Sexy Arrogance

New York has a way of kicking your ass like no other city I’ve been in. Anywhere else you can have a long tough day and your journey home will suck for no other reason than you are just in a bad mood. In New York you will leave, try and get a cab and there’s suddenly none, a passing car can splash dirty puddle water right up on you, your heel will snap and when you finally grab that elusive taxi, you’ll realize half way home that you’ve left your wallet in the office. It’s never just one kick, New York will grab that sucky ass day and kick your butt the entire length of Manhattan.

In the months I’ve been here, I’ve come up against more challenges and more tough situations than I could imagine. What’s gotten me through this is the friends I’ve made. We laugh over the shitty tests this city manages too throw at you seemingly on a weekly basis. When you know people are facing the same trials, it’s reassuring and gives you that strength to see it through.

Sunday afternoon I’m sitting with my gay male buddy having chats over beers. We’re discussing exactly this, the challenges of living in the Big Apple. He tells me that October and November were two of his toughest months in the city. Work politics, money issues and lack of knowing people in this big city got on top of him. He tells me how happy he is since we met in January. Having a partner in crime changes your perspective on how life is. He tells me, in a love-in moment, that I’ve brightened up his life. I feel the same, he’s an awesome guy and someone I instantly connected with.

We discuss our similar personality traits, he’s as brutally honest as I am. We can tell each how how it is, straight and without bullshit. Then he tells me he loves my arrogance.

I nearly fall off my barstool laughing. I’m arrogant? He says yes, but it’s sexy arrogance. What the fuck is sexy arrogance, I ask him. He tells me to think Heather Locklear in Melrose Place.

Not bad, I can handle that. I can be Heather.

The night before I’d gone to a birthday party hosted by Australians I know from my years spent in Sydney. There’s an Aussie guy there that I guess I’ve caught the attention of judging from the glances he keeps throwing my way.

We leave the house and hit Niagra in the East Village. He still does not approach me properly, but instead employs the Aussie lad technique of showing me he’s interested by buying me beers.

It gets to the point where I’ve got three full bottles of Bud in my hands and I’m unable to literally hold anymore beers. I have to tell him to stop buying me drinks. He’s not even chatting me up, just throwing drinks at me. He’s no idea how else to show his intentions.

At the end of the night, he orchestrates it so that we share a taxi home, despite the fact that it’s a stretch to pretend we are going in the same direction.

The next day I receive a Facebook friend request from him. He messages me telling me that when we were in the cab and he’d gone for the kill, afterwards he’d leaned back and looked at me and said “Wow, you are a really good kisser”.

He tells me I played it cool, apparently rolling my eyes and answering “yeah, I know”.

Right so that’s this arrogance coming in.

A couple of days later I’m walking with my girlfriend laughing about this interaction. I’d forgotten how Aussie guys are.

“I mean, I’m just used to how fucking arrogant New York men are”. I’m feeling passionate about my observations so my voice is loud along this street and I manage to lock eyes with a passing New York dog walking bloke as I say this. He smirks at my statement and winks at me as he passes. “I’m sorry”, I tell him, embarrassed. He shrugs, unoffended and acknowledging.

That’s sexy arrogance right there.

New York men are sexy arrogant. They are unapologetic about what they want.

New York City is sexy arrogant. It’s the city that will kick your sore ass from the top to the tip and it knows you’ll come back. New York knows it’s appeal and it’s arrogant about it. Oh yeah, you find me tough? You still love me though and you’ll come back for more.

Sexy arrogance.

Is this a date?

“What kind of cuisine is your favorite?”

My personal trainer (PT) stands over me as I’m doing repetitions of weighted squats. Uh oh, I know where this is going.

Yes, I had given in to his aggressive selling pitch. Or really I gave into his ridiculously cheap offer for training sessions and as a preferred alternative to him joining me on my cardio work outs.

“Do you like steak? You can’t live in New York if you don’t like steak….have you been to Delmonico’s, Bobby Van’s, Peter Luger’s?”

During the hour long session, we discuss restaurants over weights and lunges. Me working out, him working up to asking me out.By stretching time he’d cemented the plans for that very evening, for a BBQ joint in Brooklyn….not quite Peter Luger’s.

To be honest, or maybe being naive, I wasn’t actually sure whether we were going on a ‘date’ or he just wanted to be friends. He spoke about socializing with clients so it seemed to be something he does on a regular basis. The way he phrases the dinner plans at the end doesn’t sound ‘datey’ but more friendly.

