Stef Woods

City of Brotherly Love

2005

For the last weekend in April, my friends and I headed to Philly to join our girl, Nizzle, for her birthday. The plan was for eight of the guys and girls from our group to spend the weekend up in Philadelphia with the Birthday Girl, but work and health stuff brought the number down to three girls (me, Barla and AP). I obviously don't wish ankle sprains, merger negotiations, and the flu on my friends, but this Girls' Weekend was one of my favorite getaways ever. You know those times when you laugh so hard that your stomach hurts. Well, that happened the entire weekend.

We arrived in Philly long after the sun had set. After checking into our hotel in Olde City, we barhopped for a bit until we decided that we wanted to dance. As we walked down an alley toward a club, I saw a fine black man outside and said to my girls, "Talk about the City of Brotherly Love!"

We headed inside Club 27. Even though the music was good, there was barely anyone there. We weren't sure if we should stay, but we figured that we would get a table and have at least one round.

Nizzle had quite a few shots in her by this point and jumped up on the seat to start dancing. It was her birthday weekend, though. Who were we to stop her?

The handsome black man from outside approached our table and said,

"Hi ladies. Welcome to Club 27. Are you having a good time tonight?"

"Yes! Definitely!" Barla replied.

We all talked for a few minutes and learned that his name was Matt. Philly Matt worked at Club 27 on Thursdays and Saturdays when the club was packed and the upstairs was opened up for dancing.

"I'll give you a tour later if you'd like. Tonight's not the best night to come here for dancing, but some more people will show up in an hour or so," Philly Matt explained. "Have you been here before?"

"No. It's our friend's birthday so we came up from DC to celebrate with her," I replied as I pointed to Nizzle.

"Oh, Happy Birthday! Well if it's your birthday, then let me by you all a round of shots! I'll be right back with some buttery nipples," he kindly offered.

I tried to stop him to tell him that I don't drink and order a soda in lieu of a shot, but he was already off to the bar. I followed him in the hopes of saving his money and the club's alcohol supply.

"Hey! I just wanted to let you know that I don't drink, but I hope that you'll do my shot for me since I would hate for a buttery nipple to go to waste," I informed him, as I put my arms around him from behind and rubbed his nipples over his shirt until they became hard.

(Yes, folks, I had met this man less than 10 minutes ago and I was already rubbing his nipples! This is still something that Philly Matt and I joke about to this day. He said that he knew from that moment that he had "a live one on his hands!")

The drinks continued to flow, and our groups merged on the dance floor. Because the place wasn't that packed, we had a lot of the floor all to ourselves. There were a lot of moments when my girlfriends' heads were between my boobs, legs were in the air, and booties were getting slapped. We had a blast!

Before the club closed for the night, Philly Matt gave us the grand tour. As he was talking, I couldn't stop staring at his smile. It could light up a room! He also had an amazing body. I wasn't looking to meet a guy in Philly (especially since Basketball Boy was moving back to DC in June), but I couldn't deny that I was attracted to Matt.

After seeing the upstairs dance floor with a platform overhead, Nizzle decided to add Club 27 to her official Birthday Party itinerary the following night. As we walked out of the club, Philly Matt and I gave each other a big hug and I kissed him on the cheek.

"I'll see you tomorrow."

"I'm counting on it," he replied.

The perfect guy…almost

Google revealed that Safeway Guy was married. But, what if the bio that I had found online was out-of-date? He and I had such an amazing connection when we first met that I wondered (or was it hoped?) if he was single — or at least separated.

I wanted to find out so I decided to meet Safeway Guy for coffee yesterday as planned. I tried to remind myself that even if he was off the dating market, he was definitely a great professional contact.

I met him for coffee in the complex where I live and he works (at least until his company moves offices at the end of the week). He had said that it was okay if I brought my dog so I did. Safeway Guy and I had a perfect coffee date, but if he's married, was it a date?

He insisted on paying and getting me a little something to eat in case I was hungry. He was wonderful with my very shy rescue dog. It was so easy to talk to Safeway Guy about my thesis and former clients since he works in a related field. And, he confided in me about a delicate professional matter with which he was dealing. If we could have stayed at the coffee shop all day, we probably would have!

I kept waiting for him to bring up something about his family, but he didn't. I guess I can't blame him, but he was so seemingly perfect that I found myself hoping that the bio I had found online was wrong.

As we walked back to his office, he mentioned that he wished his offices weren't moving because he loves Foggy Bottom. The only bright size to the move is that his commute will be shorter from his home in Potomac.

"So, do you live with your family in Potomac?" I inquired, trying to be smooth.

"Yeah…I need to go to the bank. Do you want to walk up that way with me? I don't think they will allow your dog to come inside," he commented.

Wow! He dodged that question like it was a bullet! We hugged and kissed on the cheek goodbye, as he booked it into the bank. I guess he answered the question…sort of. But, I had hoped for a definitive,

"Yes, I live with my wife and two kids in Potomac. She and I are happily married, and you and I can be professional contacts or platonic friends, but that's it."

