Showing posts with label Dates. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dates. Show all posts

Yep. It's friday

Friday, July 20, 2007

I’m forever in search of new material to write about. While, yes, I consider my life to be relatively interesting in some respects, one’s dysfunctional relationships can only provide so much amusement to people who should really be finishing up that Excel spreadsheet before 5:00 p.m. I wrote a 40 page manifesto on the Art of Putting on One’s Socks, but decided not to publish it because there turned out to be too many big words and I was afraid that you illiterates wouldn’t be able to follow it. Having a large vocabulary is a blessing and a curse.

People often ask me what type of women I date. So…I thought, yes!!! This would be a perfect blog post. It got to me to thinking. Do I have a type? And, if so, who is she? I feel that I owe it to you, dear readers, in case you’re out there wondering, well, really, have I got a shot with NYC.Lezie? Let me just clear that up for you right now.Probably not. Well, not unless you're Angelina Jolie. Or Heidi Klum circa 1998.

Assuming that you’ve dried your tears by now, let me just tell you that you shouldn’t take it personally. For the same reason that I found online dating just too creepy to really give it a go, the idea of dating a blog reader is awkward. I mean, let’s assume that you and I get married. What do we tell our grandchildren?

"Honey, I met your nana after I swooned for weeks over her publicly written bad love life decisions. Reading about her inability to find a long-term relationship just got me so hot and bothered that I couldn’t help myself."

You can see now why it’s never going to work between you and I. It’s something that we just have to accept. And... well... we’ll always have a connection here.But I digress.

My type. I pondered this for a while- until lunch of course. So here it goes:

Accents. Yes, that’s right. NYC.Lezie is a sucker for a gorgeous girl with an accent. Doesn’t really matter from where, other than Asia. I am not too fond of the Asian Accent. Well, no, that’s not true. I don’t have anything against Asians. I did, however, once fall head over heels for good-looking ½ Asian lass who got the nickname gym-addict (seriously). We dated for a little while. She insisted that we remain friends and so we are. Now, by and large, I’m not particularly good at remaining friends with women after dating them. It’s just that whole, "I’ve seen you naked and now I have to look at you with your clothes on?" thing.

A quick look back at my ex-girlfriends reveals a sort of who’s who of a very narrow view of the world beyond the U.S. France. U.S. Italy. France. U.S. Norwegian. Irish. Polish. And I’m not even counting the Canadian girl whom I was so in love with but she was weird and the fling only lasted a date.

Height. I was 5’4” at the age of 12, and then stopped growing. Being the height that I am, I’ve never felt truly comfortable around short girls. Dating somebody too small just doesn’t feel right, exactly. Most of my girlfriends have been around 5’5” minimum, and The Pearl is around is 5’9” or so. Then again, there are exceptions. Hope is about 5’1”. And I’ve dated girls below the You Must Be This Tall to Ride NYC.Lezie minimum. But not often. I just feel weird dating a girl who fits into my over the shoulder gym bag.

Hair Color / Complexion. Now, dating somebody based on the color of their hair does seem vaguely retarded to me. But whatever. The point of keeping this blog in the first place is to be completely honest. I’m a relatively swarthy lady: vaguely Mediterannean looking (I wish), with Light sandy hair and the most piercing green eyes you’ve ever seen. Maybe it’s an opposites attract kind of thing. But most of my girlfriends / romantic pursuits tend to be blonde with amazing tanned skin. but I don’t know, I just figure that having a girlfriend tanner than me could possibly lead to competition, and that’s unhealthy in relationships. And, I’ve dated one redhead. Most people don’t even know her. There’s something about freckles that just kind of gets me going – I have a secret crush on Lindsay Lohan.

Religion. I was raised Catholic, and extremely proud of my heritage. But, my parents are children of the ‘60s and I was brought up to distrust organized religion. So there, sue me.I guess this is another opposites attract thing.

WASP-y girls do tend to turn me on more. And, as a female friend once told me, every girl in New York secretly (or not so secretly) wants a Jewish partner – but I am not even close to being a Jew (so there goes my chance).But everybody’s at least half Jewish anyway, so what difference does religion make?

