do so in a pair of mesh shorts and a cotton t-shirt.

Cats. Although I happen to be severely allergic to cats, their life-threatening dander is not why they made my dealbreaker list. Cats are inherently creepy, always lurking and constantly judging with their penetrating stares. I don’t need my bedroom moves critiqued by some furry animal that gets off on paw licking and catnip, let alone a boyfriend who shares his apartment with such a creature. Get a pet that can fetch.

Reliance on his mother. Whether it’s for everyday, routine errands or menial tasks such as picking up and dropping off of dry cleaning, depositing money in the bank, replacing toiletries/personal grooming products, or cooking every single meal he eats, he needs to cut the cord. If he hasn’t learned how to take care of himself by now, he will just rely on you in the future instead of his mother.

Cartoon character tattoos. These either signify gang connections from the mid-nineties or an unwillingness to let go of his childhood and/or trailer park. No further explanation needed.

Excessive movie quoting. Everyone loves a good movie quote here and there, but if it’s your beau’s main lifeline for upholding a conversation in a social setting, you’ve got a long, awkward road ahead of you when it comes to company Christmas parties and happy hour with your friends. People will notice and will thus judge.

Children. Everyone makes mistakes and some people’s come out of wedlock in the form of a small, talking nugget that calls your man “Daddy.” If you’re not ready to change diapers, attend school plays and deal with baby-mama-drama, then you’re not ready to become a step-mother. Dating a dad is no easy task—be ready to receive at least 45-55% less attention and fewer presents than you would from a non-dad. Harsh, you say? Cold, hard reality, I say. Go ahead and judge me, but it’s still a dealbreaker in my book.

Summer Love in the City

2009-05-28T12:45:00.002-04:00

After spending three summers in New York and dating for three summers in New York, I’ve had the opportunity of gaining insight into the three summer worlds that exist: a Hamptons summer, a Jersey Shore summer (which I could only endure for one weekend), and a city summer. While it was easy for me to determine which type of summer world a girl like me prefers (eh hem, Hamptons), what I am still unsure of is whether one can find love, or even a relationship that extends beyond a few drunken weekends, during the summer season. Based on past experiences and the fact that I know at least seven guys holding contests to see how much tail they can pull this summer, it’s safe to say that love is hard to come by between Memorial Day and Labor Day in the New York neck of the woods.

I spent my first New York summer in East Hampton with my then-boyfriend, The Captain. The Captain was born and raised in the Hamptons and therefore knew all of the private beaches, the managers of the best restaurants, and had unlimited access to former bosses’ and friends-of-friends’ boats. For our first Hamptons date, we set sail from East Hampton Point and watched the sunset while finishing off a few bottles of Veuve. That summer was full of firsts—sex on a boat, vibrators, clam digging, and oysters Rockefeller. But soon, summer came to an end. As my tan faded, so did my affection for The Captain. By mid-October, I was back to single life in the city, wreaking my typical weekend havoc on the Upper East Side.

The following summer I was dating The Attorney, who, at that point, was still in law school and spending his summer at home in Long Island with his family. While it was lovely having his mother cook us pancakes every morning and laundering our beach towels every night, I yearned for the night life of the Hamptons and a household where binge drinking and smoking cigarettes until 2:00 A.M. was acceptable. Little did I know what the following summer would bring.

My third New York summer was a dose of reality. I was single and stranded in the city, as both The Captain and The Attorney had become mere skeletons in my closet of relationships. Luckily, Jenny Saurs came to my rescue one hot weekend in July. Her boyfriend, Joey Coats, and twelve of his single friends had a house at the Jersey Shore. Beach, booze, and single boys—this sounded like Cannes with Jay-Z and Beyonce to the girl who had just spent four consecutive weekends holed up at Mad River in ninety-degree heat.

Three hours into my weekend, I was able to corroborate all stereotypes that I had heard regarding the Guidos, hair gel and gold chains that comprise the majority of the Jersey Shore, including Joey Coats’ housemates. While Joey Coats was a heavy-drinking, New York Giants loving Italian with a Masters degree, his twelve single friends all happened to be firemen from Staten Island, who relentlessly reminded each other of how much they could drink, lift, and f*ck more than whichever fireman friend happened to be standing next to them at that moment.

While many girls fantasize about strong, muscular, sweaty men rescuing them from a burning building, I prefer to romanticize about a man in a business suit at a board meeting. Unfortunately for me, this was not apparent to the firemen. Before I could even get down two drinks, they were crushing beer cans against their heads and ripping off the front porch in an effort to prove their masculinity.

Finally, we headed to D’Jais, where I was hoping to meet some nice gentlemen who didn’t say “aks” instead of the grammatically correct “ask”. But unfortunately for my naïve, un-Jersey-Shore-educated ass, I only encountered more tanning bed-ridden, wife beater sporting, rum-and-coke drinkers with frosted tips and waxed eyebrows. After I got humped by a midget during T-Pain’s “Buy You a Drank,” I looked at Jenny Saurs with pleading eyes while disinfecting my entire backside with Purell. By this point in the night, Joey Coats was drooling on himself and would be of no use to Jenny for at least seven hours, so she grabbed my arm and dragged me to the nearest pizza stand.

That night I slept on a plastic mattress with no sheets and my extra pair of jeans as a pillow. A complete stranger snored the entire night next to me while I hugged the edge of the bed, willing the morning to come. Just a few hours after the sun came up, Jenny and I were dragged to brunch—a brunch where I witnessed a number of men drink beer from their sweaty shoe. Apparently, this was a Jersey Shore tradition for some, but this was a deal breaker for me.

Eventually, I made it back to Manhattan and vowed to never enter the state of New Jersey again. So what will this summer bring? Undoubtedly, a few long nights at Mad River and hopefully, a few weekends out East—it’s all a single girl stranded in the city can ask for until Labor Day rolls around.

