A horrendous breakup and first date
One drink, two drinks, three and away we go.
Two weeks ago, three women gave me their numbers. And I broke up with the blonde. That went remarkably well. So well that we went out, got remarkably drunk (on a Wednesday no less), made out at bars and clubs from the LES to Chelsea Pier and woke up together in my bed the very next morning. Despite this unorthodoxy, it appeared that we understood each other and that was a sort of grand finale to things before we began a flirty but mostly platonic friendship.
Instead of this however, she stopped by the bar on Friday and in the most horrendous breakdown I've ever witnessed recreated a scene from "Fatal Attraction" or any movie of that ilk you please. Flowers were smacked around, threats were made, girl got drunker, all with me behind the bar flummoxed and trying to contain knowledge of the disaster to the smallest group of people possible, namely the other bartender and the couple to her right, into whom's meal flowers got smacked and the male of whom's hand she began to make out with. Needless to say, rounds of drinks were comped for that lucky pair once I cut her off and she departed in a storm of negative energy. I wanted someone passionate right? Ever noticed how passionate crazy people can be?
The Sunday after this, upon my return from a wedding in DC and needing a little psychic break from my visiting mother (who I love dearly and whose visit I thoroughly enjoyed), I snuck out for a date with one of those three women who gave me their numbers last week. I remembered her as tall, New York pretty (think expensive maintenance and elegant dress, enough to obscure the natural beauty or lack thereof of any woman), with the most horrendous posture, which however was not a signifier of a lack of self confidence as she thrust her card at me with the most assuredness of the three and breezed off like my phone call was a given. Well, I'm nothing if not easy and so call I did.
Dear readers, it's not easy being a cad in this city. Alfie makes it look all easy dating wanton women that are easy to seduce and are nice (for the most part). Me, I have to contend with ill mannered curs who upon being told my country of origin inquire as to whether I come from among the wealthy or the poor. I'll not comment here upon my socio-economic status growing up here, but I will say that if all the scion of the ultra-wealthy in this country are as unpleasant as this being, I'll be glad to never meet another Westchester export in my life.
Burned out from a bad day at work, she came to the date unhappy, pissy and directing a great portion of this negative energy in my direction. I ought to have departed. I knew I ought to. Odd enough, I wanted to stay. Not for her, but for the location, which had been of her choosing, and possesed, besides the most delightful bartender (a dandy with an affect that quite resembles Depp's pirate in that movie), two gorgeous and friendly college girls (one with the most astonishing head of brunette gorgeousness I've ever had the pleasure of observing) who made sympathetic commiserations with me when my date darted off to answer her crackberry.
Besides, I was hungry and in need of libations and so I stayed. Stayed for the most passive aggresive date any man has ever had the displeasure of going through. Charmed the bartender into accomodating my date's outrageous requests for modification of the menu. Endured conversation graceless enough to offend a New York bum, and like the tax man squeezing a penny from the (tax) sheltered rich, even persuaded a smile and some real feeling out of that woman.
And when, with the bartenders full sympathy, I paid the bill and departed with the lady, hoping to turn some of this passive aggressive energy into a sexual encounter of a kind I'd never had (as I do not make a habit of sleeping with people I dislike), what happens? She runs into some pretty boy she's sure she's met at some place before and abandons me because she is enjoying his company.
I must have displeased the gods something fierce that weekend. Perhaps I should have spent more time with my mother.
Two weeks ago, three women gave me their numbers. And I broke up with the blonde. That went remarkably well. So well that we went out, got remarkably drunk (on a Wednesday no less), made out at bars and clubs from the LES to Chelsea Pier and woke up together in my bed the very next morning. Despite this unorthodoxy, it appeared that we understood each other and that was a sort of grand finale to things before we began a flirty but mostly platonic friendship.
Instead of this however, she stopped by the bar on Friday and in the most horrendous breakdown I've ever witnessed recreated a scene from "Fatal Attraction" or any movie of that ilk you please. Flowers were smacked around, threats were made, girl got drunker, all with me behind the bar flummoxed and trying to contain knowledge of the disaster to the smallest group of people possible, namely the other bartender and the couple to her right, into whom's meal flowers got smacked and the male of whom's hand she began to make out with. Needless to say, rounds of drinks were comped for that lucky pair once I cut her off and she departed in a storm of negative energy. I wanted someone passionate right? Ever noticed how passionate crazy people can be?
The Sunday after this, upon my return from a wedding in DC and needing a little psychic break from my visiting mother (who I love dearly and whose visit I thoroughly enjoyed), I snuck out for a date with one of those three women who gave me their numbers last week. I remembered her as tall, New York pretty (think expensive maintenance and elegant dress, enough to obscure the natural beauty or lack thereof of any woman), with the most horrendous posture, which however was not a signifier of a lack of self confidence as she thrust her card at me with the most assuredness of the three and breezed off like my phone call was a given. Well, I'm nothing if not easy and so call I did.
Dear readers, it's not easy being a cad in this city. Alfie makes it look all easy dating wanton women that are easy to seduce and are nice (for the most part). Me, I have to contend with ill mannered curs who upon being told my country of origin inquire as to whether I come from among the wealthy or the poor. I'll not comment here upon my socio-economic status growing up here, but I will say that if all the scion of the ultra-wealthy in this country are as unpleasant as this being, I'll be glad to never meet another Westchester export in my life.
Burned out from a bad day at work, she came to the date unhappy, pissy and directing a great portion of this negative energy in my direction. I ought to have departed. I knew I ought to. Odd enough, I wanted to stay. Not for her, but for the location, which had been of her choosing, and possesed, besides the most delightful bartender (a dandy with an affect that quite resembles Depp's pirate in that movie), two gorgeous and friendly college girls (one with the most astonishing head of brunette gorgeousness I've ever had the pleasure of observing) who made sympathetic commiserations with me when my date darted off to answer her crackberry.
Besides, I was hungry and in need of libations and so I stayed. Stayed for the most passive aggresive date any man has ever had the displeasure of going through. Charmed the bartender into accomodating my date's outrageous requests for modification of the menu. Endured conversation graceless enough to offend a New York bum, and like the tax man squeezing a penny from the (tax) sheltered rich, even persuaded a smile and some real feeling out of that woman.
And when, with the bartenders full sympathy, I paid the bill and departed with the lady, hoping to turn some of this passive aggressive energy into a sexual encounter of a kind I'd never had (as I do not make a habit of sleeping with people I dislike), what happens? She runs into some pretty boy she's sure she's met at some place before and abandons me because she is enjoying his company.
I must have displeased the gods something fierce that weekend. Perhaps I should have spent more time with my mother.
posted by Flint at 2:01 PM
4 Comments:
Ouch, Flint, now that is a helluva a bad date. A total waste of your cool hotness.
Why thank you beautiful. I'm glad someone thinks so. Perhaps I ought to bring references to my dates.
Hey there Flint, this is Jess from the NYC pervert's saloon. It was nice meeting you!
I'll just repeat what Tess said and say: what a waste of a date! That girl CLEARLY doesn't know what she's missing!
Hope to read more of you,
-Jess
(www.jessicagoldharalson.com
www.viviane212.blogspot.com)
It was a pleasure meeting you as well Tess. Hope to see more of you at these events. And thanks for the commiseration. I think I've learned a great lesson about when to cut my losses and move on.
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