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Dating…On A Budget

Monday morning, I woke up, made myself a pot of coffee and sat down on the couch to read the news…and check my Twitter account. In the process, I somehow stumbled onto Grindr and browsed some of the nearby profiles. I have been (desperately) trying not to go on Grindr as much, but just like the cheesy gordita crunch at Taco Bell, it’s fucking addicting.

While scrolling, one profile made me stop and tap. He was cute, my age, nearby, and his profile said, “have scruff and make me laugh.”

“I have both of those things!” I said out loud and continued to message him with “Happy Monday!” – a pretty standard greeting.

He wrote back right away – should have been my first signal – and we carried on a conversation for most of the day. We talked about life in Astoria, my food blog, his job, and our favorite movies. Instead of carrying out a weeklong text-a-thon with this kid, I invited him to meet for drinks the next night.

Usually, I do not meet someone after only finding out a few pieces of personal information from them, but I figured it’s best to meet as soon as possible, see if there is a mutual connection, and go from there. He said he was up for it and we exchanged phone numbers.

His first text to me was a gif from 30 Rock, so I already knew him and I would be married by the end of the month. 30 Rock gifs and fried cheese are the way to my heart (not in that order).

After work, I met my friend, Rebecca, downtown to check out the Central Perk popup store from the TV show Friends. I don’t think I had been that excited about something since TGIFridays had that 10$ all-you-can-eat-appetizer deal. We got to the location and stood in line, anxiously waiting to have our chance to sit on the big orange couch.

After a few minutes of catching up and pretending to listen to each other’s stories, I looked down at my phone and saw that my new boy, Zack we will call him, had texted me. “What are you up to tonight?”

I rolled my eyes and told Rebecca all about him. I told her that at first we spent the day bullshitting and chatting and having a really fun conversation, but as soon as he had my phone number, he had started freaking me out by the length of his text messages. Anyone who knows me knows that I am extremely picky and I cast guys off to the side for the smallest of things. Once, I was on my way to meet a guy for drinks and he texted “Okie Dokes” and I cancelled on him immediately. So, I knew I needed to be a little more lenient this time and give him a chance.

I responded where I was and he wrote back that he had never actually watched an episode of Friends. How is that even humanly possible?! I laughed it off and told him it was my favorite show, yada yada yada. He then started sending me Friends memes and a picture of his roommates’ boxed-set collection of the show on DVD. “Maybe he’s just really into you,” Rebecca said, trying to play devil’s advocate. I sent a smile face emoji and put my phone in my pocket, just as we were entering Central Perk.

Once we were done, we decided to grab a bite to eat down the block. When we sat down, I pulled out my phone and saw I had 4 long text messages from him. Four. And in one of the messages he asked me what my favorite episode was and that he would watch it that night so “we would have something to talk about the next day.”

I’m sorry, but if the only thing we have to talk about is Ross and Monica doing a dance routine on Dick Clarks New Years Rockin’ Eve, then this relationship is never going to happen.

I started expressing my fears with this guy to my friend, who at that point, completely understood. Now, don’t get me wrong. I love it when a guy texts me. Seriously, I love it. But if we haven’t met yet (only been taking for 9 hours) and you are sending me novels as text messages, asking me about where I am, what I’m doing, and what I had for dinner, I will be completely turned off.

I came home that night and thought about if I actually wanted to go through with this date the next day. I mean, if he was interested in me, was that really the worst thing in the world? Not at all! Sure his text messages were a little overbearing, but perhaps he is different in person.

Or so I thought.

The next morning, the day of our date, “Zack” texted me asking where I wanted to meet up that night. I told him that I wasn’t too sure of many bars in the area, since I had just moved there, but I would be good with wherever. He responded saying he didn’t care either and that he would be more than willing to just pick up a bottle of wine and hangout at one of our apartments because he was “on a budget.”

Where do I even begin? One, if you are on a budget, it is not attractive to tell that to the person you are trying to impress. Everyone is on a budget. Hell, I am definitely on a budget, but I’m not going to tell someone I have no money hours before we are scheduled to meet up. That’s what credit cards are for, right?

Also, his suggestion of hanging out at one of our apartments should have been my first warning sign that this was more of a routine on his part than an actual money-saving idea. Again, trying to stay open-minded, I agreed to his plan and told him he could come over to my apartment, since my roommate would be at work, and we could share a bottle of wine.

I came home from work, cleaned up a bit, showered and sprayed the couch generously with Febreeze, awaiting his arrival. On his way, he texted me asking what kind of wine I liked, to which I replied “Any and all of it” but then assured him I also picked up a bottle of wine, so not to get crazy. He wrote back, “LOL. Okay, I got a 6$ bottle of wine, but trust me, after the second glass, you won’t even taste how bad it is.”

I wasn’t convinced.

Around 8:30 he arrived at my apartment, and the second I opened the front door, I knew I didn’t like him. Not that he was ugly, but I could just tell from his energy that we weren’t going to mesh well. He was wearing a striped t-shirt, the tightest jeans I have ever seen on a man, and a cardigan. He also had on a hat that resembled the one worn by the main character from The Sandlot (here is a picture if you need a reference).

I welcomed him into my apartment and poured him a glass of wine – from my wine bottle that was already opened. When I handed it to him, he asked for a tour of my place – something that I hate. It’s not like I live in a glamorous and giant apartment. You can literally see the entire apartment from the front door. But, I obliged his request and showed him around. When I showed him my bedroom, he looked around and said, “I could wake up here.”

…What?

When the tour was finally over, I ushered him out of my room and back into the living room. I sat down on one end of the couch and he took a seat right next to me. I would have preferred to have a little breathing room, but didn’t let it bother me too much. Still on the subject of my apartment layout, he glanced around and said, “Your place is really cute. I mean, my living room is twice this size, but…I like what you’ve done with the little space you have.”

…Okay.

We started the conversation in a pretty normal way: talked about our favorite movies, tv shows, and music. I enjoy discussing these subjects, but I am very opinionated on these topics. I can – and do- judge a person by the types of things they like to watch. I told him that I was in the middle of watching Breaking Bad and I just could not get into it. All he responded to that was, “Oh my God, it’s the best show. The best show. It’s so good. So good.”

I asked him what makes it so good, just to see if maybe I missed something big or stimulating, but he just kept on repeating “Oh my God, it’s the best show. The best show. It’s so good. So good.” I shrugged and agreed to disagree.

I took the biggest sip of my wine, knowing I would need to be at least tipsy to get through the remainder of the evening. He went over to my DVD collection and asked, “What should we watch?” Knowing I could definitely not handle a movie, I suggested we watch a few episodes of The Comeback since it was one of the shows we actually agreed on enjoying. I put the DVD in the player and headed back to the couch, where he was sprawled out, awaiting me to come over and cuddle.

I poured another glass of wine, drank it all in one sip, and laid down beside him on the couch. While watching the show, he put his arm around me and massaged my scalp with his other hand. “You know, you’re going to have to massage my head while we watch the next episode,” he informed me.

I shot up like Scooby Doo had just solved a murder case and looked at him quizzically.  “Excuse me? I have to do what?”

“Massage my head. I’ve been doing it to you for the past ten minutes. So, next episode, it’s my turn.”

I actually laughed out loud to this, shook my head, and said, “I don’t think so.”

“But what do you mean? It’s only fair. We need to take turns, or else I’m going to stop massaging you.”

“Well, then…stop massaging me. I didn’t ask you to touch my scalp.”

He removed his hand and we continued to watch the show, in a hostile cuddle. When the show ended, I sat up and refilled both of our wine glasses. “Let’s talk some more,” I said, hoping to make the time pass a little faster.

I asked him where he grew up and he grabbed my face and started kissing me. When I tried to pull away, he just whispered, “Shh…just go with it.”

Maybe it was the fact that I hadn’t been touched since February. Or maybe because I had six glasses of wine, but I took his advice and shut up and went along with it. In my head I was thinking, “Well, maybe if we hook up, he will leave. It’s always awkward after hooking up with someone, so he will just gather his belongings and walk out the door and I can finish my bottle of wine in peace.”

Like he was reading my mind, he said, “Let’s take this to the bed.”

We walked into my bedroom, I quickly shut off all the lights, and unbuttoned my shirt. Before I got to the third button, he was already laying on my bed, completely naked. Except for his hat.

Things between us were heating up pretty quickly and it wasn’t too long before he headed south to my nether regions. He started going down on me, and the bill of his hat kept poking me right in the stomach. Then, just as I was starting to relax and enjoy myself, he flipped me around and started with the ass play. “Dude, I don’t even know your last name,” I said in complete shock as to what was happening.

Now, I am sure there are many people who enjoy that sort of thing, but I am just not one of them. It’s awkward, uncomfortable, and it just doesn’t feel good to me. I kindly asked him if he could stop and he sat up like a sad little puppy dog, defeated at his own game.

He flipped me back around, came up to my face, and went in for a kiss. Absolutely not. Not even a little bit. I pulled away and said he needed to rinse with mouthwash and brush his teeth if he wanted to kiss me again. “I know where that tongue has been, mister!”

After he rinsed twice with mouthwash and used my roommates’ toothbrush, we picked back up where we left off: me getting a blowjob. I closed my eyes and desperately tried to finish so this night would end and I could make it to McDonald’s for an ice cream cone before they closed. But, no such luck. I was so turned off by all of the preceding events to even feign pleasure and enthusiasm. I finally looked over at him and said it wasn’t going to happen. “I have a lot of work things on my mind,” I lied.

He assured me it was fine so I got up and re-dressed. “Do you have any extra pajamas I could wear?” he asked.

…HUH?

“No,” I responded. “I’m 28 years old. I don’t own pajamas. And I have a really big work thing (ice cream cone) I need to work on (eat) so I can’t (never ever) have a sleepover tonight. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Let’s go back to the couch and finish that wine.”

This time when we sat on the couch, he sat on the opposite side, giving me the distance I needed. I emptied the remaining wine into our glasses and played yet another episode of The Comeback. A few minutes into the show, he patted his lap like there was a golden retriever sitting behind me and said, “Put those feet up. I want to rub them.” So I did.

Stop judging me. I feel you all judging me, but you have to understand…I love foot rubs.

So, he started massaging my feet, and this is where it went even further downhill.

“Wow. Cut your toe nails much?” he asked.

I looked down at my toes and reasoned with myself that they were not as bad as he was making them out to be. Sure, they were longer than they should have been, but I am getting a pedicure on Saturday and there is no point for me to clip my toe nails when I am going to pay someone $20 to do it for me. Right? Right.

He kept talking about the toe nails for the remainder of the episode and I deflected his comments with a joking response, saying, “Stooopppp! I’m really insecure about my toes,” hoping he would laugh it off and we could move on to another subject. (Maybe he finally came up with an answer as to why Breaking Bad is so good).

But he didn’t. He stopped playing with my feet, looked at me, and asked, “You’re insecure about your toes? Really?!”

I nodded yes and then he followed up with this line: “But there are so many other things you should be insecure about.”

Welp, I think this night is over, what do you think?

I laughed at his insulting comment, not because I thought it was funny, but that I was going to have a great story to tell my friends the next morning. “I really should get to bed, Zack. I think you should go.”

He stood up, put his cardigan back on, adjusted his hat, and made his way to the door. “Here, I’ll walk you out,” I offered. We stood at the front door and I gave him a hug and exchanged the normal first date pleasantries: “This was fun. It was nice to meet you. Get home safe.”

He pulled me in for a kiss and demanded that I call him. Once he left, I ran to the bathroom to take a scalding 11 minute shower and ponder, yet again, why I meet the weirdest and most awful guys in New York. My thoughts were interrupted when I heard a knock at my door. At this point, I preferred a serial killer to be on the other side of the door, but no such luck. “Hey, what’s up? Did you forget something?” I asked.

“Yeah, my bottle of wine. Can I have it back?”

 

 

 

 

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Flirting at 10,000 Feet

Flying is never fun…especially when you have a layover in Atlanta, like I did last Wednesday. I was coming home from a week spent in sunny Florida, visiting my parents, drinking Corona Light’s out by the pool and avoiding friends from high school at the supermarket.

My flight from my small hometown in Florida to Atlanta was just your average commuter flight, without any excitement or peanuts. But as soon as we landed, I got a big smile on my face because I had exactly one hour until my connecting flight took off, which left me with plenty of time to grab a cocktail and go to the smoking lounge.

In case no one has been to the Atlanta airport – or smokes cigarettes – there are 5 designated smoking lounges, one for each terminal, in which you can sit down and take a long drag of a Marlboro Light without having to leave the airport and go through security again. Those lounges are heaven.

I finished my three cigs and then inhaled a glass of Pinot Grigio at the bar and arrived at my gate just in time to board. I made my way to my designated seat on the aisle and took out my Sudoku book, ready for a fast and easy flight.

Not five minutes after I got settled and completed two puzzles, this guy comes barreling down the aisle, suitcase in hand, and stops at the row right behind me. “Ughhhh, can I just put this down for a second?” he gasped to no one.

A gay. My face lit up like it was Christmas morning. I turned around to look at Mr. Dramatic, and was pleasantly surprised – and shocked – that he was a tall, muscular, and gorgeous man. I smiled, weakly, at him and he threw his bag in the overhead compartment and took his seat, directly behind me. “Now would have been a good time to use Head & Shoulders,” I thought to myself.

Another five minutes later, I felt a tap on my shoulder and looked up to see an Asian couple standing before me. Now, I knew I was in my correct assigned seat, so I don’t know what they could possibly want, unless to get an autograph for my food blog.

It was neither.

They were telling me and Mr. Biceps (which I will call him from now on) that they just got standby tickets on this flight and they were split up, one sitting in the middle seat in my row and one sitting in the middle seat in Bicep’s row, and they asked if one of us would mind moving so they could sit together. I started to get agitated and began to roll my eyes at them, but then realized that if I complied with their request, I would be snuggling up to my new boyfriend while we watched the in-flight movie.

Before I could respond, Biceps said that he needed to be on the aisle because he needed to do some work, and because he was 6’4’’, he needed the leg room. I turned to join the group discussion and said that I would move over to the middle seat and he could take mine, so the Asian couple could sit next to each other. Normally, I would tell them to suck it up and they should be happy to be on the same flight, but that response wouldn’t get me closer to having sex with this guy, so I just smiled and scooted over.

Biceps grabbed his laptop case and to-go bag from Chick-Fil-A and took his new seat. I smiled at him and said, “Welcome to row 28. You made the right decision.” He just looked at me, put his tray table down, and started eating his chicken sandwich. I threw that Sudoku book in the seatback pocket in front of me and pulled out one of the interesting novels I bought for my trip but never read.

The Asian couple thanked us profusely and made a comment saying that they would buy us a drink for our generosity. “Ohhh, I could go for a glass of white wine,” I said with a wink while he thanked them and said, “A Bourbon would be nice.” I hated myself that I said I wanted white wine.

He continued to eat his chicken sandwich, doused with BBQ sauce and honey mustard, while I picked up my book and pretended to read it. Before I knew it, we were leaving the gate and ready to take off. All I could think about was whether I put on clean underwear or not.

While sitting on the tarmac, idle and waiting for the other plans ahead of us to take off, I kept trying to think of a good conversation starter, but “Headed to New York?” seemed boring and obvious. For the first time in my life, I was at a loss for words. Usually being able to hold a conversation with a door knob or someone from Jersey, I could not think of one single opener for this guy. Instead of putting my earphones in and minding my own business, I instead leaned over and said, “That sandwich looks good.”

“Why did I say that?” I am asking myself now, repeatedly. Why did I have to make a comment about the sandwich? I could have said anything – literally anything – that would have been more interesting and less creepy. I mean, what did I expect him to respond to that with? “It really is divine. Would you like a bite? And maybe, after, we can talk about our likes, interests, and favorite movies.” No. Of course he didn’t say that. He just looked at me, with BBQ sauce in the corner of his mouth, and nodded in agreement that yes, the sandwich was good.

Once we took off, I realized that our conversation had come to a sudden halt, so I put back in my earphones, blared my Ashlee Simpson playlist, and closed my eyes, hoping for a quick nap before the snack cart came my way. While trying to get some rest, this is when I noticed my new prospective boyfriend had some sort of nervous tick or habit. I wouldn’t necessarily call it Tourette’s, but I wouldn’t call it normal either. His left leg kept shaking, up and down, like it was injected with 3 liters of Cuban Coffee. I didn’t mind it at first, because with every shake and quiver, his leg would gently graze mine, giving me comfort and security. I also noticed that he had some sort of an OCD behavior. Although his sandwich was finished, his giant Styrofoam cup of Diet Coke and ice was not. He would pick up his cup, bite the end of the straw and push it down, making a horrible plastic-meets-Styrofoam sound. Then, he would take a sip, shake the cup twice, and put it down below his seat. This ritual continued for the next thirty minutes. Finally, his drink was empty, but then he did one of my biggest pet peeves: he chewed on the ice.

Once the pilot turned off the seat belt sign, he went to his carry-on bag and pulled out his laptop, because remember – he needed to sit on the aisle seat so he could get some work done. If the leg movement and the ice chewing wasn’t enough, now he was typing away at record speed, continually jabbing me in the chest with his oversized (and bulging) arms. “Sorry” he would say every time he hit the space bar. “Don’t you dare apologize,” I said lovingly.

