Sex and the Upper East Side

Starved & Sexless on the Upper East Side

2011-08-28T18:30:00.005-04:00

It was a hot summer night. A looming thunderstorm had been lurking in the stratosphere since noon and the city smelled of on-the-verge-of-combusting trash. It was before the talks of Hurricane Irene, before the lines out the door of Fairway and H&H, and before drugstore’s shelves had become barren of bottled water and batteries. Just a typical summer Thursday and I was ready for another typical Thursday happy hour.

I bobbed and weaved my way past the gawking tourists that cluttered Bryant Park, wondering how they could be so oblivious to the fact that hundreds of people were trying to simply walk down the sidewalk all the while marveling at the fact that a skyscraper could make so many Asians closer to drooling than my grandmother on her Vicodens and afternoon vodka. Eventually, after a few shoulder checks and death glares, I made it to the blessed East Side to meet Emily on the corner of 42nd and Lex.

“So where exactly is this meat market happy hour you’ve been speaking so highly of since Monday?’ I asked as we hailed a cab.

The destination was The Thompson Hotel on the Lower East Side and the occasion was a happy hour being held by Emily’s friend’s boyfriend and two of his co-workers who worked at a predominately male insurance brokerage firm of about three thousand employees.

“Our odds are looking good. Apparently there are some good-looking gents at this company,” Emily elucidated with an enthusiasm I hadn’t seen since we met the “founders” of Five Guys.

Hmmm…insurance dudes, I thought to myself. Geeks, schisters, studs? I wasn’t sure of what we were about to encounter, but I was hell bent on a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and I always loved an excuse not to take the subway home.

What Emily and I walked into was no less a meat market than Ottomanelli’s on a Saturday morning, as prime rib and New York strips virtually spilled onto the sidewalk of York Avenue. It looked as if we had a diverse crowd to work our way through—definitely a few dorks, definitely some schisters, a little ethnicity, maybe a few misplaced hipsters, and very few X chromosomes.

After catching up with Emily on some weekly gossip, it was time to part the testosterone seas and assess what kind of cuts of beef we were really dealing with in the unchartered waters of the Lower East Side.

Eventually, with Emily nowhere to be found, I got myself into an inescapable conversation with Matty and Mark, two Dockers-donning Manhattanites who were neither full-on geeks or schisters, but most definitely could absolutely never be defined into any type of “stud” categorization. Obligingly, I asked the not-so-dynamic duo where they called their place of employment.

“Well, Bacchus—wait, your name is Bacchus, right?” Matty paused to confirm as I restrained myself from rolling eyes and walking away. I politely nodded, but he had already continued speaking.

“We work at this little company called ING. Maybe you’ve heard of it,” he chuckled as he nudged Mark, as if he had just made the wittiest joke of 2011 in the Tri-State area. Soon thereafter, the conversation turned to Matty’s ex-girlfriend in Long Island and I politely excused myself to the bathroom before I was forced to stab myself in the thigh with my rusted apartment keys.

I staggered through the crowd, noticing that my five glasses of wine and no dinner had quite the affect on both my long distance vision and ability to properly walk in my four inch heels. I eventually found Emily and the rest of our estrogen-fueled group. As we were deciding whether to stay or to head back to home base on the Upper East Side, a gentleman in a lavender and white gingham-patterned button down with a navy tie and black rimmed glasses rolled up. He was well dressed and he was surely handsome, but this was all lost as my stomach longed for a morsel of food and my feet yearned for freedom from my nude patent peep-toes. He could have been Michael Chiklis, shirtless and chasing down a drug dealer in The Shield and I wouldn’t have cared at this point in my stomach-eating-itself, wine-induced stupor.

“Oh hey, Jimmy!” our friend Bonnie exclaimed. “I haven’t seen you all night. Have you met my girls?”

The dapper, but suspiciously too well dressed Jimmy shook his head no as Bonnie continued on with the introductions. “Girls, this is Jimmy Papabeariezzo. Jimmy, these are my girls.”

As I was about to excuse myself from the gaggle circled around Bonnie and Jimmy, this Jimmy character decided to strike up a conversation with who else but me? I politely smiled, told him my name, all the while mapping out when I could end the conversation and hail a cab home.

“So where do you live, Bacchus? In the city?” Jimmy asked in such a manly yet soothing voice that I had to wonder why he was in the insurance field instead of doing voiceover work for National Geographic documentaries.

“I live on the Upper East Side,” I politely replied. With that, Jimmy perked right up.

“Is that so? I do too,” he eagerly added.

“And how did you end in the neighborhood?” I courteously asked while trying to decide if I’d be ordering takeout from Gracie Mews or Yuko for dinner.

“Well, when I moved here a about five years ago, my girlfriend at the time—“

“Wait,” I rudely interrupted with confusion. “You’re not gay?”

Jimmy’s jaw immediately dropped to the floor, his face flooded with confusion and insult. I had clearly just ruined my chances for a cab-share back to the ‘hood. Here’s to another lonely, Sauvignon Blac-hazed ride back to the Upper East Side. Definitely going with the burger after this doozy…

Sex & the Upper East Side Heads to the Hamptons

2011-07-10T15:00:00.006-04:00

My friends were dropping like flies. First went Pookie, engaged to her college beau of seven years. Next came Jenny Saurs, then Annie Smalls. I was one of the few left standing in my close-knit group of Upper East Side friends, still searching for that uptown prince. Who would have thought that a handsome, witty, intellectual, non-chain-smoking, employed man with a functioning air conditioner and a similar affinity for all things vodka and Law & Order was so much to ask for in a city of eight million people?