I continued walking with my dog, arriving back to my apartment 20 minutes later. In that short time, Safeway Guy had already sent me an e-mail! In the e-mail, he wrote that seeing me was the best part of his hectic day and that he looks forward to taking me out for a more relaxed lunch. And, if I'm being honest with myself, I'm looking forward to having lunch with him, too. Throughout the afternoon, we sent each other several more e-mails before his Internet service was disconnected.

A part of me wanted to believe that Safeway Guy wasn't still with his wife since he didn't fully answer my question. He and I aren't friends on Facebook, but he has a profile. The bio that I had found online the day before noted his wife's first name. I scrolled through his friends' list and found his wife's profile. Her profile pic features a photograph of their smiling family. So, I have my answer.

Am I tempting fate just by being friends with him? Is the fact that we have so much in common personally and professionally an asset as we try to build a friendship or just too risky? Is it possible to have a healthy friendship with a married guy?

Next time, I'm going to Trader Joe's. Shopping there is much less complicated.

Google to the Rescue!

Yesterday afternoon, I headed to the nearest Safeway to pick up some goodies for my Housewarming Party on Saturday. My cart was loaded up with cases of soda, water, juice and fixings for sangria. And, when I say, "loaded," I mean that all of my items barely fit in the cart.

As I was trying to steer the heavy cart to the checkout line, a handsome Latino in a beautiful dress shirt and tie exclaimed,

"Wow! You must be really thirsty!"

I laughed and replied, "I'm stocking up for a party."

He got in line behind me, and we chatted about my party. I wasn't thinking of him in a flirtatious way, especially since I had just come from the pool and was wearing yoga shorts and a t-shirt. But, he was really cute!

I said goodbye and walked out of the store. Two minutes later, he saw me in front of the grocery store, switching items from my shopping cart to one of those travel/laundry carts.

"Can I help you with that?" Safeway Guy asked.

"I'm fine. Thanks, though," I responded with a smile.

He came around the gate to where I was with the carts and insisted on helping me transfer things from one cart to the other. Almost 30 minutes later, we were still outside talking. You know when you instantly connect with someone? That was how I felt with Safeway Guy.

We work in similar fields. We speak the same languages. Neither of us drinks alcohol by choice. His family is from a country near the place about which I'm writing my esoteric thesis. We both have dogs and prefer soy milk to whole or skim. Oh, and did I mention how cute he is?

For the past four months, he has worked a block away from my apartment building, but we had never met. Our paths finally crossed yesterday, and much to my dismay, his company is moving offices on Friday to Friendship Heights (several miles uptown). Safeway Guy gave me his card, and suggested that I e-mail him that afternoon before the move interrupts his Internet service.

As we said goodbye, he asked if I needed any more help and wondered if I had people who could help me the rest of the way up to my place.

"Like minions? Yeah, that would be nice. I'll start looking for an assistant for thesis writing and errands," I joked.

"You should get some minions," Safeway Guy insisted. "I'll apply for one of the positions."

We smiled and finally parted. Shortly after I got upstairs, I e-mailed him, and he wrote right back. He commented that,

"I'm so sorry I'm moving now that there is such a wonderful potential friend in the near vicinity. Not often one connects with another so quickly and on so many levels."

I blushed when I read those words and was excited that he felt the same way that I did! Safeway Guy said that I could call him at work today or that we could get together for lunch after the move. I sent him back a second e-mail, and mentioned grabbing coffee today if he had time for a break in the midst of the move. He did, and we made plans for this morning. I could tell that I was looking forward to it by the size of my smile as I read his e-mail confirming the time and place.

I knew a bit about his company, but wanted to know more so I used Google to my advantage. Sure enough, I found a lot about how successful he was and all the great work that his organization did. But, as I scrolled through one of his biographies as a conference presenter, I saw the following:

"Safeway Guy lives with his wife and two kids in Potomac."

I am so not going down this road again.

Did I go out for coffee with him today or cancel our plans?

Nice, but not too nice = just right!

In the fall of 2004, I figured that I should start dipping my toes back in the dating pool to see what was out there. At that time, I was looking for someone with whom I could have a "normal" relationship. I wanted a lot of great sex (obviously), but also some love and companionship.

I went back on eHarmony's website, and a guy named Austin caught my eye. He was two years younger than me, 6'1", black, good looking and well-rounded. We e-mailed for a couple of weeks before scheduling a lunch date at the old Cafe Asia on 19th Street. We exchanged phone numbers in case something came up at the last minute. The day before our lunch, my phone rang.

"Hi, this is Austin. How are you?" he said.

"Good, thanks. Is there a problem with lunch tomorrow?"

"Umm…no," he replied hesitantly. "I was just calling to talk."

"Well, I'm in the middle of something right now. Is it okay if we just meet tomorrow as planned?"

"Yeah. Sure. I'm sorry to have bothered you," Austin commented.

"No worries. See you tomorrow!"