Yeah…it was definitely a date.

He paid for dinner. Subtly he tries to lets me know he finds me attractive slowly….commenting on how his ‘type’ is blonde, non American, white girls. Sounds awfully familiar.

He likes accents. He likes curvy girls. Righttttt.

Eventually he just flat out tells me I’m sexy as I squirm in my chair.

It doesn’t really feel right. Or my heart’s not in it.

A girlfriend texts me saying she’s in a bar in Brooklyn. Awesome, a get out clause. My PT and I go meet her and the two chefs from her restaurant in a neighborhood bar.

As the night goes on, the trainer suggests we meet in the morning for a cardio session, he asks if I’ve got plans for Valentine’s evening and offers to take me out. When my girlfriend suggests I join her at a yoga centre she’s been raving about for weeks, he invites himself along.

The chefs ask when I’m coming into their restaurant again and when I mention I’d planned to bring a friend there on Saturday night, PT jumps in to say he’s happy to join. He then asks me what I’m doing on Sunday and if I’m free.Basically he’s now planned out my entire weekend.It’s too much.I smile at all his suggested plans and mumble in a non committal way.He touches my knee under the table. I don’t respond.

After a few hours in the bar, we share a taxi back to our building. He sits very close to me and becomes more and more tactile as the cab drives over the Williamsburg Bridge back into Manhattan. I sit there like a frozen fish.

He’s gotten the hint.

Making me promise to meet him in the morning in the gym, he doesn’t make a move as he gets out of the elevator on his floor.Maybe it’s because I’m backed right into the elevator’s corner with my arms folded and my cheek already turned in one hell of a “don’t even think about it” stance.

It’s interactions like these that confuse me.During my time in New York I’ve met at least three stable, intelligent, ambitious, good looking men who tick boxes (i.e. not a psycho, not stingy, not a ladies man etc etc etc) and are keen to give ‘us’ a shot. I’ve run a mile.

I thought I was ready to be in a relationship, I thought I was looking for love. I still think I’m looking for love.So why when it’s offered as a potential to me do I run? Why do I pursue the emotionally unavailable inappropriate types like Taco and Heat?

Answers on a postcard please….

Sometimes they come back

Ha, I love that title because it reminds me of a horror movie title. Its not true though, they don’t SOMETIMES come back, they ALWAYS come back.

Take a very good friend of mine. She was hopelessly into one guy, pursued him for a while and eventually won her man. She’s a hottie, he was batting way above his average. But eventually after being together for over a year, he broke her heart. She was devastated, inconsolable . That was until she met Matt, Matt is hot. Like, hot hot. She wasn’t that keen, still heeling a broken heart. But she went along with it, loving his attentiveness towards her. She was still reluctant to commit, unwilling to get her heart broken again.

It’s now been a year and a half since they met. They’ve vacationed together, meet each other’s families and spent important holidays together. They are in love. In the middle of this, or really still now – the ex who was never worth her time in the first place continues to chase her. He likes her Facebook posts, he messages her for ‘catch ups’ , he tries to be her friend. She’s not bothered, he lost his chance. But you know, they come back.

On the guy’s side. I have a great Australian friend of mine who is crazy in love with this girl who just got divorced ten months ago. He wants to be with her, like crazy badly. They’ve slept together, they’ve visited each other in their separate states, She tells him oh so many times she loves him but just can’t…. She tries to stall their texts, tells him not to call her. I told him to stop messaging her until she makes up her mind. He did. And guess what? She’s come back.

Whenever people read this blog, one of the first questions I get is “what happened to Taco, did you find out?”

I never found out why Taco went from all crazy commitment intent boyfriend like dude to disappearing off the the face of the earth. But only because I didn’t ask.

About a month or so later he started following me on twitter. He favourited a few of my posts and then the texts came.

At first they were jokes, stupid shit that he’d know I’d find funny from our brief time together.  Then friendly “how are you liking New York City” messages. Then they got more intense, more flattering, more charming.

It’s been a bit of an ego trip for me, To know I could have this guy once again. But why? Why would I?

This is a guy who seemed really into us and managed to just drop me like a 3 day old chinese take out.

When you have a connection with someone, it’s the best thing in the world. Some people feel it more than others. Some people “ghost” and break their partners heart.