Body Type. Somebody recently asked me what part of a woman’s anatomy I prefer. Am I breast kinda gal? Legs girl? Ass girl? And so on. I was kind of surprised by the question. I’m really kind of an overall package woman - And a sucker for a pretty face. Although I will admit to once being really attracted to a woman just because she had really toned forearms. It was pretty sexy how the light blonde hair of her forceps fell naturally over her extremely in shape arms. Maybe I need help.And, I will just state that I’m not one of those ladies who turns away in disgust at a woman who’s not in perfect gym-esque shape. There’s actually something quite sexy about a woman who has curves. It signifies a zest for life, a love of food and drink, a desire to partake of all of the joys that experience has to offer and, besides, I’m not exactly Gisele or Heidi myself. I could probably stand to lose about 15 pounds myself (post-beer). And I once dated a model who was so skinny that I could literally pick her up with one arm. It was pretty weird. The Writer and I had many, many laughs over that one.

Profession. Being a creative type, if you work in the financial industries sector, I just don’t see it working out between us. Now, maybe I’m being judgmental, but when people say my job doesn’t define me, I immediately think that’s probably because they hate their job. Or themselves. Our professions do make up a significant part of who we are, if only because we spend so much time doing them. And i-banking is right below kicking puppies on the ethically dubious scale.

There are other professions of people I tend to shy away from, but that’s just because they tend to be fields that don’t allow for lots of vacation time. Lawyers. People who work at big computer places. Two weeks per year? What the hell? Or too much vacation time – slackers, trainers, slackers, trainers, slackers. Now, if I had any brains, I would probably find a sugar mama who does one of those things. Oh, and one other career I tend to shy away from: activists

Now, before you fire off hate mail and / or leave a nasty comment, this has just been my experience. I know many wonderful activist, but I just couldn’t date them.Things That Don’t Matter. This is really a question of taste.

As you may’ve gathered from this blog, I have a love for the Arts. I don’t expect my girlfriend to share that with me. I once dated a girl who hated Art (absolutely found no purpose in Art), Which one may consider immediate grounds for breaking up with. But, really, who am I to judge? Also, I don’t really care about how stylish a woman is. Sure, there’s nothing sexier than a woman who knows how to look stunning for a night out and can really make her clothes and makeup work for her. But there’s also something about a girl who fills out a pair of jeans perfectly. Basically, I dated a total frump who was a demon in bed. So, again... this gets a pass.

A Very Important Thing. Intelligence plays a big role in my search for my next potential dater. I like brain- it turns me on. If you know Satre, Flaubert, Aristotle then we are a perfect match made in heaven.So, in a nutshell, that’s it. Feel free to tell me how shallow and self-absorbed I am. I love the attention.

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I want to know...

Thursday, July 19, 2007

I know, I know, you are patiently waiting for part III of my weekend – but I need to think more about it before I write stuff down.

So instead…you have this:

Today at lunch we were talking about bad dates that we had to endure and the good ones that lasted well over 3 dates. So I compiled a few (5) things that I want like to know about about {you} on a first date.

I want to know:

That you don’t need any sort of substance abuse as a crutch. Ex: illegal drugs, alcohol. You have to be able to hold a conversation over a cup of coffee or water – I don’t care. It should go without saying, but if talking to you is like talking to a statute, I’m going to pass. Also, despite my love of beer and other alcoholic drinks, I’d rather we not get trashed on date one. Because if you can’t make conversation unless you’re two drinks in, then you probably aren’t a good conversationalist. This is why a coffee date is a nice way to start things off. No?

I want to know what gets you going, why you get up in the morning, what excites YOU.
I hate boring people with no lives, no attitude, lazy couch potatoes, no discipline and finally no hobby. Let me know if you play a sports. Hey, how about the Mets? Like ‘em? I know how lame it is to collect coins or stamps these days, but seriously if that’s what makes happy, then I’m excited. There is nothing better to look at when someone gets super excited over something they love. Their whole facial expressions change and its just beautiful.