So there I was, sitting in the middle seat, next to an overweight man sleeping on my shoulder and the could-be love of my life gyrating his legs and hammering away on his keyboard, all while chewing on ice. There wasn’t one Ashlee Simpson song on my iPod that could deafen the sound. I started to think maybe he was nervous about flying. Being somewhat of an anxious person myself, I understood just what he was going through and suddenly felt so rude about shutting my eyes and putting my earphones in when maybe he just needed someone to talk to. I put my iPod away and picked up the Sky Mall catalog, because what’s a better conversation starter than a Tetris Lamp or a LED Grill Light Spatula.

With every turn of the page, I would “ooh” and “ahh” at the ridiculously overpriced items for purchase. A few times I caught him take a glance at the magazine, but missed his opportunity to chime in and say, “Who needs a Canadian Year-Round Rain Barrel?”

After pretending to read Sky Mall, I gave up and started playing Candy Crush. Thirty minutes and 2 beaten levels later, the drink and snack cart made it to our row. As the flight attendant asked me what I would like to drink, the Asian couple both went to the bathroom, forgetting – or avoiding – their promise to buy me and Mr. Biceps a drink. I leaned over and, with my most sultry voice, ordered a Ginger Ale and a bag of pretzels. I looked over to the guy sleeping next to me and decided that he, too, would want a bag of pretzels, so I ordered some on his behalf. Whether he ended up getting said pretzel’s is completely off topic.

When it was my boyfriend’s turn to order his drink, he picked up his empty Chick-Fil-A cup and asked the flight attendant if he could fill it up with some Diet Coke, like he was at a 7-11. Even I, a pain in the ass in most situations, was pretty shocked at the gall of his request. “This is Delta, buddy. You might be able to get away with that on Virgin or United,” I wanted to tell him. “Look at me. I ordered a Ginger Ale and he gave me half a can. And once the fizz settles, it will be approximately three sips.”

The flight attendant looked at me quizzically and I gave him the “Don’t look at me, I don’t know him” face while I shrugged my shoulders. He smiled (because how could you not smile at someone as beautiful as him) and said that he couldn’t fill up his cup. The guy looked saddened. Like his parents took him to Disney World and the only ride he wanted to go on was The Tea Cups and it was closed for maintenance. It was in this moment that I witnessed the craziest and most unexpected gesture from a Delta employee; he said, “How about I just give you the entire can of Diet Coke?”

The. Entire. Can.

Now, for some of you higher class people, getting a whole can of soda on a plane is commonplace. “Everyone gets cans of Sprite after we finish our champagne and ahi seared Tuna,” they will prevail. But, alas. I am not privileged. (You should have picked up on that when I said I had a layover in Atlanta).

Biceps graciously accepted the can of soda and, and without pressing his luck, asked for some ice. The flight attendant looked behind up, making sure his supervisor was nowhere to be seen, and filled up the cup with ice. “More ice for him to chew! Yippee!!” I cried.

Once the drink cart rolled away, the Asians came back to their seats and avoided eye contact. I looked at my watch and saw that I only had 45 minutes left to seal the deal. Or at least get some sort of a conversation going. Not having the time or creative energy to come up with an excellent topic of conversation, I just leaned in and said, “Wow. You got the whole can. They don’t do that for just anybody.”

He gave me a half-smile and said, “Well, I needed my drink to be in a cup with a lid because I am working and I do not want to get sticky soda all over my keyboard. Plus, I am really thirsty.”

“So am I, apparently.”

And that was it. I gave him many opportunities to strike up a conversation with me, and he just wasn’t feeling it. With only thirty minutes left to landing, I cut my losses and decided him and I would never be an “us.”

But then, five minutes later, I was bored again. I glanced over at his computer screen to see what kind of work he was doing. Mostly replying back to emails and using SalesForce. Trying to use my one good eye to do some detective work, I found out his full name, company, email address, and Instagram handle. Very stealthily, I opened up the Notes section of my iPhone and entered in all of his information, already planning the email I will send him once I get back home.

For a half second, I felt so incredibly pathetic and sad. I mean, sure this guy was attractive, and yes, our knees did touch for an entire 90 minutes, but if he wanted to talk to me, he would have talked to me. Why was I being so creepy by snooping on his computer screen and saving his contact information?

Because, ladies and gentlemen, that’s just who I am.

I put back on my music and assured myself I would never have those self-deprecating moments again. Well, until I put on a bathing suit.

At 8:48pm, we landed safely at LaGuardia airport, fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. The passengers all grabbed their bags and headed off the plane, some back to their apartments and some to their hotels in the city. Feeling a sudden burst of redemption, I went to ask Mr. Biceps if he wanted to share a cab, but when I looked up to ask, he was already running towards the exit. “I guess it’s for the best,” I thought. Mostly because I am sure he wasn’t traveling to Astoria, Queens.

Once in my taxi, I pulled out my phone and found his Instagram account. He had already posted a picture of the NYC Skyline from the plane with the caption: “New York, New York! #beautiful #nyc #skyline #vacation #getmeadrink

It took everything for me not to double-tap the picture. Instead, I texted my friend, Louis, to tell him all about my encounter.

Me: I met the love of my life on my flight home tonight. He is tall, handsome, and has an incredible body. We talked the entire flight and he asked me to go for drinks tomorrow night. I think this is the one!

LB: No way! That’s so kewl! What did you guys chat about?

Me: Everything, Louis. All of it. Where we grew up, our families. Our jobs. Our dreams. It was incredible.

LB: That’s great.

Me: [Image Sent]

LB: Oh, wow! He is cute!

LB: …but where did you get that picture?

Me: I screenshotted it from his Facebook.

LB: He added you as a friend?

Me: Approaching home, gotta go!

At first I felt bad about lying to my friend, but we have this running joke between us that I am the desperate and pitiful one, and I just didn’t want him to think it was true.

So, maybe my plane ride wasn’t that exciting after all. I didn’t get a full cup of soda and I didn’t get the cute guy’s phone number. It probably wouldn’t have worked out anyways. But, just as my cab pulled up to my front door, I realized I did have one thing: that extra bag of pretzels.

 

An addendum: My email to Mr. Biceps

 

Hi there,

Right off the bat, I have to warn you that this may be the most random and strangest email you have ever gotten, so for that, I apologize.

My name is James and I was the man sitting next to you on flight 887 from Atlanta to New York City. (I was wearing the purple checkered shirt and definitely not playing Sudoku).

I wish I could come up with some amazing and riveting reason as to why I have attained your email address (I work for the CIA, I’m friends with your sister, etc) but, the truth is, I took a peek at your computer screen while you were on Gmail and wrote it down. By the way, I love how you spelled “dude” “d00d”. Very clever.

Anyways, I thought you were really cute and I was hoping to get a chance to talk to you more on our flight, but I was reading “War & Peace” and you were busily working, and I did not want to disrupt you.

As evidenced from your Instagram account (I’ll explain later) that you are in NYC for a few days visiting, and I would love the chance to take you out for a drink (I’ll even buy you your own can of Diet Coke).

I hope this email finds you well and you do not think I am creepy, weird, or pathetic. I just felt a connection with you and would hate myself if I didn’t at least take a chance. Someone in my high school yearbook used the quote, “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take,” and ever since I read that, it has been my life mantra. Well, that and “More bacon please” LOL.

Enjoy your vacation in New York, and I hope to speak (or see??) you soon.

Xo

James

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The Most Awkward Hello

Over the past few years, I have spoken and written all about my horrendous dating life. Sure, there were a few dates that didn’t leave me crying on the E train, but those aren’t that fun to tell, right? No one asks “How was your date last night?” in hopes that you say, “Fantastic! I think I found the one!” No. They want to hear about the uncomfortable small talk, the crazy stories, and the awkward hello.

Through my dating experiences, I have entertained numerous friends and some employees at 16 Handles with some of the wildest stories from my past, but no story quite got the reaction like the one I am about to share.

This “encounter” as I will refer to it, happened almost six months ago and I am just now ready to publically put it out there, on the internet, forever.

I am no stranger to self-deprecation or embarrassment for a laugh (I shit my pants and wrote about it, remember?) so there should be no reason why this particular encounter should be any different. But it was. And is. This is by far one of the most uncomfortable and awkward moments of my life, but I think I am finally ready to share it with all of you.

January 2014 was horrible. The cold, the snow, and the disappearance of Christmas cookies from my pantry. Saying I was depressed is an understatement.

Luckily, I had that Grindr app running all day, every day, desperate for someone to chat with, and maybe – just maybe –  someone to cuddle with my through the night. (Side note: There is no cool way of asking a total stranger to come to your apartment to sleep next to each other like you’re old buddies from college.) But I digress.

One chilly January evening I was scrolling through the nearby men when I received a message from a profile located 200 feet away. Now, in New York City, 200 feet is nothing, but in Jersey where I live, 200 feet is exciting and unheard of. He didn’t have a picture, but I took the chance and responded.

I responded to his “Wut up?” with a “Nothin’ much, you?” which of course led to “Horny” as many Grindr conversations do. Now, I was in a conundrum. Do I take the bait and say “Me too” or do I simply ignore his chivalrous gesture and keep looking for my next cuddle buddy. I decided that since I did have the apartment to myself that night, and hell, I could be horny if I wanted to be, I wrote back, “Same. Into?” just to get a glimpse of the activities I could be partaking in that evening. I had a heavy dinner and was not in the mood for anything wild or crazy, just a simple and easy hook-up.

Four minutes later he responded with “Just jacking off.”

Ok, I could handle that. I do it alone, why not do it in the company of a stranger. At this point in conversation, I had still yet to see a photo of him, and that’s rule number one of online hookups. I asked if he could share a few pictures and that I would do the same. He sent me two mirror-selfies where he was wearing jeans, a sweater with a gold chain and a fitted Yankee hat. I don’t even need to tell you that, yes, he was Puerto Rican.

I obliged his request to mutually masturbate and sent him my location. Not a minute later, I heard my apartment buzzer ring, signaling my visitor had arrived. I went downstairs to greet him, thinking that was the polite thing to do.

I opened the door and, to my surprise, he looked nothing like his pictures. We’ve all been there, right? Meeting someone on-line, you need to prepare yourself that they may not look exactly like the pictures they sent you. Because in real life, there is no air brushing effect, Instagram filters or flattering angles to make you look skinny.

Saying he was fat would be extremely mean and hurtful. But saying he was thin would be extremely untruthful and deceitful. He was wearing scrubs, so I asked if he worked at the medical building across the street, because that would explain his proximity of 200 feet away and his wardrobe. But he just shook his head no and said he worked in another town and was just passing through.

He was already beginning this relationship with a lie.

We walked up to my apartment, went into my bedroom, and sat on my bed. I wish I could be one of those guys who takes charge the minute we enter the love lounge (this is what I nicknamed my bedroom). Possibly the worst part of a hookup, other than the minutes after fruition, are the minutes prior to foreplay. You want to get naked and they want to get naked, but at the same time, we have to act like normal adults with parents who loved us and treated us well. I never want to just attack them in fear that I may make them uncomfortable.So we sat. And talked.

I heard stories about his childhood, his recent trip to Puerto Rico, and how he dislikes his sister’s new fiancé. I told him about my food blog and how I rarely ever hook up with someone. “I never do this,” I lied as he inched his way closer, rubbing my feet.

Once someone makes the first move, that’s when I go in for the kill. I took off my shirt, got on top of him, and pressed my lips to his, to which he pulled away and said, “I don’t kiss, bro.”

Apparently that’s a thing.

I accommodated his request and started undressing him, throwing his XXL hoodie onto my bedroom floor. Once the clothes were off and the jerking off began, I started to get bored. No kissing and basically no touching. We were just jerking off next to each other, not a sound to be heard.

“Want me to turn on Pandora?” I asked, reaching for my laptop.

“No, but get on top of me.”

I shut the lid to my Macbook and climbed on top of him, successfully mounting myself on the third try. We were now face to face so I leaned in, forgetting his ‘no kissing’ rule. He didn’t forget though, and instructed me to turn around so he could see my ass.

“My ass?” I thought. I wasn’t prepared for that. Showing someone my ass, and in that position, is a treat I save for special people in my life: a boyfriend, someone who buys me dinner, and my pediatrician. Not some random guy! But, remembering my New Year’s Resolution of saying “yes” that I made just a few weeks ago, I turned around so that my ass was inches from his face.

Continuing to jerk off both him and I at the same time – an extremely difficult feat – I could feel both of his hands grab my ass and this is when the spanking began. Not once. Not twice. Not even three times. He just started smacking my ass with his right hand for about 2 minutes straight.

“Ya got it?” I asked as I turned around. He kindly got the hint that I did not to be hit repeatedly, so he tried of one his other techniques. Still with both hands firm on my ass, he leaned in, placed his nose between my cheeks, and inhaled.

Sorry if I lost anybody after that last sentence. I know some of you are reading this on your lunch break or morning commute and I do apologize.

Upon hearing the sound of his exaggerated breath, I shot straight up like Scooby Doo. “Huuuuuhhhh?!”

Maybe it was an accident, I assured myself. This can’t be a thing guys do. It’s fine. It was a mistake. It won’t happen ag—SNIIIIIFF. This time, an even longer inhale from the first. This was no fluke. This guy was literally and figuratively smelling my asshole. After about another 7 or 8 deep breaths, he came up for air, turned me around, and decided NOW he was in the mood to make out.

“I don’t think so, pal” I said, as I pulled my head back as far away from his nostrils.

“What’s the matter? You wanted to kiss before man.”

“Yes, but that was before you stuck your nose into the crevice of my ass and sniffed around like a police dog.”

Needless to say, I laid back down and we jerked off, side by side until he was finished. For some reason, though, I just couldn’t get off.

I handed him a towel and threw him his scrubs and sweatshirt and said I had an early meeting the next day.

“But it’s a Saturday…” he said, confused.

Once he finally dressed, I walked him to the front door, held out my hand and said, “’Twas nice to meet you.” He gave me a handshake that resembled something from the movie “Friday After Next” and walked down the stairs. Feeling disgusting and violated, I ran to my bathroom, turned on the shower to the most scalding water temperature, and got in. I sat there, on the floor of the shower, cradling my knees and rocking back and forth. I felt used, I felt desecrated, and I felt like a container of Vix Vapor Rub.

After thirty minutes of sobbing in the shower, I got out, threw away my sheets, and went to bed.

The following week, some friends and I went out for Happy Hour and the subject of “weird sex” came up. For the first time ever, I stayed quiet and let the other people at the table share their most unusual story. Because we took an oath that night, I am forbidden of re-telling their stories, but after each one went, I felt comfortable enough to open about my recent encounter, hoping that once I told it, they would assure me it has happened to them. Or at least someone they knew.

Nope. This was the first time they had ever heard of this fetish, and now I was mortified, humiliated, and thirsty for another cosmopolitan. I tried to laugh it off, saying I was just kidding and that I made it up so they wouldn’t feel so bad about theirs, but they weren’t buying it.

Five months later, the brutal New York weather had finally subsided and the climate was warm and sunny. I was no longer gloomy or depressed and spent most of my afternoons out with friends or walking around my neighborhood.

One evening, I was coming back from the gym and passed a Dunkin’ Donuts. Deciding to treat myself for having the courage of canceling my membership, I stopped in to grab a few Boston Creams and a Hazelnut Coffee Coolata. Standing in line, I started perusing the other seasonal donuts on display when the person in front of me turned around and locked eyes with me. It was him: The Sniffer.

He looked at me for a few seconds; I suppose trying to remember how he knew me. But I knew. I remembered. I never forget a nose.

I simply smiled and uttered the most awkward hello possible. He nodded his head and turned back around, hopefully just as embarrassed as I was.  Too uncomfortable to stay, I silently backed up and walked out of the Dunkin Donuts, empty handed, with a growling stomach and the smell of regret.

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10 First Date Rules

Now, I know you are thinking: “Why in the hell would I take dating advice from this guy? He can’t even get a second date!” Well, while that may be true, I have some advice to offer regarding first date etiquette that will be sure to land you a second and a third. Basically,  it’s the exact opposite of what I normally do. And maybe, by writing this post, I will teach myself a thing or two as well.

 

  1. Play it cool. No matter how you met them, online, through a friend, or even at a bar, once the phone numbers have been exchanged, do not make the first move. (Unless they only gave you their phone number. Then, yeah. I guess you can send the first text.) But that is the only exception. You need to make them feel like you have a million other possibilities out there – even if your Friday night consists of Netflix and Pizza Hut.

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  1. Always dress for the date. The dating dress code is one of the most important things. Know the location or activity you and your date will be participating in. If it’s a nice dinner, don’t wear cowboy boots (trust me). If you are just meeting up for drinks, be a mix of classy and casual. Don’t dress up too much by wearing a tie or cuff-links, but also don’t dress too casual by wearing cargo shorts and flip flops. But most importantly, wear what you feel comfortable in. If you aren’t comfortable, other people will see that.

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  1. Don’t assume your date is going to pay. This is a complicated matter in the world of gay dating. Usually for heterosexual couples, the man usually picks up the tab, and for lesbians, whoever has the shortest hair pays. But for gay men, it’s a toss up. Some people say whoever asked the other out should pay. Others say the top should pay. And definitely whoever is the uglier of the two should pay. Just don’t assume that if you are a hot bottom your date will pay for you. Order in the bracket you can afford. There is nothing more embarrassing than going out to eat at the Red Lobster, ordering like a king, and then being stuck with your half of the bill. (There is also nothing more embarrassing than going to the Red Lobster on a date).

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  1. Always show up ten minutes late. I am a “premature arriver.” No matter what time I leave my apartment, I will always get to the meeting place at least twenty minutes early. Even if I leave three minutes until the set time. It’s always a good idea to have your date waiting for you, sitting at the bar sweating, hoping you will show up. It will make you less nervous. If you do show up early, take a walk around the block, drive around, or play a game of words with friends.

