With the Super Bowl coming to the MetLife Stadium in New Jersey and hotels filled to capacity, a friend suggested I rent out my apartment.
I was intrigued but worried that in the wrong hands my place would be turned into a frat house. I imagined returning to stale beer puddles and furniture dotted with cigarette burns.
One measurement of good sex is the depth and quality of the pillow talk.
When considering a potential lover, one needs to ask themself is this a man they’d want to engage in pillow talk, much less share a cigarette.
If anyone ever hands you a business card that reads “Being Is Free” take it as a sign.
Recently a lover asked me how many partners I had. I said 5, which would be roughly one lover per decade.
“Hmm….if I was a betting man, I guess it was more like 15,” he said.
The question popped out two hours into an alcohol-fueled brunch at an expensive restaurant overlooking Central Park. Though we were both feeling light and giddy, I know men and few egos can withstand knowing the details of their lover’s past. So, I cocked my head, feigned innocence and asked “We’re not counting one-timers, are we?”
The bill had yet to be paid, so I was sticking with my safety number. Should he later discover it’s five plus some, I’ll use the “three ginger martini defense.”
Once, in what could be considered a Freudian moment, an investment banker I was seeing bolted so fast after sex that he left his wallet on the nightstand. It was bulging with a $1,000 in cash, but being a “good Catholic girl” I didn’t touch it. Instead, I sweetly handed it over when he came running back. Big mistake on my part given that by that point I had been downgraded in the girlfriend hierarchy and no longer considered Nobu-worthy and had a mountain of bills to pay. Still, seeing that bulging wallet sitting on the nightstand by its lonesome and knowing that I was fuckable but not datable, I felt like a dog staring into a butcher shop window.
Convenience – the restaurant was within walking distance of my office – and a “what-the-hell” attitude prompted me to respond to James’ invitation to meet for lunch with “Just tell me when and where.” After two long years of on-again, off again online dating, my shame is gradually diminishing.
Granny Crapapple Dolls
James was a balding Irish guy with local roots and a career path that transcend both New York City politics and law, which made for an interesting, lively conversation.
It somewhere between his tales of working for the Koch administration and growing up on Staten Island during the Guido invasion that he stated his intent: “My wife and I are separated. No papers have been filed, and I honestly don’t know if we’ll divorce, go to marriage counseling or get back together.”