Instead, my past six years of drinking, dating, and dwelling in a jaded city that never sleeps had left me with men who still relied on their mothers to make their lunches and do their laundry; men who thought the answers to their woe-is-me sad state of life’s affairs was at the bottom of a bottle whiskey and a carton of Marlboro Lights; and men who thought it was acceptable to lie and cheat their way through a relationship. Sure there had been a pseudo-African prince, a LeBron James look-a-like, and a few unforgettably sexy cab rides in there, but those sure as hell hadn’t landed me in a stable, secure relationship accessorized with a diamond ring.

So what better way to forget the John Does of the past than with a girls’ weekend in the Hamptons? I’d spent a summer in the Hamptons years past with my first New York summer love, The Captain. It was before the days of Gossip Girl and The Real Housewives of New York, where my only impression, before stepping off that green Jitney was an episode of Sex & the City where Samantha had picked up a bad case of crabs. Luckily, rather than a creepy STD, The Captain showed me a whole new world, Aladdin-Jasmine style, complete with sunset yacht rides, Vueve, and oysters on the half shell. So here I was, years later, with my best gals, my stars and stripes bikini, and a few penis straws just to get us in the bachelorette spirit.

Emily and I were the only singletons on our girls getaway/bachelorette party/happy engagement weekend, with Emily in her usual verge-of-blackout, don’t-be-shocked-if-she-drools state and me coming off a week-long (doctor’s prescribed) pill binge, so accompanied by a slew of engagement rings, we were quite the unapproachable force of women to be reckoned with—or so we thought.

Discounting the eighty-seven year old blind man who proclaimed us to be the best looking group of ladies in the Hamptons that summer as he stumbled out of the Saltwater Grill, we thought we were free and clear of being hit on for the remainder of the weekend. But luckily, for material’s sake, that was far from the case. Apparently, half-conscious girls and diamond rings don’t scare off boys in the Hamptons.

Next came Phil, a twenty-four year old who bought us a round of drinks with his father’s Amex at Dunk Deck, and proceeded to talk our ears off for approximately thirty minutes about how Boy Meets World was the most underrated show of the 1990’s as his father nodded approvingly from across the pool. Emily then proceeded to give Phil a fake number after emptying her glass and we all could only hope we wouldn’t run into him back in the neighborhood—after all, there’s only so much one can discuss if Fred Savage is involved.

After a sloppy Sunday at Boardy Barn, a cab driver named Tiger, and a beer shot-gunning party that rivaled that of a college football team, post-game victory, it was off to The Drift to see the Tin Lizzie vets in action, wearing red, white and blue Spandex from head to toe. It was a sea of Vineyard Vines and Ithaca stripes, with talk of what year they gradated from Cornell and where their shore house was on Dune Road. There wasn't one non-button-up shirt in the house, creating an alarming landscape of pastels and collars.

I had never planned on meeting my uptown prince out East, considering the Hamptons are essentially the drinkers of the Upper East Side transplanted for the summer weekends that fall between Memorial Day and Labor Day, but I knew I was in singles hell when a twenty-something in a pink button-down and khaki pants asked me if I vacationed in Nantucket.

“Do I look like I vacation in Nantucket?” I asked politely as possible, as I motioned to my friends who had just shot-gunned their seventeenth beers of the day in the middle of the bar, which was (proudly) followed up with a College of Wooster-style “boneyard” finish.

I didn’t own an ounce of Khaki, despised Vera Bradley and was disgusted by Lily Pulitzer. I appreciate men who wear t-shirts that fit them properly, rather than Schmediums, and I don’t give a sh*t if you know how to sail a boat or were on your Ivy League school’s rowing team. I want nothing to do with Massachusetts’ vacation towns or the men that frequent them. Again, is that so much to ask in a bar filled with single, good-looking men?

I finally threw in my towel, and my liver, after a nineteen year old asked me if I had kids because I was twenty-eight and lived on the Upper East Side. Have your balls even dropped? I thought to myself as I shook my head at his confused face framed with floppy, verge-of-Bieber hair.

So on that note, happy Hamptons, Upper East Side! Let the summer games begin and congrats to those (a.k.a. my BKM ladies) who never have to worry about playing those games again! And until then for this Sex & the Upper East Side gal, my search for summer love continues…

A Single Girl’s Guide to Summer in the City: Typecasting

2011-06-30T15:10:00.001-04:00

Shore houses, Hamptons shares, street fairs, and sunning in Central Park. Summer in the city is known for many things, but one of my favorites for this sizzling season is the singles scene. So as we bar hop and barbeque our way to September, it’s just as important for us single ladies to know what kind of wolf packs we’re dealing with out there as it is to reapply our SPF 50 every two hours. Drum roll please! Here’s the rundown (a.k.a warning) on which single men of the city to be on the lookout for drinking in bars near you this summer.