Look, I’ve been guilty of the same in a previous life.I just know I won’t do it again.

Take Jewish lawyer. We went on two dates and he asked me out on a dozen more, if I didn’t want a movie, I might want a coffee in the middle of the day, no? Ok dinner, a walk ….anything.

Sometimes its easier to stop messaging than to say the inevitable “I’m not that into you” but you know, it’s more brave and courageous to just be real.

And I did with Jewish lawyer. I thanked him for his generous dates but told I was seeing someone else. He was perfectly courteous. Of course.

And I did with Taco. But it’s been like a red rag to a bull. He’s determined to win me over. Will he succeed ?

Not a fucking chance, mate.

Never date anyone from your building

 

The elevator 

One evening, I was having beers on my apartment’s rooftop with a girlfriend along with what felt like half of the building’s inhabitants. The atmosphere was party like, with the majority of the tenants being young 20/ 30 something professionals enjoying the last of a Friday’s sunshine.

 

I got chatting to a guy who seemed cool, funny and laid back. Not exactly my type but interesting enough for it not to matter. We exchanged numbers and went on two dates over the following week. 

 

Nothing much happened, there was zero chemistry. But what I didn’t think through before handing over those digits was what would happen after these dates if they didn’t work out. 

Now I’ve to endure running into him last least once a week, although luckily these meetings have moved on from the awkward “I’ll call you later, we should hang out” blatant lies we had to keep throwing at each other. “I’ve just been so busy….oh me too, so busy”. Not really, just neither of us have any interest in hanging out again. But hey, let’s pretend we do. 

 

And then it gets to the point where you are alone with them in the elevator and so wrapped up in your own world and thoughts that you are surprised by the stranger who starts chatting to you, offering half answers until you actually recognize it’s THAT guy. That guy you dated. I don’t know who was more embarrassed, me or him when he saw the visible moment of recognition and realization dawn on me. 

 

The gym
After Christmas, feeling literally weighed down by the festive period I join the million of other New Year’s resolutioners and throw myself into an energetic work out schedule. Buoyed on by the fact that I’ve two weddings this summer which I want to look awesome at and a delicious younger man I’d prefer to look hot naked in front of, I’m in the gym every single day. 

 

A personal trainer who works out of the building’s gym starts to recognize me and I’m sure sees dollar signs such is the regularity he sees me pummeling the treadmill. 

 

He gives me his business card no less than on three separate occasions, promising me free sessions to get me started. I’ve got no interest in a personal trainer and fail to follow up each time. When that tactic fails, he aggressively schedules an appointment in with me as I’m in a vulnerable moment breathless, stretching and with no energy to protest. I cancel the appointment later that day. 

 

But of course I continue to run into him on a daily basis. This morning he cornered me. 

“I’ve been watching your cardio workouts, I really like what you do….I never really get the chance to do much cardio but I’d love to team up with you, we could do cardio sessions together” 

 

Wait, was he cracking onto me? I glanced in the mirror, this is not my best look. I was wearing a massive blue football tshirt which I’d stolen / demanded from a random guy in a pub the last time I was home in Dublin, no make up and hadn’t even bothered to brush my hair that morning. 

And I can absolutely think of nothing worse than teaming up with someone for work outs. I love my time in the gym just blasting out tunes and it’s my chance to think. I sometimes play the same song on repeat for 30 minutes if I have a particular obsession. And I sweat a lot. Nobody wants to be a part of that. 

 

Now what? Do I change my work out time? Wear a wig and sunglasses during my work outs so he stops approaching me? 

 

The foyer
Ok, I can be a bit of a flirt sometimes. There are about twenty doorman who work in rotating shifts at my building and inevitably there are ones you get to know and have a bit of banter with as you come and go each day. 

 

One doorman is particularly friendly and we trade playful insults and hellos whenever I pass by. I should have taken the hint that the flirtatious jokes had gone too far when he stopped me one day to play me some R&B tune on his phone, asking me to listen to the lyrics. “I can’t stop thinking about you” crooned some Drake wannabe. 

“Did you hear that?” He asked meaningfully. 

Errrrr.  

 

I came back from a networking event late last night as he working the evening shift. He came out from behind the desk and walked me over to the elevators. 

“So when am I taking you out?”

“You want to take me out?”. Great fucking response. 