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  1. Be you…but just a little. I always encourage people to be themselves no matter what the occasion, but there is “being yourself” and being YOURself. Always stay true to you, but leave much to the imagination. One of my biggest dating mistakes is that I reveal too much too soon. Do not tell your date that you have irritable bowel syndrome. Do not tell your date you watched the entire series of Desperate Housewives in eight days. And do not tell them that you are losing your hair at a rapid pace. Never give out more information than they asked. If they say, “What’s your family like?” respond with, “Loving, funny, quirky….” Do not say, “My mom has multiple personality disorder, and I never met my father because he’s in jail for bestiality.”

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  1. Flirt with your eyes, not with your hands. Or feet. Keep the physical contact of the date to a minimum. Use your eyes to show them that you are listening and interested. You can maybe use an arm touch once in the night, but only if they say something extremely funny. Just do not overuse the arm touch. You just met this person, so don’t invade their personal space. I once was on a date and put my hand on the guys kneecap for the entire screening of “Avatar”. He left the theater before I could take off my 3-D glasses.

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  1. Do not go home with him. Unless you didn’t like him. Then, yeah. Go home with him.

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  1. After the date, do not text them. No matter what. I know that after a great date, we want to text them saying “I had so much fun” or “Tonight was great”. Don’t. I once got a text message from a guy thanking me for a great night before I was even in my car. Wait until at least the next day to start communication.

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  1. When establishing communication after the date, do not be needy. Do not ask them if they had fun. Do not ask them if you look like your pictures. And do not pressure them for a second date. Remember that old saying, “If they want to see you, they will make it happen.” Feel it out. If after the date, you see communication has dwindled, (i.e. lengthy text messages have now gone to one or two words) let it go and do not contact them. Maybe they just weren’t that into you.

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10. Don’t give up. Keep on dating. If you go out with someone and you never hear from them again, you have to remember it is their loss. Trust in yourself that you are an amazing catch and if they don’t see that, then the hell with them. Do not focus on every minute of the date, thinking, “I shouldn’t have said that” or “Maybe I could’ve done this”. It wont matter. You said it. You didn’t do it. It’s too late. On to the next one. Just take everything you should have done or could’ve said better, and implement it into your next date.

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Project Paradise

I Need a Vacation!

The winter in New York City was never-ending. For 6 months straight, I had to bundle up in scarves, puffy jackets, long johns and knit hats just to take on the brutal frigid weather. I needed a break. I think for the first time since moving to NYC I uttered the phrase, “I miss Florida.”

I expressed my feelings of missing the sun to my friends, family, and the person who works at the 24 hour gas station. But no one really cared.

One night in February, my friend Sebastian told me that he was planning a trip to Hawaii in the summer and that I should come. Having never been to the islands of Hawaii, I put down my chicken wing and said “I’m in!!”

Two weeks later, when the plans for Hawaii were becoming finalized, Sebastian informed me that it would cost a total of roughly $2,500.

“$2,500?” I exclaimed. “I could get Invisiline with that money! Why so expensive?”

He told me that between the cost of the flight, the hotel, and the different excursions they were booking every day, $2,500 would be the best estimate he could give me.

I checked my bank account that night, seeing if I could swing this trip. I couldn’t. Maybe if I didn’t eat, pay my rent, or if I cancelled my monthly donation to the Animal Humane Society, I could afford it, but I couldn’t do that to those poor animals. I called him that night and told him he would have to vacation without me.

He didn’t seem too upset.

About a month later, with the weather still freezing, I cried to him saying I needed to get out. I needed to go on vacation. I had not been on a real vacation in over three years. Sure, I go to Florida every so often to visit my parents, but I don’t consider driving my dad to his cardiologist appointments a vacation. I needed to get away and use my passport that has been collecting dust in my nightstand.

We got to talking of ideas – affordable ideas – and the two that we came up with was a weekend in Washington D.C. or a cruise to the Bahamas. Clearly, we all knew which one I preferred, but the weather in D.C. wasn’t going to be any warmer than it was in New York. So, with much debate, we finally agreed on a cruise.

I don’t want to brag, but I have been on many cruises. I’m from a small town just south of Cape Canaveral in Florida, so going on a cruise was as easy and affordable as going to Taco Bell for a fourthmeal. I used my experience and knowledge to help Sebastian pick a cruise that would be fun, exciting, and again, affordable.

“All I want is a picture standing in the ocean with the cruise ship behind me” he said. “That’s the only thing I want.”

I assured him that his wish would be possible, but then also explaining the other hundred things a cruise is good for. “There are so many shows, and there’s a casino on board, and the food. Let me tell you about the food. Rows and rows of free food, laid out buffet style at all hours of the night. You will never go hungry or thirsty. It’s amazing.”

“…But can I get my picture taken in front of the ship?”

I already was having second thoughts.

 

Let’s Book This, Damnit

The following week, we both started actively searching the interwebs for different cruise lines, destinations and deals. I have been on both Carnival and Royal Caribbean cruise, and out of the two, I leaned more towards RC because it was nicer and cleaner. Oh, and it didn’t get stuck in the middle of the Atlantic for 2 weeks. Sebastian, on the other hand, was more into booking a gay cruise.

“Whhyyyyyy?” I exhaled, while chewing on my chicken wing (yes, I am aware that I eat a lot of chicken wings).

He wanted to, as he put it, “show off his body and meet a husband.” I, on the other hand, hadn’t been to the gym since 2011 and eat chicken wings bi-weekly, so I was not going on a cruise to show off my body. I wanted to go on a tourist cruise: One that would be filled with pale families from the UK and overweight families from the Midwest, and ugly families from Florida. I didn’t want to be in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by men in banana hammocks with 6-packs, hairless bodies, and judgments.

Luckily (for me) the gay cruise was the same price as the trip to Hawaii, so we decided to find something a little bit more in our (my) price range.

I scoured the internet, checking every deal and discount I could find. I found some amazing deals for Royal Caribbean leaving out of Cape Canaveral. I liked this option because I could go home and visit my parents for a few days and maybe (hopefully) scrounge some moolah from their retired pockets. Sebastian was fine with the RC cruise, but wanted to leave out of Fort Lauderdale, so he, too, could visit his family. We decided to compromise and leave out of Miami. For me, this wasn’t a compromise at all because I would be flying into Central Florida, visiting my parents for a day, then driving to Miami (a mere three hour trip), and picking him up along the way. But, as a foreshadowing for the trip, I learned to just say “Okay, sure, whatever you want.”

I went over to Sebastian’s house one Sunday night to watch the Academy Awards, and more importantly, to book our cruise! I had my credit card and passport in hand, ready to make my purchase. Like idiots, we went on the actual cruise line website to book. The final price wasn’t awful, but I knew with my internet savvy and Jew-like spending habits, I could find the same exact cruise for less money and a better room.

We decided to put a hold on booking that night so I could spend my next day at work researching. I called up my sister-in-law, a business travel agent down in South Florida, for help on where I should look. She recommended Cruise.com. I found a Superior Ocean View room for the cruise we wanted to go on for $300. “That’s an amazing deal!” I screamed in my office, to which no one except the mail man acknowledged. I grabbed my wallet, took out my credit card, and started to enter in my information. I texted Sebastian saying, “I found it! I found the cruise! Give me your CC number.”

I entered in all of the required information, did a quick proofread, and hit the Submit button. The next screen told me to wait patiently as my reservation was being completed. I didn’t like that I was being told what to do, but I obliged their request and sat at my desk, waiting patiently. Finally, after what seemed like 10 minutes – in reality, only 50 seconds – the next page loaded and said, “Unfortunately, we could not complete you request. A travel agent will be in contact with you. Thanks!!”

What the hell?! I was so confused as to what went wrong and why this booking process was becoming an actual process. A little side note about me (which will be applied to the rest of this story) is that I am an extremely anxious person. I do not like obstacles or change or hindrances, so when something doesn’t go the exact way I plan, I freak out. This applies to almost all everyday situations. While waiting in line at Starbucks, I’ll repeat my order in my head so when it is my turn, I will be prompt and ready, but mostly, I get so anxious that when I go to order, it comes out sounding like “grandy roast pike milk on the side.”

Needless to say, I was extremely annoyed that the cruise was not booked on the spot. But, a half hour later, I received a phone call from a travel agent from Cruise.com and she told me that she could get me the same room and the same deal, all I needed to do was give her permission to authorize our credit cards. I told her yes and she said she would send me an email invoice in just a few minutes.

As promised, a few minutes later I had an email confirmation of the trip, itinerary, and receipt. There was just thing wrong: she ended up charging my card twice and didn’t charge Sebastian. I realized this wasn’t the end of the world, I could just ask him to write me a check later on in the week. Upon reviewing the invoice for a third time, I noticed one more discrepancy: yes, my credit card was presumably charged twice, but it seemed Debbie (this is what I will refer to her as because of legal reasons…and that I just cannot remember her name) entered in my credit card number once correctly, and incorrectly the second time. I hurriedly checked my bank account and saw that I was only charged once for the trip.

Now, for someone who is anxious, a control freak, has a slight case of OCD, and always plans for the worst, I called up Deb to inform her of her error and to get it rectified as soon as possible. She reviewed the invoice and realized the expiration date on the second charge was wrong. “Oops” was all she replied.

Oops?! Who the hell was I working with? I tried to remain calm and asked her to fix it, but she told me that there was nothing she could do until RC and my bank realized the error. I called up my sister, frantically, and explained the situation. I begged and pleaded with her to call on my behalf and speak to a supervisor. I was not going to go to bed unsure if my vacation was booked or not.

She called me back after she hung up with Cruise.com and said “All you can do is wait patiently.”

If one more person told me to wait patiently, I was going to scream. But, that’s all I could do. That night at dinner, I explained the situation to Sebastian, waiting for a reaction close to my own, but it never came. He just shrugged his shoulders. Why wasn’t he getting as angry as I was? Why didn’t he care? Why wasn’t he outraged? And where was my Sprite?

Well, I guess he didn’t have a reaction because it wasn’t really that big of a deal. He just said that everything will work out and that I should take a few more Xanax. So I did.

He was right. Everything did work out. A week later, everything was fixed and the entirety of the cruise was paid for (on my debit card) and we were ready to start planning our trip. I went back over to Sebastian’s house to fill out the necessary forms and read over all the paperwork we needed. This was it. It was happening and I was so excited. Our cruise was leaving the Port of Miami in just 3 weeks and I had so much to do: shopping, lose weight, get a base tan and trim my body hair. There was nothing else to do but wait. Patiently.

 

Prepping for Paradise

Once the reservation was booked and my plane ticket was confirmed, I knew there was no turning back. In just a few weeks, I would have my toes in the sand on some island while holding a coconut. Since I didn’t have much time, I knew I needed to make some changes to my lifestyle. Being on a beach meant having to be shirtless, and having to be shirtless meant having to be shirtless. I needed to workout.

Being a gym member that never actually went, I decided it was time I unpacked the running shoes from their box, put on my elastic-waisted pants, and trudged in two feet of snow to the gym. Once inside, I was so exhausted from my walk there that I sat down on the bench in the locker room for a bit. A half hour later, I decided to go upstairs where they kept the TV’s and do some time on the elliptical.

The Ellen Show had just begun, so I found a machine with an excellent view of the television and started to climb. Not even at the first commercial break, I was already dying. I looked to the woman next to me and saw she had been on her machine for 45 minutes, with no signs of stopping. “How the hell do you keep going?” I asked her. She mumbled something about dedication and perseverance, but I was in no mood to decode words with more than two syllables. I ended up staying on the machine for another ten minutes before moving on to the treadmill.

I actually enjoy the treadmill because running clears my head. It also makes me pant uncontrollably. Again, the most I could endure of this ‘dread-mill’ was ten minutes, so I went downstairs and hit the showers.

I told Sebastian about my workout the next night at the Cheesecake Factory. “How long do you think I will need to exercise in order to look like you?” I inquired while shoveling a piece of Adams Fudge Ripple cheesecake into my mouth.

Sebastian has an incredible body; complete with broad shoulders and enormous arms, ones that make me curious how he fits into t-shirts. He told me that he had been working out five times a week for over six years and that for me to even look like I made a dent of a difference, I would have to dedicate at least one hour, four times a week for close to a year. “So, I wont have a six pack by the time of the trip?” I asked. He just shook his head no and said, “Definitely not.” So I ordered my third piece of cheesecake and realized I would just have to embrace my curves – because they weren’t going anywhere.

Aside from losing a few pounds, I needed to gain a few new pieces to my wardrobe. The next weekend, we went to this huge mall in New Jersey to shop for cute cruise wear. While Sebastian was browsing the racks of speedos and tank tops, I was over in the clearance section looking for a colorful hoodie. Knowing I was in desperate need for a new bathing suit, I found a really cute Nautica one with a navy blue gingham print. I had to have it. I swiftly went through the seven or so they had out on the floor and realized they didn’t have a small (yes, I can still squeeze into a small, thank you very much). “Miss! Miss!” I screamed to the sales associate folding polo shirts a few yards away. “Do you have this in a small in the back?”

When she told me that everything that they had was on the floor, a lie I assumed, I asked if she could check all of the other Macy stores within a 100 mile radius for my size. “There’s one in Paramus and two in Hackensack” she informed me. I thanked her for her time and walked back over to the winter wear.

Before we left for the free samples at the food court, I realized in that moment that I needed a backpack. I had never really had a backpack and thought the size and portability of one would be essential while traveling the Bahamian Islands. In the luggage section, I looked around for a nice clean Jansport backpack, but no luck. This shorter African-American gentleman swagged over to me and asked if I needed any help. “Yes, I am looking for a backpack. Do you have any here? I don’t see them.”

“Backpacks are over here. Follow me sir” he said. So I followed him. The backpacks he showed me were actual backpacks – ones that you would use…backpacking. The one I needed was a little bit smaller than these. When I expressed to him my preference, he gave me a condescending look and said, “Well, the only other ones we have are a little out of your price range. But I am sure Wal-Mart has what you are looking for.”

Oh. Did this salesman just tell me, to my face, that I was poor? Tempted to say, “Um, I’m actually going on a Royal Caribbean cruise, so…” but that would have just proved his point, so I just hung my head in shame and walked out. I was pretty upset about this exchange, but when I saw the neon lights of a Nathan’s, my day seemed to turn around. I may not have gotten my cute bathing suit, backpack, or awesome beach body, but I sure as hell got a hotdog.

 

Florida, Here I Come!

It was finally time for my vacation to begin. With the weather still not warming up in New York, I was ready to get out of there and experience this illusion referred to as “the sun.”

My flight left out of LaGuardia Airport on Wednesday afternoon and had a layover in Atlanta. While waiting to board the first round of flights, the man on the intercom informed us that this was going to be a “completely full flight” and they were offering “complementary checked baggage” and that if not enough people offered to participate, they would be checking everyone’s bag toward the end of the line. I have never seen so many grown adults fight to get into a single file line since I worked at Baskin Robbins.

Every single time I fly Detla, I have this same issue. I used to fly with a big suitcase, so I would always check it, but I spent more time waiting at the baggage claim carousel than I did on my actual vacation, so from now on I pack lightly and only bring a medium sized duffle bag.

Did I want to bring my extra-large suitcase for a 4 day vacation? Absolutely. I hate having to go through my exuberant collection of clothes and choose outfits I think I may want to wear. I like bringing at least 11 pairs of shoes and numerous outfit changes just in case, because you never know when you will win free tickets to the ballet or be invited to a white party on a yacht. But usually it’s because I get Cheetos dust on 70% of my clothes.

Once this announcement was made, everyone in the airline gate hustled and rushed to get in line to make sure their carry-on luggage made it onto the plane. Me, being the anxious type that I am, started having a mini panic attack, thinking of scenarios in my head I could use to beg and plead with the flight attendant to not take my precious duffle bag away. “But I am going to a funeral tonight and my suit is in this bag. I can’t risk it being lost. I’ve already lost my grandmother. Don’t make me lose my bag, too.”

Luckily, I was not chosen to check my bag. The guy in front of me, however, was. And he didn’t like it one bit. He was one of those Long Island types – where he felt better and more privileged than anyone else on the plane. Naturally, instead of just exhaling and turning over his Samsonite roller bag to the flight crew, he threw a temper tantrum that got so out of hand, 2 security members had to come by and assess the situation. Well, at the time I thought they were security guards, but as it turned out they were just two cashiers from Au Bon Pan.

He ended up holding the line up for a good 15 minutes, so he was not on anyone’s favorite list. Especially mine, because he was directly in front of me and kept turning back, looking at me and saying “You’re bag is bigger than mine. This is ridiculous. I’m being picked on because I am a white male.” I just shrugged my shoulders and hoped he would get the point I didn’t want to engage in conversation.

Finally, when I got to my assigned row, I saw that the poor picked on white male was sitting directly in front of me. “Oh brother” I sighed. He sat there, like a hawk, watching every single person try to fit their oversized carry on into the overhead bin. It was like he was a commentator on Sports Center. “That one will never fit,” “Ha! Good luck pal!” “What are those, golf clubs? Not on my watch!” He was relentless. I kept sighing loudly, to hopefully attract someone who thought this guy was as obnoxious as I did. But no one looked my way.

I put in my earphones, blasted some Taylor Swift, and tried desperately to relax. An hour after take off, the flight attendants came by with the drink cart. When they approached the guy in front of me, he said in true Long Island fashion, “I deserve a free drink for everything I’ve been through. You know, I’m a frequent flyer and I am treated like garbage.” The flight attendant, not wanting a scene, kindly asked what he would like to drink. “Just a coke please” he responded. “But I want the whole can. None of this half-can bullshit.” She placed the can of coke on his tray table and moved on. When it was my turn, I said to her, “I think I deserve a free drink because I’ve had to listen to him complain for the entire flight.” She smiled politely, but said no. Trying to watch my figure before the cruise, I ordered seltzer water because I heard the bubbles help you lose weight.