The Sugar Fiend
Typically Sugar Fiends can be found populating bars with extensive scotch menus and a wine list that Thomas Jefferson would envy from his grave. These men are either eternal bachelors or divorcees looking for un-Botoxed, childless women that will serve as the “sugar” to their “daddy” role. If you’re looking for a fatherly figure that will sweep you off your feet to East Hampton for a long weekend, given that he is able-bodied enough to still operate a mobile device, give this man your number. But if a few gray hairs and alimony freak you out, focus your sugar on a guy that won’t potentially have a daughter your age.

The Pick-up Artist
Opening lines such as, “Excuse me, I think you have something in your eye. Nope, it's just a sparkle,” or “I was blinded by your beauty so I'm going to need your name and number for insurance reasons,” are blatant warning signs that you’re on the verge of being had by a Pick-up Artist. Their lines sometimes make us laugh, are usually flattering, and can often lead to a free drink or a future date if you’re so inclined to hear the punch line. The Pick-up Artist gets a lot of hate, but his success rates are admittedly much higher than that of a guy who is too shy to do more than smile across the bar. If their line wasn’t offensive and delivered with a cute smile, give a Pick-up Artist some props for his somewhat skewed attempt at gallantry and take him up on his drink offer.

The Gnat
So maybe you had a too few many margaritas, your beer goggles fell off, and in your blinded haze of tequila, salt, and lime you gave a less-than-appealing man your digits. Somehow, ignoring his phone calls and giving and one-word answers to his texts are taken as a sign you’re interested in happy hour next week. The bad news? You’ve got yourself a Gnat. The buzzing won’t stop even with the endless swatting and call ducking you’re doing. The best route here? The truth. Let him know you’re not interested and you apologize for giving the wrong impression. Hey, Cuervo makes us all do crazy things at least one night a summer!

The Danny Zuko
Summer lovin’ can have you a blast with this boy of summer! He’s cute, he’s witty, he loves Golden Retrievers, and looks sexy in swim trunks. You fantasize of walking hand-in-hand through Central Park next fall as the leaves turn and your relationship deepens. But beware if there’s no talk of tailgates for Giants games or any type of future for that matter—you’ve just been Sandy-ed and we can only hope that you’re not wearing black Spandex from head to toe. If you find yourself falling hard for your Danny Zuko, lay it all on the line before you’re singing on the bleachers by yourself come October.

Whatever happens this summer, roll with it, ladies. It wouldn’t be a single summer in the city without a few Danny Zuko’s and Pick-up artists trying to buy us drinks, after all!

Sweet Tooth

2011-06-12T10:05:00.012-04:00

It was a hot, sticky summer night on the Upper East Side and Emily and I were ready for some good old-fashioned Saturday night prowling. After coming off a somewhat desolate, pitiable spring season in terms of all things sex, dating, and love, we wanted to start summer off on the right open-toed, slingback, four-inch heeled feet. In our oh-so-wise opinions this couldn't be too hard considering Emily's spring had consisted of men pissing in her oven and turning up in a bloodied heap on her doorstep at 4:00am, while mine had been so grievously filled with a string of first dates that never made it to second dates or second base, for that matter.

Considering that my most recent first-and-last date had been with a twenty-five year old who made dinner conversation by asking me my favorite color and bitching about his terrible job in real estate finance (yawn), I concluded that perhaps I was focusing on the wrong age range. I had dated plenty of men in the late-twenties to early-thirties age range, and clearly that hadn't panned out seeing that I was dining alone on sushi on a Saturday night contemplating which Upper East Side bars to lurk that evening.

Two salmon-avocado rolls later I concluded that Emily and I needed to take it to the next age range that night. Men in the thirty-five to forty range surely had something to offer, as they were more financially stable and (hopefully) less inclined to dedicate a night out to getting completely blacked out in an effort to find which equally drunk girl they could convince to leave the bar and help them "walk their dog." We didn't need full on sugar daddies here, just something a little closer. I couldn't do the full-on AARP, insulin-toting, arthritic scene no matter how many pairs of Louboutin's and European vacations were promised to me, but I could do with something slightly sweeter in the form of a good-looking, roommate-less, financially stable, physically fit, sarcastically witty, cat-hating thirty-five year old.

I made plans to meet Emily at T-Bar on 74th and Third. With a cocktail menu offering cucumber sake and jalepeno margaritas, I could only hope that the men drinking these fine spirits were not the same ones who drank out of fish bowls at Brother Jimmy's. I saddled up to the bar and began to study the cocktail menu contemplating martini or mojito as I awaited Emily's arrival. As I was trying to get the bartender's attention to order a drink, I quickly took stock of the clientele. Was that an oxygen tank in the corner and a Panama Jack hat atop a fifty-five year old's head? Cheese and rice, there was no way in suffering, purgatory hell that this was going to be our watering hole for the evening.

The bartender had began to saunter in my direction while a gray haired, weathered man in a black button-down that could be from no other catalog but L.L. Bean tried to catch my eye, I pretended that my phone had rang.

"Oh hey, Emily. I have the wrong bar? No way! I'm such an ass. I'll be right there." I conversed with myself as I put down the cocktail menu, grabbed my purse, and headed for the door.