 

“Yes, I’m taking you out. A bar. Around here. This weekend”

Great. Now I’ve a fucking gym buddy, awkward elevator rides and a date with a doorman. 

 

I need to move out, my apartment building is closing in on me. I wonder if I can start sneaking in and out of the service elevator and entrance. 

The Stockbroker with ADD

He was an Italian American stockbroker who I met on the subway one early hot August morning.

We locked eyes and he continued to eyeball me for the entire short journey, jumping off when I did. Introducing himself, he announced he’d gotten off the subway a stop early because he just had to get my number.

So full of strangely attractive balls and confidence. Yes, I appreciated it.

For the next week, my phone was bombarded with texts from him, relentlessly pursuing me for a date with some very funny pleas.

So we met at a bar just off Wall St. Our conversation began with my trying to explain my Irish background but how I lived in Australia for the past six years. He could not, COULD NOT get his head around it.

He.could.not.deal.

After explaining the hows, whys and whats to him more than once, he asks “So you are Australian?”.

Sigh.

Yes, I’m Australian then.

He was, what I’d imagined a stereotypical New York stockbroker to be. Loud, charming and twitchy.

He went to the bar to get our first drinks, bringing back himself a beer and a vodka tonic for me.

“Umm I wanted a beer”.
“No, girls drink vodka tonics”, was his response.

Right.

Before setting the drink down in front of me, he tasted it on my behalf and deemed it too potent. He strode back to the bar and asked for it to be in a taller glass with more tonic to water it down for me.

His attention span was short. His train of thought and subsequent conversation jumped so much I stopped him to ask if he’d been tested for ADD.

His answer?

“Yes, I did a couple of years ago….should I go back for a second opinion?”

After two hours of chat in the bar, he offered me a tour of his offices around 8pm.

What? Why?

He produced a packet of condoms with a suggestive wink.

My shock and repulsion was clearly evident on my face. He paid the tab and promptly walked me to the subway station.

Date over I guess??

These New York men

“Are you a serial dater?”

Ummm….what? Was I a serial dater? What’s a serial dater? I thought about it, I guess I’d gone on three dates in the past month but I mean, is that serial dating?

My mouth opened and closed like a fish, stupidly considering his question.

“You are then.”

The stranger stood in front of me, unimpressed and challenging.

“Well, I don’t really know – what is a serial dater?”

His head cocked to one side, questioning whether I was for real.

“Are you a dinner whore?”

Omg, what did he just say? A what whore? Am I a whore?

My shock and confusion must’ve been apparent on my face and at least extreme enough for him to believe that I was genuinely stumped.

“It’s a girl who dates just to get fed, he offered by way of explanation. “It’s a thing here. The New York Times wrote an article about it. Google it.”

“Ok”. I stuttered lamely.

“Why are you here, who are you waiting for? I mean, you are single right? Otherwise you would’ve answered no to my first question. Are you waiting for a date?”

He’s a stock New York man. Abrasive, egotistical and with that ‘if you don’t ask, you don’t get’ attitude.

I’ve been in New York City for seven months now and I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to this upfront, unapologetic attitude. I’m a black & white girl as it is, I like knowing where I stand. Ambiguity, vague people and bullshit are my top turn offs. But this, this…INTEROGATION…by cocky NYC men never fails to make me feel like a tongue tied country bumpkin.

I was sitting at the bar at Harry’s, an underground Wall St Steakhouse, sipping on a wine waiting for my late friend’s arrival when a suited and booted, tall, extremely confident man approached me on his way out the door.

When I was leaving Australia, a long term girlfriend and her Texan coworker discussed my move over a few Sauvignon Blancs one evening.  Texan looked at me gravely and told me “The dating scene in New York is tough.” That’s ok, I can handle it I told her. We’ll see, was her all-knowing answer.

The dating scene in New York IS fucking tough. It’s a brutally competitive place in every single way.

In any other city you can meet someone you are attracted to and find interesting enough that you think ‘hey, I’m onto something here’. In New York that can happen every single day, such is the abundance of unique hotties.

There’s no city like it for dating opportunities. But in New York, there is always someone more successful, with a better body, who’s better looking, richer, younger, smarter, more interesting than you or the person you are sitting across from that evening.

I’m made painfully aware of that fact when even working out in my apartment building’s gym feels like I’ve walked onto the set of America’s Next Top Model and I’m surrounded by impossibly gorgeous females who are burning off nonexistent fat.