I didn't mean to be rude, but I'm a big believer in chemistry. Much like a dude, I know within five minutes of meeting a guy whether I'm interested in him or not. The eHarmony website already did some of the basic compatibility matching for us. The chemistry part would either be there…or it wouldn't. I didn't care to have a whole lot of conversation before that.

When I walked into Cafe Asia, Austin was already seated at a table. He was cuter than his photo (bonus!) and had a great smile. We hugged hello, and he said,

"Wow! I'm glad that you hugged me because I didn't know what to expect after you didn't want to speak with me on the phone yesterday. I was hoping that you would be as nice and cool as you seemed on your profile."

I laughed and told him that I'm better in person. Weekday lunch dates can be awkward, but this one wasn't. Austin was a really good guy who liked sports and music and was very protective of his three little sisters. It was easy to talk to him, and nice that he was a total gentleman, paying for lunch, even when I offered to split the bill.

Normally, guys who are too nice annoy me, but Austin was kind without being a wuss or overly complimentary. He didn't seem interested in fast-tracking things with me (no talk of marriage or children on the first date), and he was genuine. Before the date ended, he asked if he could see me the following week, and I said that would be great.

The following week, I had a minor surgical procedure scheduled. Austin suggested bringing dinner and a movie over the night before the procedure so I would have some company and not sit at home by myself worrying. His caring and initiative won huge points!

He came over, and it was very easy to have him in my condo. He wasn't intimidated by my place, and asked a fair amount of questions about my friends and my parents. Simply put, Austin made me smile…and want to get to know him better.

As we watched the movie, he held my hand and ran his fingers through my hair. When the movie ended, he gave me a big hug and a small kiss, and told me that he hoped that everything went well at the hospital.

I had wanted a kinder and gentler guy in my life. I had found him! All my needs were met, and I slept soundly before the procedure.

Did Austin have staying power?

“Mom, I think I have frostbite!”

February 1994

After The Diminutive Russian and I split up, my heart was broken. I was 20 years old and had moved down to DC for a guy who started out as a bad boyfriend and ended up even worse. I spent the next month, going to class at GWU, dancing on the platforms at The Vault, partying a lot, and dating one of The Diminutive Russian’s friends.

Alexei personified Russian Hotness — 6’4″, blond hair, blue eyes and a body that could have been crafted by sculptors. Alexei also had quite a diversified portfolio. Sometimes he modeled, sometimes he worked as a bartender at The Vault, and sometimes he dealt pot.

Alexei was nice and uncomplicated. I don’t mean to imply that he lacked any abstract thoughts. But, after my intense relationship with The Diminutive Russian, it was refreshing to date someone who didn’t seek drama or evoke angst.

Alexei was up in NYC for a modeling gig, when ice storms began to rage through DC. The Mayor closed the whole city for a week so my friend, Bex, and I were holed up in our apartment. I felt incredibly tired and thought that I had gotten frostbite from the bitterly cold weather since I couldn’t feel my feet. “Please send me some good snow boots,” I asked my Mom.

The ice storms started to abate over the weekend, but I still couldn’t feel anything in my feet. In our infinite wisdom, Bex and I tried to wake my feet up. We poured hot water and cold water on them. Bex tenderly rubbed my tootsies with lotion. I even banged them on the coffee table. Nothing! Now and then, when I got up from the couch, I would fall, and call to Bex like that old lady in the Life Alert commercial, “Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.”

On the 14th, I was home, feeling quite out of sorts and waiting for Alexei to call to wish me a Happy Valentine’s Day. Bex had gone out to dinner with her boyfriend, and they came home to enjoy “dessert” in her bedroom. I tried to fall asleep, but I couldn’t. So, when the phone rang at midnight, I was wide-awake:

“Happy Valentine’s Day!” Alexei exclaimed.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.” I replied with a little less enthusiasm.

“I just got in from New York. Want to come over?” he asked.

“I don’t know…I’m not feeling that well…it’s late,” I commented.

“I want to be with you. I brought you chocolates from New York. I have a bottle of Dom chilling. I came back tonight just so we could be together on Valentine’s Day!” he explained.

I was so exhausted, but I did want to see him. And, I felt like I would be more motivated to go to school and Student Health tomorrow, if I was already at his place. I got my things together, and as I changed into my outfit, I realized that my legs were really cold. From below my knees, they were like icicles. And, I was walking so slowly. Maybe this wasn’t frostbite? Maybe I had an orthopedic problem or something?

Twenty minutes later, I arrived at Alexei’s house, and knew that I didn’t feel like myself when I turned down a glass of Dom. He had brought me a candy bar and a single red rose, which made me smile.

We moved into the bedroom, and as tired as I was, I wanted to have sex. I also kept thinking to myself that I needed to make sure that he didn’t touch my legs below my knees. They were so cold that I worried he would wonder if he was having sex with a corpse!

I sat in a meditation position, facing him with my butt resting on my feet. My arms were stretched out behind me and I arched my back as much as I could. I shifted positions a few times by swiveling from side to side, but managed to move my legs as one unit. After we were done (or more accurately, after he was done since I was too tired to orgasm), we went to sleep. I remember that he made some comment about how cold my legs were. I just laughed and said, “It’s freezing in here!”