I want to know what career choice you made and why.
Nothing describes someone’s personality better than what they do. Your career says everything about you. I’ll leave it as that. Pornstar? I like active – social people *cough

I want to know where is your favorite bar or place to hang out.
It’s always good to know going in if we’re socially compatible. Not that we only eat at the same restaurants or get coffee at the same shops, but compatible in the kinds of places we like. I don’t want to go to a dive bar all the time, sometimes, I just want to put on a cute cocktail dress and some heels and be a classy broad (while holding a bud in both hands)

Finally…Its not really something I want to know, but rather something I would like us to have and that is: something we can joke about later.
I want to have a little inside joke and ultimately pull it out whenever I want. Or something I found utterly funny about something that you did and I want to poke fun at. Nothing harsh. But something dorky and cute.



So there…These are my rules for any first dates.

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Kissing The German

Monday, June 18, 2007

See the story behind this title is actually very exciting. Ok, probably not for you, but definitely for me.

The German is someone I just met. We exchanged emails during the past weeks and we perfectly hit it off, we speak on the phone very often and our conversations are as thought we’ve known each other for a long time. They were just flowing, and I can’t even think of any awkward silent moment, that’s how intense and great they are. Besides the fact that she is extremely smart, witty, and cute and a hot German and…into the Arts and dining and museums, she is absolutely the sweetest person you will ever meet. I joke about how she will have to toughen up once she is in NYC.

The German endured a 4 hr bus ride from Boston just to come see me in the city on Saturday (for just a couple of hours). First, I didn’t know she came down sorely to have dinner with me. If I knew then, I probably would have asked her not too but I am glad she did. I had an amazing time and so did she.

We started off at this Afghani restaurant in midtown, which did not look great from the outside, nor inside but we walked in and absolutely not a soul in the restaurant. Sometimes, I really hate being the only person eating somewhere, but this place wasn’t too appalling. Of course, I let the German chose what to eat since I had no clue about Afghani dishes. Whatever she ordered was delicious. I definitely recommend Afghani food. So we order, and I ask for the wine list – there were none. I got nervous and was thinking, “What am I going to do without wine?? I don’t want to look like I am nervous” I ran across the street to a deli and grabbed whatever red wine they had on the shelf. Let me tell ya, drinking wine eased the situation a lot better. The German noticed that I wasn’t making any eye contact and was completely aware that I was nervous (she told me the next day). First, I do NOT get nervous around ladies. I am usually the one who makes them nervous. But there is something about this German. I wasn’t nervous to the point where I was stuttering or had sweaty palms or shaking uncontrollably. I was just not making eye contact at first (on the subway or at the restaurant). But when I did, I noticed how splendid her eyes were and how she really – really looked right at me when she talked.

So then, we finished the wine, food was delicious and we wanted to grab some dirty cocktails. We walked over to Mercury Bar, which is one of my favorite places to hang. It’s really trendy and they have really good Calamari. We had our drinks and talked and I got to know her a lot better and vice versa – although, I think I revealed some things that I never tell anyone. Guess it’s a good sign.

By the way, on our way to Mercury, we stopped at a corner (red light of course) and talked about our abs. Seriously, I think only lesbians compare their abs. It’s like this conversation starter –“hey, you have great abs, so do I, do you want to see?” c’mon, I don’t think heteros even think about that.

Fast forward – we decided that it was time for us to get going (1. I didn’t want her to see me getting buzzed, 2. She had to catch her train). We ended up walking to Grand Central and along the way, listened to our ipods and compared our playlist. Ya know, you can tell a lot about someone just by what they listen to.

Anyway, we get to GC… stuff happened… and I am not telling.

Ok, ok, usually I don’t talk about my dates especially when they have the URL to this blog. But since she kept insisting and well actually asking if I would blog about what we did…I had doubts. I didn’t want to because I don’t want to jinx anything. Plus, at first I didn’t want to say anything as I realize that the skankier and crazier my stories are, the better received they are by you, my readers. So I figured I should just continue writing as normal. A Lezzie who talks about a non-disastrous date is not interesting, right?

I know the German will read this and already knows what I think of her, but you don’t. I must say that she personifies many of the things I’ve always been attracted to (humor, passion, drive, sense of adventure, deep respect, love for the Arts), but – and what I think is most interesting – is that she’s also a lot of things I never thought I would want (a lady from Boston and a Yankees fan – although she did accept an intimate switch to the METS). Yet, these opposite attributes actually make “it” work.