The Englishman

2009-05-18T21:33:00.003-04:00

During one of my first few weeks in New York when my then-roommate and I were roaming the streets of the Upper East Side, looking for our next watering hole, we stumbled upon a little place that went by the name of Stir. The crowd was attractive, the music was danceable, and the martinis were at a reasonable $12 price point, so we headed inside.

I shimmied my way through the crowd towards the bar and saddled up next to a tall, dark-haired, large-nosed man in a white suit. As I was about to signal to the bartender that I needed a drink, I was abruptly knocked into by a random passerby. Because I had not quite broken in the unnecessary pair of heels that I had bought four hours earlier with part of my rent money, I lost my balance and went plunging towards the man in the white suit, piercing the top of his foot with my stiletto while spilling his glass of wine with my flailing right arm.

“Not my Ferragamo’s!” he shrieked in a thick Italian accent.

I looked down and was shocked to find a pair of turquoise python loafers staring back at me. After a brief moment of speechless shock, I began incessantly apologizing to this flamboyant Italian man for dirtying his designer shoes. Of course I had stepped on the one pair of shoes in the bar that cost more than my rent, so I began to contemplate running out of the bar and never looking back. I wasn’t ready to endure the wrath of a hot-tempered, python-wearing Italian man, and I sure as hell wasn’t keen on joining a prostitution ring in order to pay for a pair of shoes. My contemplations were quickly interrupted by a man barreling his way through the crowd, heading toward the Italian and me.

“For f*ck’s sake, what the f*ck is going on here? We’ve been here five minutes and you’re already rat arsed, harassing girls, and showing off your faggot shoes!” the man bellowed in a British lilt to the Italian.

“Listen faccia di merda, these shoes are worth more than your ugly face.” the Italian retorted as he dusted off his shoe for the fourteenth time, trying to remove the smudge that no longer existed.

The Englishman then turned me and said, “Hello, beautiful. The name’s Robbie. Don’t mind this wanker and his nancy-boy shoes. Can I buy you a drink?”

While the Englishman wasn’t particularly good looking with his shaved head, average height, and pale skin, his accent was very charming and I had yet to check my “Across the Pond” box. And considering that I most likely would not have any money left to buy myself a drink for at least four months after paying for the Italian’s replacement pair of Ferragamo’s, I gladly accepted his drink offer.

A few glasses of Sauvignon Blanc later, I had made amends with the Italian and was downright smitten with the Englishman. The Italian’s name was Marco and surprisingly, he was heterosexual. Robbie the Englishman was a tennis pro from London and lived on 82nd and Third. Although I could only understand about 65% of our conversation due to their thick accents that my Ohio ears were not accustomed to, I was very pleased with my new, international friends.

The Italian finally had his fill for the night and headed home, leaving the Englishman and me at the bar for one more drink. A kiss at the bar turned into a full-on makeout session on the corner of 73rd and First, which then led to a heated cab ride to Robbie’s apartment. Before I knew it, the lights were off, Sinead O’Connor’s “Nothing Compares 2 U” was blasting on his stereo, and I was checking off that “Across the Pond” box.

In the morning I woke up with a wicked hangover and the lyrics “it’s been seven hours and fifteen days…” replaying in my head. I left the Englishman’s apartment wondering if I would ever see him again, and also wondering why he chose Sinead O’Connor as his sex soundtrack. Perhaps Sinead was making a comeback in England just like the New Kids on the Block were trying to do here.

Later that day I got a call from the Englishman inviting me to meet him that night at Reve for drinks, the restaurant where Marco was the executive chef. I headed to Reve around 9:00pm once I was fully recovered from my hangover and found Robbie waiting for me at the bar. Soon thereafter, the kitchen closed and Marco hung up his apron for the night, and the three of us headed to Stir for a few more nightcaps.

We walked up First Avenue, the Englishman and I hand-in-hand, and Marco sauntering beside us in purple suede shoes and bright yellow chinos chain smoking. Suddenly, a woman in sweatpants and a baseball cap came running at us. We weren’t even taking up the whole sidewalk, so I was a little confused why she looked so angry. I glanced over at Robbie, who looked like a deer caught in headlights and he quickly let go of my hand. Stupefied, I turned to Marco, who grabbed my arm and started running.

We got to the corner and I turned around to find the running woman with the crazy eyes screaming at Robbie in the middle of the sidewalk.

“Are you sleeping with her? Is that the girl you’re sleeping with? She has f*cking brown hair. You will regret this, Robbie. You f*cking asshole. Brown hair! Really? This is unbelievable!”

It took me a moment to realize that Crazy Eyes was referring to me as the girl with the brown hair. Since she was dressed like she had just come from softball practice, I couldn’t tell what color her hair was underneath her hat, but I was extremely relieved she was not carrying a bat.

Crazy Eyes then turned around and spotted Marco and me on the corner. She screamed “whore” in our general direction and before she could take another step towards us, Marco again grabbed my arm, dragged me across the street and shoved me through the door of the nearest bar to safety.

“What the hell was that?” I breathlessly asked Marco, who was leaning against a bar stool and wheezing, due to his pack-a-day Marlboro Reds habit.

“Robbie’s ex-girlfriend. Last time she a-used umbrella on him,” he explained in between gasps. “She does not a-want him with another girl. You know, she wants to a-stop his penis.”

“You mean cock block him?” I could hardly understand this man’s dialogue as it was, and his panting was not making his English any clearer.

“Ah yes, the cock block-a!” he breathlessly exclaimed.

“Well that’s a hell of a cock block.” I muttered, knowing I would never listen to Sinead O’Connor the same again. But unpredictably enough, that night on the First Avenue sidewalk between 72nd and 73rd would not be the last time I encountered the Englishman…

From Speed Dater to Step Mom

2009-05-11T21:17:00.003-04:00

As Brooklyn Joe and I settled in at the bar, I was quite confident that our early resignation from the speed dating extravaganza was the right choice. Let’s face it, I was more likely to meet my soul mate drinking at a bar rather than during a 90-second conversation about flute playing, especially since in my world, flute playing has less to do with music and more to do with oral sex.