Is this why serial dating is ‘a thing’ here? People don’t want to commit to one another because they are holding out for someone LIKE you, but just a little better? But then when they find that person, there’s probably someone who’s just that bit better again.

“What are you looking for?” the suit continues his challenge.

My eyes widen. Is he asking me what I’m looking for in relationship terms?

“I……ummm…..I mean…..I….” My parents would be so proud of my grasp on the English language right now.

“I’m asking because I’m looking for a relationship. I’ve wasted enough time and money on serial daters, I want someone real”.

“Why are you telling me this, I don’t even know your name.” Oh, there’s my voice. I’ve finally reacquainted myself with my tongue.

He tells me his name, his occupation as an accountant, he’s recently been made a Vice President at his company, he’s my age, he’s handsome and he wants my number. In one sentence.

“You sound like a salesman not an accountant, I tell him.  “You cannot seriously announce to me that you are handsome, haven’t you ever heard of beauty being in the eye of the beholder?”

“I’m pretty fucking handsome though”.

“So you said,” I’m half amused.

“Are you disagreeing with my self-assessment?”

The guy is undoubtedly handsome. But now he’s asking me to tell him that he’s good looking. I roll my eyes. He grins.

“Gimme ya numba cutie”

These New York men……………………..

It doesn’t matter

It doesn’t matter.

A fucking revelation hit me on Friday night. MY GOD – please just release the self-imposed pressure and just let life flow.

How good was I at this in my twenties? Unrivalled. I never stopped for a moment to think ahead, to look into the future. I just lived in that very moment.

In all my relationships I refused to discuss or think about their future or any sort of long term commitment, preferring just to go with it for as long as it felt right.

Marriage? Ha, no possibility. Moving in together? Talk to me in five years, sweetheart. A holiday away with a boyfriend instead of partying with gaggle of my wildest girlfriends? No chance.

Then I hit 30. The big three oh. I was a bridesmaid three times in a row. My three best friends pop out sprogs. Suddenly I’m the only one left throwing caution to the wind, getting up to mischief while managing to throw myself into my career the way you only can when you only have yourself to consider.

So I guessed it was time to pull my shit together and find a husband. Easy. No problem. I already turned down two marriage proposals in my twenties. Now that I was 30, I just needed to announce to the world that I’ve changed and that I’m ready to settle down and the rest will follow. Sit back, relax and wait for Mr. Right.

Skip to the next scene, I’ve just turned thirty fucking two. Wow, two years of sitting back and Mr. Right has yet to come knocking.

Two years. Two years I’ve spent waiting for Mr. Right. Two years it’s been since I made the monumental (in my head) decision that this.was.it. I was ready.

And I’ve pushed aside. I’ve been pushed aside

He’s borderline cheap, he’s excessive with cash, he doesn’t have the right job, he doesn’t have good relationships with his family, never holds the door open for me, he dresses kind of weird, he’s not attractive enough, he’s too attractive, he mentioned his ex-girlfriend four times in one date, he’s never had a girlfriend, he doesn’t seem that interested, I’m not that interested.

I’ve been hard on men, tossing them aside when they don’t tick the boxes I’ve decided need to be ticked if I’m to commit to a serious relationship. I’m looking for a husband. I don’t have time to waste with a guy who’s not ticking enough boxes.

Enter Heat. Tall, Latino, Brooklyn drummer, hipster, 25 year old lothario. Full head of curls, plump lips, chocolate brown eyes and coffee coloured skin. He contacts me on a dating website I’ve just joined, offering a casual affair which I decline. He’s charming, he’s over the top, he’s dramatic, he’s smart, he’s funny. His pictures portray a Lenny Kravitz type sex appeal and he’s here for one reason only.

I decline his offer of sex, on OkCupid it’s just one of the many messages I receive which offer the same. It’s just very rare that someone’s pics strike me in the way his do. He’s different, completely opposite to me in every single way. Yet something keeps drawing me back to him. He persists in asking me out for three weeks. I keep saying no, though my resolution not to fall into a sex based affair is weakening.

I say no because I know I would jump into bed with this guy, I know it would be hot. I know I’d be grinning on a post coital glow for a couple of days. But nah, I’m 32 and too old for casual sex, it’s never been for me.  It gives me nothing in the long run.