So what’s so special about The German? Here’s a “short” list:
- She likes my writing.
- She thinks I’m funny.
- She’s funny.
- She knows how to pick a fucking incredible dish off a menu that’s foreign to me.
- She loves my work – other ladies think its lame and I work too much.
- She’s good at what she is passionate about.
- She makes me feel comfortable.- She TOTALLY gets all my dependencies – Angelina Jolie, the U.N., Writing.
- She makes fun of me – I was the president of the GLBT club back in college.
- I make fun of her – she was the secretary of Student Government.
- We both went to liberal colleges and were the hot Lezzie everyone wanted.
- She’s from Boston, but knows how to get around in NYC –not by cab but by subway.
- She has an amazing vocabulary.
- She’s a grownup and doesn’t deal with drama.
- She said I was better looking than Mariah Carey.
- She says sweetie in a very kind and genuine tone of voice.
- Her nickname (not given by me) is Christ and Jesus.
- She is a gal from Boston who likes the Yankees and who is a really good kisser and who isn’t scared of taking a shot of lemon-drops with me.

Ok now I should stop before I embarrass myself any more than I already have.

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My night with the D-Listers.

Thursday, May 17, 2007

E ven with the monsoon weather or what looked liked scenes from War of the World, the Writer and I managed to attend the event of the month. I can’t say event of the year, but there are so many other events that are much better than the Sex Museum Gala – like the Met annual costume ball.

The wind and the rain died around 6pm, which allowed us to look stunning for the night. I wore a plain little black dress with a skinny red and black belt and wore some killer (literally) red stilettos (my feet still hurt). The Writer looked amazing. She wore black tuxedo pants, black button down and red suspenders, and black stiletto pumps – it sounds so not hot, but it was.

So we marched in, showed our VIP tickets, grabbed some champagne and headed to the back where the majority of the celebs were. I always feel more confident with a glass in my hand/stomach. As soon as I walked in the VIP area, I saw Mr. Perez Hilton. He is probably one of my favorite Queens. I introduced myself and we chatted for a mere 2 seconds until his bitch – Dita Von Teese showed up and scooped him up and dragged him to the other D fucking Listed Celebs. She is amazingly hot but in a weird pin up chick way. Her performances were steamy and people could not keep their eyes off of them. Mine were set on a gorgeous pair (exposed) of breast. I was only focused on them and nothing else mattered. Come on, give me a break; the breast bearer wore a mesh dress!!!!

The Writer and I picked up our gift bags on our way out and we were flabbergasted at the “gifts”. Dildos and vibrators, lube and “other” accessories. I turned red as soon as the Writer gave me a “you wanna give these things a test ride” kinda look. But what she probably meant was “shit, I already have these!” either way, it was worth the blushing.

The night ended well for me, slightly buzzed, I hailed a cab and went home to my lovely, clean-sheeted bed.

This morning, my alarm must have rang for a long time because I don’t remember doing my usual 3 time snoozing. I got up at 730 and got ready in less than 20 minutes. No shower, same makeup from last night and I probably look like I’ve been to war.

I don’t care.

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Rated Mature - Reader's maturity is advised

Wednesday, May 2, 2007

S ince I wrote my last entry - like 4 hours ago, I sat at my desk and I got the idea that I needed a "fuck buddy". A little background about me, I am not a girl used to going without having sex. In my two-years out of college, I have always been dating the Pearl or another or had an ex on the side. The longest up until now that I have gone is 3 weeks, current running time 1 and 1/2 months.

Sex is a need akin to food; it makes you sick when you have too much and it makes you crazy when you don't have enough. When I get ass once or more a day (back in college – now I am a workaholic as some would say), I become positively stupid, every thought runs out of my head and all I can do is smile at everyone and everything. When I don't have sex, I become bitchy and desperate. Or moody and feel rejected, as my current state. There is a point, I am led to understand where you go so long you forget about sex altogether, now I have obviously never gone this long, but I will take everyone's word for it.

So back to my story, when I drink all I want to do is either make out or pass out, usually a combination of both, which is how I got my reputation as a tease. If I am not dating you, I am not fucking you; I will only use you for kissing and your bed. Don't bother trying, my answer will never be anything but no, and I have had too much bad sex to last a lifetime. My theory is one night stands are only acceptable if it is the Sports Illustrated Spokes model, who is a MODEL, and you wake up in the midtown Sheraton with no recollection of having gone there. That's obviously bragging rights. Other than that, Buyers Remorse is a bitch to deal with.