Once we landed in Atlanta, I had exactly eleven minutes to make it from one end of the airport to the other in order to make my connecting flight. Sweating and out of breath, I made it on and found my seat, hoping to get a quick powernap in before I saw my family. No such luck. The lady to the left of me was a talker, and kept waking me up in my REM state to ask, “What do you think that cloud looks like?” or “Ever read anything by Tom Clancy?”

Finally, when the wheels touched the tarmac of the Melbourne “International” Airport, I had the biggest smile on my face. I was actually here – on vacation. I walked out of those revolving doors and was suddenly welcomed by the warm weather, the hot sun, and my mother snapping a picture of me with a Polaroid camera.

 

Day 1 of the Cruise: Welcome to Miami

As I mentioned, our cruise, The Majesty of the Seas, was leaving out of the Port of Miami. Sebastian flew down to Fort Lauderdale the day earlier to spend time with his family, so I drove down to his grandmother’s house to pick him up on the way to the boat early Friday morning.

The boarding time was from 11am to 3pm and I was a nervous wreck that we were going to miss it. I left my parents’ house at 9am, drove like a mad man down to South Florida and picked him up fifteen minutes after twelve. He got in the car, closed the door, and I said, “This is it. No turning back now.”

It was a little joke, because the weeks before the trip, Sebastian and I were getting into little squabbles, if you will, leaving both of us scared, nervous and worried to spend 72 hours together with no possible way to escape. #besties

Three minutes after driving toward Miami, he mentioned that he was hungry. “Can we please stop at a Panera?” he asked. I shook my head furiously, no. “We are going to be late” I told him. “What if we get stuck in traffic and miss the boat? Then I will be out all that money and I would have to return my fedora, because wearing a fedora anywhere but a cruise ship is lame and passé.”

Again, here comes the anxiety monster. Already fifteen minutes into the trip and him and I are arguing on whether there was enough time for him to get a Chicken Frontega sandwich and cup of broccoli cheddar soup. But, I took a deep breath and repeated my mantra: Okay, sure, whatever you want.

Again, he was right. We ended up getting to the ship at 2:00pm with plenty of time to check-in, go through security, and board the ship. Having this be Sebastian’s first cruise experience (and first James vacation experience) he decided to pop two of his anxiety pills, making him appear more like Anna Nicole Smith than as an excited traveler.

Our first stop on board was to drop off our bags at our stateroom. We were lucky enough to be on the ninth deck in a Superior Ocean View room. He liked this deck because nine is his lucky number. I liked this deck because it was one below the Johnny Rockets.

We entered our room and the first thing we noticed was the bed. Yes, singular. When we made the reservation, we checked the box “2 single beds”, but we were left with just one queen bed and two single men.  “Which side do you want?” I asked, while giving him the closest thing I have to bedroom eyes.

After he made a disgusted face, I opened the blinds and peered out the window to check out the “superior ocean view” but all I could see were life boats, pipes, and a hint of the sky. When I turned around from the window, there was a Macy’s box lying on the bed. “What is that?” I asked him.

“Just a little something for the trip,” he responded. Thinking it was anxiety medication, I opened the box to see the Nautica navy blue gingham bathing suit I so desperately wanted in a size small. I was in such a state of shock and appreciation; I was at a loss for words – for maybe the first time in my life. I gave him a big bear hug and thanked him profusely, thinking what in the hell could I pull out of my suitcase as a gift for him.

We changed into our pool deck attire and headed upstairs to check out what was happening on the Lido Deck. Upon exiting the doors, I turned to the left and saw the love of my life. We stared at each other for a few minutes before I gained enough courage to go over and say hi. Eventually I did, and we hit it off and spent the remainder of the cruise together. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am referring to the soft serve ice cream machine. “Want to just hang out here?” I asked.

We ended up walking around the pool, trying to find a good spot to set our stuff down and relax. The DJ, referred to as DJ Good News, was blasting The Macarena, The Cupid Shuffle, and Gangnam Style on repeat. We ended up sitting next to a very nice couple from Naples who informed us of the all-you-can-drink package deal I must have overlooked when booking this vacation.

Susie, the wife of the couple, told us in a constant slur that for just 55$ a day, you could drink all the beer, wine and liquor you could hold. Her and her husband, Dave, had only been on the boat for an hour and had already drunk as much as I planned to the entire weekend. But, seeing how much fun they were having and how little they cared, I deemed to get on that level of inebriation.

A Filipino gentleman came by and asked if we wanted anything to drink, to which I replied, “2 Bahama Mamas, please.” When in Rome, right? By the time we finished our second round, we were instructed to head to our muster station for the life boat safety drill. I have always secretly loved this part of the cruise because I find it so entertaining to watch drunken idiots put on their life vests and have to stand in a single file line for thirty minutes while trying to listen to all the ways one may die on the upcoming adventure.

This time, though, we did not need to wear our life vests, so we just headed straight to our muster station from the pool and stood there, waiting to hear what to do in case of an emergency. Having had only two drinks, I wasn’t too buzzed, but Sebastian on the other hand, looked like a high school junior leaving her first ever prom party. He got yelled at numerous times for playing on his cell phone and sitting down and throwing up into his backpack.

Luckily for me, we were placed right next to a group of black girls who responded to everything our muster guide told us with an “Mmmmmhmmm,” “Heard dat right there,” and “I better not get my weave wet.” It made this usually ordinary and boring ritual quite fun and entertaining. And I, too, did not want to get my weave wet.

When the drill was finally over, we were told to head to the pool deck for the “Sail Away Party.” This is always my favorite part of a cruise because you get to stand by the railings, drink in hand, and wave to the people on the shore not middle-class enough to sail on a Royal Caribbean cruise. The ships horn blew three times and we were off. Everyone started waving and cheering while DJ Good News blasted Will Smith’s iconic song from 1998, “Miami.”  It wasn’t until the chorus that I realized how ill-timed this song was being played. This should have been played on a constant repeat while everyone was boarding the ship…not while it was pulling away from harbor. The line, “Welcome to Miami, Bienvenido a Miami” is essentially telling the world (or The Majesty of the Seas) “Welcome to Miami!” However, the more the song played, the further we were getting from the actual city of Miami. I brought this up to Susie and Dave, to which they replied, “H-h-h-h-h-e-e-y-y-y-y! Let’s get anuffferr drankkk!”

Fifteen minutes and 100 selfies later, we finally decided to take this time to walk around the ship and get familiar with all the amenities available. We walked over to the back of the ship which housed the basketball court, rock climbing wall, and full gym. “I don’t like this part of the ship” I stated while a basketball hit me on the head. “Let’s find the buffet.”

We got in the elevator and saw a button for the 14th floor. “Should I push it?” Sebastian asked me in a dull whisper. “Not if you want 5 random people in the world to die” I responded. He pushed it anyway.

The elevator doors opened to a circular lounge at the topmost point of the ship. It seemed pretty empty, with the exception of a few stragglers wandering around. “This is beautiful” Sebastian said while jumping over a velvet rope. Not to be that boring kid from Stand by Me, I too jumped the velvet rope to see what was going on, and it turned out to be nothing – just five or six couples sitting down, drinking wine and eating appetizers. While passing one of the couples, I looked down at their plates and noticed there were chicken wings, spring rolls, and mozzarella sticks. That’s right, mozzarella sticks.

Now, if anyone knows me, you know my true feelings on this delicious fried cheese finger food. It was at that moment when I decided I had to have one. We found a waiter walking by, so we stopped him. His name was Wayne and he was from Nigeria. That’s not important to the story, but I just feel that you, the reader, should know how culturally diverse this ship was.

We stopped him and asked where the mozzarella sticks were. He paused and then responded inquiringly, “Are those the little cheese things?” Oh, Wayne, so naïve. Is Nigeria that bad of a country where they don’t offer the simplest of foods?

(I just Googled Nigeria and apparently, no: They do not have a T.G.I. Fridays or a Chili’s. But they do have Malaria, so there’s that).

We told Wayne that yes, we wanted the little cheese things and asked where we could find them. I don’t know why, but Sebastian and I were acting like if we did not ingest a mozzarella stick at that very moment, we would die.

Wayne, seeing our hunger and frustration, informed us that the people sitting up here enjoying appetizers and drinks were part of the Royal Caribbean Diamond Club. “How do we get to be in the Diamond Club?” we both asked simultaneously, refusing to break eye contact with Wayne.

“You have to be a valued customer to the cruise line – someone who cruises often and spends the money to stay in one of our suites. Can I see your Sail Pass Card?” he asked. I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my card and handed it over to Wayne. He looked at it and chuckled. “Oh, now I see. Yeah. You are not in the Diamond Club” and then continued to laugh more.

Feeling like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, I hung my head in embarrassment while placing my Sail Pass back into my wallet. “I guess we will go back to our cabin in steerage and feast on a rat running by.”

He could see how upset we were (yes, we were literally this upset over not getting mozzarella sticks) so he told us to wait here and he would see what he could do. Sebastian and I found a cute little spot by the window and waited – praying – for his return with good news. Sebastian started laughing, “These people cruise every year and stay in suites, and their big reward is a plate of mozzarella sticks and jalapeno poppers? Where’s the caviar? Where’s the champagne?” I shrugged my shoulders in agreement.

Minutes later, we saw Wayne round the corner holding a small plastic plate with an assortment of free appetizers for us. He put the plate down on the table and said “I hope one of these is that cheese thing you wanted.”

We started digging in right away. “You did good, Wayne. You did good,” I said with my mouth half-full of mozzarella. When Wayne walked away, I looked at Sebastian and asked, “Shit, should we tip him?” Me being the stingy one, I was praying he would say, “Nah, forget it. It’s just a mozzarella stick.” But he didn’t. He said that we definitely needed to tip him, but he conveniently forgot his wallet in the room. I pulled out my wallet again and saw I only had 20$’s (that’s right, bitch) and told him I was not giving him a 20 dollar bill, nor was I going to ask for change back.

He told me to run to the room and grab a few singles and come back. I quickly shoved two more bites into my mouth and took one for the road. I returned to find the plastic plate sitting in front of Sebastian completely empty. “Hungry?” I barked.

“Not anymore” he replied. “I can’t find Wayne anywhere. Did you get the money?”

“Yeah, I only could find a silver dollar. Let’s give this to him so we can get out of here. These Diamond Club members are looking at us funny.”

We stood there, awkwardly by the elevator for ten minutes, hoping to spot Wayne and give him a tip, but apparently he was on his break, so we just left. We told ourselves we would come back later that night after dinner and give it to him. We never did.

Sebastian and I, perfectly posed, before getting on the ship.

Sebastian and I, perfectly posed, before getting on the ship.

After another hour of walking around the ship and looking at our picture from when we boarded,  we ran back to the room to shower and change for dinner. We had the late seating for the dining room, which I always prefer because you are sat with young, cool, and hip people and there are no children around. The other thing about cruises is that you are assigned to a group dining table of hopefully people around your age, height, or sexuality.

We walked up to our table, table 129, and we were the first ones to arrive. The table held 10 seats, so we had a 1 in 8 chance of finding someone funny, interesting, or more importantly, attractive. We sat there, perusing the dinner menu and waiting for the other guests to arrive for about ten minutes. “Is it going to be just us?” I thought. “I need a full table of new ears, dying to hear funny stories about living in New York City. This was my time to shine!”

Luckily for me, two couples approached our table and sat down. We introduced ourselves, found out that they were all from Miami and just booked a cruise for a nice weekend away. After a few minutes of small talk, mostly consisting of the weather and how the soft serve machine was out of chocolate, the foursome turned their attention to each other, and Sebastian and I were left alone to sit in silence.

Not that him and I had nothing to talk about – we did. We always will find something to humor us or fight about, but since we were on vacation and not an Outback Steakhouse, I figured it would be best to indulge in some adult conversation that didn’t deal with The Real Housewives of Atlanta or different hair restoration prescriptions.

A few minutes later, another couple joined our table and sat down to my left. They were an older couple, maybe late forties or early fifties. Once they were settled, I leaned in and introduced myself. “Hi, how are you? I’m James. This is Sebastian.” They looked at me blankly for a few seconds, turned to each other and shrugged, and then leaned in and said, “No hable Ingles.”

Sebastian, being Chilean born and a native Spanish speaker, greeted them in Spanish and made some small talk to make them feel comfortable. I just sat there, sipping my tap water, while the three of them had a conversation over me. I looked at the foursome, hoping one of them would catch my eye and want to hear about the time I met Tori Spelling, but they were too engrossed with discussing which Miami deli has the best roast beef to notice.

Me and Tori Spelling at some outdoor cafe in 2001.

Me and Tori Spelling at some outdoor cafe in 2001.

Prasad, our waiter for the weekend, came by to introduce himself and take our dinner order. I had about two or three things I was in limbo over, while Sebastian had zero. Sebastian is a very picky eater, and when I say “picky” I don’t mean he prefers heirloom tomatoes or dolphin-safe tuna. I mean he eats hamburgers, chicken tenders, and honey Teddy Grahams. And that’s it. I took him to the Olive Garden once and he ordered a hot tea. So, clearly when there is a fixed menu, he is in trouble. When Prasad came around, Sebastian had no idea what to order. He would go down the list and ask, “What’s that?” to which Prasad would answer, “Lamb chops, sir.”

Fortunately, they had a menu for picky eaters (also known as the children’s menu) and on it was beef sliders and pasta with butter. Trying to “steer clear of carbs,” he chose the sliders while I had the N.Y. strip steak.

After the appetizers were served, I looked at the two empty seats at the other end of the table and concluded that the other two people were not coming. What if they walked in, saw our table and decided they would rather eat at the pizza bar than with us losers? See – I always plan for the worst.

Still sitting in between the long lost cousins of Poncho Villa, I quietly asked Sebastian to trade seats with me. If he was going to ignore me and talk in a different language, I could at least stay out of it and enjoy my wine. I blamed it being on left handed, but they just nodded, smiled and said, “Si, si.” They didn’t know. I am sure Sebastian said in his secret tongue, “He is a horrible person and a racist and he was raised to never share a dinner table with South Americans.” Even so, I was glad to be out of that situation.

Dinner was as good as a meal can be that was prepared ahead of time for 3,000 people, and we all drank coffee and awaited the dessert of the evening. While sitting there, praying it was Crème Brule, we heard a very loud voice coming from the table next to us, table 127. The woman sitting there had just ordered her eleventh umbrella drink and was exclaiming to her table of just how good it was. “It tastes like Hi-C. Just like Hi-C. Remember Hi-C? It tastes just like it. Here, taste” she handed her glass to the guy she was with. “Just like Hi-C, right? So good.”

This caused Sebastian and I to go into what I call “the church giggles,” meaning laughing when it is not entirely inappropriate. We could not believe how obnoxious this girl was about her drink, practically shouting that it tasted like some juice box. Since our attention was already on table 127, we started glaring at the other three members seated with her. One was her boyfriend, a gaunt man coming in at around 335 pounds and another couple. The other man seemed engaged with the table, while the girl, well, didn’t. She was facing us and we saw absolutely no life behind her eyes. It was like she wasn’t even a person. I made a comment to Sebastian in which the rest of the table heard me and all of their attention now turned to that table.

“Do you think she is alright?” one girl asked aloud.

“I think she has had one too many Piña Coladas” another chimed in.

I had seen this look before twice. One was when my sister gave birth and was on a lot of pain medication and the other was Amanda Bynes’ mug shot. This was not good. Our desserts arrived – no, it was not Crème Brule – and we all sat there, watching this girl so intently, our spoons were missing our mouths by a few inches. Finally, the other three members of 127 realized their friend was comatose, so they chugged their fruit-punch flavored drinks and got up to leave. Clearly, this girl was not going to just stand up and walk away, so the two guys had to pick her up on each side and practically drag her out of the Starlight Dining Room.

“What do you think she is on?” Sebastian asked me with chocolate sauce dripping off of his chin. “I don’t know,” I responded, “but she just got Weekend-at-Bernie’d out of here.” The foursome heard this and started laughing, saying that is exactly what happened. So, for the remainder of the cruise, the poor girl from table 127 would now be referred to as “Bernie.”

Once the plates were cleared and the pleasantries were exchanged, Sebastian and I headed to the casino to try our luck. I am not a gambler, but I am a smoker and a drinker, so I agreed to escort him. If I do gamble, I put a dollar bill into the penny slots and let my luck carry me for a few minutes – or until my cigarette has burnt out. Sebastian, on the other hand, saw the movie “Rainman” one too many times and wanted to give Blackjack a try.

“You’re going to sit at a table and play Blackjack? Do you even know how to play?” I asked him, like an overprotective mother. “What if the other players aren’t nice to you?”

I agreed to play a few hands with him, because what the hell, I’m on vacation. The first table we approached was empty, so we sat down. We got up three seconds later when we were told it was a $25 buy in. Adios, buddy! A table on the other side of the casino had a just one couple playing, so we hurriedly walked over, saw it was only a $10 buy in, and sat down. Upon taking our seats, I heard the woman of the couple exhale and say “Ah, shit” to her husband.