The next day in class, I noticed that my hands were numb and that it was tough for me to write. I had promised my Mom that I would go to Student Health, and one of the guys from school offered to walk me there.

A nurse at Student Health said that it was neither frostbite nor orthopedic. She thought it was neurological and gave me a referral form. As I checked out at the front desk, a Student Employee said,

“You look really tired. One of these doctors is right upstairs. Why don’t you go up and make the appointment before their office closes so then you can go home and go to sleep?”

That made sense to me so I walked upstairs, holding on to whatever wall or table I could. When I got to the receptionist desk, the secretary gave my referral form to one doctor who suggested that she show it to another doctor. Lucky for me, that doctor had a cancellation right that very minute!

I don’t know if you believe in miracles or blessings from above, but I do, and the events of that February afternoon remind me of why. As it turns out, the doctor who received my referral form from Student Health and offered to do a consultation right then and there was one of the experts in this area of neurology. From the one line on my referral form that said “tingling in hands and feet, difficulty walking,” she knew what was wrong and pretended to have a cancellation so that she could see me asap.

Within a few hours, I had a spinal tap and was admitted to the hospital with something called Guillain Barre Syndrome (GBS). I didn’t have frostbite. I was going paralyzed!!! Guillain Barre starts in your feet and hands and works its way inward. The majority of people arrive at the hospital with almost total paralysis, and it can be life-threatening if it reaches your lungs or heart. For you history buffs, a 2003 study believes that FDR had Guillain Barre, not polio.

GWU is a teaching hospital so doctors kept coming into my room to ask me questions.

“When did you last have sex?” the doctors inquired.

“Last night,” I replied.

“But you couldn’t feel your lower extremities?” one doctor asked.

“So? It was Valentine’s Day and I’m dating a really hot Russian model!” I explained.

[The doctors in the room just stared at me with wide eyes and said nothing for over 30 seconds before someone moved on to a different topic.]

Yeah, I really said that. What did I have to hide?

It took a while to get my strength back, but thanks to GWU Hospital and Physical Therapy, I did. And, yes, I know how lucky I am!

Oh, and if you’re wondering, Alexei visited me in the hospital and came to my house quite a few times while I was recouping. A nice, uncomplicated guy was just what I needed at this time in my life!

The Diminutive Russian — another contender for Best Worst Boyfriend

Another contender for my Best Worst Boyfriend would be The Diminutive Russian. The year was 1993. I had recently arrived in DC for my college internship and was heading to Habana Village in Adams Morgan to meet some friends. Little did I know at the time how much impact the bartender at that salsa club would have on my life.

I went to order a drink and spoke to the bartender in Spanish. He got very defensive and said, “I’m not Spanish. I’m Russian.” OK. My mistake. We started talking and he asked me to stay around after my group left. I wondered how I would get home, but he said that his friend would give me a lift. (Oh, to be 20 and not even think that I would be getting in a car with a psycho.)

He was interesting and had a bit of mystery to him. The Diminutive Russian was dark and handsome, but very short for me, and I towered over him by at least five inches in my platform sandals. His friend showed up, and as we were getting ready to leave, a girl walked in to the bar and kissed The Diminutive Russian. Huh? I was confused, but didn’t say anything. He told me that this girl surprised him from out-of-town so he was going to hang out with her that night.

“Is she your girlfriend?” I inquired.

“No. We’re just friends,” he replied.

I gave him my number, and his friends drove me home. He called the following night and we went out. I should’ve recognized the warning signs, but I didn’t. Over the next several months, The Diminutive Russian continued to claim that the girl, Kristen, wasn’t his girlfriend because she was married. I believed him — partly because I wanted to and partly because I was 20 and didn’t know better.

Within a week after we met, he started making comments about my weight.

“You’re so heavy.” I was a size 8-10.

“How much do you eat?”

“You really need to start watching your diet!”

If some guy said that to me now, I would laugh in his face and tell him to lose my number. But, at that age, I reacted much differently. I lost 25 pounds in 8 weeks on The Diminutive Russian Diet Plan. He was like my own unhealthy Jenny Craig!

Despite how he treated me and how much he made me cry, I fell hard for him. We spent a lot of time at Habana and The Vault after-hours, drinking, kissing and dancing. I remember many a night when we would have sex until the sun rose. The Diminutive Russian also had an intellectual side, and we would get into deep conversations about international relations and Oscar Wilde’s works.

Most of his friends were Russian and too intense for me. A lot of them were interested in things (cocaine, threesomes, etc.) that were not of interest to me. At The Diminutive Russian’s birthday party, no one informed me that I was supposed to be part of his present and hook up with a girl right in front of him and his best friend. The fact that the host of the party turned on a lesbian porn movie, and his girl, Olga, started rubbing my legs should have tipped me off. But, I didn’t initially realize that something was amiss because I had been drinking. Once I figured out what was going on, I told The Diminutive Russian that I wanted to leave, and he seemed (thankfully) as offended as I was by his best friend’s plan.