As soon as my little high-heeled feet hit the sidewalk, I placed an actual call to Emily, aborting our T-Bar mission. We decided to relocate our prowling to Baroanda, an oh-so-Euro in feel Italian restaurant that back in the days of The Englishman and The Italian had been a bumpin' spot. What I encountered when I walked in put yesterday's fortune cookie from my fried rice lunch of "The good old days are present too," to sh*t shame with its empty bar and half-filled dining room of couples. No Englishmen, no Italians, no hope.

Since I couldn't walk out of yet another bar within a fifteen minute time span, I slugged down a fourteen dollar glass of Sauvignon Blanc. As soon as Emily arrived and slugged down her fourteen dollar glass of Sauvignon Blanc, we decided to take our mission south of the border to Rosa Mexicano. That plan quickly went to hell in a taco shell when we walked in and were hit with a stench of wet garbage and refried beans. This was no environment for properly drinking and/or picking up men. We quickly hailed a cab and headed to Whiskey Blue on Lex. This would be our final stop of the night, regardless of senior citizened clientele or aromas of rotting burritos--we were far too sober for bar hopping in this haphazard manner.

We traipsed with confidence and thirst into the crowded bar, weaving our way through a group of gentlemen hanging at the bar. Their eyes followed our asses as we stepped up to the bar. They were well dressed and clearly over thirty-five--ok, clearly over forty. As we were about to order, one of the men asked, "Can I buy you ladies a drink?"

Hell yes you can, I thought to myself. I just took eighteen cabs to get here. I smiled as sweetly as I possibly could, studying his face and trying to determine how many years beyond forty he really was. As long as he was more sugar and less daddy, he would do for our first round...

Notches in the Bedpost

2011-05-29T10:55:00.002-04:00

My little social experiment to assess whether the notches in my bedpost were actually just notches or rather grooves of deep-rooted, hidden love got off to a bangin’ start—quite literally. It was a bottle of red, a bottle of white, me, Alejandro, and Mrs. Alejandro who was fresh off the boat from Spain at a cozy French restaurant in the East Village. Mrs. Alejandro was a character straight out of Notting Hill with her hair in a banana clip square on the top of her head and a fondness for date pudding. After we dropped off the slightly tipsy Mrs., it was off to the Upper East Side by way of an inappropriate cab ride that may or may not haunt that cab driver forever. One broken bed later and I knew that Alejandro would never just be another notch in my bedpost—but what about the other men I had dated over my past six years on the Upper East Side? Had I missed my Romeo in a haze of Jameson?

As I sat in my parent’s garage in the dark, locked out after a night of drinking with my college girlfriends, I had a lot to contemplate. Should I go “haute homeless” and sleep in the backseat of one of the cars or get down and dirty Little House on the Prairie-style and call it a night on the tool bench? Were the notches of my date-capades past worth revisiting or should I go back to the Brooks Brother-banker dog and pony show of fresh meat? Or should I just ride it out in a garage and wait for Professor Plum and his lead pipe to come put me out of my misery?

So I put together a list of the past twenty men I had gone on at least one date (or something to that effect) with over my 2,190 days on the Upper East Side. It was an average of 3.33 dates per year, with some of the men being boyfriends of one year plus, some of the men being one-time, never-speak-to-again dates, and the rest being something in between:

20. Alejandro
19. The Young Pup
18. Miggy Fuego
17. J.R. Corduroy
16. Andre from the Corner
15. Johnny the Sake Enthusiast
14. The Fonz
13. Jason
12. Billy Blue
11. The Accountant
10. Benjamin
9. The Trader
8. Jeremy
7. Hershey
6. The Realtor
5. Jimmy Bats
4. The Attorney
3. The Valentine
2. Brady Follows
1. The Englishman

After compiling this very diverse, inter-continental, multi-occupational list, I realized there were quite a few I just couldn’t justify indulging in, even if they were my own sloppy seconds. It was time to check this list twice, Christmas-in-July-style and find out what qualities I really was looking for in a man--and more importantly, qualities that I wanted to steer beyond clear of. Nothing like a little naughty elf-work to start off the summer…

Blasts from the Past

2011-05-15T19:06:00.002-04:00

It’s been a slow spring in all things dating and love for this Sex & the Upper East Sider. Sure, there had been a few dates here and there, and that one notable middle-of-the-bar makeout session with a twenty-six year old last weekend, but Susan Miller (unfortunately) wasn’t lying when she predicted that my May would consist of a lot of couch time—alone.

As it turned out, April dates don’t bring May orgasms. April started with Johnny who was a radiologist by day and a drunk, divorced dad by night that got smashed Samurai-style on our sushi date. I’d never seen sake consumed with such speed and enthusiasm, but he put Asian drunkenness to shame that night after consuming an entire rice paddy’s worth of Uncle Ben’s favorite stuff. Not to mention that he lived in Brooklyn, and as we all know, long distance never works out—my ass isn’t leaving Manhattan for a man who is highly likely to blackout within the first forty-five minutes of our date. That’s just bad sex waiting to happen.

Then there was Andre who picked me up on the corner of 82nd and Third on his way to Pisa Pizza. While I wasn’t sure if being picked up on a street corner was better or worse than being picked up in a bar, Andre did deserve a little street cred for being the first man in 2011 to buy me flowers. But the fact that Andre was slightly man-orexic, didn’t drink, and was in the middle of finalizing his divorce led me to decide that my adoration of food and alcohol, in addition to my predilection for legally single men, wouldn’t exactly mesh with Andre’s current lifestyle. Needless to say, Andre didn’t make it to May.

