This week I went out with a guy named D. He IMed me while I was online, sans messaging. It’s not the classiest move, but I went with it. Within a few IMs I found out he was a Yale alum and a 3rd year Harvard law student, home in the village for winter break. “Oh. So you’re stupid?” I asked. That’s what my relatives always ask me when I tell them I go to Barnard. Basically everyone in my family either has Alzheimer’s or an alcohol addiction (suckers), so they ask me where I study pretty often. The response gets old, but it was new for D. “Haha,” he said. “If you let me take you out, I’ll show you how stupid.” What? I mean, anyone? What?
We met on Stuyvesant Street that night at 8. He told me to meet him outside an address, because the place he wanted to hit up was hard to find. My fingers were crossed for an underground strip club. I’ve always wanted to go to a strip club.
When I saw him in person, waiting outside the address, I had my first dreaded “Oh…yeah…no…this is awkward…and now I need to spend time with you anyway” moment. He was kind of chubs, which can be cute. If it’s cute. It wasn’t. His hair was long and slicked to the side — very Justin Bieber.
We went up to the second floor of a narrow building. It looked like a standard Japanese restaurant. He led me through a back door, behind which was a super chic cocktail lounge. This place instantly quelled my impulse to throw D a salute and run down the stairs. I mean, I had to check it out. I was being seated in the kind of bar I didn’t think I’d have the chance to discover for at least a few years into the workforce. Everyone was beautiful and shiny, giggling over unpronounceable tapas and shoes from the Gossip Girl wardrobe room. “Holy shit,” I said as I was handed the menu, “These drinks cost $30.” I have to tutor a dyslexic ADHD kid for one hour to make that kind of money, and I can get drunk for about 30 cents from the bottle of Jack I keep by my bed. “Don’t worry. I got it,” D said. And then he ordered two drinks in Japanese. In Japanese.
So, an Ivy League addict took me to the secret garden of bars to spend a total of $120 on 4 cocktails, which he ordered in Japanese. The conversation didn’t do anything for me, either. I mean, it was fine … we talked about school, work, and writing. D is a smart, polite, and engaging man, I decided. The conversation moved over to drugs, as it so often does with me. I’m talking soft stuff like marijuana, of course, maybe the occasional ayahuasca trip with my dad, but a guy’s got to be at least 420 friendly if the night’s going to go anywhere.
Lo and behold, D informed me that he owned a vaporizer. Gets me every time. Plus, I was starting to sense that this kid had money, and I can be a real sucker for NYC real estate. He told me he lived in a penthouse, and I was dying to see it. I’ve never been in a penthouse before. When we got there, I realized that he didn’t just live in a penthouse; he owned the entire building. It was unreal. The interior decoration was impeccable. I wanted to do it on every $3,000 antique coffee table and gold-threaded couch imported from the Hapsburg palace in Vienna. Only, not with D.
We decided to switch it up and share a blunt on his roof. The view was breathtaking. Overall, it was a nice time. There was some more banter and a steady stream of conversation, but I knew deep down in my heartvagina that this wasn’t going anywhere. “I really should go,” I told him, feeling guilty for potentially having led him on. Throughout the night, signs of our lack of chemistry were piling up like IHOP all-you-can-eat pancakes, but the real syrup to my certainty was that he called his dad, “Dad.” He called his dad, “Dad,” without preceding the name with a “my.” This is hard to explain. Let me give you an example. “Wow. Cool swords,” I said to D at some point in his room. “Thanks,” he said “Dad got them for me.” My brow definitely furrowed for a second. Had I misheard him? Nope. It happened again. And again. By the third time I wasn’t sure if I was more put off by how much he talked about his dad or that he referred to him just as “Dad.” So, I told him I had to leave. “Yeah?” he asked. “You don’t have to.”
“I know, but I should. Thank you, though. I had a really nice time. And you have great weed and a bitchin’ interior decorator.” Yeah. I said that. Judge away.
He walked me to the subway, because the village is a crazy maze of street names instead of numbers and it’s confusing as balls. I went in for the goodbye hug, but he held onto my shoulders and kissed me. It wasn’t bad, honestly. D really does have game; it just isn’t my kind of game. The perfect Harvard pot-smoking Asian girl is out there in some library, playing Magic or reading science fiction, waiting for him. And he’ll find her. Some day.
D ended up IMing me the next day, and I respectfully let him down. There were no hard feelings at all. Turned out, he had 3 other OkC dates lined up for that week. That’s the thing. Everyone on this website is playing the field. Old me wants to settle down with the right semi-educated, pot-smoking, German or Yiddish speaking white boy as soon as I find him, but finding a relationship is a game. I want to win, but it’s not a take-home Yiddish exam; cheating, (and by cheating I mean not cheating), isn’t an option. I have to date around. A few boys at once is par for the course. Stay tuned.
And now for the creepasauris rex of messages: “Hi! I’m a submissive male. That means i’m not here for traditional dating. Rather, i simply enjoy buying things for Women, doing cleaning and chores for Women, etc, with nothing expected in return. my profile explains a bit more, i hope You like it! Please write back?”
