At the age of 33, I went on my first date.
I met the Brazilian at a nightclub a month before I was set to leave New York City indefinitely. The fact that he danced well and wore a scarf while doing so gave him away instantly as a foreigner.
After grinding together to techno music until four in the morning, we grabbed a cab back to his apartment in Queens and swung by my place on our way. I wasn’t sure what I might need, so I packed a toothbrush, a water bottle, my cell phone charger, an Edward Abbey book in case I couldn’t sleep, a headlamp to read it by, and some trail mix. I hadn’t ever slept over at a guy’s place in New York City before, so I wanted to be prepared. Keep reading »