Although I was still a bit skeptical about anyone who traveled from another burrough to meet twenty-five complete strangers for $35, I was ready to give Brooklyn Joe at least two drinks more worth of a chance. Those two drinks led to an un-recallable number of drinks and a drunken suggestion to head across the street to Wicker Park for a few more. A Ketel One on the rocks and a brief session of tonsil hockey later, I had become speed dating’s newest aficionado.

When we parted ways on the corner of 83rd and Third, I was certain I would see Brooklyn Joe at least one more time. As predicted, Sunday morning rolled around and I got an invitation from Brooklyn Joe to hang out—in Brooklyn. A $30 cab ride soon thereafter and I found myself in the unchartered neighborhood of Park Slope. While I could have drunk champagne and eaten quesadillas all day at Blockhead’s for less, I was willing to leave my zip code to see how things could potentially pan out with Brooklyn Joe.

Upon my arrival, Brooklyn Joe introduced me to his two roommates—one had received a blow job in a Lower East Side bar’s bathroom stall from a hooker the night before, and had spent the greater part of his day showering with bleach. The other roommate had a bad habit of standing naked in his bedroom while peering out the window into his neighbors’ apartments. Seemingly, Brooklyn Joe’s dog, Simon, did not have any bad habits, other than some typical crotch sniffing. I would gladly endure a little nuzzle in my muzzle from Simon over having to continue a remarkably awkward conversation with either of Brooklyn Joe’s roommates.

We settled onto his bed to watch a movie, engaged in some light conversation, and most importantly, kept it PG-13 (these sort of details make my mother somewhat more at ease). For my trek back to civilization, I actually used public transportation, which is quite a rarity for me on a weekend. While I was very proud of myself for 1) behaving like a proper lady; 2) branching out to another burrough; and 3) using public transportation, I spent my ride back wondering if Brooklyn Joe was just another Average Joe.

As I exited the subway station and emerged above ground, I received a text message from Hershey. How he had not given up after my blatantly obvious cold shoulder treatment, I would never know. But according to my sister, I had been too harsh on Hershey for his dirty talking, ass-smacking ways. This coming from a girl who had just gotten her first vibrator at age thirty-one, I decided that I should perhaps reconsider what Hershey could potentially bring to my table.

The only way for me to properly determine which gentleman would prevail for future time in my datebook was to do a comparative Facebook profile analysis. Brooklyn Joe’s profile was ostensibly average and I had already spent some time perusing it before I left my zip code for his, so I clicked my way over to Hershey’s profile. As I was scrolling through his pictures, I came across a photo album titled “Mini Me.” He had told me all about his nephew the same night that he had spanked his way into my bedroom, so I decided to see what this little nugget looked like. It wasn’t until picture number three that I realized his “Mini Me” wasn’t actually his nephew but rather his son.

After an aggressively inquisitive text message to Hershey regarding his fatherhood status, he responded with “Yes I am. A proud one too.” In my book proud fathers usually disclose this type of information, but apparently he didn’t have time for that conversation to come up in between his dirty pillow talking lines.

So here I was on a Sunday night, deciding between courting a speed dater or becoming a step-mother. Although I was a fabulous aunt, I wasn’t sure my alcohol intake and recent strip club visits would translate well into motherhood. And although I was an adventure-seeking young woman, Brooklyn was just a little too far from home base. Time to focus on finding a child-free, independent-living, creepy-roommate-free Manhattanite. Any takers?

Three Minutes in Heaven: Speed Dating on the UES

2009-05-03T21:28:00.008-04:00

This past Thursday I decided to try a new approach to dating on the Upper East Side. Rather than the usual tactic of hitting up a happy hour or lingering at Mad River after a bartending shift to see if anyone notable materializes after seven or eight beers, I decided to take on the world of speed dating. Never one to shy away from trying new things, I decided that speed dating couldn’t be any worse of decision than some I’ve made after a few dirty martinis on a Friday night at 2:00 a.m. It was time efficient and cost effective, which is exactly what a girl with multiple jobs in a recession needs. My only concern was the caliber of my fellow speed daters—but based on the quality of men in the non-speed dating world, I decided they couldn’t be that much more inferior. If I could handle dirty talkers, sex addicts, and Astorians sporting JC Penny jeans, I could surely manage a handful of speed daters.

I arrived at Mad River around 7:15 p.m. for my speed dating debut. I’d had a long day at work, with no time to eat dinner, let alone properly primp. My nails were chipped from playing softball the night before, and my hands were raw from a Purell-ing frenzy that would hopefully evade me from any Swine Flu contamination. I found a spot at the end of the bar so I could observe both my competition and my potential prey. I watched as the bar filled with guys under 5’7”, nervously ordering their first drink, with darting eyes and shaking hands. I immediately ordered a shot of Jack and contemplated pulling an Irish Exit. Soon the girls began to file in, all in groups of at least two. Many looked as if they were coming to their first Homecoming dance, nervously giggling with done-up hair and bad make-up. I was definitely the only female flying solo, and most definitely the only girl taking shots of whiskey. This was starting to feel like a bad episode of The Bachelor.

As I ordered a second beer, I decided to jot down a few questions to start each date with. I wasn’t shy by any means, but I was not a fan of awkward silences, and wanted to be prepared with at least a few conversation fillers. My list included the following questions:

1. Have you experienced any symptoms of the Swine Flu in the past twenty-four hours?
2. Do you do drugs? a. If no, why not? b. If yes, which ones?
3. Have you ever speed dated before?
4. Do you prefer cats or dogs?
5. When was the last time you got laid?