So for the past month and a half I have played the virginal act, no kissing, sucking, or fucking; and after a while this gets old. So I am not sure what came over me but last time I did HH (happy hour) I probably would have gone home with anyone, thank god I threw myself in a cab. So after some heavy drinking with the writer as well as a few other lezzies upon I dared one to put her hand down my shirt and made out with another on another dare (who does that?), I began my deliberation of who would be my new fuck buddy.

Now I have no clue how to pick a fuck buddy, but based on past experiences with a sexual relationship with an ex, I thought a couple of ground rules were appropriate. Personally I prefer recycling, because it’s comfortable and I don't have to increase my numbers and chances of more bad sex. To define my idea of bad sex requires background, I have been with extremely bad lovers, a girl who have pretty talked their way into my pants and then have not cared about finishing me or have any intention of trying. But I have also been with women who actually cared, which is why I prefer to hold out for these ladies. These are women I am usually dating.

How does one choose a fuck buddy?

1. First off, it can't be someone that my friends have met or will ever meet.
2. She can't be a tool or douche bag who is going to embarrass me in any way.
3. No weird fetishes like feet or something remotely related to that.
4. She has to be good with her hands.
5. STD free.
6. No personal information required, so as to not form any attachment.
7. Has to be free for drunk dials.
8. No drama, I don't want to hear about her ex or current girl she's in love with.
9. No falling in love with me, I know I am charming and it’s hard.
10. No bragging rights, if you tell people you have slept with me, I will deny it. I can lie, I took acting classes in HS.
11. I am a bathroom talker, so I will tell everyone about everything including technique used or not used.
12. No meetings outside the bedroom.


Then I went down a list of people who have actually propositioned me in the past two weeks. So no one I can see me doing such naughty things to – yet.

After this drunken train of thought in which I was determined to proposition someone. I was ready to make any number of phone calls and completely committed to this idea. I woke up the next morning and realized this would never work, I get way too attached to anyone I sleep with. I have decided to shelve this idea and rediscover it in two more years. That and I got a 4:30 am phone call from the Pearl while I was asleep, so self-confidence is back up (even if I don’t talk to her). I got her and dealt with her craziness, I can deal with anyone thanks to her.

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Snob and Single??

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

T his past Saturday I decided to venture out to some wine and beer spots in the west village with the publicist. I know I know…she’s a crazy lady but there is something about her that just drives me crazy. It might be the italian in her. I don’t know.

Well, last night we were drinking wine and making out (somehow, wine and make-out sessions are steamy) and for some unknown, unconscious, uncontrollable, unfortunate reason, she blurted out "I love you." I flinched, but pretended not to hear. we finished the wine. The vibe was weird. She wanted to disappear. Well more like, I wanted to disappear. What a crazy fuck? What? I’ve gone out with her maybe 4 times…the lesbian joke with the uhaul truck holds some truth to it.

I mean, I've had passionate moments like that, where I'm like "don't say I love you, don't say I love you." But usually that means you don't say I love you. It just means that you are drunk off your ass and you are thinking with your lips rather than your brain. And so last night, I decided to meet up with the Model.

I was disappointed – he is a fun guy to hang with, but he only attracts men and whats the use? I thought hey…pretty model guy + pretty model ladies = me having lots and lots of fun.

Then an hour after the model and I got there, some broad brushed up against me and asked if she can buy me a drink. First it is always –always no possible way that some random blonde would just buy me a drink at a straight bar when she obviously has no idea that I like pretty little things. Unless she wanted a threesome. Hey she did make out with the Model. Since the Model was busy, I looked around for my own prey. I stumbled upon this actress (UNEMPLOYED) who happened to be jobless but was at the bar with a couple of her friends (lezzies) and I quickly said buh bye to the Model and made myself available. I am like a Lezzie Magnet I tell ya.

Later on my evening, the one girl that I thought was the carbon copy of a young J. Biel dissapointed me with some heartbreaking news. Wait, I am NOT a snob and can say from the heart that a woman’s job, wallet size or social status does not impress me (ok sometimes). But I'm also a girl who knows that there's nothing worse than being with a lazy woman....or a mooch! And she unashamedly admitted that she was both! That was a stab in the heart – I kid you not. She is under "mooch" on my Bberry.