One would hope that type of thing would have been an isolated incident, but it wasn’t. On my last night in DC, we went to Trax with an old friend that was visiting from Russia. When we headed back to The Diminutive Russian’s studio, I assumed that his friend would let us have fun on the floor while he slept in the bed. He did not, and I suddenly felt another set of hands on me. I yelled at the friend to get off of me, and the two of them started screaming in Russian at each other. I’m happy to report that the friend went back to bed without further protest and this didn’t turn into a bad Lifetime movie, but it was still another odd night with The Diminutive Russian.

When I returned to college for my senior year, we stayed in touch and saw each other when we could. In one call, he said how much he missed me and that he was sending a plane ticket for me to come down to DC the day after Christmas for a party that he was hosting. He asked me to stay with him through New Year’s, and I agreed, provided that Kristen (the ambiguous girlfriend) wasn’t going to be at either event. He insisted that she wasn’t.

In my infinite wisdom (note sarcasm), I told my parents that I couldn’t bear to be apart from The Diminutive Russian for another semester and arranged to take my last four classes at GWU. My parents thought that was very unwise (understatement), but supported me nonetheless.

On December 26, 1993, I arrived at the Diminutive Russian’s doorstep with my luggage. The Russian party was a huge success, and I worked coat check as he managed the floor. It felt like we were finally a couple, and I was even beginning to stand up for myself around him.

“You need to eat more. You are too skinny,” he commented after the party.

“Really? I doubt that you’ll ever stop criticizing me no matter how much I weigh. You just want to control me, and that needs to stop!” I replied.

On New Year’s Eve, I arrived at Habana in a tiara and red dress. At midnight, The Diminutive Russian kissed me, and everything seemed perfect. My bliss was short-lived, though, as Kristen showed up at the bar at 2am. She walked up to The Diminutive Russian and they started making out right in front of me! I did my best to hide my tears until I left Habana. I had nowhere to go other than his apartment so I went back there and called my parents, sobbing hysterically.

I wasn’t sure if the evening could get more bizarre, but it did. At 5am, The Diminutive Russian returned to his place – alone – and acted as though nothing had happened. I stayed with him in his apartment, and I was glad that I did because I learned a lot that night.

The Diminutive Russian had lied to me about his relationship with Kristen. Yes, she was married, but much to my surprise, so was The Diminutive Russian! He was in a green-card marriage with an old girlfriend. Kristen was in a marriage with an older man for security. And, Kristen and The Diminutive Russian loved each other, but I was his girlfriend who he really liked. (If you are confused at this point, imagine how I felt at the time!)

I left The Diminutive Russian’s place the next day. He and I talked a few times after that, but we never dated again.

In 1996, we ran into each other at the original Ozio. Out of boredom and nostalgia, The Diminutive Russian and I ended up spending the night together. I just remember being there with him and wondering why I ever was so attracted to him in the first place. Three years later, I was in a much different place, whereas he was doing exactly the same thing with his life.

The following night, I had a date with another guy. When I got home at the end of the evening, I had 23 voicemail messages from The Diminutive Russian! Yes, 23! I broke out into a huge smile, knowing that if only for one night, The Diminutive Russian felt about me the way that I had felt about him in 1993. I wasn’t sure what the Russian’s next move would be, but for once, I didn’t care. You never know when you are over someone until you just are. I finally was and sure slept soundly that night!

The Beef — a contender for the Best Worst Boyfriend

I put a link to my blog on Facebook to increase traffic, and got an interesting comment from an ex-boyfriend, The Beef, about how he should move back to DC. I'm not sure if he meant that he would do better in this town than most guys or that I would do better dating him, but either option was amusing.

Why did I find this so funny? Because The Beef ranks up there on my list of Best Worst Boyfriends! We dated in 1996 for several months and again in 2001. (Oh, if you're realizing that I have a pattern for recycling my exes, then pat yourself on the back.) I will list his pros and his cons, and let you make your own determination about whether he was a good boyfriend.

Pros:

1. The Beef is articulate, intelligent and active politically. He worked for the RNC and the Congressional Black Caucus. The Beef was a player in politics at an age when most of us are merely excited to vote; and

2. He is an amazing lover. The Beef is not a euphemism, and he knows how to work his kabob.

Cons:

1. When we reconnected in 2001, The Beef had just moved back to DC and was living temporarily at a friend's place. Shortly after we started dating again, I headed off to California on vacation. The Beef called and asked if he could stay at my place indefinitely. I felt bad for him and saw some potential so I said sure. My friend, Nicole, commented, "Only you could go away and have your relationship move forward." I wouldn't say that The Beef was a freeloader, but he definitely wasn't doing as well professionally as he once was;

2. When I returned from my trip, I was looking forward to seeing him and opened the door with a huge smile on my face. My smile turned to a look of wide-eyed shock, when I saw my apartment. There were roaches in my studio. There were several trash bags that were just in the middle of the room, despite the fact that the trash chute was 30 steps away. His stuff was all over. I like my place impeccably neat so I was freaking out.