Before the festivities got underway, I noticed a group of somewhat normal looking guys to my right. Their names were Jerry, Burly, and Joe, and they lived in Brooklyn. They also happened to be newbies to the speed dating scene. The cutest one of the trio, Brooklyn Joe, claimed to only have come as a supportive crutch for his friends. But let’s face it, no one pays $35 to come to the Upper East Side all the way from Brooklyn just to play wingman—Brooklyn Joe was looking for a piece and I only hoped that I would get my three minutes in heaven with him sooner rather than later.

My first date was with a man who looked like the cousin of Mr. Tumnus from Narnia. While he had not experienced any symptoms of the Swine Flu and was intrigued to read my Sex & the Upper East Side articles, I was certain he would start chewing on a can, Jim Brewer-Goat Boy style, at any moment. Dates two through nine included a flute player, a Lebanese dentist, a Polish engineer and four IT guys. None of them did drugs, two liked cats, and I didn’t even need to ask if they had gotten laid recently.

Then I came across Burly, one of the Brooklynites I had met before the event started. He donned a large, gold chain with a cross and was thrilled to hear that I wrote a column about sex.

“Yo, that’s like mad cool you write those articles.” he sputtered.

“Thanks so much, Burly. Where do you live in Brooklyn? And what do you do?” I asked.

“Well, you know, I’m a mechanic, which is like, mad fun. I live with my moms right now, just to save money and stuff” he answered.

Little did poor Burly know the fact that he still lived with his “moms” was not something any girl wanted to hear on a first date from a man over the age of twenty-five.

Next was Brooklyn Joe, who thankfully lacked a gold chain or mom-roommate. He had a dog, worked in finance, and had a witty sense of humor that didn’t take offense to my Swine Flu and sex history questions. Following Joe was Rich, who I found out was a probation officer after I asked if he had any drug habits and if he liked to drink every night of the week. I told him to have some of his probates call me after they were off of house arrest, assuming they had to be more fun than Rich himself.

After an exhausting forty-five minutes of fifteen dates, there was an intermission intended for some additional mingling time with your dates that had gone well. I worked my way through the crowd to find Brooklyn Joe. Since I had nothing to lose and was near the closest exit in the bar, I laid it out on the line for Brooklyn Joe.

“Listen Joe, I’m over this whole speed dating thing. I had fifteen dates with Geek Squard degenerates, cat-lovers and one goat. I don’t need to be here and I really don’t think you do either. So do you want to go downstairs and have a conversation that lasts for more than ninety seconds or what?” I asked with uninhibited conviction.

Lucky for me, Brooklyn Joe said yes, and we headed downstairs with our fellow speed daters looking on. As they always say, don’t knock it until you try it (bestiality, hot dog eating contests, and Russian hookers excluded).

Dirty Talk Between the Sheets

2009-04-26T19:42:00.003-04:00

One of my favorite things about New York is weekend brunch. Every Saturday or Sunday morning we roll out of bed, throw on a pair of sunglasses to hide bloodshot eyes and smeared mascara, and head to our favorite brunch spot. While many people use brunch as an opportunity to spend time with their family, read the newspaper, or converse about current events and world politics, my friends and I prefer to use brunch as an opportunity to discuss our most recent indiscretions. This weekend I brunched with Mena Prance and my roommate Red Rider only to discover that there was a new phenomenon taking over bedrooms everywhere on the Upper East Side.

For about two weeks, Mena had been having a textual relationship with a dashing, well-dressed man named Hershey. Based on my in-depth text message analysis, I determined Hershey’s only flaw was that he lived in another burrough, which logistically puts a strain on any relationship.

"So I finally met up with Hershey this week and we had a great time.” Mena began. "After about four too many glasses of champagne, I invited him back to my apartment. When we got there, I opened a bottle of wine and before I new it, we were getting frisky. One grab led to another fondle and suddenly it wasn't so PG-13 anymore."

Mena paused to slug down the rest of her bloody Mary and I signaled to the waitress for another round.

"In terms of a first-time hook-ups, things were going very well. I liked his assets and he clearly liked mine. But then the moment was ruined when he whispered a sweet nothing in my ear about how he loves my p*ssy and followed up it with an ass slap!"

"Who does that during the first hook up? That's appalling. How do you even respond to that?" I asked, with my jaw on the table right next to my Eggs Benedict and empty bloody Mary glass.

"I thought maybe it was just a fluke, so I tried to ignore it and get back to business. But he just kept going on and on about my 'P'. Number one, 'P' is probably one of the most disgusting words in the English language. Number two, he had only known my 'P' for approximately five minutes so there is no way he could already fallen that deeply in love with it."

"So how did you remedy this whole dirty talk-ass smacking situation?" I asked.

"Well, I asked him if he talked to everyone like that and by the look of confusion on his face, I knew I wasn't the first girl to hear all about her 'P' and how sweet it was.” Mena explained.

"So I had to ask him to leave. I mean, if he's pulling these moves out for our first hook-up, I don't even want to know what hook-up #3 could entail."

"Most likely dirty gym socks and cat toys." I surmised.

“Sorry I’m late.” Red Rider apologized as he plopped down in the chair next to me. “I made a bad decision last night and I’m trying to pick up the pieces today.”

“Ooh I love when you make bad decisions! Do tell.” I excitedly replied.

“I hooked up with a fatty.” Red Rider groaned with his head in his hands.

“Oh please, you’ve got nothing on me.” Mena snorted.

“And overweight people need action too.” I added.

“Well, there’s a little more to the story.” Red Rider began.

“I was at Brother Jimmy’s with a group of people from work, including this chubby girl named Lisa who had been sweating me for a few weeks. I should have known nothing good was going to come of her when she put her hands in the front pockets of my pants and felt me up while my senior manager was standing right behind me. But after a few more shots of Black Label, I decided to take her up on her offer, so we left the bar and headed to her place.”

