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.

Nothing says a first date like The Port Authority

I went on Match.com for a few weeks last March. Some of my friends in NYC had been using the site, and I thought it would be a fun diversion from Lawyer Boy. If you’ve read my entries about Brooklyn Boy, you know that one match was a bust. Mr. Port Authority is the other guy I met through the site.

From his profile, Mr. Port Authority was totally my type. He looked so much like my ex-boyfriend, Matt, that it was almost freaky. He also loved sports and was preparing to start his surgical residency. (My hospital stories are almost as entertaining as my dating stories so I tend to hit it off with people in the medical profession.)

We spoke several times over the phone, and I was preparing to see him when I got back to DC. In our last call, he asked me to leave NYC early or go back to DC for just a night, which I viewed as illogical and too eager. I don’t understand guys who get so clingy before we’ve even set eyes on each other.

I tried to look past this yellow flag since I was interested in meeting him. Two days later, I was at the hair salon in NYC, when I got a text from him:

“I’m in NYC for the day! Want to get together?”

We started texting back and forth, and he said that he was in the City to drop some info off at hospitals and to try to see me. Hmm….the Cling-O-Meter is rising and that’s not a good thing.

I knew enough about the residency match process to know that the results were coming out in a week. This guy is clearly not Type A or anything close to that if he waits to speak with hospitals until the 11th hour. His stock is falling since I’m far too motivated to deal with someone who isn’t at least a Type B.

I asked him where he was and he threw out an address that was THREE blocks from my family’s apartment in NYC. I exhaled and tried to convince myself that this was just a coincidence. I don’t remember if I told him where in NYC my family lived, but it was a tad creepy.

“Where were you thinking of meeting up?” I texted.

“What if we meet at The Port Authority for a hug and coffee before my bus leaves?”

The Port Authority? Who wants to meet someone for the first time at The Port Authority? That building is just one notch above a sewage treatment plant. My friend, Amy, summed it up perfectly when she said, “Does he want to kidnap you and take you to New Jersey?”

I decided to pass on this tempting offer [insert sarcastic eye roll here] and suggested that we wait to meet until we were both back in DC. By this point, my friends thought he was a stalker. I thought he was needy and socially-awkward. Regardless, Mr. Port Authority was making Mr. Starbucks look good, and that’s not saying much.

Purple Thong Boy

This is an oldie (a dating adventure from 2002), but a goodie.

I met Michael at Cheesecake Factory on a Saturday morning. That should have be enough of a sign that he wasn't going to be my Prince Charming. But, he was tall and very attractive with light black skin and a Georgetown degree so I gave him my number.

We would meet for drinks now and then. It wasn't serious (no love and no sex), but he was fun to hook up with. Michael always seemed to travel with at least one — and often, several — of his boys. I would get calls from his best friend, Charles, and some nights, both of them stayed over at my place. Back then, I was living in a studio and just had a bed and no couch so sleepovers at my place were quite cozy. But, Charles was always very respectful and Michael was amusing so it wasn't a problem.

On one particular day, I was at work and got a call from Michael. He and his friend, Dylan, wanted to take me out to lunch. I rolled up to the bar at Friday's and found them both already buzzed at 1pm. This Friday's doesn't get much traffic during the day so I felt really bad for all the senior citizens having lunch there. Michael was all over me like it was 3am and we were leaving a club.

He then started talking to Dylan about how much he liked kissing me and wouldn't Dylan like to kiss me. Dylan seemed open to it, and I replied, "Sorry. I'm not MCI. I don't do Friends-and-Family." (An MCI reference is dated, I know, but those ads were all over TV back then.)

I had to head back to the office, but Michael and Dylan mentioned that they might come over later and we could go out to dinner. I just told them to give me a call. Several hours later, as I got home from the gym, my phone rang. It was Dylan, saying that he and Michael were coming by with Chinese food in an hour. I told him that I was pretty beat, but if it was just for a few hours, that was cool.

Shortly after the call, Dylan showed up at my door with a bottle of wine.

"Where's Michael?" I asked.

"He went to get the Chinese food. He should be over in a little."