"I missed you so much," The Beef said. "I'm so glad you're back. What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking that I can't live in this mess," I replied;

3. The path of destruction went on…and on. I had a bizarre burnt sienna stain on my carpet, a cigarette burn on my comforter, and a huge black ink stain on my duvet. He didn't apologize or mention any of those things to me in advance so it was like a torturous scavenger hunt. One of my picture frames was broken, and I asked him where the photo of my parents was.

"The photo is right there," he stated.

"That was a two-sided picture frame. Where's the other picture of my folks?" I inquired. (For some back-story, my Mom passed away in 1997. Pictures of her are things that I understandably treasure.) He said that he didn't have it;

4. We went to a birthday party for a guy I dated a bit in college, and The Beef drank a lot of vodka. I don't have a problem with that, but out of nowhere, I saw The Beef's version of Mr. Hyde. I made a comment about how he kept talking to this girl at the party, and he started screaming at me. I asked him to calm down, but he wouldn't. For the next two hours, he proceeded to talk about how: a) fat I had gotten; b) my health problems aren't a big deal; and c) I'm so spoiled. Through his entire tirade, I did not shed a tear, and just told him that he was way out of line.

The icing on the cake? He said that I made him so mad that he wanted to hit me and screamed that I was a bitch.

"OK. You can leave now."

"Where am I supposed to go? It's 3am!" he exclaimed.

"I don't care where you go. You only need to call me a bitch and threaten to hit me once."

As he was getting his Hefty bags together (he used trash bags in lieu of luggage), the picture of my parents that was missing fell out of the bag. He claimed that he didn't know he had that.

He apologized for his behavior the next day, but I told him that there was no excuse for what he said. I was done;

5. Several weeks later, I had friends come over for dinner. I went to set the table, and pulled out all of my small plates. The plate on the bottom still had food on it. Apparently, The Beef didn't wash the dishes before he put them on the bottom of the pile in the back in the cupboard. Gross; and

6. The following month, my phone bill came. While I was on vacation, The Beef made $75 in calls from my home phone to a (900) number. I e-mailed him about getting the money back. He insisted that the (900) number was for Technical Support for his computer. More like Testicle Support, if you ask me! He said that he would get me the money, but I knew that he never would pay me back.

I called one of my girlfriends, after I found the dishes and the phone bill came. In both conversations, I opened with the same line:

"I HATE THE BEEF!!!"

Saran Wrap should be clingy, not boys

2008

I decided to at least meet Mr. Port Authority when I came back home to DC. To assuage the fears of my friends who thought he was a stalker, I picked a public place in the middle of the day. When he walked up to me, I was surprised that he was even more attractive in person. Mr. Port Authority also had a calm air about him. We grabbed coffee and then the following day, we went to a café. As I had thought, he was more lonely than psycho.

He started talking a lot about how he enjoys the “simple pleasures” in life. I’m all for that, but after a few hours with him, I realized that “simple pleasures” was his code for “I don’t have much money and can’t pay for anything.” I’m fine with paying my own way for things or sticking to casual get-togethers, but there is a limit.

Mr. Port Authority called me two nights after we went to the café. I had been sick all day and was just starting to feel better. He mentioned coming over with a DVD and taking care of me. He seemed sincere so I said sure.

“What do you have for dinner?” he inquired.

“Umm…nothing. I’m barely keeping crackers down so I’m not that hungry,” I replied.

“What if we order a pizza?” he asked.

“I’m not going to eat any, but you can order whatever you want,” I said.

“Well, I was thinking that since I’m coming over, you would order the pizza,” he commented.

“Wait a minute. You want me to pay for your pizza?” I realized.

“Well, if it’s such a big deal, you don’t have to, but I thought that would be nice of you,” he stated.

From that moment forward, Mr. Port Authority became Mr. Pizza. Seriously, you can’t even afford your own pizza? How old are you? I called in the pizza order, and yes, sucker that I am, I paid for it. An hour and a half later, he finally came over. By that point, I just wanted to go to sleep.

He rented some movie that I totally wasn’t interested in so I tried to fall asleep on the couch. As I was starting to drift off, his chewing woke me up. It was like being in a barn with a horse during feeding time. But louder. I looked over at him eating at the table and noticed that there was food falling out of his mouth and crumbs falling onto the floor. (For those of you who don’t know me or haven’t been to my house, I am one of those people who likes her place to be impeccably neat. I drop stuff on the floor, too, but then I clean it up immediately.) Mr. Pizza, by contrast, didn’t even notice what he was doing and just kept shoveling more slices into his mouth. I was thoroughly disgusted.

He ended up spending the night. Mr. Pizza was like a little lost puppy. He was completely respectful and just wanted to be held. A week later, he asked if he could come over to watch a movie and spend the night since he had a doctor’s appointment in the morning near my condo. That was fine or so I thought.

