Unfortunately, I’m becoming a professional at going on great dates that have awful endings. There was my first date with Scar Twin, which went off without a hitch until I fell down a flight of stairs; my first (and last) date with Jack, who wrapped up our evening by insinuating that I’m a slut; and most recently, my great — and also tragic — date with my old college friend Baby Face. Confirmed: Tears do not taste good in dirty martinis. Keep reading »
I mostly use Tinder to pass the time on the subway. But about three weeks ago, I matched with The Marathoner. Given the information provided in one’s Tinder profile, all I knew was she enjoyed running and was highly attractive. She sent me a message asking about the Charles Dickens’ quote I had in my profile; the next thing you know we had our first date planned. We decided on going to a local brewery that was having a bacon party.
We shared a few flights and enjoyed lots of bacon. We talked about the usual first date topics: our likes dislikes, what we do for a living, etc. I’d said it went very well, as far as first dates go. We had good chemistry and she seemed like the type of woman I was looking for; fun, intelligent, athletic, and attractive. When it came time to part ways at the subway, I asked her out on a second date and she said yes. Keep reading »
This week has been an absolute shitstorm. It was one of those “when it rains, it pours” weeks that makes you want to crawl under your covers and not come out until life is back to normal. My grandmother is still dying, withering away and scared to close her eyes, while my heartbroken grandpa watches on with the slightest bit of hope that she’ll pull through. She won’t. On top of that, I’ve been going through other family drama, a job shakeup and heath concerns to remind me of life’s oh-so impeccable timing. All in a week’s work, right? During this time of complete instability and emotional exhaustion, dating has been the last thing on my mind. Keep reading »
When I was younger, when it came to my relationships I was mostly concerned with sex. (I assume this is shocking to no one.) I definitely had meaningful relationships, but at the time sex that was the crux of what I wanted.
But as I grew older, sex became relatively less important while other qualities increased in importance. I wanted something more out of relationships than a strictly physical one can provide. Now that I’m in my late-20s, one of the most important qualities I look for is someone who is just fun. Keep reading »
The first man I ever fell in love with was eight years older than me. He was on probation for stealing a video game, and his fingertips smelled like cigarettes and shellfish, having spent most evenings washing dishes at a seafood restaurant. At one point, he kept going to work even though his boss had stopped paying him. “Why don’t you start looking for a new job?” I asked.
“Cuz it’s fun just chillin’ with the boys, smoking cigarettes in the back,” he told me.
Jeff wouldn’t find another job for nine months, mostly because his unemployment allowed him to sit in front his PlayStation all afternoon. At age 26, he still lived with his dad, but couldn’t be bothered to sleep in the spare bedroom because all of his crap — a graveyard of sporting equipment he lost interest in and old surf tees — was piled so high, he couldn’t find the bed.
Instead, he slept on a makeshift bed-couch in the living room. It was here, with his father bumbling in to ask, “What’s going on?” that I lost my virginity. Keep reading »