Then May hit. First, there were the emails from Alejandro. Then came BBM’s from The Realtor, followed by texts from Miggy Fuego and J.R. Corduroy—all blasts from the past. I had been seriously considering taking off the month of May from dating to focus on drinking with my girlfriends and of course, focusing on my couch as Ms. Miller so eruditely suggested, but then I saw the preview for What’s Your Number?, a romantic comedy starring Anna Farris that’s trailer is surely going to be far funnier than the actual movie itself. In the movie, Anna Farris’ character contemplates whether she overlooked her one true love in all of the men she had dated, and as a result, revisits her twenty ex-boyfriends to determine if she had made a wrong choice somewhere along her merry dating way.

There was no intricate storyline or complex characters here, and definitely no Academy Award nominations in the works, but it was food for thought for my little Sex & the Upper East Side world. Suddenly, four men of my last twenty relationships had come out of the woodwork in less than a week’s time. Coincidence or aligning of my astrological moons? There was only one way to find out.

As “they” say (they being a non-existent, ersatz group of allegedly very wise and all-knowing people), everyone deserves a second chance, and as Jean Nidetch once said, “It's choice--not chance--that determines your destiny.”

Although Nidetch was probably talking about making proper food choices in an effort to lose weight considering she is the founder of Weight Watchers, I’m almost positive that her wise words can apply too to my verge-of-pathetic dating life. Perhaps I had made some wrong choices in the past, just like Nidetch’s overweight followers who order Big Mac’s rather than grilled chicken salads with the dressing on the side. And perhaps some of the schmuck’s from my relationships past did deserve a second chance. Maybe I shouldn’t dump someone just because they wear terribly ugly shoes or say “aks” in stead of “ask”. One drink with each couldn’t hurt, right?

Wannabe Slut

2011-04-30T12:44:00.002-04:00

I started off my last article, “Why Men Aren’t Married” with the promise to make a few ridiculous statements, and ended the piece with a pledge to rebuttal any lamentable arguments. Kudos to Anonymous #2, who wrote:

I’m a pussy? How do you know? Listen, men aren’t afraid of commitment. We just learn early in our dating lives that they’re a lot more work. Now I have to concede that sometimes it’s worth it. That goes for both men and women. When we find the right person, it’s all worth it. Or at least that’s what I like to believe. In the meantime, I’ll keep showing women glimpses of sensibility, they’ll keep confusing it for vulnerability, and women like yourself will keeping finding themselves in the morning—dignity in tow-- walking past my dirty bathroom in your hunt for a cab.

Anon #2, was it in your dirty apartment that I left my dignity at? I've been looking for it for weeks now!

But in all seriousness, Anon #2 does make a compelling point that perhaps men just learn earlier (or are more accepting of this fact than women) that dating is work. And perhaps men are wiser for not partaking in unnecessary “work” with women they know are not “the one”—they’re holding off on the mother workload until the right lady comes along. I can’t say I don’t see the validity in avoiding excessive work. And for the record, Anon #2, I rarely sleepover and don’t hook-up with men who lack the courtesy to hail a cab for me.

And while there were some other notable comments with valid points, my favorite came from Anonymous #3, who so eloquently posted:

I randomly came across this website, and was intrigued to read something good given I have alight day at work. No hate, but the writer of this blog is such a wanna be slut. I don't if she cares to even read this comments - but the reason you get dumped by so many kids (from 2 articles I read here) is because you are a complete waste of human skin. Get a life, you will not have the "Sex and the City" people making a show on your crap.

Well, Anon #3, I’d hate to see you on a “heavy” day at work. I can only hope that for your co-workers sake, you did not take out any rage that my latest posting may have caused you on someone for the paper jam in the copier or stapling your PowerPoint presentation on the wrong corner that day.

And yes, I do get dumped, Anon #3. I tend to stay away from dating “kids” as it is somewhat of a legality issue in this country, but I’m a single, twenty-eight year old Manhattanite who happens to like vodka. This means that I go out to bars, often meet men, sometimes exchange numbers, and henceforth go on dates the subsequent weekend. Sometimes these dates lead to relationships that can last anywhere from four weeks to nine months, depending, and sometimes they only lead to just one, single date. This is called dating, and as a result, people get dumped. This is a fact of life, Anon #3, albeit not always a sanguine one, but a fact nonetheless.

And just to clear up any confusion, because I date and sometimes get dumped, I’m a waste of life? Because I have relationships that don’t pan out to a royal wedding in Buckingham Palace with an Alexander McQueen gown, I need a life? Because I may have sex with someone out of wedlock, I’m a wannabe slut? Sounds like hate to me, Anon #3.

I clearly hit a sore spot somewhere with you, Anon #3, but my mother raised me properly, and as a result, I refuse to call someone whom I have never met and couldn’t pick out of a crowd if my “waste of human skin” depended on it, insulting and insolent names. Perhaps you don’t like strong women articulating their opinions, or conceivably, maybe I hit the nail on the head of why one of your past relationships failed. But all’s fair in love and blogging, so I hope your little dirge to Bacchus G’ues made your “light” day at work even lighter—sounds like you may need more than a light day, but what do I know as a wannabe slut, anyways?