An hour later, I was starving and Michael still wasn't here. Dylan left a message for Michael, but he didn't call back. By this point, the wine bottle was almost empty and I hadn't had a glass. As Dylan got more and more buzzed, he kept moving closer and closer to me. Then, he offered to give me a foot massage. Umm…no thanks.

Finally, I just said, "Is Michael really coming over?"

"Well, I think so. But, you know him. He's probably out with another girl."

"We're not in an exclusive relationship," I replied. "He's free to date whomever he chooses, as am I. I just don't feel comfortable having you over if he's not coming."

"Oh. Okay. Can I just use your bathroom?"

"Sure," I said.

I kept watching the movie and was trying not to fall asleep. But then, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. Dylan came out of the bathroom, wearing nothing but a lavender thong. What kind of guy wears a LAVENDER THONG? (Most guys I know wouldn't be caught dead in a thong — ever.)

I tried to look away because it was like watching a train wreck. He then started prancing around in the thong, jiggling his package. "You want some of this?" he asked.

"NOOOOO! Put some clothes on and get out of my place."

"Don't you like me? I know that I could satisfy you. Michael said that you were really fun."

"Get the hell out of my place! NOW!"

He put on his clothes and left. The image of him in the thong still haunts (or amuses?) me to this day. It was so wrong that it was funny. No guy should be wearing a thong unless he's a professional bodybuilder. And, Dylan was definitely not that.

A few days later, Michael called and I told him what happened. He had absolutely no idea that Dylan had even come over to my place, let alone under false pretenses. When I told him the purple thong portion of the program, he was livid. Michael and Dylan worked for Michael's father's company. Dylan lost his job because of this since Michael and his dad thought this was so irresponsible.

Even though I only spent a few hours with Dylan, I will never forget him. Thank you for the laughs, Purple Thong Boy!

Happy New Year's everyone!

Brooklyn Boy — Part II or What Not to Say on a Date

I was really looking forward to my date with Brooklyn Boy and saw the evening as a chance for us to get to know each other better. We went to a nice lounge in Chelsea and a casual, Asian-fusion restaurant in Union Square. I’m not one who requires a guy to be overly chivalrous or attentive, but I do notice those things. I offered to pay my way at the lounge and at dinner, and he took me up on both of those offers.

That might have made more sense had he not gone on – almost ad-nauseam – about how he’s trying to figure out how this relationship can work if we live in different cities the majority of the time. (Hmm…I didn’t know we were in a relationship yet.) I said that we would see each other over inauguration, which wasn’t too far off. He replied that a month was a very long time to wait. Seriously? We don’t even really know each other. Does he want me to run in the opposite direction? (That tends to happen if someone gets super-clingy with me after only a few dates.)

The night got worse when he tried to kiss me. Much like I did on our first date, I told him that I wanted to take things slowly and didn’t want him to be the rebound guy. He then started negotiating like we were 15, and he was trying to get me to have sex with him for the first time:

“Just a little kiss. It’s not a big deal.” It is to me.

“A kiss isn’t taking things quickly.” At our age, a kiss rarely stays at just a kiss for very long. Plus, isn’t the physical connection the easy part? It’s much tougher to find someone with whom I connect emotionally and intellectually.

“Do you not believe in PDA?” Yes, if I’m comfortable with someone.

“Relationships are about compromise.” But we aren’t in a relationship yet…

“Are you a prude?” I tried not to laugh out loud at this. The boy has no idea what I freak I can be…with the right person.

The prude comment really made me feel like I was 15 again. It got worse when he cornered me outside of the bathroom on our way out of the restaurant and kissed me. He didn’t ask if that was okay. He just did it. I went along somewhat reluctantly.

The seven-second kiss was one of the worst kisses of my life. Brooklyn Boy kisses with the FLAT part of his tongue. He doesn’t use the tip of his tongue. He doesn’t maneuver the flat part of his tongue gently. He just came at me like a hyperactive dog. Ugh!

To make the evening even more bizarre, Brooklyn Boy relayed a Woody Allen joke to me… about rape. If you care, read the section about Harlene Rosen here. Rape is never funny. After he saw my reaction and I emphatically stated, “That’s not funny,” he apologized. I accepted his apology, but it just didn’t seem sincere. I felt like he really didn’t get how inappropriate it was to relay that story. Period.