“I really hope this story gets juicer because I’m quickly losing interest.” Mena slurred as she finished her third bloody Mary.

“We get to her place and start hooking up. Since I wasn’t really attracted to her, I didn’t exactly give a gold medal performance. Apparently she wanted more than what I was giving her because she started yelling that she wanted me to f*ck her and f*ck her hard. She kept talking dirty and I went into shock. I’ve never experienced this kind of intense dirty talk. At that point my performance level reached an all-time low, so we paused and she went to the bathroom. I was going to grab my clothes and pull an Irish exit but then I heard a loud crash come from the bathroom. Since I’m not a total asshole, I put my clothes down and went to check on her.” Red Rider continued.

“What the hell was she doing in there? Extreme peeing?” I asked.

“She apparently lost her balance and grabbed on to the shower curtain to break her fall, but because she was that fat, she actually pulled the shower curtain rod out from the wall and fell into the bathtub. When I walked into the bathroom she was lying in the bathtub, completely naked, with the shower curtain covering half of her body and the curtain rod on top of her.” Red Rider paused to finish off his bloody Mary.

“That is not a pretty picture, especially when a lot of cellulite is involved.” Mena interjected.

“So there I was, stark naked, trying to hang her shower curtain rod back up and she reaches around me and starts giving me a hand job. I should have just left her in the bathtub and peaced out.” Red Rider sighed heavily and shook his head.

“You’re going to have an awkward Monday morning.” I laughed.

“I just want to know who started this dirty talk trend. I never want to hear the p-word again.” Mena claimed.

“And I never want to hook up with a fatty again.” Red Rider declared.

Are There Any Prince Charming's Left on the Upper East Side?

2009-04-19T21:20:00.008-04:00

Last weekend I left my usual weekend antics behind on the Upper East Side and headed to Ohio to spend a relaxing holiday weekend with my family. My weekend of leisure included a few Amish sightings, a slightly creepy encounter with Chuck E. Cheese, and a lot of storybook reading with my three nephews. Although the Amish are stilling wearing Abraham Yoder's designs from Fall 1909, they have become quite the advocates for going green with their eco-friendly horse-and-buggy approach to transportation. As for Chuck E. Cheese, he looks more like a New York City sewer rat than the friendly, pizza-serving, ski-ball-playing mouse I remembered from my childhood.

But the most important lessons learned on my weekend away from civilization were from the storybooks that I repeatedly read to my nuggets each night before their bedtime. It’s no wonder that we live in a society where relationships are consumed with affairs, threesomes, and in-depth psychoanalysis on Jerry Springer or that our companion selection processes are often based on materialistic and aesthetic criterion—we grew up reading and watching the same scenarios unfold on the colorful pages of our storybooks and during our Saturday morning cartoons.

If we could read the epilogue after each fairy tale’s “The End,” would the characters actually be living so happily ever after? While the Cinderella’s and Sleeping Beauty’s of folklore were always beautiful, cellulite-free, and never suffered from PMS, their Prince Charming’s were actually not so perfect.

Based on the following character analysis of what we thought to be fairy tale romances, it’s time for us ladies to start setting higher standards for the guys we pick up and for gentlemen to start upping their game:

Prince Charming #1: Aladdin This pauper turned carpet-riding prince made a career of thievery and eating garbage. If Michael Jackson can’t even pull off a pet monkey, how did a guy in Hammer pants win the heart of a beautiful princess?

The Real Ending: Jasmine’s happiness ends when her magical carpet ride sex-capades are replaced with conjugal visits to Riker’s Island after Aladdin’s elaborate Ponzi scheme is unraveled during an unexpected audit.

Ladies, even a few dirty martinis at Wicker Park can’t excuse creepy pets, criminal records or bad 90’s fashion. Stop trading down. Gentlemen, invest in some premium denim, get a dog if you require furry affection, and keep your careers honest.

Prince Charming #2: The Beast While Belle does lose a few points for the whole bestiality-experimentation thing, The Beast’s score is even shoddier based on his low personal hygiene standards and tendency to hold people hostage. Back hair and yellow teeth are never cute whether you live in a castle or hang out at Dorrian’s.

The Real Ending: The Beast finally de-hairs himself, heads to Vegas for his bachelor party and forgets to let Belle out of the dungeon before his flight leaves. Due to severe dehydration, Belle is hospitalized and The Beast is charged with domestic violence and harboring a hostage.

Ladies, if he’s not willing to make an effort to manscape or floss, its highly unlikely he will be inclined to make efforts in other arenas. Gentlemen, Crest White Strips, a razor, and thirty minutes can alleviate the necessity for hostage situations.

Prince Charming #3: Prince Eric This ship-sailing, flute-playing prince falls in love with Ariel, cheats on her with Ursula, violently kills Ursula just hours later, and ends his evening by marrying Ariel. Disney movie, Silence of the Lambs sequel, or Montel Williams episode? There’s a very gray area when it comes to categorizing this “love story.”

The Real Ending: Ariel accidentally misplaces Prince Eric’s flute when she is doing some spring-cleaning, which leads Eric into a psychotic rage. Eric enrolls in anger management classes and the couple attends marriage counseling every Thursday.

Ladies, just because he lives in a doorman building and summers in South Hampton doesn’t mean he’s a good catch, or mentally stable, for that matter. Gentlemen, there’s only one flute that should ever be played in the presence of a lady and it’s not a part of the woodwind family. Make sure to take your medication daily and keep your pants on when it comes to slinky sea urchins and sexy Upper East Side ladies.

Love in the Club: Ode to Ebony

2009-04-13T00:41:00.003-04:00

This past weekend I had the unique opportunity to extensively observe the male breed in one of their most innate environments: a strip club. While my total observation time exceeded a good hour, I was able to come up with a comprehensive assessment after only twenty minutes in this setting—why aren’t more women lesbians?

