He Went Down Like Power Windows

Two days ago, I get this OkCupid message from a very attractive, very cut, half asian half polynesian guy. I have a thing for asian guys. His hair was also very, very cute, and that’s normally what gets me about asian guys.

Here’s the conversation for your viewing pleasure:

Hottie: You’re neat. I would go for sexy but you’re going to have to work for it. Anyway you seem like a pretty cool person, I’d love to get together sometime and let you kiss me.

Me: Don’t tell me you’re a pick up artist going for the whole “I’m a bad ass dousche and girls love my bod” type thing. Funny, I might be falling for it.  P.S. I’m sexy and I know it. (see here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wyx6JDQCslE

Hottie: Don’t tell me you spend all day reading gawker and you really think there are guys out there that don’t know who the tall lanky magician with eye liner and black nails is.

Me: Nope. I’m a successful business woman, got no time for gawker 😉

Hottie: well, at least now i know you won’t spend the whole time trying to get me to read your palm just so you can tell all your friends about it. i think we could have fun together. what’s your number? let’s do something spontaneous.

Me:**********. I just squatted 135# and did a WOD. I’m tired. Tomorrow?

We ended meeting up the next day, again at Union Square (on my insistence – he kept telling me 42nd and 6th, but who goes to Times Square on a date?)

Anyways, knowing he was most likely a pick up artist (just based off the crass message he sent), I knew Times Square was also probably near his apartment. Which implied a lot, and should’ve been foreshadowing. Really I’ve had the worst luck in boys lately, but sometimes, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

I walk up the L train steps, and pause in front of Whole Foods. He told me he was eating in the cafe upstairs. I text him my whereabouts, and he said he had gone to Starbucks instead, on 17th and Union Sq West.

Despite being frustrated, I head over to Starbucks. I hate boys that play the chasing game, but I’m not gonna lie – the half naked pictures on his OKC kept replaying in my head.

He stands on the corner of 17th and Union Square West. Nike gym bag over one shoulder, hair tossled to one side ( reminiscent of anime character hair), jacket slightly unzipped. Nike high tops. He stands at a good 6’2”, smiles and gives me a hug.

“Let’s walk. I know a good bar on 25th.” Even though I suggest Park Bar, right on 17th.

The conversation flows from the get go. He is little bit distracted (Nervous? I doubt it. More like just-smoked-a-joint-distracted), but once we get on a topic he knows, we talk easily. Everything from bioengineering, to neuroscience (his past job), to his current start up. Damn, not only good looking but intelligent as well. My favorite combination.

We’re walking and I noticed we were passing 25th.

I stopped in the street. “Yo – where are we going??”

“Its a surprise. The coolest place on earth,” he smiles mysteriously.

We walk all the way to 37th. A part of me hated him, because I already knew where this was going. But, considering what just happened with Gorgeous Boy, and me swearing off dating forever, I decide to play along. Guys like to think they’re leading, and it makes them feel better about themselves.

We stopped at a burger place. He wants dinner, he’s hungry. He orders us two shots, despite my protests. I don’t want to drink because that makes me jabber away at everything.

His burger comes, bunless (his abs gotta come from somewhere, no?) along with the tequila. Smiling he just lifts the shot to his lips, expecting me to do the same. I follow suit, grimacing and scrambling for the lime.

At the edge of his green Tee I can see the beginnings of a tattoo forming on his collarbone. I want to take off the T shirt and see the rest of it.

“Unbutton your top button. You look like you work at Starbucks.” He says, distracting me from the tattoo.

Bossy. From the start. I like it. And yes, I had to agree with him I did look like I belonged at Starbucks – black button down, dark green skinny jeans and black leather boots. A typical work outfit.

I unbutton. Good thing I was wearing my new push up bra. Actually, the only one I own, and just recently purchased. I can see him eyeing its red edge through my now open top.

A second shot arrives. When did he order that?

“So, you never answered my question. Are you a pick up artist?”

He smirked, “Well, that depends. All boys are pick up artists of sorts.”

I pushed further, “Yea, but I’m talking about, The Game, Real Social Dynamics, Mystery, and so forth…”

“You seem to know a lot more about this than you’re letting on.”

“Of course, I know a lot about this. I know a lot about everything. If you tell me, I’ll tell you. Sharing is caring!” I stick my tongue out at him.