Or so I think. We eventually swap phone numbers. We start texting, he apologises for the initial way he approached me, says he no longer wants just to bed me. He wants to get to know me. I know its utter horseshit and it’s just this curly haired man’s newest tactic but I don’t care anymore.

By Halloween night our contact has reached a frenzy. I’m still trying to resist him in a way, he wants to call me and I refuse to speak to him on the phone, finding different excuses not to answer his call. He persists. I’m still trying to self-protect or at least limit the impending damage.

I ask him what he’s doing and tell him where I am. He doesn’t miss his chance. Half way out the door with his housemates, he changes direction and comes into the city, up to the Halloween party where I’m at and pays the $80 cover charge without a flinch or a Halloween costume.

The first time I meet him it’s exactly how I pictured, what I knew would happen. We are kissing within minutes. Within hours we are a mess of tangled, sweaty limbs.

And he’s gone. Just as I knew it would happen. He resurfaces every two or three weeks and manages each time to charm me back to his bed. He proclaims he misses me, he needs me, he can’t bear that it’s taken him so long to realize it. I don’t believe it but I let him pour sugar in my ear, I let him convince me back into his arms each time. I don’t really care that it’s bullshit, I just go with it.

Heat, to me screams sex. From the curls, to the words that fall from those full lips to his thin hips, everything about this boy was made to procreate. I can’t resist.

And then somewhere along the line, it stops being just about sex for me. Out of the blue, he creeps into my thoughts one day and then just lodges himself there. What the fuck.

I feel my emotions turning and I can’t stop it…..shit.

It turns into a head versus heart battle. My head’s telling me to run, as fast as possible in the opposite direction and my heart is already in a cab to Brooklyn.

An old friend comes to New York for Christmas. Paul knows me inside out, knows my strengths and weaknesses. Knows what I’m looking for.

We hit a bar on Friday night, before meeting his family for dinner. He asks me about my love life. I tell him about Heat and spill out my conflicted thoughts.

What am I doing?? Why am I wasting my headspace and time with a guy who I am predicting will smash my heart without a second thought?

Paul stops me in my tracks and tells me to calm down. He tells me to relax and enjoy my Hispanic Hipster. A thousand buts spill out of my mouth. I stumble over every single reason why I should not, why I cannot give my time, head or heart to this guy. I mean, I’m supposed to be looking for a husband, not shacking up with a ladies man.

But what’s the big deal, asks Paul. Are you having fun?

Fun is beside the point. Or is it? Paul doesn’t think so…

That’s when my epiphany strikes. Suddenly I realize I just need to chill out. Relax and realize that life is too short to continue on this chase for something to happen. Why am I not just enjoying the moment?? Who cares if he’s not going to be the husband I’ve been trying to find…just live in the moment.

Heat might be around for a day or a week or a month but what does it matter?

It doesn’t matter.

I’ve flipped back to my 20 something mindset. The mindset that never did me wrong.

Start to live in the moment once again. Stop concentrating on tomorrow and start living today. Ok I might get my heart smashed in the meantime but I’ve gotten to 32 without ever experiencing a broken heart so maybe it’s time?

It’s time to take a risk, I do it in all aspects of my life so why not with love? I have to know that I took a leap of faith at least once — even if I do fall flat on my face.

The 8 hour date

I think I’m too optimistic a person to double book my date card.  Actually, I never knew that was a thing until I came to the States.

So when the Fotog asked me to meet him for “one drink at 6pm”, that’s what I presumed he was up to. Setting my expectations low for a quick date so he could make a quick exit to his 8pm.

It didn’t really bother me to be honest, this guy was not consuming my thoughts. I finished work in New York’s Financial District and skipped off to the bar where he was already waiting for me.

We ordered a cocktail. We started talking. We stopped talking at 2am, eight hours later. In this time we managed pre dinner drinks, dinner, two more new bars and a serious make out session on a street corner.

A drunk girl interrupted our conversation at one stage, said she needed to tell us she’d been watching us for a while. Kind of creepy, but with a few cocktails under my belt I found it funny. She announces she can tell we are on a first date. I try to dissuade her, pretending myself and the Fotog had been married once and this was the first time we’d seen each other since getting a divorce years ago.

She asked the fotog how he’d proposed. He managed to come up with a believable story incorporating different facts I’d already told him on this date. Wow, the boy’d been listening.