It all started with a few too many at Saloon and a drunken suggestion to hit up Sapphire, the new and improved strip club formerly known as Scores. My roommate Pookie and I looked at each other and shrugged our shoulders. There’s nothing like a little pole dancing to top off a night out on the Upper East Side.

As we settled in at our table, champagne all around, we were swarmed by three European blondes. They were lifelessly dancing in their sequined thongs, unenthusiastically enticing us with a little bare cheek and a shimmy of their silicone racks. While our three male cohorts paired off with Svetlana, Svenhilda and Jasmine, Pookie and I were left to watch the center stage striptease. It was a poor performance, with hip thrusts and pelvic gyrations even Elliot Spitzer wouldn’t look twice at.

My boredom with Limp-lana led me to look around the room. The club was filled with men of all ages, sizes and levels of baldness, drooling in amazement over women who would forget them as soon as they left their laps. The number of twenty dollar bills that filled the strippers’ g-strings could have funded North Korea’s next nuclear mission.

Then Ebony caught my eye. She was dancing to my left with pole moves even Jessie Spano couldn’t pull off in Showgirls. Her rhythm was spot on, her routine the perfect mix of salaciousness and skill, yet still naughty. If it weren’t for the smell of Coty’s latest eau de toilette and the neon lights, Ebony’s dance could have passed as a pre-trial gymnastics routine for Beijing.

Just as I was approaching Ebony to inquire about private lessons, a man with a receding hairline and a huge wad of cash beat me to her. He flashed her the green paper and they were off to the back room before I could even ask her which pole-gym she worked out at. I wasn’t bothered by the fact that Ebony was taking advantage of a business opportunity with this cash-ridden man, but rather, I was disturbed by the realization I came to as I returned to my velour-covered chair: women care more—a lot more.

The amount of effort women put into men far exceeds the efforts that men put towards women. While women are willing to spend countless hours and dollars on wardrobes and wrinkle-reducers, men are just as willing to throw a sizable portion of their paycheck at a complete stranger to hump their lap for the fleeting entirety of an Usher song. Why make a valiant effort when just a few Andrew Jacksons can save you a lot of time and energy?

Although I do know a few good men who would rather spend their money on a nice steak and good scotch, the majority of the male population will take the easy way out when it comes to wooing a woman. All of this scrutinizing led me to realize that Ellen and Portia were clearly ahead of the cusp on this one.

But the real question becomes, how can we, as women, find an effort-making man if we aren’t willing to convert to Lesbianism? Clearly we don’t expect to find true love at a strip club, but if your newest endeavor has a VIP card to Thong Dollz Gentleman’s Club or a go-to girl on penisbot.com, head for an establishment that lacks neon lights. Effort-making men will never pay money for a case of vasocongestion below the waist. If a man doesn't make an effort, he's not worth a woman's time.

Male Whores, Serial Monogamists & Perpetual Friends! Oh My!

2009-04-02T09:20:00.002-04:00

As I sat in the nail salon, held hostage for approximately 120 minutes by two non-English speaking women, I began to think about the trials and tribulations of dating in New York City. Women, more often than not, seem forever concerned with the superficial matters of dating. We pay hundreds of dollars each year for highlights, lowlights, teeth whitening, cellulite removal, eyebrow threading, Armani foundation that costs more than my cable bill, the list goes on. Most straight men couldn’t tell a Louboutin from a Steve Madden if their heterosexuality depended on it, but here I was spending my afternoon getting exfoliated and paraffined from head to toe.

As women, we also worry about trivial, inconsequential details. What do the first three words of his second to last text mean? Did he really have to work late or did he just want to watch the Rangers game with his friends instead of having dinner with me? We hooked up last weekend, so why hasn’t he friended me on Facebook yet? Does he think it’s weird that I still collect Trolls?

In the middle of being force fed grapes and serenaded with Celine Dion power ballads by Mai Ling and Suzi, I paused. Here I am dipping myself in hot wax for softer, more supple skin, but what the *$%! are all the men out there consuming their thoughts with? And do their personal grooming routines get this much attention? From the chest hair and unibrows I’ve seen lurking in many Upper East Side bars, I highly doubt it.

While men spend a considerable amount of their time researching the best pitching line-up for their fantasy team and debating which of the Girls Next Door has the nicest rack, they do devote some time to mulling over their current female situations. If you’re dating a guy in one of the below categories, here’s some insight into their relationship thought processes (or lack thereof):

The Male Whore
You have to give Male Whores some credit—their techniques are quite effective, even on the best of us. They see something they want, they go after it and usually, they get it (if they didn’t, we couldn’t consider them whores). But because of their high success rates, they don’t feel like they have to bring much more to the table. And if you think you’re going to be the girl that changes his ways, think again. Male Whores are easily distracted and embrace change, which means you have a brief window to have fun before getting too emotionally involved.

Signs He’s a Male Whore
He only calls or texts late night after he’s been drinking. If it looks like a booty call and sounds like a booty call, then most likely it is one. If he wanted to have an actual conversation with you rather than just swapping saliva, he would have called before he slammed fourteen beers at happy hour. Another telltale sign of Male Whoredom is if he invites you over to watch Gossip Girl (or something to its equivalent), hoping you’ll reenact a Chuck and Blair scene with him during the commercials. If he truly cared about quality face time with you, he would take you out to dinner rather than use your favorite guilty pleasure to lure you into his apartment.

The Serial Monogamist
A Serial Monogamist can be the ideal boyfriend, but not until roughly three to six months down road. This category is typically comprised of men who jump from one relationship right into another, rarely allowing for the adequate number of one night stands needed after a break-up. Serial Monogamists suffer from low confidence when they don’t have a girl on their arm, so they tend to keep girlfriends around until they have the next one properly lined up. Be prepared for high sensitivity and overanalyzing from his end.