I ended the night, thinking that I might see Brooklyn Boy again. (I know. I need to make better guy choices.) But, after sleeping on the prude question and rape joke, I realized that I don’t care to see him again. I don’t know if he doesn’t respect women or just doesn’t get them, but either is a deal breaker for me.

He contacted me this week, and I wrote back an e-mail that I just didn’t feel comfortable with some of the comments that were made and wished him the best in 2009. He then asked me to tell him what he said. I kept my response brief (asking me if I was a prude because I didn’t want to kiss you and telling the Woody Allen rape joke made me feel uncomfortable), and he wrote the following:

“Boy was I misunderstood. The Woody Allen joke was something I had heard and wasn’t my invention. I thought I had put forth the disclaimer and apology once you stated that you worked with abused women. I know it’s a serious matter…Please contact me again. Go with what you felt when you talked to me not what you added to the event which took place in your memory. I really do like you and would like to see you again.”

Wow! So, if you didn’t come up with the joke and apologize afterwards, that makes it OK? And, I had to try not to laugh that he’s making it sound like he’s misunderstood and that my memory is faulty.

I actually don’t disagree with his take on what was said, but I don’t care to engage him further. He clearly doesn’t get that it was wrong to relay the joke at all. I sent him a one-liner asking him to respect that I don’t care to communicate further to which he wrote me back another long paragraph. I’m not replying anymore. How much do I have to say to a guy who made me buy my own dinner, thought it was acceptable to tell a joke about rape, and kissed me with a flat tongue when I didn’t even want to be kissed :p?

Brooklyn Boy — Part I

I recently ended a relationship with a man I loved…a lot. I know that it was the right decision to break it off with him, but it still hurts.

I'm not a serial monogamist and know that I'm not ready to be in another relationship anytime soon. But, I still enjoy dating and going out for drinks with guys. So, I gave this Brooklyn Boy a chance.

He and I met earlier this year for coffee when I was wondering if I was ready to start dating other people. (I wasn't, as I was far too in love with Lawyer Boy, but I tried.) If I close my eyes and imagine the perfect guy for me physically, Brooklyn Boy fits the bill. Think 6'2" tall, dark and handsome with an athletic build. Brooklyn Boy's inside is as appealing as his outside. He's motivated professionally and well rounded with a love of traveling, foreign languages and sports. I like being able to talk politics with someone one minute and NCAA basketball the next. The fact that he spoke quite a bit about his family and how close they all are increased the value of his portfolio for me. Meeting someone for a quick coffee usually doesn't leave me wanting more. With Brooklyn Boy, it did.

So, now that I am officially single, I decided to e-mail Brooklyn Boy. He was game for getting together for drinks at a bar in Gramercy. The bar was modern, yet romantic, with dimmed lighting, lots of candles and velvet couches. On a Monday night, it wasn't too crowded for us to hear each other. The more we talked, the more I wanted to talk more.

He asked me when I was last in a relationship. I was honest with him and said that I recently ended something serious. I commented that I hoped he and I could keep getting to know each other and see what happens. Brooklyn Boy seemed fine with that…or so I thought. We were just sitting there on the couch, and out of nowhere, he tries to kiss me. Not a little peck, but a full-on open-mouth kiss. We haven't even spent more than three hours together cumulatively, and he's acting like we're at a frat party! (20-something City Girl would have been open to that, but 30-something City Girl is not.) I was totally caught off guard, but managed to steer the kiss to just a peck on the mouth. Thankfully, he didn't push it. We ended the night with another peck and agreed to see each other next week.

Was it naive of me to think that he wouldn't push it on our next date? Maybe. But, I was looking forward to spending more time with Brooklyn Boy and could not have foreseen just how bizarre that date would be.

A horrible first date

It was fall of 2007, when a friend IM-ed me about fixing me up with this guy he had just met. I’m not one for blind dates, but I was told that he was funny, attractive, educated and second-in-command at the embassy.

“Which embassy?” you might be asking.