He came over with all this equipment for sleep apnea, which he didn’t have with him the previous week. Mr. Pizza also used several alarms in the morning, which he neglected to mention as we were going to sleep. I awoke to his watch alarm ringing in my ear and then he rolled over and accidentally clocked me in the head. As I was holding my head in pain, his iPod alarm went off loudly. (I like quiet almost as much as I like cleanliness.) Without saying anything, I knew that I would never have him spend the night again.

In the morning, he was off to consult with a doctor about surgery to improve his snoring.

“So, are you coming with me?” he asked.

“Where?” I questioned.

“To the doctor’s office. Don’t you want to go with me?” he inquired.

“No. I don’t.” I replied. Seriously? I barely know you. Why would I want to go into a surgical consult with someone I haven’t even kissed.

The little lost puppy image that I had for him was soon replaced by an image of Saran Wrap. There is clingy and there is clingy. Mr. Pizza was the latter. He wanted to spend his birthday a week later with me, and kept calling and IM-ing me to remind me that his birthday was coming up. I said that we could meet for lunch for his birthday. You might be wondering why I would even be willing to do that. Well, I didn’t want him to be alone, but I also didn’t want to celebrate in a way that made it seem as though we were a couple.

On the morning of his birthday, I texted him and told him to let me know when we could meet for lunch. He called a couple hours later to say that he was at the doctor’s and thought that we could get together in the evening. He insisted that he had no time available during the day, even though he had said earlier in the week that he could meet for lunch. I told him that I had plans later and wished him a Happy Birthday. I didn’t mean to be cold, but I really couldn’t take another night with him.

The following week, he called me again the night before his surgery. I knew what he wanted (to spend the night and have me take him to the hospital) so I just let it go to voicemail. Mr. Pizza kept contacting me to give me the play-by-play of his recovery. I tried to keep our communication brief since I wanted to hear that he was recouping well, but didn’t want him to read too much into it. A few weeks later, he asked what went wrong with us.

“Well,” I wrote in an IM, “I think we’re just different people. Does that make sense to you?”

“Not really. Can you elaborate?” he asked.

“I guess that I am pretty independent and feel more comfortable with a guy who’s the same way.” I said.

“So, I just wanted too much City Girl time?” he inquired.

“Yeah, I guess that’s it,” I responded. What else was there to say? I felt bad enough for him that I didn’t want to say, “You’re messy, loud, needy, looking for a Sugar Mama, and annoy the crap out of me.” Game over, Mr. Pizza. Thanks for playing.

Laughing at a comic isn’t always a good thing

2005

In 2002, Basketball Boy and I went out on our first date to dinner and a comedy show at the DC Improv. We saw a comic who had found success in TV and film in the 1990s, but was now doing stand-up at a small venue. He still put on a great show, though, and a few of his bits made me laugh so hard that my stomach hurt.

Three years later, Funny Boy returned to DC, and a group of us went to see him perform. I got up in the middle of the show to stretch. While in the lobby, a large, handsome man approached me. It turned out that he was Funny Boy's bodyguard, Greg. I was surprised that Funny Boy needed a bodyguard, and Greg agreed with me that he didn't. He thought that Funny Boy just liked the attention that a bodyguard attracted. Interesting. Greg and I talked during much of the show, and he asked if I wanted to go out for a drink afterward. I had plans with my friends that night, but I told Greg that I would call him before he left town.

Two nights later, I was driving back from an Orioles game and decided to see what Greg was up to. Funny Boy was starting his show soon, and Greg suggested that I come by the Improv to grab a drink. I arrived at the club and was glad that I did. I spent most of the night hanging out with the opening comic and Greg in the back of the venue, and we had a blast.

After Funny Boy was done, he came to the back and looked at me. He asked if I would come out with him and some friends to a nearby lounge. I wanted to spend more time with Greg, and thought Funny Boy would be well, funny, so I said sure.

Funny Boy had also invited some other girls to the lounge. From their outfits, it appeared as though they were in the entertainment industry. I don't mean that with judgment behind it, but it's not that tough to spot strippers in an Ann Taylor/Banana Republic/J Crew town like DC.

We arrived at the lounge and one of Funny Boy's friends from high school joined us. He also had asked a pretty, petite Indian girl to meet him there. She seemed very sweet and brought along two of her friends. So, there we were at the table: Funny Boy, the bodyguard, three petite Indian girls, the high school friend, two strippers and me. Remember that game on Sesame Street — which one of these is not like the other? Well, at this table, I definitely didn't blend, but that didn't phase me.

The strippers kept going to the bathroom to powder their noses. The powder was not the type that you could purchase at a cosmetic counter. The sweet girl that Funny Boy had invited seemed uncomfortable, but at least she had her friends with her. I talked a lot with Greg and the high school friend, and the mood lightened (and livened) up when we all started dancing.

I took a break from the dance floor, and Funny Boy and I started talking one-on-one. He said that he was attracted to me. I responded,

"Thanks. That surprises me, though, since I'm not your type."

