Return from the Grave.
These are the voyages of a 25 year-old still stuck in college. His continuing mission: to explore strange new women, to seek out new love and new exploitations, To boldly go where no man has gone before.
Busy week. Lots of first dates. Here’s the rundown:
Saturday: Hot Mess. Backup dancer for new pop singer. Her claim to fame is that the lyrics written for her first single were originally rejected by Ke$ha for being too trashy. Conversation consisted of how this means Ke$ha is losing her edge. Desperately wanted to put my penis in her mouth but would have settled for anything that stopped the talking at that point. I tell her so. She asks what took me so long. Eject to bar’s bathroom. Life feels gloriously simple for a few minutes.
Sunday: Kid Sister. Puerto Rican. 20. Drop out. Vague ambitions about getting in to Columbia to “show them.” Poor. Parents divorced. Kicked out of home. Living off of charity with a family of 6 in the Projects bordering the LES…I could go on much more. She certainly did. I’m generally a big fan of blunt upfrontness and oversharing…but…after the appetizers arrive. Reminds me too much of me from 5 years ago. Felt like I wanted to help her, not date her, poor start.
Monday: Brandy. 18 y.o. Liberian. Columbia sophomore, got in a year early. She has legs I need an elevator to get to the top of. We eat near her campus, hoping proximity to dorms will prove beneficial. Optimism misplaced. She can’t seem to answer any of even the most basic questions about herself. Literally minutes of awkward silence between replies. When she does, there’s never a follow up question on her end for me. I try to switch up topics but this is just dreadful. She knows more and more people coming in to the restaurant. Is now texting. Asks to raincheck the rest of the date for tomorrow, her friend needs her for something important. Obvious brush off, but thank God!. Mildly pissed I agreed to pay for dinner and she for drinks after. Send her a thanks-for-nothing text later on in a bad mood. Apparently she had been serious about meeting the next day. Dear lordy…I guess she was just showcasing the standard etiquette nowadays?
Tuesday: Birthday party of the girl I just got back from traveling India with. She’s cute, mid 20s, single, Asian. But we’re just friends. Though I think being in weeks of that close-enough to-touch-but-only-look proximity has given me some residual lingering yellow fever. Anyway, apparently there was a miscommunication with Indian Ann Coulter (Long legged, Objectivist/Egoist, skinnybitch, favorite books are all by Ayn Rand…I want to hatefuck this one pretty hard) who thought we were meeting this night instead of next Tues. Felt bad she was waiting at the restaurant for me. Oh well.
Wednesday: Liz Lemon. NBC intern. Curly hair. Glasses. Vaguely genetically Jewish but culturally Irish Catholic. Likes soul food. We ate some. Blizzard hit mid date. She’s from Florida, first time seeing snow or something so it was all magic. Wandered from Harlem down to her dorm in Columbus Circle stopping for snowball fights and occasional bar/coffee breaks to keep from freezing to death. Snow was above knee high by the time we got to the dorm. My train home was canceled. Good excuse to spend the night. Her college is run by Jesuit priests. Highly discouraging of strange men staying over. Tried to pretend I was a resident. No go. Sighs and knowing looks and general slutshaming hurled at poor Liz. Never felt that judged by campus security checking in somewhere before. Had to pay $60 for an overnight pass. Whatev, cheaper than a hotel. (Also…SO Catholic! They won’t stop it, they’ll just fine you for it!) She has fingers crossed we’ll have some privacy. There are six girls to a suite. Nope, they’re all home. Giggly embarrassment and awkward hellos. Waiting for her roommate to get out of the shower so she can know there’s someone here and get a change of clothes. It’s a long shower. Start fooling around anyway. One more awkward hello. Alone now. Breasts are firm and effortlessly buoyant. Stomach flat. Thighs tight. Skin flawless. Pussy shaved. I’ve missed freshmen. Her technique needs work. After some effort, she has a 30-minute rolling/continuous/multiple orgasm…is a generally trembling, breathless, sweat soaked mess bewildered and begging for some kind of break. It is adorable. “I’ve…never experienced anything like that before…what the fuck was that?” …Her roommates in the common room immediately outside chime in “Yeah…what the FUCK was that?!” …I feel like the King of Fuck Mountain. I realize statistically we’re unlikely to have sex this good again, but I don’t care, because it was our first time, and will be gossiped about. It is a good night.
Thursday: Miss Anthropist. 30. Social Worker. Working on her second doctorate. All Ivy Leagues. About to open her first private practice. Turkish/British/Swiss. Father was a banker, then became international hotelier. Grew up a few years here and there all across the globe at various new luxury hotel developments. Brags about trying scotch at 2, pot at 3, tax evasion at 4. The date started with a movie about a married couple coping after the death of their young child when he’s run over. Despite being a horrid first date idea, it was a great film. Get dinner at a place I’ve been wanting to try for over a year. Menu’s flavor combinations seem excellent, decor looks great. It’s restaurant week so I can afford it. I say my name at the reservation booth and suddenly hear the bartender shout “HE’S here!?” -Turns out I’ve been here before. Though…during a blackout. Riiiiiiight. He’s the friend of that girl I was seeing. Good friends with her husband too. Flood of memories return. Off to a new place! Admit to myself I feel slightly intimidated by Miss Anthropist. Not the least of which because she’s totally callous and jaded from her work. This ruins all my usual fun plans to coyly drop hints of my fucked up childhood and slowly reveal them as a way to generate faux intimacy. I feel like a case study. We spend the night debating the ethics of child sex work as it relates to labor theory. It’s nice to be around someone smart. We have no chemistry.
Friday: Dinner with the Moms and my Cousin + his Fiancee to celebrate their engagement. Flashback moment. I met her 5 years ago when she was an NYU frosh. Right before my cousin went on stage for a publicity event to promote his second book. Me + my mom + his parents were there. He got all deer-in-headlights-y and instead of reading excerpts just nervously blathered streamofconscious about how great the blowjob he got from his new GF in the bathroom was. Back to Now. Wedding bells! I hate these dinners. It’s so painfully clear they are here out of obligation. I guess so am I. Given our ages and interests we should be able to connect as human beings but somehow don’t. My mom talks endlessly about the wedding and honeymoon plans, which they seem to dread but are resigned to making conversation about. They are virtually passed out with disinterest, don’t really eat or drink. I feel like despite their forced politeness they aren’t able to genuinely enjoy things in life, as doing so stops them from being constantly derisively critical, hyper-self aware and meta about it all. I briefly wonder if I’m the same way, then fake a smile. Fiancee speaks of how people who grew up in the NYC public education system are all invariably maladjusted, and that she would turn tricks not to live in Queens. Both of these sentences unintentionally apply to me. I actually like her more because of this, though when it’s pointed out I think she assumes the opposite.
-TheNotSoNiceJewishBoy
P.S. - There should be more coming your way. 5 new dates planned for next week, + a repeat with Liz Lemon. Currently avoiding two women from my past and just starting a fresh new round of classes for the semester at a school that’s 70% female, so…we’ll see how it all goes.
To Infinity, and Beyond!