It turns out he used to “do” pick up like Pick Up Artist (more on him later on). For five years. Yuck. Internally I wonder how many girls he’s fucked.

Just my luck. Any other RSD guys out there?

The discussion turns to girls picking up guys.

“I know I’m pretty good at it. With guys though, you have to be subtle. They don’t like it when you’re too forward or aggressive…” I start explaining.

“Well yea,” he concedes “Most guys are intimidated easily.”

I smirk. I have him right where I want him.

The bartender brings another shot. I can’t believe this guy. He’s honestly trying to get me drunk, unabashedly so.

“Hey! No more shots,” I turn to him, smiling.

“No we’re drinking these.”

The bartender jumps in, “Who’s paying?”

“I am,” says Hottie.

The bartender laughs and says “Then you’re having shots,” and places them in front of us.

“You’re trying to get me drunk, right?” I tell him.

“Of course not. We’re just having fun.” Sure.

The conversation turns to him. Turns to what he did before he worked in my industry (oh what a small world it really is.) He built programs for a stem cell researcher before moving to NYC. Our backgrounds are amazingly similar, which makes him even more intriguing.

I watch him carefully. His face is very handsome. He has nice features.

We get up, actually splitting the bill (I insist. I know this isn’t a date anymore, eventually we are going to fuck. But I still have to put up a game of “Oh I’m so progressive.” Of course I do. Otherwise boys are shocked that you actually want it.)

He says, “I know a bar up the street.”

“As long as its not another 22 blocks,” I laugh at him.

We start walking and keep walking all the way to Times Square, where he lives. I felt this was going to happen.

We turn left toward Ave of Americas, and keep walking and chatting. I’m barely noticing the people around me, a combination of being tipsy and talking to this guy. The lights at Times Square seem swirly and loud. He is legitimately very interesting to talk to.

He stops me in my tracks, “Do you trust me?”


“Enough what?”

“I trust you enough.” I repeat.

“Well. We’re at my apartment. Its right here,” he says pointing to a door leading to a rise up.

“I’m not having sex with you tonight.”

He laughs, “Ok.”

“I’m serious. I’m not having sex with you tonight.” Even though I totally know I am, because he’s just that hot. And he has nice hair. And I want to see what the rest of the tattoo looks like.

“I believe you. Just come upstairs, and we’ll chat. I have a doorman. I’m normal.” He’s trying to convince me. But still, totally calm and cool.

I turn towards the door, waiting for him to open it. We walk inside, the hallway is covered in marble, the doorman sitting, smiling patiently.

I poke a joke at Hottie and say to the doorman, “Can I trust this guy? Is he cool?”

“Of course. Best guy I know!” The doorman laughs.

We go upstairs. Its a cute little studio, with three big windows. The furniture is Ikea (which is fine, but still. Secretly I judge. Even though I have all Ikea furniture. I just expected more.)

He takes off his shoes and I do the same. I plop on the bed, and he opens a bottle of Jack.

“Seriously?” I state. “I really don’t want anymore.”

He pours two double shots. Jesus, this guy is intense. If only he understood that at this point I am fucking him regardless of being drunk.

But its all a facade anyways.

We take the shots, sit down on the bed, and start chatting about start ups. I really, really, want my own.

He pours another shot. This time I pour half of it out while he’s not looking and take the rest.

I sit down on the rolly leather chair and he on the bed.

Now, I’m drunk. Its official. The room seems wobbly. I’m laughing at the stupid comments that are falling out of my mouth.

He pulls the rolly chair towards the bed and leans and starts kissing me.

He’s a good kisser.

“No sex. Its a New Years resolution, I am not having sex with you.”

“No sex,” he echoes, his hand trailing up to undo my bra.

He grabs me, stands me up, and sits me on the bed. I stand up again, bracing on the chair for balance, this time taking off his shirt.

His body is amazing, broad shoulders, narrow waist, 8-pack. His muscle is literally a canvas for some of the best tattoos I’ve seen. There’s a dragon coming down his left shoulder, roaring. One of the dragon’s spikes is what I saw tattooed on his collarbone earlier. The shading is immaculate.