And for the record, there's no "wannabe" to slut, but we can cover that lesson another day. Let's stick to the basics of dating for this week...

Why Men Aren't Married

2011-04-16T18:13:00.003-04:00

Last I left it in the world of Sex & the Upper East Side, I was telling writer Tracy McMillan to suck it in response to her article “Why You’re Not Married.” Although I deemed about 97.6% of her reasoning as complete bollywash, I liked her style. She was calling out those pathetic girls who spent their lunch hours online building their own engagement rings the day after they had a second somewhat decent date and then wondered why that phone call for a third date never came.

Now, I’ve decided, it’s my turn to do some calling out and ridiculous statement making on this dreary Saturday on the Upper East Side. So listen up, gentlemen. Enough of this “I haven’t met the one” propaganda or “I’m just not ready to settle down” bullshit. No one wants to die alone. No one wants to grow old a la prunes, Nexium, and The View alone. So stop feeding yourself and your nagging mother these bogus lines. Here are the real reasons why you’re not married:

1. You’re disgusting. College is long over. You haven’t lived with your mother in at least five years (or so I hope). It’s time that you either a) learn how to do dishes, clean toilets, and find out the multiple cleaning capabilities that a Swiffer has to offer; or b) pay someone to do this all for you on a monthly basis. No woman wants to spend the night at an apartment where there is pee on the toilet seat and pubic hairs crusted to the shower wall.

Additionally, no woman wants to spend the rest of her life with a man that cannot even contribute to some household chores, whether it be physically or financially. And if you can’t get a woman to spend the night at your bachelor pad because it’s that disgusting, then you’re most likely not going to get a woman to stay on dishes-piled-high, mold-growing-in-the-bathroom lockdown with you for the next twenty-five years either.

2. You’re needy. Again, girlfriends are not mothers. Girlfriends are also not sous chefs, sex machines, maids, therapists, or entertainers. So yes, when you’ve had a rough day, of course we’ll be there to listen. And sure, we will cook you dinner from time to time. But if its Saturday morning and you’re ready to hit up H & H Bagels and Starbucks and I want to continue to sleep, the solution to this predicament is very simple—go pick up half a dozen bagels, lox spread, and two cups of coffee yourself and bring it home for breakfast in bed.

It’s essential for a man to be able to independently care for himself and be able to fulfill his own needs. You shouldn’t need anyone’s suggestions or guidance to complete simple tasks. You should be able to fill your own Saturday afternoon with errands and entertainment of your own choosing. No one wants a clinger or a helpless child. Women should only have to deal with that when they’re actually raising their own children that they birthed from their own wombs (teachers excluded on this one). So learn how to pay your own bills, drop off your own dry cleaning, socialize in group settings, and utilize Internet porn when necessary.

3. No one wants to have sex with you for the rest of their lives. Maybe it’s because you’re a chain smoker and you have to stop for a breather thirty-five seconds before climax. Maybe it’s because you’re oddly hairy, overweight, or have morning breath worse than a grizzly bear who just gnawed on a dead deer for eight hours. Or maybe you’re just terrible in bed. Use your fingers. Use your tongue. If these concepts are foreign to you, then you better be blowing minds Tommy Gunn-style in the arena of thrusting. Never had a f*ck buddy? Never been drunk dialed for a late night booty call? Well that’s a sure fire sign that you’re probably terrible and/or disgusting in the sack. And with stats like that, a woman dedicating you as the last notch on her bedpost is highly unlikely. Man-scape, brush your teeth, and read some how-to’s.

4. You’re a pussy. You mean to tell me that you’ll never settle down, you’ll never walk down an aisle and exchange vows, you’ll never intentionally procreate, all because you’re afraid of getting hurt? I hate to use the p-word, but it’s really the only word to appropriately convey this point. So you’ve been burned once and it hurt like hell. Maybe you had a breakdown in your boss’s office one day at lunch. Maybe you turned into a stalker for a short period of time after the break-up (yes, restraining orders fall under the stalking category). Maybe you couldn’t get it up for another woman unless you were blackout drunk for a good six months after it was over.

Regardless, that’s no excuse to avoid future serious relationships. The whole tough guy act is, quite frankly, pathetic. You’re not “above” relationships because you’re better than them, because you don’t need a woman, because you like being a bachelor, or because you’re okay with having casual sex for the rest of your sexually-capable life. Be a real man and acknowledge that this little act is actually because you’re a pussy and are afraid to put yourself in a vulnerable position.

5. You don’t have enough money. Out of college and still on the family plan? Couch surfing because you can’t afford to pay rent? Febreezing the hell out of your jeans and suit jackets because dry cleaning is not in the budget? Most women won’t admit it, but money is an important factor when it comes establishing a relationship with a man. Love can only take you so far. If you’re unable to provide for yourself now, how will you provide for her and any unborn children in the future? And how will you be able to afford that ridiculous engagement ring she’s spent three of her lunch hours designing? It’s an ugly truth, but a truth nonetheless. Just throwing it out there…

So there it is, gents. Read ‘em and weep. And you can fight me on them, but the truth of the matter is that I will probably rebuttal the hell out of your lamentable arguments.