Well, I probably shouldn’t say, but I viewed the embassy connection as a huge plus since I had lived in his country for a year. I was looking forward to the guy’s call and saw some potential. Boy, was I wrong! Read on to find out why our first date was also our last:

1. He picked Starbucks as the meeting place (Picking Starbucks is not a deal breaker on its own, especially for a casual and quick get together, but it’s definitely not the most creative place for a first date);
2. He asked when I was available. I said, “11.” And for the next 15 minutes on the phone, he kept insisting that we were meeting at 10. The following morning, he tried to get me to agree to 10:30. 11. I told him that it was fine if he wanted to grab breakfast on his own, but he insisted that he could wait until 11;
3. I rolled up to the Starbucks and noticed that he was already having coffee and a muffin with his roommate. Huh? He did not apologize nor did he introduce us;
4. He did not offer to pay (I’m cool with paying my way, but an offer is nice);
5. He maligned my choice in beverage from Starbucks as unhealthy. Since he’s neither my Mom nor my husband, I was not cool with that;
6. He then asked if I would drive him to the bank so he could cash a check. Who does their banking on a first date? I decided not to tell him what I really thought of him at this point and ride it out because we have a friend-in-common;
7. He got annoyed when I did not know where the nearest branch of his bank was located;
8. Next, he asked me to take him shopping since he needed things for his new place;
9. He became cross when I turned left, instead of right, to get to the store, despite the fact that I learned to drive in this city and know where I’m going, whereas he just moved here and doesn’t have a car;
10. He then asked me to take him to another place to drop off the items he purchased at the store;
11. He was wearing a fanny pack. (Initially he carried it over his shoulder, but then he put it around his waist — and kept it there);
12. He did not stop talking about himself and his pedigree. “I fence. I ride horses. I drink only the finest Italian wines. I have a flat in London;” and
Unlucky 13. After our “date,” he was deluded enough to call a mutual friend to say how much he likes me and express his confusion as to what went wrong?!? Are you kidding me? He doesn’t need a girl. He needs a driver and a personal assistant!

Mr. Starbucks, as I refer to him now, called me twice after this “date.” I, of course, let his calls go to voicemail. In his messages, he asked me to call him and mentioned us getting together again. I pressed delete. Can you blame me?

Is there a Puma inside of this City Girl?

I traditionally don’t date younger men. It’s not a rule that I have, but more of a preference. Someone my age or a few years older tends to be a better match for me personally and more relatable professionally. So, imagine my surprise when I was asked out by a guy who graduated high school the same year that I graduated law school. I’ve heard the term, “Puma,” used to describe a woman in her 30s who is dating a guy in his 20s. But, is there a Puma inside of this City Girl?

A few friends told me to “Go For It!” If Cameron Diaz and Drew Barrymore can do it, it has to be en vogue, right? I’ve gone out on a dates with guys who are 8-10 years younger than me, but have never seriously dated anyone that young. A 20-something guy can be full of energy under the sheets, but what happens when the initial cute factor wears off? I need a man to challenge and inspire me, not a boy looking for direction in his life.

Signs that I might not even care to grab a drink with this particular guy:

1. He asked which school I went to, and I responded with a well-respected women’s college. To which he replied, “That’s a smart school.” Umm…yeah. I didn’t even think he could handle the information that I was a lawyer and back in school to complete a third degree so I kept that information to myself;

2. He brought up the fact that I am in my prime at 35. (The two guys in their 20s who I dated in the past were also very-focused on this, too.) I’m all for research and statistics, but I’d like to think that women get better and better with age. 35 is my prime for now, but I bet I’ll be even more in my prime (sexually and otherwise) at 45;

3. He wanted to meet me at a bar…at 11pm…while he was with his buddies. I realize that all dates don’t need to be romantic or expensive, but I’m more of a one-on-one date kind of girl. I’m also used to coming home at 11pm, not going out at that hour; and

4. He asked if I was single and ready to mingle. Seriously.

I’ve been told that I have an aggressive personality with guys. However, I don’t think I’ll be “Roarrring” with a younger guy anytime soon. This City Girl needs a guy with Ferragamo or Prada loafers on his feet, not Puma sneakers, to bring out the Tigress in her.