The dragon is fighting a tiger, which is on its hind legs, starting at his V-line, its tail wrapping around to his lower back. The artwork is absolutely amazing. I can’t believe he stands in front of me, I am in awe. I run my hands carefully along the lines, his skin is smooth.

‘Only those who dare to fail greatly can ever achieve greatly’ stands written on his right pec. I take it to heart. It rings true with everything New York City is about.

“Do you actually believe that?” I ask.

“Yes! How could I not?”

At this point, we’re both topless, making out on the bed. So, sure the bra I was wearing was awesome. And normally, I match my bra and my underwear very carefully.

But this morning, I had grabbed a random pair of underwear from the drawer. Old, gray, granny panties that I reserve for emergency oh-shit-didn’t-do-laundry moments.

With the gray underwear floating in my mind, I say “Take off your boxers.”

“No, that’s not fair, then only I will be naked.”

I respond “Take them off, and I’ll take off everything.” This way he wouldn’t be exposed to my totally old undies. Crisis averted!

Before I knew it, he yanked my pants and undies off, and BAM! went down like power windows.


Sex was fantastic. I will avoid the details, but it was awesome seeing his really tight, tattooed body, all over mine.

Until next time, my friends.


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Do you think this is funny?

Do you think this is funny?

Because I do. This is what I texted Gorgeous Boy today, along with something I hoped simultaneously sounded quippy, intelligent and humorous.

YES, Interwebz, I broke the rule. I texted him first, even though I’m a girl and supposed to play hard to get or whatever. If you always plays hard to get how will you get what you want?

But guess what. He didn’t text me back. You have to understand, I felt actual feelings for this person. That’s rare for me. Now I feel crushed. Not gonna lie.

Why do I even attempt dating? Why not stick to what’s tried and true and go for the dance-off-pants-off standard move?

I don’t know.

Going out tonight, we’ll see where the night leads.

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January 6, 2013 · 1:46 am

He’d already be in my pants…

…But I’ve discovered I have feelings.

In lieu of speaking to any of my friends about this, I decided to start a blog.
After all, how many times can the same group of three people hear about this next guy I happened to meet, and am avidly pursuing? It gets tiring after a while, because essentially, its the same story. Just the characters bring in a new perspective of crazy. In fact, what doesn’t kill you makes you crazy. Welcome to NYC.

Thank the Big Bang that the Internet is here to hear me whine.

So its New Years Eve. Here I am prancing around Stage 48 in Midtown West, wearing some cute leather mini from Nordstrom. Nothing too fancy. Flats adorn my feet, because unlike the rest of the standard Meatpacking sluts, I decided to save my feet from blisters. After all, I had plans to lift the next day, and lifting with blistered feet is no treat.

The night progresses, you have your typical characters making an appearance. Really Drunk Guy is on the dance floor, trying to keep his shit together, but just copping a feel on every girl within reach. Creeper is steadily creeping, purposefully bumping into and rubbing up all the tall modelly looking girls. Does that really work? Someone, please tell me!

My friend Ruby and I canvas the rooftop, the secret rooftop (VIP tickets Bitches!), the mezzanine, and the first floor. The ball drops, we somehow miss out on the free champagne, and Ruby and I share a kiss. Oh, no love is truer except that of your best friend from the last 13 years.

Finally, its 1am, we’re dancing on the floor, I see two guys and a gal dancing at the side. One of the guys was clearly the third wheel in this party, and I decided to go in for him. Surely he’d appreciate my fly moves and shakin’ booty.

As I shimmy towards his 5’6” stature, reaching out my hand (my own personal version of Hand of God to any guy PUA’s out there), he strictly puts his up, and points to the girl on the other end. She’s a gorgeous brunette, Victoria’s Secret status, teetering a good 6” above my head. She comes over to the shortie (literally), puts his hand around him and says “We’re together! This is the guy you want,” while pushing me towards a fine specimen of the male population.

He’s tall with a handsome face, blue eyes and a tuft of blonde hair. As my coworker (we’ll call her Burberry) would say, “Totally ADORBS!” Of course I’ll dance with him. He smiles, a bit shyly. I could barely keep it in my pants. But, as it was past midnight, and my New Years resolutions includ maintaining some sort of self control around men, I decided not to pull any moves.