Why I'm Not Married

2011-03-31T09:55:00.005-04:00

Considering I had just spent almost an entire year of my life dating a man who, when I asked for his help one Saturday afternoon during an allergic reaction where my breathing became irregular due to the closing of my airways, told me to call someone who lived closer as he had his own problems to deal with, I knew it was for real over this time around (in addition to the other thirty-seven failed attempts). I was done giving, and certainly done letting him take pieces of my heart here, and there, and oh, over there too whenever he damn well pleased. There was no question that I would ever again entertain a relationship with a man who wasn’t willing to hop in a cab from a few zip codes away to hold my hand while the Benadryl kicked in and I realized I wasn’t going to die alone in my apartment like the cat lady who talked herself to sleep every night in apartment six.

So when a coworker sent me an article titled “Why You’re Not Married” written by TV writer Tracy McMillan, I turned around from my desk and said, “Do I even need to read this? I think we all know that I’m not married because I choose to have relationships with people who would take my death over missing the second half of a Tottenham soccer match.”

All of us have friends, sisters, coworkers, etc. who are borderline obsessed with finding husbands, fixated on having a ring on their finger before the age of thirty, as if it’s some sort of precondition to living the rest of your life. From age five they know the exact cut of the diamond on their engagement ring, what kind of flowers will comprise their centerpieces, what font their invitations will be printed in, the list goes on with monotony. But I had never been one to obsess over weddings and just thinking about seating arrangements and all that “something borrowed, something blue” bullshit was enough to make me want to projectile vomit wedding cake everywhere.

Nonetheless, the truth of the matter was that I too eventually wanted to get married. I would be lying if I said I didn’t, full of complete malarkey if I swore that I was an independent woman who didn’t need (or want) some crapshoot of an institution to make me feel like a contributing member of society. And maybe, just maybe, that was one of the reasons I had dealt with Alejandro’s joke of an effort for so long. Foolish of me? Yes. But atypical of a woman in her late twenties who has invested both time and deep-felt emotions into a relationship? Absolutely not.

I clearly wasn’t married because I hadn’t found the right man to settle down with, but there were probably a number of other reasons as well, in which I decided were in my best interest to explore since I was once again ready to pound the single gal pavement. In her article, McMillan laid out six key reasons as to why the unmarried woman reading her article was not yet married: 1) you’re a bitch; 2) you’re shallow; 3) you’re a slut; 4) you’re a liar; 5) you’re selfish; and 6) you’re not good enough.

Well suck me sideways and call me Sally, I thought to myself. I wasn’t about to take McMillian’s theories to the grave as gospel, but I was damn well woman enough to admit that I fell into a few of the above-named categories. Could I be a bitch? Umm, I’m a New York Aquarian who refuses to deal with incompetent cab drivers and straight men who order Cosmopolitans when I’m behind the bar—hardly abnormal “bitch” circumstances if you ask me. Cab drivers who don’t know how to get on the FDR North from 82nd Street more than deserve a verbal licking peppered with F-bombs just the same as non-tipping, Cosmo-slurping men deserve to be publicly embarrassed for both their drink choice and cheapness. Does that make me un-marriable? NO! (Yes, grammar Nazis—I made that word up).

Had I stopped seeing a man because I hated his shoes or the fact that he wore corduroys every day of his life? Yes, check that shallow box. Had I had one night stands and booty calls? Story of my early twenties—and guess what? I’m totally ok with it. Ahhh the liar thing—yep told a few of those in my days, both to the men I was dating and even more destructively, to myself. And in terms of the whole selfish jazz, well, according to Alejandro I was the most selfish person this side of Fifth Avenue, but if being selfish means cooking your loved one dinner, staying in unheated apartments in the dead of winter just to be next to them, and leaving flowers, candy, and DVD’s just to brighten a day here and there, then I’d love me a selfish East Sider.

And lastly, the old “not good enough” mindset is an obstacle we all encounter whether we’re feeling fat one day or can’t imagine that the Ryan Gosling look-a-like that lives down the hall would ever give you a shot in hell unless he was thirteen shots deep in Cuervo. We can’t all be 100% confident all of the time. Feelings of inadequacy, as well as the five other premises McMillan addressed, are not actually reasons I’m not married, my coworkers aren’t married, or my college girlfriends aren’t married—they’re the things that make us all human. No one’s character is flawless and whether you have one, or all six, of McMillan’s “Why You’re Not Married” prongs doesn’t take you out of the running as marriage material. They simply make you a completely normal, single woman dating and living in the twenty-first century. Eventually, a man will come along who accepts these so-called flaws, but to him they won’t be deal breakers—they will be the imperfections that make you you.

So while I wait for some African prince to come and sweep me off my feet on the corner of 82nd Street, I’m staying me. Suck it, McMillan.

Old Habits Die Hard

2011-03-20T15:01:00.002-04:00

Alfonso never called when I returned from Vegas, but Alejandro did. With my shattered dreams of 82nd Street happiness with The Fonz so quickly flushed down a York Avenue sewer, Alejandro’s phone call had come at an opportune time for him, when I was vulnerable, dateless, and desperately seeking someone to rip my clothes off. I knew women who had gone six months or more without sex—for me, that was not an option.

One night couldn’t hurt, right? Everyone needs a slump-breaker, right? A little meaningless sex never hurt before, with say, someone like The Realtor, so I would just slap a “meaningless” label right on Alejandro this time around and call it a f*ck.