But I feel like I'm being shallow. My philosophy has always been Live and let live. So why am I not giving this girl a chance, right? I always admire those who live on just nothing and they always seem happier without the hectic New Yorker life.

I know it sounds like my life is a little girl crazy, but isn't that what being single is all about? Taste a little of this, a little of that? Sometimes though, I wonder if my mind is not all over the New York City with this one and that one maybe I’m not built to be in a relationship or maybe I just need to focus and stay focused.

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Just say NO

Thursday, April 12, 2007

E ver get weird voicemails from someone you met at the bar a couple of weeks ago? Okay, probably not. This is from the publicist – met her at Black Finn, straight, cute, writer on the side, Italian or Jewish (not too sure) and has a killer bod. Let me tell you, I hung out with her maybe three times and the make out sessions was like porn star sex. Amazing. But she creeps me out with her voicemails. Here is the latest:

"Listen, this is just like you ya know. We meet up, we fuck, you ditch me and call outta fucking nowhere [using her best impressions of the drunk me] – hey fucker I wanna hang. So I call you back ya know and I a fucking douche cause I call you all the time and then leaving messages…you don’t fucking call me back, you act like I have a fucking STD. you douche me over and we don’t ever hang out…Stop giving me the shaft ya know. So anyway… Bye. Call me”

So my caller ID for the Publicist immediately switched to “NO”. That way when she calls, I just say “no”.

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Crushing it or Loving it?

Monday, April 9, 2007

I usually don’t do the whole crushing thing. It is so passé in my book. But something changed with the writer. I don’t know. For the past weeks or so, I’ve been getting the sweaty hands, the butterflies in my stomach, the occasional blushing when her name pops up, the smiling and the giggling just for the sake of hearing her voice. Anyway, the other day, she stepped really close, making it difficult for me to breathe. I think I did that thing where I look up through my eyelashes and ducked inside. How embarrassing.

Anyhow, Thursday I met up with the writer. She is the most stunning woman I know within my bunch of friends and she always looks good when we go out, she can wear a plain tee and it would look amazing on her. Maybe if I grow a pair I would essentially be able to talk to her about it.We went to dinner at Sushi Samba and the food was delicious – as always. But sadly, despite my best efforts to stay focus on the dinner and conversations, my mind was so not focused. The chemistry we share is fucking irrefutable. I am sure she feels the same way. Or maybe I keep telling myself that. I can just say that 20 minutes into dinner and my goal of keeping this thing on the tame side had disappeared.I kid you not, every time we meet for dinner and drinks I always have to remind myself to “Go with the flow and have fun”. Sounds simple to you, but to me it’s probably the hardest thing to do when I am sitting in front of her and trying to have a decent conversation without thinking about sleeping with her. Shit I just said it AND I thought about it.

For those who know me, you will agree that one of my personality trait is that I am bold I think the shy me disappeared that night and the bold, fearless feline that I am, took over. She invited me back to her place. She always does that. She knows she is torturing me and she probably enjoys every minute of it. The make-out session started on the couch (It isn’t the first time). She is a great kisser and she figured out pretty quickly I liked to be kissed on my neck.

I am a good girl, really I am. I convinced her that we should stop since we are both really good friends and probably are too drunk to do what we envisioned would happen. She agreed. We went to the kitchen to grab some wine and (blush) she pretty much puts me on the counter. I couldn't let that go on for long because it was too hott and would have went south fast....The writer is a friend and as much as I want her (oh I do), I couldn’t do the one night stand and be totally strangers the next day. I slept in her bed that night and nothing happened – just a few heart palpitions everytime she’d roll over and her hands gently caressed my back.I went home the next morning and acted as if I couldn’t remember the night due to too much of Mr. Budweiser and Madame Pinot. She broke the ice though later on that day with a sweet voicemail ( I wouldn’t pick up the phone):

The writer:

"Hey its me, I guess you forgot my number already, or was it the awkwardness you were talking about last night when you decided that south was not the way but north is a lot colder and better for the both of us. Mr. Bud and Madame Pinot would like to know if you’d join me for dinner next week. Let me know. Bisous.

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