I looked up at her in horror. “Excuse me?” I blurted out. She then gave a weak smile and asked, “You guys any good?” One, why the hell does she care? And two, I was drunk. Sebastian told her that he had played before but was far from being an expert. She then relaxed a bit, introduced herself as Rebecca, said she was an avid Blackjack player and she would coach us on how to play. Not being able to add to 21 on a good day, I knew I was out of my element, so I just bought in the minimum, hit when I should have stayed and stayed when I clearly should have hit. I was like Austin Powers, but worse. I called over a waitress, ordered another vodka tonic, and sat there while Rebecca gave Sebastian all kinds of pointers he would soon forget: “Split!” “Double Down” “Backdoor Kenny!”

I asked Rebecca why her husband was playing and she wasn’t, to which she replied, “Oh, I lost all of my money already.” Sebastian was taking Blackjack pointers from someone who lost all of her money at Blackjack. That’s like when I took dating advice from my aunt who has been divorced four times.

We ended up staying at the table for thirty minutes, where Sebastian doubled his money and I broke even. By this time it was after midnight and I was exhausted. “We have a big day of doing nothing tomorrow,” I reminded him. We headed back to the room, put on our PJ’s, and went to bed.

“Hey, Sebastian,” I whispered.

“What?” he growled at me, half asleep.

“Do you think the soft serve machine is open 24 hours?”

 

Day 2 of the Cruise: Coco Loco

The next morning, I woke up around 8am while Sebastian asked to sleep in a little more. I took this time to go upstairs, grab a cup of coffee and ponder about my life. Instead, I just went to the omelet bar.

Today we were docked in the middle of the ocean with the Royal Caribbean private island, Coco Cay, in the near distance. Being on a RC cruise before, I was all too familiar with Coco Cay, so I knew what to expect. Me not being much of a ‘beach person,’ I was in no rush to get off the boat, but Sebastian was all too excited to see what this private island was all about. “This is the day where I get my picture in front of the boat!” he screamed like a six year old who just met the Easter Bunny.

“Yes, it is!” I replied. “You can take all the pictures you want in front of the ship!” And he did; 47 pictures on three different cameras to be exact.

Sebastian finally getting his picture in front of the ship.

Sebastian finally getting his picture in front of the ship.

I threw on my bathing suit, baseball hat, and by unpopular demand, a tank top. Sebastian brought a regular bathing suit, but also a tight black European-style bathing suit he refers to as his “squares.”

“Please don’t wear those” I pleaded. “Leave something to the imagination.” We compromised that he would wear them underneath his regular bathing suit, but that if he saw just one person wearing any form of a Speedo, he was stripping down.

We got on the second tender boat leaving for the island, so when we arrived, Coco Cay was desolate and bleak. The good thing about being one of the first people on the island was that we got dibs on a beach chair. Ten minutes after setting our things down and lathering on SPF 30, an overweight European father walked by us wearing a bright red Speedo. “Finally!” Sebastian exclaimed while slipping off his board shorts.

After the fourth tender boat reached the island, we could begin noticing how crowded it was getting. We decided to pack up our things and move to the other side where it would be less congested and not too many people would be staring at my pear-shaped torso. The other side of the island was immaculate. We walked up to the water and Sebastian said in disbelief, “Wow, it’s all so blue.” Thinking he was talking about my eyes, I graciously thanked him.

We found a set of beach chairs, resettled and reapplied our sunscreen. Having little to no hair on the top of my head, I lathered my scalp up pretty generously, not bothering to rub it in all the way. Finally, it was time to relax. I closed my eyes and tried to take a nap on the pristine beach when I suddenly heard a loud man screaming, “Coco Loco! Get yo Coco Loco here! Drink of de Islands!” I picked up my head and saw a Bahamian gentleman wearing khaki pants and a bright flowered shirt holding a huge tray of drinks like we were at a Mets game. “Coco Loco!” he continued to scream.

I turned to Sebastian who was lying on his stomach and facing away from me. “How the hell am I going to relax with him screaming all day?” He didn’t respond, so I poked him until he turned over.

“What? I was sleeping!” he snarled. “What do you want?”

“I was just saying, how am I going to rest with this guy yelling ‘Coco Loco’ all day?”

“And I’m wondering how I am going to rest with you poking me all day. Go take a walk.”

So I did. I am not one to sit at a beach and relax because I have way too much ADD and things running through my mind. I stood up, put my tank top back on and walked around the rest of the island with my feet in the surf. On my expedition, there were three things I saw that made me stop in my tracks: a Corona truck, two people parasailing, and Bernie. That’s right – I spotted Bernie. And she looked good! She was walking around without the help of her two male friends, which was a very good sign for it being almost one in the afternoon. I wish I had my camera with me, because when I would later tell Sebastian of my findings, he would never believe me.

When I returned to camp, which is what I started calling our part of the island (I used to be a big Survivor fan), I picked up Sebastian to head to the all-you-can-eat buffet lunch. The menu consisted of your typical barbeque items: cheeseburgers, hot dogs, potato salad, macaroni and cheese and spare ribs. I grabbed a healthy portion of each and found a spot in the shade. For entertainment, they had a hoola-hoop contest going on with only three girls under the age of 9 participating. “Go join!” I egged on Sebastian. I remember one night back home in a Wal-Mart, Sebastian found the aisle with hoola-hoops and showed me his routine from his Color Guard days. I feigned enthusiasm.

He decided ultimately that he would just be a spectator, stating that it’s not good to hoola-hoop thirty minutes after eating. On the walk back to camp, our stomachs were full and our bodies were sweaty. We passed a little tiki hut with a sign that read “Excursions.” The list of available amenities included jet-skiing, kayaking and paddle boats. I remember days from my youth when I never had so much fun than the times I was paddle boating around the river. “Can we please do that? Please? Please?” I begged.

We walked up to the two guys in charge and requested a paddle boat, to which they replied, “Not in service today mon. Too windy.” I was distraught. I had gotten so excited in the past sixteen seconds that being told “no” made me feel like when my mom wouldn’t let me watch TV after school. Sebastian went down the list and suggested jet skiing. “Noooo way.” I told him. “I had a very bad experience with a jet ski in a past life.”

Finally, we decided on renting a kayak. When asked if I had ever been on a kayak, I told him yes, which was the truth! There was a stationary one set up in Tennessee that my mom had me get in for a photo op. But had I ever rowed a kayak? Of course not. But that’s not what he asked.

We put on our life vests, which were entirely last season, and dragged our kayak to the shore. “Front or back?” he asked me. I chose the back so I could get away with doing little-to-no work. The first ten minutes we rowed and rowed and made it to the middle of the ocean. There was a deserted island about half a mile in front of us that was our goal to reach. “Why can’t we just float for a while?” I suggested.

Sebastian is a very athletic and competitive person (especially when he plays Scattegories), but I had never seen him so domineering. In the ten minutes we were in the kayak, he was all of a sudden a professional rower. “Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Left. LEFT” he would howl at me from the front. “I DON’T FEEL YOU ROWING!”

I was too busy taking pictures of the scenery and working on my tan. Plus, reaching the other island just to say we did it was not of any interest to me. Finally, our hour was up and we needed to head back to shore. Unfortunately, the wind was not on our side this trip and took excessive amounts of water treading just to move an inch. “We are going to be stranded out here forever and die and I’ve never even had a cronut!” I bawled.

In the kayak - before the fight.

In the kayak – before the fight.

When we finally returned to land, I embraced the two men at the tiki hut with unwelcomed hugs and stories of my adventure. Exhausted from all the rowing Sebastian had to do, we went back to our chairs and took a nap in the sun. Being tired myself, I forgot to reapply the sunscreen before my siesta and woke up thirty minutes later with the back of my calves bright red and burning, being literally, the only place on my body with any color. Perfect, I thought. When Sebastian woke up, it seemed he had missed a few spots as well. Apparently, when I rubbed the lotion onto his back, I did an awful job and made streaks, leaving his back to look like a Where’s Waldo sweater.

Around four in the afternoon, we had had enough sun and sand, so we boarded the next tender boat to head back. We were both in desperate need of a shower, a change of clothes, and an ice cream cone.

While Sebastian was in the 2×2 square foot closet masqueraded as a shower, I went up to the pool deck to see what DJ Good News was spinning. Hoping for some music native to the Islands, I was discouraged to hear Gangnam Style, yet again, but sat down at one of the chairs and watched the belly-flop competition.

After watching middle-aged men jump in a pool for thirty minutes, I headed back to the room to change for dinner. Tonight’s dress suggestion was formal, meaning there would be people dressed in suits and gowns. The nicest thing Sebastian and I brought were jeans, so we were unsure if we would even be allowed in the dining room. Having Johnny Rockets to fall back on, I wasn’t too upset about our chances, but we headed to the dining room to see. I told him that we should enter the dining room about fifteen minutes late, that way we could sneak in our jeans and t-shirts and not be spotted by the classy diners, or even worse, the captain.

To kill time, we went back to the photo area and looked at the pictures taken the night before. Upon looking for our own photo, we were both more interested in finding Bernie’s picture, to see just what kind of shape Marcello, the photographer, caught on film. To our disbelief and shock, Bernie’s photo was actually really good! She looked like a less pretty version of Tiffany Theissan, after she dropped the Amber from her name.

We made it to the dining room and ran from the entrance to our seats, hoping no one would comment on how casual and informal we appeared. Luckily, no one else at table 129 was dressed for the affair, so we blended. There were two newcomers to the table, so I went over to say hi and find out where the hell they were the night before. “We went to the pizza bar,” one of the girls responded. I knew it, I thought to myself.

They were Southern Bells from North Carolina named Brittany and Becky. These weren’t their real names, but this is what I called them for the remainder of the vacation. We ordered our dinner and sat back enjoying the bread basket while sharing stories from our day at the island. One of the girls from the foursome said, “I have news!” We all leaned in, dying to hear what she had to tell us. “I saw Bernie at the beach today. And she was walking on her own!”

“I TOLD YOU!” I shouted at Sebastian. “I saw her today, too. Just strolling through the sand, like a normal person!”

Everyone at the table started chuckling and the man from the Hispanic couple got Sebastian’s attention to tell him something. When he was done, Seb started hysterically laughing and translated what he said to the entire table. “They went to the photo gallery before dinner to see her picture and were surprised at how normal and alert she looked.” We all died. The foursome told us they did the exact same thing! Everyone hopes when they cruise, their table has some sort of unity and connection, and I am so glad that our table did, even though it was at the expense of this poor girl. Becky and Brittany just looked at us this entire time, dying to know the scoop, to which I promised I would tell them over a strawberry daiquiri after dinner.

Later that night, we all split up to do our own thing and I dragged Sebastian to the nightly trivia. “If you thought you were impressed with me before, wait until you see me at trivia,” I bragged to him at the tiny cocktail table. “I was never impressed with you,” he assured me.

Minutes before the trivia was about to begin, an older lady maybe in her fifties came over and asked if we wanted to join her and her husband and form a team. We gave each other the look like we could trust them, and moved over to their table. They too, like everyone else on this ship, were from Florida and seemed nice enough. We ended up winning trivia and I gave myself all of the credit. After accepting my Royal Caribbean magnet, I motioned to Sebastian for us to go. I was pretty tired and my abs were killing me from that kayak ride. We had one more fun-filled day ahead of us, so off to sleep we went, bypassing Rebecca at the casino and the midnight buffet.

Me with my winning prize and Kathy getting comfortable.

Me with my winning prize and Kathy getting comfortable.

 

Day Three of the Cruise: Journey to Atlantis

The next morning, we docked at Nassau, Bahamas. Last minute, we booked this expensive excursion called “Atlantis Aquaventure” that took us to the five-star resort and granted us access to their pool, beach, and waterpark. This time, Sebastian decided to wear his board shorts while I went with a more modest shirt with sleeves. When we arrived, we were the first ones at the water park, so we got dibs on whichever slide we wanted. The first one we went on, named The Surge, was the scariest ride I had ever been on up to this point in my life.

Now, even though I grew up just outside of Orlando where Disney and Universal Studios are located, I am not a ride person. Just like hating the beach in fear a shark is going to kill me, I loathe rides and roller coasters just the same. On an ironic note, the only ride I will go on at Universal Studios is Jaws.

On The Surge, you are sitting on a tube and immediately dropped 45 feet. The lady who works the ride said 8 feet, but I am sure she was lying. After you are plummeted to your death, jets shoot you back up another 1,000 feet into mid air where you are hanging on for dear life. The slide starts to become tamer, having the rider go through normal twists and turns. At the end, you are shot out of the end of the slide into the River Rapids, which is essentially a lazy river. But the word “lazy” is used very loosely. For the next thirty minutes, we moved through the river by rapid-style currents and a wave simulator, ending with a gigantic waterfall.

“Let’s do that again!” I squealed with excitement.

After dragging Sebastian on this slide for the next hour and a half, he suggested we take a walk and see what other slides were available for our use. We came up to a giant Mayan Temple which housed two of the biggest slides in the park: The Challenger and The Leap of Faith. The Challenger was a double slide that you go down competing with your neighbor and The Leap of Faith was a 200 foot drop that plunged you down in three seconds and passed you through a shark tank. “Noooooo thank you,” I said. There was no way I was ever going to get on that slide to my death. But Sebastian was all for it. So, I did what I did on every class field trip to Islands of Adventure, I stood down below with the bags and cameras with the grandmothers and men in wheelchairs, awaiting the riders return.

Watching Sebastian shoot down this slide made me nauseous. I do not find what is so exciting or exhilarating about it! He waited all of that time for three measly seconds? He, of course, had a completely different outtake on the ride, stating it was one of the best rides he had ever been on.

Sebastian on The Leap of Faith, clearly terrified.

Sebastian on The Leap of Faith, clearly terrified.

We spent the remainder of the day coasting around in the “lazy” river and taking sporadic dips into one of the four pools at our exposal. By 4:00pm, our excursion was over and we needed to head back to the ship. We were so sad to leave because it was truly the best day out of the trip. I felt like a kid again and wished we could stay for another few days at The Atlantis. But, not wanting to spend money on a plane ticket back to Miami, I hurriedly ran towards the shuttle bus.

Waiting in line to get back on the ship, we ran into Brittney and Becky, who had also just came back from The Atlantis. “Did you end up buying the excursion?” I inquired.

“No, we just smiled at the pool boy and walked right in.”

“Damnit! If I would have known we could have done that, I could have saved $150!”

Back on the ship, Sebastian and I went our separate ways. Being this confined with each other was definitely taking a toll on us. We hang out back home all of the time, but in few hour spurts, with usually a few days of breathing room. But now, for 24 hours a day, we were by each other’s side, with nowhere to turn. I went back to the room to shower and take a power nap while Sebastian went to the Windjammer Café to stock up on brownies and cheesecake. Upon entering our stateroom, I was greeted by one of our towels folded into an elephant wearing our sunglasses. It’s the little things that make me the happiest.

The newest member of stateroom 9026.

The newest member of stateroom 9026.

Tonight’s group dinner was our last, and I was destined to make it the best one. I also brought my camera with me so I could take pictures of everyone, including Prasad, our dutiful headwaiter.

Nothing too exciting really happened during dinner. Perhaps it was because we were all sunburnt and exhausted. Or perhaps it was because Bernie and her crew was a no-show. Either way, the dinner was uneventful and bland. Following dinner, there was a comedy show located in the A Chorus Line theater and I suggested that we all, as a table, go to check it out together.

The Table 129 Crew

 Table 129 Crew

The comedy show was as good as a comedy show could be at 32,000 knots. He had some pretty decent material that was relevant to staying on a cruise ship: “What do they call a discount on a cruise ship? A sail!” But then also some jokes I heard at my cousins Bar Mitzvah: “What did the blonde get on her IQ test? Lipstick!” I wasn’t too impressed. I turned to look at Sebastian and the rest of my new friends, and they were all hysterically laughing at this comic’s attempt at humor. “How do they think this is funny?” I thought to myself ordering another Bay Breeze. I had never felt so disconnected to a group of people in my life. Well, except my seventh grade basketball team, but that’s a different story.

After the comedy show ended promptly at 11:30, it was still early and I wanted to make sure the last night on the ship was a success, so I dragged everyone up to The Spectrum Lounge where they were having a scavenger hunt. I tried my earnest to get my group to participate, but they wanted to sit in the back and observe from afar.

The Activities Director hosted the game and probably knew about 14 words in the English language, making listening to the game rules both hilarious and confusing. I now know what it feels like to be a contestant on The Voice with Shakria offering her input.

By midnight, we all said our goodbyes and headed our separate ways. On the way back to the room, Sebastian took me to the casino, for one last chance of luck. The BlackJack tables were all full, but there was some room at the Roulette table. I am a fan of Roulette because it is equivalent to playing a slot machine. It is just a game of luck and chance, with no math or poker-faces involved. We each played $20 and lost the money before I could take a sip of my Blue Hawaiian.

We went back to our room to pack up our belongings for our last night of sleep on The Majesty of the Seas. It seemed to have gone by so fast! I couldn’t believe it was three days ago when we embarked from the Port of Miami. Now, in just a few hours, we would be back to real life. I didn’t want my vacation to end.

While we lay in bed, I asked Sebastian what his favorite part of the cruise was, besides getting his picture taken in front of the ship. He replied, “Getting those free mozzarella sticks or trying a Bahama Mama for the first time.”

“So, your favorite parts of this vacation are things we could have done at an Applebee’s?”  He didn’t answer. I nudged him and saw he had already passed out, straddling the towel animal.  I guess he didn’t want the vacation to end, either.

 

Day 4 of the Cruise: Back to Land, Back to Reality

Sebastian and I were awoken to the sound of the cruise director on the intercom at 7:30 in the morning. She was explaining the method for debarking from the ship, the forms we will need to fill out, and each decks respective holding location.

