Dollar Rides

In the world of dating, the gay world that is, relationships move at the speed of light. Wall Street and I ended on a sour note after only two months. Long story short, he’s looking for a friend with benefits, but I’m not interested in being a sex ATM.

I found myself with no options, and I thought that internet dating may be worth a try. I put together my little profile, added some pictures and with a click of the mouse I was on my way. It seemed I was very popular. Responses were coming in top and bottom, digging through them I found one that struck me.  Dollar, yes that’s his nickname, was handsome for a blurry picture. He had the major things I look for: dark hair, dark eyes.

Initially, I agreed to go have a drink with him out by the river. The night was slightly derailed in the first 10 minutes. He gave me directions from the train, meeting me on the street. We stopped to grab some beer, taking part in a makeshift wine tasting, continuing on to his friend’s house. When I realized we were going into his friend’s house I started to panic. I hate meeting the friends, especially when I’ve only been dating someone a short time. Meeting them when I had only met Dollar five minutes prior, seemed a bit rushed.

We entered the apartment, normal looking for a twenty-something: dirty dishes in the sink, an empty vodka bottle, cloths strewn about. We sat on the couch talking while I slammed my first two beers; I drink faster when I’m nervous. I would like to advise: If there is someone to stop you from picking up that third, fourth and fifth drink, utilize them! Over the next three hours Dollar, his friend and I got tipsy, watching practice fireworks over the Hudson River, playing great-bad music, and at one point I was inclined to ride the slide for toddlers on the apartment’s playground.

The next morning I awoke, exhausted and sick from only having slept three hours and choosing to mix beer and vodka. I got myself dressed, coming to realize that my shirt was gone and my chest and stomach were covered in black marker. This posed a dilemma. I had been wanting to hit Starbucks from the minute I passed out, I was just craving that latte! So, I walked in, covered in marker, wearing a borrowed dingy stretched out wife beater, and ordered. I felt relived at my own appearance when I realized a pre-op tranny was making my coffee. I was almost glad I looked like an ‘80’s glam rocker, otherwise I may not have fit in with the local eccentricities of this particular Starbucks.

The amazing thing is that later the same day Dollar sent me a text about hanging out again. I was shocked to say the least. He had seen me sloppy drunk, witnessed me stripping in public, used me as a wall for graffiti and still wasn’t scared off. Either he is the bravest man in the world, or I’m really good in bed, yes I put out on the first date. I blame that partially on the alcohol and partially on me being easy. Now, it’s very early on, three days to be exact, but things are going surprisingly well. I’ve been up two nights until the crack of dawn talking on the phone with Dollar, and we spent three hours sitting on the pier last night. I can’t say for certain but there’s hope that this may actually turn into a real functioning relationship.

Petty Ex-Hater

When you ask people what is an important characteristic of someone they date, you always hear, “that my friends like him/her”. How many times have you gone through a break-up and afterwards your friends tell you how they, “never really liked the person,” and “they’re so glad you broke up”? We’ve all been there, but what about when you have to meet their friends? That’s even worse! 

Let me explain. I’ve been dating Wall Street for about a month now, nothing too serious, just coffee, movies and a little bit of sex. (I give everyone I date nicknames, which is very important to know. This particular guy’s nickname is Wall Street, obviously because of where he works.) 

In New York City, during Pride weekend, all of the gays throw house parties like it’s 2999, but that’s not the point. Wall Street invited me to be his date to one of these parties. (For the record I would like to state that I am not a typical gay. No rainbows, no pink, no parades, period!) I agreed to go, after it was made abundantly clear that there would be a well stocked bar. We arrived, and everything was off to a running start. Gay men have a tendency to kiss you on the cheek rather than just shaking your hand, as a New Yorker I find this to be an incredible violation of space. DON’T STEP INTO MY BUBBLE! The host immediately commented, “you’re all wet!”, which I was. It was a million degrees outside and humid like the seventh circle of hell, unfortunately I had worn jeans and a heavier shirt to appear somewhat put together in front of Wall Street’s friends. When what I should have done was stick to my usual shorts and a tank top, but live and learn.

The evening progressed rapidly due to the incredible amount of vodka that was going into each drink. I can hold my own, but after three vodkas with a drop of pink whatever, I was hammered. This is where things took a downward turn. Who doesn’t have the ability to speak their mind when they’re drunk? I look up and there is this person coming in the front door. “Is that a boy or a girl?” I ask, loudly. “That’s my ex,” snaps Wall Street. Now, not only was I the sloppy drunk date, but I was also the petty ex-hater. In my defense, I had no idea it was his ex, but I stand by what I said. After all, I am a petty ex-hater. 

As the party ended I thought I would be free from any more humiliation, but that’s just not my luck. We went to the after party, where a very blonde boy decided he was interested in talking to me. I wasn’t interested in anything more than the cosmo they were passing me over his head. Yes, we were drinking cosmos at this point, but it was a gay party, which makes it totally appropriate. Over the next thirty minutes blondie found me three more times and reintroduced himself to me. Well, being irritated, I ripped his pretty little head off. Now I was the: bitchy-sloppy drunk-petty ex-hater.  

The moral of this entire roundabout story is: Even after all of this, Wall Street’s best friend still likes me. So when it comes to meeting the friends of the person you are dating you just have to hope they have extremely good taste, otherwise you’re screwed.