Onwards we danced, had a fantastic time, briefly smooched (he’s an excellent kisser!), and then it hit me. I was immediately attracted to him. He didn’t try any typical boy moves, he smelled good (always a plus), and clearly wasn’t blackout like most guys present. When he kissed me, he didn’t disguistingly stuff his tongue down my mouth, but it was simply, a kiss.

Never before, especially at a club, in New York City, had I met such a boy. He clearly didn’t want to just fuck me, like most others I’d encountered throughout the night (and my year and a half adventuring the city).

I had to get his number. So I did. And we parted ways.

The chance of catching a yellow cab on New Years Eve is slim to none – a typical 4 am scene includes girls, heels in hand (ew-ew-ew-ew-ew-ew – people eat, sleep, piss and vomit on New York sidewalks), hobbling block after block, down avenues, in search of a cab.

I grab Ruby’s hand and jump into the first black cab I see (which had been a 3 avenue walk from Stage 48). Slamming the door, I shout “BROOKLYN” to the driver, knowing very well he’ll most likely shut me down. I’d have to pull some John McClane type shit in order to get me to Brooklyn on NYE, especially in a black cab.

“Seh-nty Fi!” I interpret that to mean “Seventy Five Dollars Please.”

“Fuck no!” shouts the sailor in me. Midtown West to Billyburg Brooklyn – $30 tops.

He drives a few more blocks, arguing back and forth, until he kicks us out of the cab, while I’m swearing profanities and wishing him a bad 2013.

I literally land at the feet of my dancing partner, Gorgeous Boy. He’s with the VS model and Shortie. We smile shyly at each other, wonder at the odds and proceed the hunt for a yellow cab together, eventually parting ways.

I texted him the next day. I had to, I know I was breaking all sorts of girl meets boy interactions, social expectations and requirements and all the bullshit we’re supposed to do when we meet someone. I know the rules. I hate them.

He texted back!!! We chatted, agreed to meet up at Coffee Shop in Union Square on the 3rd.

Two days later I walk into Coffee Shop, nervously looking around. Shockingly, I was nervous. You have to understand, I don’t get nervous. Its not who I am. The closest I get to nervous is butterflies, which I simply turn into positive energy to drive me through whatever needs to get done. Boys don’t make me nervous. Boys are simple. But this one, not so much.

I turn around and see a cute boy. “Wow! Whoever’s meeting him is lucky,” I think, until I realize it was Gorgeous Boy. I am the one meeting him, and it made me laugh.

It is an excellent first date. We sit across from each other, next to the fireplace (table I requested), conversation flows with a few lulls (to be expected of first meeting someone).

Here’s the catch.

I like him. A lot. I don’t just want to fuck him like I do most guys, but I actually care. I want to get to know him.

He’s intelligent. He has a solid job in advertising. He’s my age with a life plan (rarely do I meet others of my generation that know what they want out of life like I do.) He’s attractive. He’s what I’ve been searching for while plowing through the rest of miserable New York.

We finish dinner, walk to the Subway. He’s taking the 5/6 uptown, me the L into Brooklyn. He gently grabs my elbow, pulls me closer, I reach up and my hand brushes the scruff on his cheek (which snaps a memory of kissing his cheek on NYE into my head).

He kisses me on the cheek.

I momentarily am confused, the sounds of the Union Square stop meld into one and I realize what happen. He says, “We have to do this again!”

Smiling, he turns and walks towards the 5/6. I turn and walk down the steps towards the L, feeling very shitty.

This is why feelings are bad. The one boy I actually want to kiss me, just doesn’t.

Its been 24 hours and he hasn’t texted me. The rules tell me I should wait for him to text me. My coworker/confidant (let’s call him Money), told me today I should wait. If a guy’s interested he’ll text.

My mother says, “Play hard to get. You have to. They want mystery.”

My roommate, The Beatles, says “Its ok, I don’t kiss on the first date.” Ruby echoes this sentiment. This sucks.

I can’t stop thinking about him. I don’t know what to do with myself, because I don’t get like this over boys. This is not who I am. I don’t do mushy. I don’t do romance. Reality check – I barely even know him.

But he’s so normal. Its what gets me. Its what I’ve been craving over the last year and a half.

I am doing my best not to text him first. I’ll follow the rules. I’ll pretend, I suppose, if that’s what’s going to work.

But honestly, if he were any other guy, he’d already be pantsless in my bed.


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