Listen buddy, I am not that type of girl!…..sober.

The Banker.

 

I met him at a party. He attached himself to me from almost the second I walked through the door, and though I thought he was friendly, he didn’t make a strong impression. He had a zit on his forehead. He owns a snuggie. At one point he spilled beer down my dress, but when he brought that up on our first date, I had already forgotten.

A few days later, he sent me a message on facebook, inviting me out for a drink. (“So lame!” he bemoaned later, even though I had been flattered.)

The thing is, I don’t get asked out on a late of dates. I get a lot of “hey, we should hang out sometime.”. I get a lot of “what r u doin now?” text messages at nine pm. I get a lot of “Meeting some friends for drinks, you should join”. But a true “Let me take you out for a drink, at this bar, at this time” is a rare treat, so of course I said yes.

Con’t…

I meet him at a nice, small wine bar on the Upper West side, a real departure from the grungy lounges of the LES that I seem to spend a lot of time in. He knows a lot about wine, he orders a cheese plate, we make polite conversation. Grown up. Halfway through the date, he touches my hand. I make a quick decision, and grab his in return. He pays the bill. 

“Want to take a walk?” He asks.

I do. The Upper West Side is nice. I decide that if he takes me on a stroll through Central Park, I may let him kiss me. More Meg Ryan than my usual drunken hookups. We leave the bar. He puts his arm around me. We don’t have much real chemistry, but we do a pretty good imitation of flirty brevity. It’s a warm spring evening in New York, I’m wearing a pretty dress, and life is good.

Suddenly, we stop outside a door on 68th.

“This is my apartment. Let me show you the digs.”

Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

We walk through the foyer. He apologizes for the lack of a doorman. Uhm, that’s ok. 

He takes me to his studio apartment. The tour, predictably, does not last long, and then we’re kissing. In terms of romantic setting, his studio is hardly Central Park. I check and see if his eyes are open. They are. It’s weird to kiss and stare at someone, so I close mine. He keeps jabbing his tongue into my mouth. Jab. Jab. Jab. I try to be extra soft and gentle with mine, as a hint. The jabbing continues.

He picks me up and leads me to his bed. I resent being picked up and I resent being plopped back down so conveniently on the bed. But then maybe if I was more into him, I’d think that was hot. We keep kissing. His hands wander. I tell him I can’t stay. He seems genuinely shocked. Sorry, pal.

“Five minutes?”

Sure, ok, five minutes. He attacks me with ferocious tongue jabbing relish. I kiss his neck while I look around the room for a clock. 4 minutes to go.

Finally, I extricate myself from him. He walks me to the subway. I stop and kiss him every few blocks, just to see if his technique has miraculously improved, or if I was just imagining things worse than they were. Jab jab jab. It hadn’t, and I didn’t.

We get to the subway entrance, and I kiss him passionately, because, after all, he was a pretty good sport and didn’t try to pressure me into staying.

“Did you have a good time?” He asks.

Ew. Uh, I had an okay time….must I reflect on it now? Do you really need the validation?

“I had a great time” I reply, sweetly, and kiss him goodbye.

Adam, my question to you is, do men ever have any idea when we’re being disingenuous? Because it’s just so easy.

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