“Shut the hell up!” Sebastian screamed while he threw this pillow, almost knocking over the towel-turned-elephant I would be taking home as a souvenir. I got up, put on my last day’s outfit and went up to the top deck for some coffee and a cheese danish. I sat down at a chair, staring back out to the sea, and thought of everything I did in that short weekend: the food, the food, and can’t forget, the food!

I went back to the room to pick up Sebastian and head to our designated waiting area. Once seated, Sebastian grabbed my camera and went through the 614 pictures I took of him. “Is this what my calves look like?” he would ask me every other photo. “What about my arms? Is my hair line receding? Should I wear my squares more often?”

This was one thing I noticed on my time away with Sebastian – he loved the use of the question. Every three minutes, he would ask me something – mostly something I could never have the answer to. “How many feet is this ship? How many knots do you think we are traveling now? What do dolphins eat? Do you think this ketchup is Heinz or Hunts?” I felt like I was cruising with The Riddler.

During his recent round of questioning, my stomach started to grumble. That coffee I had earlier was starting to kick in and begin my digestive process. In case any of you were wondering, no, I did not go to the bathroom once the entire trip. I have this weird phobia about public restrooms where I only go in them to wash my hands or look in the mirror. I also physically cannot go when I am sharing a room with someone – especially a room this small in size. I was too afraid of the sounds and the smells I would be cooking up in that tiny bathroom and frankly, I did not think Sebastian and I were on that level yet.

So, when I was sitting there feeling my stomach grumble, I was both excited and scared. I tried my hardest to hold it in, knowing I would be back at my parents’ house soon (well, 4 hours). I did everything I possibly could to distract myself. From saying the ABC’s backwards to doing long division in my head, I needed to get my mind someplace else.

Fifteen minutes later, and unable to figure out the square root of 336, I excused myself from the row and told Sebastian I would be back. “I think the ice cream machine is closed,” he warned me.

Me enjoying one of my 27 ice cream cones.

Me enjoying one of my 27 ice cream cones. Also, I’m cross-eyed now. 

“Please don’t even say the words ‘ice cream’ to me.” I leaned in and whispered, “The time has come. I need to use the bathroom,” and then gave him a stern look on my face to let him know I meant number two. He grabbed my arm as I started to walk away and said, “I don’t think the bathrooms are working.”

“What do you mean?” I screamed in the A Chorus Line showroom and theater. “This is not the time to try to start being funny!”

“Well, while you were upstairs and I was in the room, I went to the bathroom and when I went to flush, nothing happened. There was no water or anything. I think they shut off the plumbing or something.”

My mind was going in circles with all the information he just gave me and I wasn’t sure which I wanted to discuss first. I went with the issue at hand. “Why would they shut off the plumbing? There are still people on this ship, and some of these people need to take a shit!” I decided that it was best for me to find out for myself because what the hell does he know about basic plumbing?

I walked out of the theater, clenching as tight as I could, and found the nearest bathroom. “Out of Service” the sign said on the door. I ran over to the men’s room and it had the same sign. I went up one flight of stairs – same thing. For the third time in my life, I had that feeling of “I’m going to shit my pants.” I sat back down next to Sebastian, looked at him and asked, “So you just took a crap in the toilet, noticed you couldn’t flush it and left it there?”

“Yes,” was all he said, and really, that’s all he could say. I needed to take my mind off my inducing stomach pain and started filling out the custom forms. When our section was finally called, we grabbed our suitcases and headed off the ship – in a much smoother way than Jack and Rose did. As my last steps on the carpet approached, I grabbed out my phone and took one last selfie on The Majesty of the Seas. Two more steps, and my vacation had concluded.

We made it through customs without too much of a hassle and reached my car. “Goodbye, ship!” I screamed on the top floor of the parking garage. “I will miss you.” I put my car in drive and headed to the airport to drop Sebastian off for his flight back to New York.

We spent the next thirty five minutes in complete silence. Spending that much time with someone is incredibly difficult -especially in a cabin the size of a Ford Focus. As much as the quiet bothers me, I welcomed it with open arms, thankful Sebastian was out of questions to ask me. People always say, before you marry someone, you should live together. I think, before you marry someone, you should go on vacation together. And after this vacation, it was pretty apparent that Sebastian and I would not be getting married (unless I came down with a deadly disease – he has fantastic health insurance).

By noon, we had approached the Jet Blue terminal to send Sebastian on his way. “I don’t know how I am going to react to the sudden disappearance of your presence when I wake up tomorrow” I told him as he slammed the car door in my face. “See ya” he shouted while running towards airport entrance. Our impending separation was probably just as hard –if not harder- on him.

I merged back onto the highway, heading back to my parents’ house to spend one more day of listening to them argue about the volume of the television set, when I realized my vacation was done. Every day I would look at my calendar and count down the days until Project Paradise, and now it was over. I would go back to my normal, quiet, and single life while 3,000 new people would board The Majesty of the Seas, ready to eat, drink, and dance to The Cupid Shuffle.

I stared out at the Florida turnpike, leaving South Florida and realizing I had nothing else left to look forward to, except maybe Bloomin’ Onion Monday’s at The Outback or a less expensive hair restoration procedure. I turned up the volume to the radio as I started to drive away when that all-too-familiar Will Smith song was playing, welcoming me to Miami. I smiled to myself, happy that Project Paradise was a success.

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Love & Other Drugs

A few days ago I had a dentist appointment on 50th and Madison to refill a cavity. While waiting for the dentist to see me, I did what all single gay men do when they have time to kill, I opened Grindr. It’s always exciting going on Grindr in a new area and see different guys, so while I was browsing, this one profile struck me out of all the others. His picture was of him sitting on a boat wearing a life preserver, and I thought that was cute.

So I sent the first message: “You sure know how to make life vests look good.” Ok, I know. Not my best work, but it ended up gaining a response, to which he said, “Let me know if you ever need rescuing.”

A quick and clever reply? Don’t mind if I do. So I took the bait and ran with it.

We ended up chatting for the rest of the day which eventually turned into exchanging phone numbers which ultimately turned into setting up a date. Our original plan was to meet up on Saturday night for a few drinks, but yesterday while sitting at my desk I had the sudden urge to be a little crazy and go out on a school night.

“Hey, would you be free to meet up for a bit tonight?” I asked, hoping he didn’t already have preset plans.

“I’m free after 8 – let’s do it!”

Perfect, I thought. I could go home, cook dinner, shower, and trim my pubic hair. He also told me that if things “went well” I could just crash at his place that night. So, just to be prepared, I brought my office key, phone charger, and toothbrush with me, all hidden in various jacket pockets. “Of course things are going to go well”, I thought. “I’m gonna get my groooove on tonight!”

We decided to meet up at a loungy gay bar in Hell’s Kitchen at 8:45. I, the one who lives in New Jersey, arrived on time while he, the one who actually lives 4 blocks away from said bar was 15 minutes late. Uncomfortable with going in the bar  alone, I stood outside and chain smoked until he arrived.

On first impression, I was satisfied. He was handsome, had a nice smile and a beautiful head of hair. (I have noticed since losing my own hair how much I value a good head of hair on someone else.) He stood with me outside while I finished my cigarette and we started some small talk. I still had my headphones in and he said that he loves having his headphones in so homeless people don’t bother him. I told him I like leaving mine in so I can walk down the street talking to myself and people think I’m on the phone, having a fight with the cable company. (Don’t ask what I talk to myself about).

We went in and sat at the bar and ordered our drinks. Him, a Stella and me a Coors Light because I am the epitome of class. Plus, it was a Thursday night, I didn’t want to get wasted.

The conversation never really had a great flow; lots of awkward silences and “Oh, I like this song” comments. After we both had two beers, we decided to switch it up and have something a little stronger. “Maybe if we get a little tipsy the conversation will be better” I thought to myself.

Nope. Unless “better” is passive-aggressively making snide comments to each other.

He asked about my writing and I told him about that book I wrote. “It’s a book about the way technology has influenced the way people meet and fall in love, with some personal stories thrown in.”

“That sounds boring.”

“Oh.” I said. I was waiting for a ‘just kidding handsome’ with a light leg tap, but it never came. So I continued, “Well, I don’t think it’s boring at all! I mean, I am biased, but it’s really funny and smart and I think people would get a kick out of hearing some of my horrible dating stories.”

“Define horrible.”

I hate when people ask me what my worst dating story is because I’ve had some bad ones, but honestly nothing so bad or disturbing. “Well,” I answered, “I once went on a date with a guy who was doing cocaine the entire time in the bathroom. That was pretty bad.”

“Did you do cocaine with him?” he asked.

“No! That’s insane.”

“To you it’s insane. To people who live in North Dakota it’s insane. But imagine people living in NYC or San Francisco reading your book. You think they are going to read that and find it interesting or extreme? Absolutely not. You should have done the coke with him. You should go to circuit parties and pop Molly. You should seek out threesomes and orgies and leather parties. You should immerse yourself in the culture. Then, you will have one hell of a book.”

Uh.

At this point I was losing the remaining interest I had in him and excused myself to go to the bathroom to text my friend the thumbs-down emoji.

When I returned, he was chatting with the guy on the other side of him and eating the mixed nuts from the bowl in front of him. Finally, after two minutes of me sitting there, he returned his attention to me.

I quickly tried to change the subject to something – anything – else. I did see his point, and I do agree that sometimes I am a little vanilla and prudish, but at the end of the day, I am not trying to write a book about how outrageous and slutty one can be. My ultimate goal is to write a book about how pathetic and desperate one can be.

I saw that my drink was pretty much full and it was getting past my bedtime and the idea of going back to his place was slimmer than my waistline in 2011. (I used to be really skinny). So I started taking huge long gulps of my drink, hoping to end this date as soon as possible. And this is about the time when we got on the topic of judging a book by its cover, metaphorically speaking.

He went on to tell me how he can pretty much know everything about a person within the first three minutes of meeting them. I, too, somewhat agree with this ability. Maybe not as short as three minutes, but I can usually tell very soon if I will like the person or not –  but I wont know everything about them.

Curious, I asked him what his take on me was and he shied away and asked, “Do you really want to know?”

I took one long drink of my vodka and said that I would love to know his first impression on me. I mean, one of the best things about going on dates with people is you get to learn things about yourself that maybe no one else could have showed you. So, yes. I wanted to hear what this stranger thought about me.

“Well,” he began, “you seem very reserved and a little uptight.”

Ok sure, I can definitely see that. He is not the first person to call me uptight. I know I am. Fine. Whatever. Next. 

“Ok, I agree. And?”

“And you seem very set in your ways, not wanting to change or shake things up. I feel that your favorite time of the day is when you can lay in bed and play candy crush and fall asleep by 10pm.”

Wow, he really was hitting the nail on the head. That IS my favorite time of day. But so what? Who cares?

“I agree with that assumption as well. Anything else?”

“I feel that NYC has made you tired and cynical. And you don’t trust people easily.”

I nodded my head and said, “Well, I do believe NYC has made me somewhat cynical, but I have been here for a few years and you only just moved here 2 months ago. So it is a bit different. You are still excited about the city and want to go out every night and explore. That’s how I was when I first moved here. But I guess things changed.”

I then thought about how he said I don’t trust people easily. I feel that I am pretty open with people, and I think my big issue is that I trust and let people in way too much and too easily. So I asked him about what I have done to make him think I am a closed-off person and he replied, “Because you are wearing an undershirt.”

Wait, what?

“Wait, what?” I was so confused! “What does an undershirt have to do with anything?”

“Well, I took a Psych class back in San Diego and my professor said that the number of layers people wear indirectly affects the number of layers they have for letting people in. It’s like a wall. I’m just saying the minute I saw you were wearing an undershirt, I kind of knew you were going to be uptight and reserved.”

At this point, I had no idea what to say, and these drinks were hitting me all at once and I felt that I needed to just pass out. I told him that I was wearing an undershirt because it was 18 degrees outside and I had to walk 10 blocks to get to the bar and then I made a snarky remark about how he shouldn’t let some teacher at a California Community College influence the way he reads people.

 

Needless to say, we both paid our check and headed out into the blistering cold weather – although I wasn’t too cold because I had my good ole undershirt on me.

We said good-bye with the promise of hanging out again soon, I hugged him and went on my way back to New Jersey.

While going through the tunnel on the bus, I suddenly got very lightheaded and felt like I was going to faint. I looked out my window and felt like I was in a rocket going into space and started tweaking out. I needed to get off this bus immediately, I thought. I tried focusing on anything but my mind was going a mile a minute and I couldn’t concentrate on anything.

Once off the bus, I ran home (fell twice) and jumped right into my bed with the lights off. Hoping I could just pass out, I realized this wasn’t going to be that easy. I was having a case of the ‘spins’ and no matter which side I laid on, I felt like I was going to throw up. Which I eventually did. I ran to the bathroom and spent the better part of my evening throwing up beer, vodka, and Hot Pockets.

A few hours later, when I was finally done being sick, I sat there on my bathroom floor and pondered about how I got this drunk from three drinks – two of them being Coors Light.

The only thing that was going on in my head was “I got roofied.”

I had heard of people using a date-rape drug and always wondered what it actually did to the person. I was wondering to myself that if he did, indeed, slip me a date-rape drug, why didn’t he date-rape me? Did he have a change of heart? Did he no longer want to rape me? I was all of a sudden so upset and ashamed. I sat on the cold bathroom tiles and thought “am I not date-rape-able?”

I then quickly changed my thinking. “There is no way he drugged me! No one does that anymore. I’m sure I just drank more than I thought.”

The next morning I woke up, took a nice long shower and went to work. Upon re-telling this story to my co-workers, friends, and the guy at the bagel shop downstairs, I came to the conclusion that I very well may have been drugged. “I did leave my drink to go to the bathroom!” I said, feeling enlightened.

I decided to send him a text message to find out the truth before I just start making false assumptions. So I wrote:

“Hey! Hope your morning is going well. I just had a quick question… Did you put something in my drink last night?”

To which he responded, “NOW you have your story!”

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Sweet, Sweet Revenge

Everyone loves a story about revenge, right? While this story may not deal with violence or cunning intelligence, it does deal with lies and deception. And, well, a little bit of humor. Enjoy! 

Early in my second year at FAU, I had lost half of the freshmen fifteen, I was attempting to go to class, and I had fully broken up with Jon. And clearly by “breaking up with”, I mean changing my phone number and deleting him off of Myspace.

Remember those days before Facebook was the powerhouse it is today and Myspace was well, stupid? The days when we still had both accounts open, friended the same people, posted the same pictures, and left the same comments on our friends walls. Boy, were we all idiots.

Anyways, I had realized that the last thing I wanted was a relationship. I was in my prime, in a new city, and I was tired of being tied down. Well, relationship speaking. I was definitely not opposed to a little S&M bondage (just don’t tell my life insurance carrier).

I wanted to go out and have as much fun as I possibly could. I was a nineteen year old college student with a fake I.D living in South Florida.

My fake I.D. was actually a driver’s license I stole out of somebody’s wallet at a dorm party and replaced with a Coldstone Card. While I was eligible to gain access to all of Miami’s hottest clubs, they were eligible for a free ice cream cone. Even Steven.

One November evening, I went out for my 20th birthday with some friends to a bar in “Downtown” Boca Raton. I say downtown in quotes, because anyone who has ever been to Boca knows there is no downtown area. It’s just the place in town without a bagel shop or Synagogue.

I was accompanied by my closest friends, Cory, Marissa, Katie, Jamie, and Josh and I was already a little drunk from my two glasses of wine from the Cheesecake Factory.

“I am so happy that you all came out to celebrate my birthday” I exclaimed after the each bought me a birthday shot. In another world, I would have preferred five totally different people, but I made due.

“Let’s do Lemon drop shots next” Cory shouted over the 80’s cover band.

“Let’s kill ourselves” I shot back as I readjusted the birthday crown I bought for myself earlier that day at Party City.

In addition to the crown, I was donning a shirt Marissa had bought me to wear for the night. It was neon green that had “Made in the Eighties” written on it.

“You know, because we are going to see an 80’s cover band tonight, and well, you were made in the eighties. Get it? It’s like…a double meaning!”

Man, I need new friends I thought as I graciously accepted the shirt and wished that people would have stuck to the list I handed out weeks prior. Aside from the fun 80’s shirt, I got a “Friends” desk calendar from Josh, an empty picture frame from Cory, and a bottle of champagne from Katie and Jamie. I was most excited about the champagne until they drank it before we went out to dinner. So, my real gift from them was an Andre sticker with a matching cork.

We spent the rest of the evening dancing to the hits of Billy Idol and Hughie Lewis and the news, all while drinking overpriced beers.

During, the bands rendition of “I Wanna Dance With Somebody”, I realized that I, too, wanted to dance with somebody, anybody but my friends. I turned to my left and saw two overweight forty year old women in matching Madonna costumes. “Eh” I thought. I then turned to my right and saw a group of fun people, my age, dancing and having the time of their lives. Since I was drunk, and when I’m drunk, I feel invincible enough to do anything, I jumped in the middle of their dance party.

Usually, they would have pushed me aside, or walked away, but seeing as I had on my “Birthday Crown”, they all embraced me as if I were one of their own.

After fifteen minutes of non-stop dancing, the one boy in the group turned to me and said “Sweet shirt man. I totally get it.” I faked a laugh because he was cute. “I’m Tim”.

“James. Nice to meet you.”

“So, is this how Boca is every night?” he asked while wiping the sweat from his forehead.

“Not really. Boca kind of sucks. Do you live in West Palm or something?”

“Pittsburgh, actually.”