Even after the faux marriage story had been relayed and even though the tipsy girl was swaying on her feet, she still wasn’t buying it. You guys are definitely on a first date, she insisted.

I gave in and admitted she was right. She had come over to tell us she practically felt the sparks burning her from across the bar. I blushed. Fotog loved it.

She exclaimed she only wished a guy would look at her in the same way Fotog was looking at me. I blushed again. Fotog remained unphased and asked her to explain it more. She said his eyes were focused on my face the whole time. He was hanging on every word that came out of my mouth.

She then asked if we were going to have our first kiss tonight, I wanted the ground to swallow me whole.

Fotog leaned in.

Would you throw yourself under a bus for them?

It takes us five days before Taco and I are able to have our first date.

By now we are talking three times a day. In the morning as he drives to work, at our lunch break and again in the evening before we are going to sleep. Our first phone lasts three and a half hours.

We click, what can I say? He makes me laugh so much. He says I always do and say things that catch him unaware. One text I sent him simply said “Hi Taco” and he said he grinned from ear to ear for 10 minutes.

On the day of our first date he texts me counting down the hours until we meet. We meet on the street at 6pm. The original meeting time had been 7pm but we brought it forward to cut out another hour of waiting time.

We walk to the restaurant. I’m a ball of nerves and chattering away, we cross the road and I’m not paying attention to anything else that’s happening around us. Suddenly he pushes me and jumps in front of me. A pick-up truck screeches to a halt right in front of him, almost slamming into him.

Passersby jump, the driver is visibly shaken and I’m speechless. Taco had literally thrown himself in front of a passing truck to protect me.

I’m past the point of even swooning, I’m now just putty in this guy’s hands.

We go to an Italian restaurant and share a pizza. He orders a cheese pizza with chicken and mushroom as toppings. My favourite pizza toppings are chicken and mushrooms. If I ever needed anything to seal the deal on the fact that we were meant to be together, it’s now based on pizza toppings.

Half way through eating, he pushes his plate away and says he can’t take it anymore. He grabs my hands and leans in, kissing me on the lips.

Dazed and confused on a first date

I met Dazed & Confused on a late July Sunday evening. I was leaving a bar when he stopped me. Sucked in by the big brown eyes, and maybe too many happy hour beers, I gave out my number after speaking to him for less than two minutes.

The very next day D&C called me up and asked me to go for a drink. Loving the spontaneity while also twiddling my thumbs on a Monday afternoon in a city where I knew nobody, I jumped at the chance.

We met in a pub in the East Village and I was pleasantly surprised with the specimen in front of me. He was gorgeous – like GORGEOUS, properly good looking.

It took just a few moments for me to realize the guy was insane.

Three sips into our very first beer, he lunged at me, trying to kiss me.  I backed away, laughing it off, telling him not to move so fast. But why not he asks, he thinks he’s falling in love with me.

One glance at my expression caused him to sink into deep reflection.

I politely asked him what he’s thinking about. He answered telling me he was thinking about his daughter.

Right, not the answer I was expecting right at that moment. He went on to tell me he had her when he was 19 – he’s now 30.  Struggling to deal with this whole situation I lamely asked how old his daughter was. He said 4.

“Shouldn’t she be at least 10 or 11?”. He looked at me shocked, like it was a relevation and then sheepishly admitted “I lose track of time”.

Lose.track.of.time.

He pulled out a picture then of two blonde girls who were identical.  ”Is that her cousin, they are so alike?” I innocently asked.

“No, that’s her twin”.

Um, so you have twin daughters?

Dazed & Confused couldn’t deal with the four questions in succession and paranoia kicked in, with worry sketched all over his beautiful face. “I’ve really fucked this up haven’t I?, now you think Im weird”.

Suddenly I had my own revelation and asked him if he was high.

Yes, he was.

I slipped to the restroom to contemplate how to politely excuse myself from the whole bizarre situation.

Coming out to find our table empty, I took my chance to exit the bar swiftly when I heard my name being yelled from the back.

He was out in a tiny beer garden with four college students, all smoking pot. In a bar. The barmaid came out for a smoke and nobody batted an eyelid. Another New Yorkism I’ll have to get used to?

Dazed & Confused had the joint in his hand and burst into giggles.

Enough is enough. So I went home – my first New York date had lasted a whole hour.