Signs He’s a Serial Monogamist
You’ve been on three dates and he wants to take you to his college roommate’s wedding—in September. Like everyone, Serial Monogamists have a comfort zone. They are most secure and fulfilled by having a significant other. By planning six months in advance, he can gain some reassurance that you will stick around at least a little while longer. Desperation and neediness are never attractive, so when he hints that he wants to come with you to Girls’ Night, it’s time to have the talk.

The Perpetual Friend
Everyone has one—he’s your best guy friend and you accidentally made out once in college after playing seventeen games of beer pong. His grandmother adores you, your dog likes him more than you, and he’s the one who bailed you out after your run-in with an undercover male prostitute. While he may be the nicest, most stand-up guy you know, you have no interest in human contact with him unless he’s pulling your head out of the toilet the morning after Cinco de Mayo.

Signs He’s a Perpetual Friend
You would rather hook-up with your second cousin than with him—your second cousin from West Virginia. The second cousin who showed you how to inseminate a cow the last time you visited.

The Dateable
The Dateable is the guy we’re all seeking, but can’t always find in the polluted sea of Male Whores, Serial Monogamists and Perpetual Friends. He’s good looking, wears acceptable jeans, understands your scratch-off lottery ticket addiction, and laughs at your jokes (obviously because they are always witty and right on cue).

Signs He’s a Dateable
If you can’t recognize a good catch without a play-by-play from this article, set up a meeting with your life coach.

Wetter Isn't Always Better

2009-03-29T21:01:00.001-04:00

After last week’s St. Patrick’s Day antics on Tuesday, a benefit downtown Thursday, too many whiskey shots Friday, and a Mad River birthday party on Saturday, I decided to go into full detox mode this past week. No drinking, no unnecessary pills and absolutely no Jack Daniels until Easter. Although I briefly fell off the detox wagon on Wednesday, I got right back on until last night when I met up with my two dearest friends Mena Prance and Jenny Saurs. Mena had spent last weekend on Long Island with the guy she’s been dating and Jenny had been suffering from a third-world country parasite she had picked up in Honduras, so there was a lot of catching up to be had.

We decided to head to Mustangs to see if we could score an invitation into the alleged secret sex club they run out of their basement. We were dying to know how to penetrate this underground society. Salsa, sizzling fajitas and sex? Sign me up. I could only hope sour cream was involved somehow too.

“So Mena, how was your weekend with Jonathan and his family? Do they adore you yet?” I inquired.

“Well there was a small mishap that might have lessened the adoration level.” Mena replied.

“What’d you do? Run over their cat or something?” Jenny asked.

“Thankfully they don’t have a cat and if they did, I probably would have already run it over by now. You know how my driving skills are.” Mena answered.

“Anyways, I was wearing these pajama pants his grandmother had given me for Christmas. Although the tags said Macy’s, I think she actually got them from the Easter Bunny. They’re pink, fuzzy, and should only be worn when hiking the Canadian Rockies due to their incredible heating capabilities.” she began to explain.

“So needless to say I was sweating the entire night in these pants. I woke up at about 3:00am and realized the wetness level below my waist had increased. I took off the bunny pants and laid back down—in a large, wet puddle. I knew there was no way I could have physically sweated this much, so I took a whiff. I had peed the bed.” Mena continued.

Jenny and I looked at each other, mortified for Mena and alarmed for ourselves—were we that old that our friends were starting to suffer from incontinence? There had to be a logical explanation for this mishap.

“Well a lot of people pee the bed when they’re drunk. My college roommate did it all the time. It can easily happen, especially after fourteen beers. All that liquid has to come out at some point.” I said, trying to lessen the blow of Mena’s very unsexy situation.

“And I peed Tony’s bed twice in college—the first time I told him I had spilled a bottle of Snapple and the second time I told him we had had a water balloon fight after we got home from the bar.” Jenny contributed.

“Well ladies, unfortunately I was completely sober and Jonathan doesn’t sleep in a bed with a plastic, waterproof mattress cover. This was a Sunday night and I was in his mother’s house.” Mena sighed as she slugged the rest of her margarita.

Jenny and I both grimaced and I wanted to be completely clear about the situation. “So you peed your boyfriend’s bed, in his mother’s house, in the creepy Easter Bunny pants his grandmother gave you? Completely sober?”

I looked at Jenny and we started hysterically laughing. “Come on, you have to admit it’s pretty funny.” I exclaimed.

“Hardly. His mother does his laundry.” Mena replied.

Now I was on the verge of having my own accident from laughing so hard. I ran to the bathroom before I blew our chances for an invitation to Mustang’s lower level. The smell of urine is typically a turn off in most cases, unless you’re hooking up with a Golden Shower aficionado. I had yet to encounter a urolagnia lover and I could only hope I would not encounter one tonight, or ever for that matter. I hoped for Mena’s sake that Jonathan was open to participating in such water sports—the poor girl was waiting to be invited back for Easter dinner.

First Date Don'ts

2009-03-22T16:20:00.002-04:00

We’ve all been on first dates and let’s face it, they don’t all play out the way we envisioned or hoped them to. Thanks to Mark Zuckerberg, we can Facebook stalk in the hours before our date. We can go into the date knowing that he went snowboarding upstate last weekend with five of his friends, minored in Labor Economics at Cornell, and is planning to attend a birthday party at Tin Lizzie’s next Friday. But while we can prime ourselves with such futile information, we can never fully prepare ourselves for what will take place during the actual date.

With that being said, I’ve compiled a few key First Date Don’ts. Gentlemen (or for those of you who would like to remain gentlemen)—if you want there to be a second date, be sure to avoid the following Don’ts. Ladies—if any of the following Don’ts occur, there should be no second date.