“Are you that big of a fan of The Breakfast Klub that you traveled all the way down here to watch them play Whitney Houston to death?” (I know, too soon).

“No, I am actually here visiting the FAU campus. I’m thinking about coming here next year, so I wanted to check it out” he responded.

“Oh, awesome!” I shouted over the music. “You will love it, it’s a great school.”

We spent the remainder of the evening drinking, and dancing, and getting to know one another. You know, like you do at an 80’s cover band party. When the end of the night came, we exchanged phone numbers and added one another to our Facebook pages, as one does nowadays. I headed home and couldn’t wait to turn on my laptop and browse through his 453 pictures.

The next few months, Tim and I had a pretty sporadic relationship. One week we would talk every day, and one week I wouldn’t hear from him. It isn’t uncommon behavior with someone who lives 1,500 miles away. I still went on dates, and I am sure he sat at home crying that he wasn’t with me. Everything was still normal.

After having a really good month – meaning we sent over a 30 text messages to each other a day and talked on the phone every night – I decided that I didn’t want to wait until fall to see him, so I finished up my glass of vodka and called up Tim.

“Hey Jimmy-Jam, what it do in the Florida South?”

“Hey, Tim. I am just sitting here on my porch, smoking a cigarette, and I decided that we should plan to see each other. I mean, I know you are moving down here in the fall, but it would be nice to see you beforehand. Don’t you agree? I think we should arrange something. ” I couldn’t believe I was rambling on so much about wanting to see him. I also couldn’t believe I could finish an entire bottle of Smirnoff Vanilla vodka in one sitting.

“I feel ya, holmes. Well, I mean, I don’t have anything going on up here. Would you want to come to Pittsburgh and chill for a weekend?”

Would I?! Wait…Would I? I didn’t know anything about Pittsburgh. I didn’t even know what state Pittsburgh was in, but I knew I was in the state of complete determination and desperation to not have to care about that.

“I would love to come visit you in Pittsburgh! I’ll check out flights tomorrow and let you know!”

We hung up the phone and I logged in to my Delta account to search for flights. The next morning, I informed Cory and his boyfriend about my travel plans.

“Wait, wait, wait. You’re going to fly up to Pittsburgh? To see that guy you met on your birthday? Seriously?”

“Yes, Cory. Some of us have a spontaneous side. You should try it.”

“Spontaneous is about driving to the movie theater and then deciding what to go see, or trying something different at Denny’s. Not flying across the country for some guy. What you’re doing is crazy.”

“First of all, it is not crazy! And secondly, we go to Denny’s every week and every week you order Moons Over My Hammy, so zip it. What do you think Mauricio?”

“Yo no se.” (Mauricio is Peruvian and doesn’t speak much Enlgish.)

“Ugh, you are just jealous of my happiness. Both of you! I’m buying the plane ticket and I’m going up there. I’ve never been. Plus it would be nice to eat a cheese stake and see the Liberty Bell.”

“The Liberty bell is nowhere near Pittsburgh!”

“Whatever!” I stormed out of the living room and sat at my desk and bought my plane ticket for the weekend in two weeks. That should give him enough time to get everything ready and plan all of our fun activities and for me to get enough time to take off work. Perfect.

As soon as I received the e-mail confirmation of my flight, I texted Tim the details. His text was brief, but he definitely sounded excited.

Two weeks later, I was sitting in my living room watching When Harry Met Sally when Cory sat down beside me with a bowl of popcorn.

“You all packed?”

“Yeah, I think so. I hope it isn’t too cold up there this time of year, I don’t have any winter jackets.”

“It’s March, you’ll be fine.” We both took a scoop of popcorn.

When the movie finished, I headed off to bed. I wanted to have a good night sleep for my big day. I hate flying, and was trying to mentally prepare myself that the plane would not crash.

I set my alarm for 11:30am, so I would not over sleep. I hopped in the shower and got myself ready while I made Cory bring my bags to the car. I decided to text Tim once I got in the car: “Omw to the airport. See you in a few hours!”

His response was almost immediate: “I don’t think we should go through with this. I am sort of getting back with my ex. Well, we actually never broke up. I’m Sorry! Hope you can get that ticket refunded!”

I sat in the passenger seat of Cory’s Ford Taurus in complete shock. “Turn the car around. I’m not going. And please don’t tell me you were right.”

“Want to go to Denny’s?”

The following weeks were consumed with studying for finals, working at the restaurant to make extra money, and to forget about Tim. I hadn’t spoken to him since his text he sent me en route to the airport, and I didn’t plan to ever again. Well, until I ran into him at that very same bar on my birthday the following year.

“Thank God there is no cover band here tonight.”

“Si” said Mauricio.

I’m going to run to the bar and get some shots of tequila. Who’s in?”

Naturally, everyone rose their hands, so I headed over to the outside bar with Marissa. When the shots were laid out in front of us, the bartender said “That will be 28 dollars.” I looked over to Marissa.

“You heard him, pay the man.”

“I thought you were buying the shots?!”

“It’s my birthday, why the hell would I buy everyone shots? I said I wanted to get shots. Not buy them.”

A very disgruntled and aggravated Marissa helped me carry the eight shot glasses over to our table where everyone shouted “Thanks James!” over the music.

We all toasted to me and my youth and chugged down our shots. I slipped one of the lime wedges into my mouth and looked up, and that is when I saw Tim, standing two tables over with a bunch of girls.

“It’s him” I said.

“Who? Ryan Reynolds?”

“No. Him. Tim.”

I suddenly looked to Cory for advice. I was begging him to tell me what I should do in this situation. Should we all just leave and head to a different bar, or should we stay and act like we are having the time of our lives?”

“But I am having the time of my life!” he exclaimed.

“That’s cute, but I really don’t know what I should do. Screw it. I’m going over there and saying something.”

“Are you sure? What are you going to say?”

“I haven’t decided that yet. I’ll figure it out on the walk over.”

Four steps later, I was standing behind Tim holding a huge Nikkon camera taking pictures of three random girls. Once the shot had been taken, I gently tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hey-oh-my-God-What are you doing here, James?!”

“I live here, remember. I see you are living in Boca now.”

“Yeah, for about a few months. I love it. Hey! We met here exactly one year ago today! How cool!”

Why the hell was he being so nonchalant about everything? Does he not remember what he did? Is he even going to bring it up? Should I even bring it up?

“Awesome. Well, I just wanted to say hi. I’m going to go back to my friends. See ya around.”

“No, no, no. Let me at least buy you a birthday shot. Don’t think I don’t remember!”

Of course, I thought. This he remembers. Being raised right and taught to never say no to free alcohol, I agreed and we headed off to the bar. An hour later, I was hammered and completely forgave him for having a boyfriend and telling me not to come up to visit him the day of my trip. My friends came up to me and told me the bar was closing and that it was time to go, so I hugged Tim, gave him my new cell phone number, and told him to add me on Facebook.

In the parking lot, I was just getting into the back seat of Cory’s car when I heard Tim screaming my name. I looked over and saw him running towards us, waving with one hand, and holding his camera with the other.

“Shit, James. I have a huge favor to ask of you. My credit card got declined at the bar and I have no money to pay my tab. My friends already left and they aren’t answering their cell phones. Any way I can bum fifty bucks?”

Against all of my better judgment, I took off my seatbelt and headed back into the bar with him and paid for his tab on my credit card. Happy Birthday, James. As we walked back out into the parking lot, I said goodbye again and approached the car.

“Wait! I…well, I also don’t have a ride home. Can I just crash with you tonight?”

I looked over at Cory and Mauricio and felt suddenly so alone. It was my birthday and I’ll have sex with an asshole if I want to. I said yes, and we went back to my apartment.

The next morning, I drove him back to his apartment. He kissed me on the cheek and said, “I promise, I will mail you a check for the fifty bucks. You’re a life saver.”

“…But you don’t have my address!” I hollered, but it was too late. He was already in his complex. I drove back to my apartment to take a Benadryl and sleep the day away. I’ll never hear from him again.

_________________________________

Five years later, I was living in New York City trying to make it big as a writer, and barely scraping by as a waiter. I spent all day filling out job applications and sending my resume to every publishing house in the city, and all night serving $18 dollar cheeseburgers in Time Square.

One night after work, I opted out of going to a bar and instead returned to my bite-sized apartment to watch a bunch of YouTube clips and hangout on Facebook. When I logged on, I saw that I had a message. It was from Tim.

“Come on!” I screamed to my computer.

I opened up the message and it read:

Hey James. Long time, huh? Well, anyways, I don’t know if you know this, but I work for a television production company as a PA, and I travel all over the country. Next week, I am going to be in New York City, and I saw that you now live there (way cool) and we are looking for a few extra hands to work with us for a week. If it’s something you would be interested in, let me know. Would be great to see ya!

Tim

p.s. I also need a place to crash.

I stared at my computer screen for a good fifteen minutes before even thinking about what to reply. Instead, I called Cory. He couldn’t believe that Tim had messaged me and said I should definitely fuck with him. “He told you not to come visit him while you were on the way to the airport because he had a boyfriend. He had you pay his bar tab on your birthday. James, it’s revenge time.”

Yes, it totally was revenge time. He was a dick. An asshole. And a horrible lay. This was my chance to get him back. So, I hit the reply button and said:

Hey Tim! It sure has been a long time! A production assistant? That sounds like a fun job. And I love T.V. So I would be very interested in helping out for the week. And don’t worry. You are always welcome to come stay with me. Can’t wait to see you!

 J 🙂

Not five seconds after I sent the e-mail, Tim was texting my phone thanking me for wanting to help out, and for the place to stay. I said it was my pleasure.

The next week, Tim was on his train from Boston to New York and said he would be in the city in about an hour. He texted me when his train got in and asked what address he should give the cab driver. I told him my address was 42 West 88th street, Manhattan, New York.

…I live in Hoboken, New Jersey.


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Single Bells

Ah, my friends, it is that time of year again. The time where we spend our Saturday nights making festive cookies, blaring “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” on repeat and drinking spiked (soy) egg nog.

No? Just me? Okay.

The one thing missing from this equation is a significant other to eat those delicious cookies, someone to sing and dance along to the songs on the Holiday Pandora station, and a guy to get drunk with.

Being in your late twenties and being single is pretty unpleasant, but the holidays sure make it 10 times worse. No one to buy gifts for – and more importantly, no one to receive gifts from. No one to help you carry your Christmas tree home and up three flights of stairs. And no one to fight with you about which Home Alone movie is better. You know you’re in bad shape when you listen to “Christmas Shoes” just to cheer up.

There is something about the cold weather and the ending of yet another year that really makes you sit down and ponder about life in general. Am I happy with my career? Do I enjoy my friends? Is this the city I want to live in? Should I have slept with that guy with the questionable rash?

While all important questions, sometimes we don’t like the answers. Looking back at our decisions in the past year regarding dating, it’s impossible not to cringe at some of the choices we had made. Even now, while writing this post, I can think on both hands about all the times I should have played it cool, not texted that guy at 3am, to not be in an abusive relationship, or to not suggest Mexican food on a first date.

Aside from doubting my actions when it comes to finding love, the end of the year also brings a lot of positive flashbacks from great memories with friends and the elusive good first dates. I have met so many amazing guys this past year and have not only learned about them, but I learned so much about myself. I know – what a cliché! I can’t even believe I typed that – but it’s true.

Going out with all different types of guys has made me realize what I want in a relationship. And, also, what I do not want.

Some things I could live without in the dating world: Someone who asks me out but doesn’t have a plan, someone who takes me to a gay bar on a Friday night at 11pm, someone who does a line of cocaine in front of me, and someone who thinks just because they bought me a cheeseburger at an Applebee’s means they get to sleep with me.

What I do want: someone who is caring, shows compassion, texts me daily, takes me to places I have never seen or been before, and most importantly, someone who can make me laugh. Money comes and goes, and looks don’t last forever, but if you have a personality that can keep me amused every day, that’s the most important quality I could ever hope for.  (And I mean, money doesn’t hurt).

So yes, I know that the holidays are tough – going to company parties solo, eating an entire box of candy canes alone, and singing “Single Bells” in the shower – but once Christmas is over, you can look forward to New Years Eve…Oh wait, I forgot…that whole “not having someone to kiss at midnight thing.” Ok, so forget that. Once Christmas and New Years are done, you can look forward to…ah, shit. Valentine’s Day is next, right? Damnit.

Okay, well just get through the next four or five months, and you will be happy again.

Happy Holidays! 🙂

 

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Bugs Bunny

Last night I got out of my slump of watching episode after episode of Pretty Little Liars while trying to beat level 46 on Candy Crush and went on a date.

Me? Going on a date? On a school night? Unheard of!

For those of you that don’t know, my New Year’s Resolution this year, aside from quitting smoking, losing weight, and re-growing my hair, was to always say “yes”, especially when it comes to dating. And ordering Mac and Cheese if present on a menu.

So, while I was waiting for my lives on Candy Crush to be replenished on Tuesday night, I went on Grindr to see if anyone wanted to come over and “cuddle”. While no one seemed at all interested, this one guy messaged me and we began talking for a little over a half hour. When I said I needed to go to bed (aka I got more lives) he asked if he could take me to dinner the following night.

Being one who never turns down a free meal, I said yes.

The following day we didn’t really text that much, which I liked! He was very confident and just told me to meet him at the restaurant at 8. The restaurant he chose is actually 2 blocks from my apartment in Jersey, so I was extremely grateful.

This is very out of character for me, because when I am talking to a guy, I like to chat all day, every day, for about two weeks so I can know everything about them: their favorite color, where they grew up, penis size, and favorite Julia Roberts movie. I also like to stalk their Facebook page to see about 350+ pictures of them. But, with this guy, I only saw three pictures. All of his left side. All not smiling.

Again, it’s a free meal, I said to myself.

So I walked to the restaurant and a few blocks away I received a text message from him saying he was sitting at the bar. He’s prompt. I like that. I opened the door to the restaurant and spotted him immediately. Well, I didn’t necessarily spot HIM, I spotted his two front teeth.

The reason why he never sent me any pictures of him smiling was all making sense now. I walked over, gave him an awkward hug, and we were sat at a table. Ok, so he has buckteeth. That’s not the end of the world. I’m not that picky.

I started the conversation about work and explained to him a bit of what I do. When I asked him what he does, he said that he works at a medical office as an assistant, but his real passion is “club promotion.” He then went on a 20 minute tangent about how great that lifestyle is, yet how tiresome and lonely it can be. I just nodded.

Now, I love to joke around, but sometimes I forget that people (especially people who met me 18 minutes ago) do not really understand my dry sense of humor and sarcasm. I forget exactly how this came up, but I made an innocent “I’m addicted to cocaine joke”, as you do on a first date, and it did not go over so well.

I completely forget that he was from Columbia.

So, he responded to my comment and decided to tell me all about his trouble with drugs “in his past” and then proceeded to ask me if I had any lying around my apartment.

All in all, we had an average dinner. I am really good at coming up with things to talk about, so the conversation flowed, from the Yankees to quoting The Devil Wears Prada.

Once the waiter cleared our plates (and brought me my third glass of wine) the next words out of my dates mouth were, “Well, when I was in acting school…”

I quickly chugged the Pinot Noir in front of me and graciously asked for something with tequila. I was going to need to be extremely drunk to hear about monologue workshops.

The date was going longer than I had expected and hoped, and I don’t think I could have yawned or said “Gee, I have to be up early” enough for him to get the point. Finally, he sipped the remaining ounce of his Bud Light that had been lingering in his glass for the past fifteen minutes and asked for the check.

When Henrique or Miguel or whomever dropped off our check, he pulled out his wallet and said those lovely three words every guy likes to hear on a first date: “Wanna split it?”

Once we were out of the restaurant, I cheered to myself that I was free and I could run home, put on Pretty Little Liars and play Candy Crush. That was, until he offered to walk me home.

“No, no. That’s really okay!” I practically yelled. “It’s out of your way. The bus stop is right here!” But he would not let it go. So, okay fine. I let him walk me home because, in all my life of dating, no one has ever walked me home to my front door, so I was actually pretty excited about his chivalrous gesture.

When we finally arrived to my apartment, he kissed me good night. I opened the front door to my building and looked back at him, just standing there.

“Can I walk you up?” he asked. And we all know what that means, right ladies?

Since I had three glasses of red wine and a shot of tequila, I figured why the hell not. It’s been forever since I’ve had any type of physical contact that didn’t involve a body pillow or an electric toothbrush. We went up to my apartment, and started making out on the couch. Half way through, he stopped, hugged me, looked in my eyes and said, “Damn you’re beautiful.”

So, naturally I took off his pants and gave him a hand job.

Finally by 11:30, the date was over and I could take a cold shower and head to sleep. I figured he would get the hint that I wasn’t really interested and that the complimentary handy-j was just a token for him walking me home.

But he’s texted me 6 times already this morning. Time to move or change my phone number again.

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How I Got Kicked Out of a Public Library

This is the story about how  I, James Lane, got kicked out of the Weehawken Public Library. How, you may ask (Or why the hell are you writing a story about it?) Well, it all started in September 2012. And I am writing a story about it because I am just that bored.

I moved to the beautiful [sic] city of Weehawken, New Jersey in 2011. All big eyed and dreamy, I was a Florida boy moving to the outer skirts of New York City to fulfill my dreams of being a backup dancer.

When I wasn’t in the studio practicing my hip-hop footwork, I enjoyed taking long walks in Central Park, drinking over-priced cups of coffee and avoiding homeless people at all costs. When I wasn’t in the city, I relished in the days when I could relax in the quaint New Jersey town, aimlessly browsing for used socks and old cassette tapes in the small Cuban-owned shops. Or the “tiendas”. (I’ve become so fluent in Spanish since living here, I sometimes replace English words with Spanish ones, without even noticing. So, lo siento in advance).