"Why would you say that?" he asked.

"Because I'm not a petite Indian girl or a stripper."

"Well, you are the girl I want to leave with."

I was flattered, but I also tried not to think too much of it. I felt as though he was attracted to me because I seemed like a challenge. And, I wasn't sure if I was even attracted to him.

We left the lounge, and one of the strippers was so out of it that she could barely walk. Funny Boy told Greg to make sure that they were okay and take them home. (I realize that Funny Boy was paying Greg, but I would hope that my friends wouldn't task someone else with helping me out if I wasn't feeling well.)

Funny Boy and I walked to his hotel around the corner, and he invited me up to his suite in The Mayflower for a drink. I told him that I would be happy to join him for a drink, but that I wasn't going to sleep with him. He was fine with that, and suggested that I meet him upstairs in ten minutes.

In ten minutes, Funny Boy had turned on light jazz, lit candles in both rooms and changed into a t-shirt and flannels. He became very intense, very quickly. I was talking about how I hoped that the girls were ok. I asked if the drinks were very strong at the lounge, and Funny Boy got very defensive, insisting that he doesn't drink alcohol. (OK. Fine. Calm down, buddy.) He was heading to New York City after DC, and I made some silly comment with a Brooklyn accent. Then, he got very offended.

"Why are you doing impressions?" Funny Boy inquired.

"Umm…because it's funny. I say things in different accents all the time," I replied.

"You are not a comedian. You are not supposed to make jokes. I am a comedian. That's what I do."

"Umm…ok."

I wasn't sure if I was interested in Funny Boy before I went up to his room, but now I knew that I wasn't attracted to him. Within a minute, he got on top of me and started kissing me. He was one of those kissers who just sticks his tongue down your throat with no skill, direction or passion. I sensed by the movement in his flannel pants that he was excited, but each second with his tongue so far down my throat was one too many. I felt as though I was at the doctor's office and he was checking to see if I had strep. Eww!

I excused myself soon after that. As I exited the hotel, Greg called and we had a nice talk. Greg was articulate, caring and fun. If he didn't live in LA, I would have gone out with him again. Funny Boy, by contrast, gave me his number, and I promptly deleted it. It's a good thing when a guy makes me laugh because of his humor and personality. It's not a good thing when a guy makes me laugh because of how he kisses.

It’s a Dick in my In Box!

Last spring, I finally came to the realization that Internet dating is not for me. I've done it a few times over the years, but I've found that the guys I meet online typically fall into one of two groups:

1. Want to get married and/or have children ASAP. Such a cavalier approach to something as serious as marriage freaks me out. I am in no rush to get married, and want to really know someone well before I stand in front of him and say that, "Yes. This is forever." When guys from online sites talk about relationships and commitments by the second date, I never stick around for the third; or

2. Just want to get laid. Now, I'm fine if people are up front about that, but don't place or respond to an ad about a relationship, when you really just want a casual encounter.

Tennis Boy fell into the second category, although I had initially thought we were looking for the same things when we met in 2007. He was well educated, attractive, international and athletic. Our first date consisted of taking his dog for a long walk in the park. He seemed respectful and considerate — to both the dog and me. I don't keep a tally as to how well a date is going, but if I did, he would have scored quite a few points.

For our second date later that week, we went to a lounge. Again, he did and said everything right. Conversation with him was easy, and he had a good sense of humor. He paid for my drinks. He walked me to my car at the end of the night. He gave me the tiniest kiss on the lips (closed mouth). He was heading out of town the following week and then I was going to be out of town, but we planned to see each other when I got home.

Two weeks later, I was back in DC, but he had a bad cold. We texted and e-mailed a few times, and I figured that we would eventually go out again. I wasn't pressed about it, though.

So, imagine my surprise, when I saw that I had an e-mail from him at 1am. The subject was "I'm thinking of you," and there was an attached photo. I clicked on it, and stared at my computer screen with a look of shock on my face.

Tennis Boy had sent me a photo of himself naked. If you think this might have been an artistic or subtle shot, think again. He took the picture from the neck down and in the center of the shot was his hard dick. Tennis Boy was sitting on a stool as he was posing, and in the background was his disgustingly dirty kitchen floor.

When I told a friend the story, she asked, "How did his dick look?" I guess that didn't even matter to me since the e-mail was so inappropriate that I just deleted it. Another friend commented, "It is never a good thing to send genitalia pics online." For serious! How did he go from Mr. Chivalry to Mr. Dick in my In Box?

I didn't reply to that e-mail, but he wrote me again. He intimated that he thought I was more open to those kind of things. Eww! Again, I didn't reply.

I was telling the story to a few friends at a local bar, when one of my boys said, "Wait a minute. Is his name…?" Yep. From the basic information that I shared at the bar, my friend knew the guy, and was not necessarily surprised that he did this.

Well, I guess I should feel lucky to have gotten out when I did. Someone else can deal with Tennis Boy, his fetish for unattractive naked self-portraits, and that gross kitchen.