Don’t allow your date to pay for her portion of dinner.
It’s 2009 and we ladies may offer to throw down some money when the bill comes. We’re a generation of career women. We go to college to actually get an education rather than the 1950’s approach where women enrolled only to find a husband. While we pay our own bills and have our own 401k’s, we don’t really expect you to take our money on the first date. We don’t want chivalry to be dead, so if you’re on a tight budget be sure to schedule the date for approximately two hours after the dinner hour. This way you can rest assured that we have already eaten dinner. Splitting a bottle of wine and sharing an appetizer is a completely acceptable scenario and less detrimental to your wallet than a five course meal at Campagnola. But if you bust out your cell phone calculator to determine the exact cost of my salmon burger and Ketel One’s, be prepared for a second date denial.

Don’t use your date as an opportunity to come out of the closet.
While the fact that you were a former Chippendale and know the exact location of the Tool Box should have been a dead giveaway, don’t take your date to a movie that might prompt you to come out of the closet when the credits roll. When you’re the one sobbing during Brokeback Mountain and your date is handing you her popcorn grease-stained napkins, take note that you should start asking men on dates. A Loews theater is not the appropriate forum for such realizations.

Don’t suggest watching porn—or discuss the topic in any capacity.
If you’re mentioning pornography on the first date, what will the subject of conversation be on a second or third date? Porn, along with vibrators and handcuffs, are all topics that should not be broached until you’ve actually slept with your date at least eleven times. As we found out from Seat 12B on my flight to Las Vegas, true love and second dates are hard to find when you’re a sex addict. Bite your tongue and call your therapist in the morning rather than ruin your chance of a future date.

Don't take your date to watch a sporting event if you care more about your team winning than you do your own mother.
While no one should love a team more than their own mother, it can seem like you might if you’ve scheduled your date at a venue where you will have full access to at least eight HD TV’s and the main topic of conversation has been centered around the Yankee’s acquisition of C.C. Sabathia. Eye contact and engaging in conversation with your date will increase the likelihood of garnering a second date rather than slamming your beer on the table when a ground out double play ruins your fantasy league standings for the week.

Dating in this town is challenging enough. Gentlemen—while you may not be a perfect date on every outing, consider your past experiences and score a second date after your next first date. Ladies—get picky.

Sexnomics: How To Get A Raise

2009-03-13T14:30:00.002-04:00

While Seat 12B continued on about how he organized his drawer of pornos, his favorite role playing scenarios and the secret to anal success, my mind began to drift. There was only so much lubrication talk to be had with a complete stranger from Atlanta to Las Vegas. I now understood the true importance of a direct flight. Board and deboard with fellow New Yorkers and you won’t have to worry about seatmates looking for therapists, friends, or mile-high club partners. These southern people were way too friendly.

Since I hadn’t had any recent, noteworthy escapades to contribute to 12B’s conversation, I began to think about my friend Leigh Lewis and her latest antics. She had called me while I was wandering the Atlanta airport in search of some morsel of food that didn’t come out of a deep fryer.

Leigh was in her early twenties, beautiful and smart—and the only person I know who got a raise this quarter. While our country’s West Coast was forming shanty-towns and living off of canned green beans, Leigh found a way to ensure job security in a town where Ivy league educated overachievers could be found teaching themselves how to play the acoustic guitar from 9-to-5 instead of trading on Wall Street.

Leigh worked at a small, family-owned law firm in Midtown while she finished her Masters in Social Work at NYU. After working at the firm for a few short months, Leigh had set her eyes on one of the younger partners in the firm. He was in his mid-thirties, wealthy, arrogant and dating a Bridget Moynahan look-a-like, which was all standard for any somewhat good looking, non-married, six-figure making male in Manhattan.

“Leigh, congratulations on your raise!” I started. “I think you’re the only person in the tri-state area that’s going to get one this year. Hell, my office can’t even afford to replenish our Diet Coke supply. How did you pull this one off?”

“Well, I think Harry was a little obligated to give me one.” Leigh replied.

“Number one, can we refer to him as Richard? I hate the name Harry and his full name is much hotter. And number two, I’m going to need you to elaborate on why Richard was obligated to give you this raise.” I demanded.

“Wait, why would Harry’s full name be Richard?” she asked.

“Obviously because Harry is a nickname for Richard.” I answered, clearly annoyed. I didn’t understand her confusion and why we couldn’t just refer to this man by his proper name and move on with the story.

“Harry is a nickname for Harold and Dick is a nickname for Richard, you dick!” she exclaimed.

“Oh right, Dick.” I guess that did make a little more sense. The heavy aroma of fried chicken was clearly fogging my logic.

“Anyways, a few weeks ago I was working alone with Richard on a Saturday, helping him prepare for a deposition he had on Monday.” Leigh began. “It was about 85 degrees in the conference room and I was getting a little moist, so I took off my sweater and was working in a tank top. Every time I looked up, Richard was staring at my rack, as usual.”

“Then he came over and sat in the chair next to me to go over something and before I knew it, we were making out! And then, only seconds later, his dick was in my mouth.”

“Well that’s a quick transgression of events. So he just whipped it out, stuck it in your mouth and hoped for the best?” I asked. I was a little confused on the timeline of this event and very disappointed with Richard’s manners.

“Yeah, that’s basically what happened. It was definitely not sexy and then my jaw got tired, so I stopped and came up for air.” Leigh continued. “Then his cell phone rang and the moment was ruined, so he decided to take the call.”

“Who raised this man?!” I angrily asked. “I don’t think you should continue this affair, Leigh. He sounds like a scumbag.”

“Oh it will not be continued.” Leigh assured me. “When I walked into his office on Monday morning I was expecting some awkward small talk, but instead I found him clipping his toenails and asking me how my weekend was. He acted as if he hadn’t put his penis in my mouth forty-eight hours ago while I stood there trying to dodge his toenail clippings!”

“Well Leigh, I’m just glad he wasn’t the only one who got a raise out of this.” I said as I hung up the phone.