Another favorite pastime of mine is reading. For anyone who knows me or has checked out my OkCupid profile, I love books. I like writing them. And I love reading them. That being said, one of my favorite places are libraries.

One of the first stops I made upon arriving in New York (aside from the apartment building used in Friends) was the New York Public Library located on 40th and 5th: a New York City landmark, which solely became famous because of the Sex and the City movie.  I spent most of my free time between rehearsals and callbacks walking the aisles of books by such great authors as Tori Spelling, Kris Kardashian, and Lauren Conrad.

This library had it all.

I went to the front desk, located way in the back, and inquired about obtaining a library card so I could have access to all of these great titles and authors. And so I could check my OkCup…Facebook account in the computer center.

When I was prompted to give the man my address, the only form of identification I had was my Florida driver’s license, and to be a member of the New York Public Library you had to actually live in New York. Which I didn’t.

So, I shrugged my shoulders, returned “Breaking Dawn” back to it’s place, and humbly left the premises. “There must be a library in Weehawken” I thought to myself while standing in line at a Shake Shack for the second time that day.

As it turns out, retaining a library card in Weehawken was almost as difficult as curing herpes. Oh, wait, there isn’t a cure for herpes, is there? No wonder those five empty sticks of Abreva have done nothing whatsoever. I guess getting a library card is as difficult as…opening a brand new CD. You know, that unmanageable strip of thick sticky plastic aligned on the top of the CD making it almost impossible to open, so you’re screaming in the Target parking lot to yourself, “I just want to listen to the new Taylor Swift album on my drive home, God damnit!”

Wait, no one buys CD’s anymore? Oh. Okay, well shit. Getting a library card is just hard – no similes or metaphors.

But, I digress.

I located the Weehawken library online, MapQuested the address, and discovered it was a very short distance from my apartment. So, I threw on my expensive Old Navy fleece jacket and walked on over.

It turns out the library used to be an old mansion that has been restored, renovated, and refurbished. Much nicer than that one in the city. If Carrie would have had the wedding there, I am certain Big would have shown up.

When I entered, I saw an information desk off to the left side with an elderly lady sitting down reading “Fifty Shades Freed”.

“Ah, you’re almost to the end. Does Anastasia stay with Grey or does she leave him for Jose?”

Without hearing a word I uttered, she continued to read her book, fervently turning the page in search of an actual plot line. I stepped up further to the desk, waiting for her to notice my presence. Or cologne.

Finally, she finished the chapter she was on and looked at me. “Oh, hello there. Have you been standing here long?”

“No, ma’am, just eighteen or nineteen minutes.”

“Well, how can I help you?” she asked, dog-earring her place in the book. Instead of answering right away, I suddenly found myself wondering why she didn’t have access to a bookmark. It was a library for whispering out loud. Shouldn’t there be ample book-place-saving devices at hand besides folding down a corner of a page?

“I would like to get a library card, please.”

She gave me a look of “Ugh, I have to get up out of my chair and go to the filing cabinet”, like I was the forty-third person that day opening up a library account in Weehawken, New Jersey. “I just need a photo I.D. and proof of residency.”

Hm…Proof of residency. I didn’t have any of those. I had only just moved to the area a month ago, and none of the leasing documents or utility bills were in my name because of my warrant. “Well, I do have a drivers license. But, unfortunately I do not have any documents that state that I live here. But I can assure you that I am a resident of Weehawken.”

“Your drivers license is from Florida, young man.”

“Yes, I know. Like I was saying, I only just moved here a month ago. I can’t get a New Jersey license, and I don’t have any bills in my name. But, again, I can assure you that I live in the city of Weehawken” I said with a convincing smile.

“I am so sorry, but I really need a photo I.D. and proof of residency. Maybe something at home will show your address and you can come back and show it to me.”

I ran out of the biblioteca (ugh, see?!) and sprinted down the street to my apartment. Something in this apartment must have my address on it. I wasn’t working at the time and all of my credit card bills were still being sent to my parents house for them to ignore. I was now faced with one of the most important and significant challenges of my adult life.

I ransacked all of my files, which was just a recipe for Chicken Caccitorre and an old Banana Republic catalog. In the midst of my search, the apartment buzzer rang. This being the first time I have been home while this happened, I became giddy and excited. Just like on tv, I pushed the ‘TALK’ button and said, “Yes?” and then I pressed the listen button and heard, “I have a package for a James Lane”. I, again pressed the talk button and said gleefully, “Come on up!” and buzzed them in. This was so cool!

Five minutes later, still standing by the closed door waiting for a knock, my buzzer rang again. I was then told that the door downstairs was broken and that I would have to come downstairs and retrieve the package. Damn.

So, I ran down three flights of stairs and greeted Paul (I don’t know if that was her name, but it sounds about right). I signed for the box and hurriedly scuttled up the stairs, wondering what was inside. I grabbed the box cutter out of my left sock and tore open the cardboard box. It was a T-shirt I had ordered online a week ago with a big black cat on the front and the words “You’ve got to be kitten me” written underneath. After trying on the shirt, and playing with the bubble wrap for fifteen minutes, I noticed something inside the box. It was the itemized receipt. An itemized receipt with my address on it! My New Jersey address! I grabbed the piece of paper and my keys and hauled ass back to the library.

When I finally made it back, twenty-five minutes since I was there last, I went back up to the information desk and spoke with the same lady. “I’m back, and I have proof of my residency!” I said as I pulled out the receipt.

“Can I help you?”

“Uh, yeah. I was just in here. A few minutes ago. I wanted to get a library card?” Clearly, she had some short term memory problems, along with psoriasis and gout.

“Okay, I just need a photo I.D. and proof of residency.”

I handed her my drivers license and the T-shirt receipt. “Here you go!”

She looked over both of my documents. “You are the second person today to come in with a Florida drivers license. Small world, huh?” I nodded sympathetically while she scrutinized the paper I handed her. “I am sorry, but we need a bill or lease or something. This doesn’t tell me you live here.”

“Yes it does. Right there, see? Below my name it has my address: Hudson Avenue, Weehawken New Jersey”. I made sure to stretch the word Weehawken out as long as I could. She wasn’t buying it.

“Yes, I see that. But, this is just a piece of paper with your address on it. Anyone can get anything mailed somewhere. I need an official document. I’m sorry.”

“You have got to be kitten me!”

A month later, I was happily [sic] employed and working at a restaurant in Times Square serving cheeseburgers for seventeen dollars. Two weeks after being employed, I finally got my first paycheck. And what was on that paycheck? My address. If a paycheck isn’t official, I don’t know what is! So, I returned back to the library, for the third time, and requested a library card.

Naturally, it was the same old lady working. And naturally she didn’t remember me. I handed her my I.D. and paycheck and she awarded me with a library card. She had me sign three different forms, photocopied my information, and typed my information into the system. After what seemed like an hour, she had completed this mundane task and handed me an un-lamented paper library card. But I didn’t care. I was now a library member. I could check out three books at a time, use the computers, and attend monthly seminars and activities.

A week later, I received a letter in the mail from the Weehawken Public Library that read:

Dear Janes Lame,

Thank you for you’re interest in the Weehawken Public Library. We are honored to have you as a member. You’re account is now active. Happy reading!

Sincerely,

Pam

Director of Library Operations

I didn’t care that they spelled my name Janes Lame. And I didn’t care that they didn’t know the difference between “your” and “you’re”. I was just happy to be a member. I had some great times at that library, writing articles for my job, writing stories for my blog, reading delightful books and interesting magazines in plush big couches, and even attending a singles knitting class. I have to say, it was worth all of the hassle. And that is the story of how I got my library card.

Oh wait. This is the story of how I got kicked out of a public library, isn’t it?

It was the end of fall/beginning of winter in 2012 and I was still living in Weehawken, New Jersey. While being ridiculed for over a year from my friends (and some family) I found that I really enjoyed where I lived. It’s quiet and comfortable, yet only five minutes from the city. I was even starting to make friends out this way – friends who I used because they had access to cars.

My serving job ended in the early summer due to bankruptcy, although their reasoning was “repainting the walls to eventually reopen”. And my dance career was quickly falling to a demise. This left me out of a job and out of money. And out of hope. I eventually found myself a part-time job writing for a company’s website, and doing freelance work on the side. But, usually my days were spent watching Gossip Girl and reading a book a week. I carried on this activity from June all the way through December, eventually switching Gossip Girl for something a tad more real.

By mid-December, I was already halfway through with Desperate Housewives when my mom called me to ask a favor. She is flying into New York to spend Christmas with me, and she purchased Radio City tickets for Christmas Eve. The only problem was that she didn’t know how to print them off herself, so she asked if I could do the small task.

Like all struggling writers in New Yo…Jersey, I am without a printer. I left mine at home, not wanting to take excess stuff with me. And plus, it wasn’t going to fit in the moving van, especially with those two bean bag chairs. It was at that moment I had a realization: The library has a printer! So, I threw on my winter chaqueta and made my way.

I went straight up to the second floor where the computer center was and logged on to an available computer. After typing in my account number to be logged on, a message of “Inactive Account” appeared on the screen. “Hm, that’s weird” I whispered to no one. So, I re-entered. Same message. I re-entered again. Same message again. Finally, I went to the man behind the desk and explained my problem.

“That’s awfully strange. I don’t know much about computers, so I don’t know what to tell ya. Uh, let me call Janice to see if she can help you. Hang on tight, buddy.”

So, I sat there at my computer, hanging on as tight as I could, waiting for Janice to solve this problem. A few moments later, she came scurrying over to me at computer #4. I was very relieved to see that Janice was in her early forties, and computer literate. She re-typed my account information into the computer only to receive the same message. She scratched her head and told me the library was switching software programs and that was probably the reason for the glitch. I explained that I just needed the Internet for five short minutes to print out a document, so she logged me in as a guest user and went on her way.

I opened the attachment my mother had sent with the concert tickets. I clicked print and walked up to the counter with my thirty cents to pay.

The old man went to check the printer and told me nothing had printed. So I went back to the computer and clicked print again. Same thing. Printer not working. So, I went back a third time and clicked print, and this time one of the three concert tickets printed. I explained to him that I needed those other two tickets. I was trying to have patience with the old man, because clearly this was not his profession. He just took a volunteer job at the library to get him out of the house and away from his nagging wife. I get that. But, this was a library. A place where signing onto the Internet and printing documents was supposed to be easy. Not like opening up a brand new CD or curing herpes.

After a few more tries, he told me that the printer was just not working and that I should find another means of printing off whatever I needed. I nodded in agreement, but told him that in the event of my pages actually printing out later on in the afternoon, for him to shred them, or rip them up and toss them in the garbage. I didn’t want some library patron finding these concert tickets and having a free entrance pass to the greatest Christmas show on Earth!

Begrudged, but not ready to leave, I perused the “New Non-Fiction” shelf and found a few winners I had yet to read. “The Best of Me” by Nicholas Sparks, “The Heart of the Matter” by Emily Giffin, and “My Life is So Raven” by Raven Symone. I put all three hardcover books in my arms and walked downstairs to check them out.

I arrived at the front desk, books in one hand, library card in another, ready to get home and read what it exactly was like working on The Cosby Show. The woman behind the desk was new to me; a face I had never seen before.

“Hello, how may I help you?”

“Hi. I would just like to check out these books, please.”

“Most certainly. Library card?”

I handed her the card, and while she was scanning the books, I looked around for the elderly lady that helped me last year to say a quick hello, even though I doubt she’d remember little ole me.

The woman, let’s call her Doris for legal reasons, interrupted my gaze. “I’m sorry sir, but your card is inactive. You need to re-activate your account.”

“Oh, okay. Sure. No problem. Do I need to sign something, or…?”

“Well, I just need a photo I.D. and a proof of residency”.

<Insert over the top eye roll> Oh, brother.

“Well, I have my photo I.D. with me, it’s my Florida drivers license, but I don’t have anything on me that shows I am a Weehawken resident. But, I am!” I said, as I smiled my please-let-me-out-of-a-speeding-ticket-officer smile.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lame, but I must have a paper that states you are a resident of Weehawken.”

I suddenly had déjà vu. It was coming through my earphones. Damn, Beyonce. I explained to her that I was not on my lease, nor did I have any bills in my name, but that my address was so-and-so, but she kept nodding her head.

“But, you must know I am a resident here, because I was given a library card already. You’re holding it in your hand. It just expired or something. The woman upstairs told me you guys were changing software programs. Perhaps this has something to do with it. I don’t know why my card would be inactive. I was just here a month ago.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but—“

“Is there another lady here? The older lady? She assigned me my card. She would remember me” I lied.

“No, she isn’t. Gayle has gone on to a better place.”

“Oh. Is she working at the library on 40th and 5th?”

“Um, no. She passed away, sir. But I doubt she would be any help.”

“Clearly. So, what you’re saying is that I need a paper with my address on it before I can check out these books?”

“That is what I am saying. I can hold them here for 24 hours until you prove that you live here.”

“Okay. I just find it a little ridiculous that I need to bring my papers here again. I live on Hudson Avenue, right above Monetti’s pizza place.”

“Monetti’s is not in Weehawken.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not. Great pizza, though. Have you had the garlic knots?”

“Yes! They are delicious, aren’t they?”

“So so good. I like to dip them in the alfredo sauce and —“

“Okay, we are getting off topic. That place is in Weehawken. My mail is addressed in Weehawken. I know what I am talking about.”

“Ah, you get mail delivered to your house in Weehawken?” She said the town name like she was using invisible air quotes.

“Yes. I get mail delivered there.”

“Then bring me something to show it, and I will gladly let you check these books out. Thank you.”

And with that, I was dismissed. I went back to my apartment, with no concert tickets and no books. How was an errand so easy in theory turning out to be so damn difficult? I ransacked my bedroom looking for anything with my name on it. The truth is, no one really sends me mail, so I had no hard evidence. And since I was out of work, I had no paycheck stub to bring in.

I then thought to myself, “Did I really need those books? I mean, I didn’t want to read them until I saw them at the library. And I could always order them on Amazon. Or go to a used book store. Do I really need to be going through this much hassle?” From which I concluded: Yes. It wasn’t about the books anymore. It was about the principle. I was a resident of Weehawken, God Damnit! And I am entitled to all Weehawken has to offer. The banderas, the barras, the mercados, and yes, even the bibliotecas.

I looked through an old binder I had in the back of my closet I tried to keep important documents in, but it was just newspaper clippings of Taylor Swift, an old play I wrote, and birthday cards. When I closed the binder, a piece of paper flew out and landed at my feet. It was my W-2 from my restaurant job. And, low and behold, it had my name AND address on it. Perfect.

I walked back in with my head held high and approached the front desk. Someone else was sitting at the desk when I arrived and I asked to specifically speak with Doris. He informed me she was upstairs on her lunch break. “I’ll wait” is all I said to him.

Fifteen minutes later, Doris came walking back downstairs with her Igloo lunch box draped on her left arm. “You’re back.”

“Yes, yes I am.” I placed my I.D. and W-2 on the counter like I had a winning had at poker. “Here are the documents you asked for.”

She picked up my W-2 and let out a long, exhale. “Sir, I don’t think you are listening to me. I asked for a recent document. This was issued in 2011. This is not recent. I need something from, I don’t know, the month of December 2012. Can you do that for me?”

Oh, so this is how you want to play, huh? Now I was mad. And, to be quite honest, I did not like her tone.

“Listen. Right now, at this moment, this is all I have. I understand it is not recent, but it is a document with my name and address on it. I am not on a lease. And I do not have any bills addressed to me here. But, I live at that address right there on the form. I already have a library card. And my name is in the system.”

“Well, actually, in the system your name appears as Janes Lame.”

“That’s the result of a ninety year old and a computer. Not my fault. James Lane and Janes Lame are one in the same. Why is this so difficult?!”

“I’d like to ask you the same thing.”

I picked up my I.D. off the counter, placed it back in my wallet, and started to walk away. Quickly, realizing I still had some fight left in me, I turned back around. “I just, I am so amazed at how outrageous this process is becoming. I just want to check out those books. I really needed those books today.”

She picked up the three books I had waiting on hold. “Oh, you do? You need ‘My Life is So Raven’ really bad?”

“Yes! I’m a fan.”

Doris began to laugh and waved her arm at me. “You have heard what I need. If you can fulfill those teeny tiny requirements, you can check out these books you ‘really need’”. And yes, she did the air quotation marks. Now, my voice was raised.

“Do you think this is some sort of game? Do you think I just go around to different libraries throughout the county and try to trick and deceive helpless librarians? Throw all the books I’ve illegally checked out into a pile and jump up and down?! Brag about it to my friends?! This is crazy. This is insane! This is NOT Germany!”

“Sir, I am sorry you feel that way, but this is our policy. And apparently you cannot abide by our policy.” She picked up my library card off the desk, and tore it in half. “We are not interested in having you as a member here anymore. You can go now before I call library security.”

“Library security? You mean the eighty year old with the walker upstairs?”

“Please leave.”

“You are kicking me out of the library because I don’t have proper proof of residency?”

“No, I am kicking you out for shouting in a library. Good day.”

And so, that is the story of how I was kicked out of a public library. I walked by it the other day on my way to get lunch. I stood on the front steps, looking at the beautiful building, watching little children go inside with their backpacks on, ready to embark on a new day of fun and reading, and I couldn’t help but to feel a bit sad. I had some good times in that place. Times I wouldn’t trade for the world. They say you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone, and boy, did I agree.

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