We scheduled a day and a time to meet for dinner, but when that day finally rolled around, the hunger I had was not for a strip steak with a glass of Cabernet. So I texted Alejandro that we’d be skipping dinner and I’d see him at his apartment by 6:30pm.

I let myself into his apartment (since I still had his goddamn key) to find him standing there in the very same suit I had met him in, going through his mail. I walked over to him, not even bothering to say hello, pulled him to me, and the rest was history. I came to tangled in his bed sheets, my stockings still on my right leg. I had to get out of there before any talks of feelings, emotions, and where we went wrong this past time (as well as the thirty-three other attempts) in sustaining a somewhat normal, working relationship.

I quickly gathered my clothes that were strewn about Alejandro’s apartment while he took his usual post-coital shower. When he emerged from the bathroom, I was fully clothed, coat buttoned, ready to make my exit.

“You can’t stay? Do you want to order dinner?” he asked as I reached for my handbag and checked my BlackBerry.

“You know how I roll, Alejandro. The old bump-and-run!” I smiled as I kissed him goodbye and headed for his front door.

“You know, we should probably go to dinner and actually talk about everything,” he called after me.

I laughed to myself and rolled my eyes as I opened the door to leave. “Yeah, ok, sounds good,” I obligingly replied. We both knew our “talks” never got us anywhere—they either led us to his bed or with me storming out of his apartment and defriending him on Facebook on my cab ride home as I fled back to the Upper East Side in a rage.

We eventually fell back into our old routines, and suddenly I was being introduced and referred to as his girlfriend once again. But old habits die hard, and when Vladimir came into town for a fifteen day visit (most likely to attend some sniper convention or check in on his enriched uranium that was stashed somewhere in Alejandro’s apartment), as usual, I was sent to the back burner.

For the first five days of Vladimir’s visit, I didn’t even receive a phone call. I would get an occasional one line email or text every so often assuring me that they were still alive after yet another night of binge drinking, chain smoking, and pool playing in their leather jackets from bar to bar in Murray Hill.

By Day Six, I was fed up. I too had a leather jacket and loved vodka and AK-47’s. So when I expressed my distaste for being ignored by way of a snarky text message to Alejandro, it was not well received by its intended audience. Our textual conversation led to a phone call where I was scolded in a tone that my own father would never even use with me, not even after I was caught smoking a “doobie” my sophomore year of high school.

“Bacchus, I really don’t have time text you back and forth for twenty minutes. We’re late leaving for the bar and I had a long day at work,” he snidely retorted with irritation and infuriation dripping from his voice.

F*cking wanker! I thought to myself as my jaw dropped in shock at both the hurtful tone and beyond rude words he had just had the cajones to say to someone he allegedly cared about. And then the bastard hung up on me. I stared at the phone in disbelief. It was time for me to grow some cajones myself so I hit redial and waited for him to pick up, which only took seven and a half rings.

“Listen Alejandro, the way you just spoke to me was really hurtful. I’m upset,” I said, trying not to let my voice crack and/or throw my phone across the room.

“And I just told you I don’t have time for this. We’re walking out the door right now. I have to go,” and again he hung up. I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or make copies of his apartment keys for every homeless person from here to 35th Street.

The old idiom “Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me,” sprung to mind—but who exactly did the shame go to for times three through forty-three? It was pretty clear that I had to kick my Alejandro habit once and for all, but at this point he probably wouldn’t even notice if I broke free. Could you volunteer for that Intervention show? Or did meth or the big H have to be incorporated into your foolish, foolish life to qualify for air time?

If only Jimmy Bats didn’t have a damn girlfriend, I would never have needed this pitiful habit…

Lab Geeks & Escarole Freaks

2011-03-07T20:42:00.007-05:00

The next morning I woke up slightly hungover from my over-indulgence of Black Russians and good old-fashioned dice rolling at the craps table from the night before. I was three hundred dollars richer and had a sexy science teacher waiting for me back in Manhattan, so a little cotton mouth and nausea didn’t faze me one bit (well, for the first five minutes).

As if the bags under my eyes weren’t a dead giveaway, I wolfed down a slice of pizza and a Diet Coke for breakfast to cure the hangover that I totally didn’t have (because why would I have one in a professional setting on a business trip, right?). I chatted with my co-workers about who got too inebriated at dinner the night before (sadly, I wasn’t even in the running), who acted like a real bitch (surprisingly, I wasn’t in the running), and about how the new receptionist was quickly climbing the corporate ladder a la a tight mini skirt and a boss’s open-door/open-pants policy (again, not in the running, but I may have considered this category if said boss didn’t have daughters older than I—the economy is still sh*t, after all).

My right hand counterpart in all things handbags, hot yoga, and wine, Teeny Baggolini, helped me put the finishing touches on my text message back to The Fonz:

Hey Alfonso! It’s Bacchus. Thanks for the call yesterday. I’m out in Vegas for work, but I’d love to meet up when I get back.

So it wasn’t my most profound or witty of texts, but in my vodka withdrawal/post-pizza haze, it was the best my little fingers could type out at that stage in the morning. The Fonz’s reply was simple, to the point, and of course incorporated science (well, sort of):

Hey. Cool. That sounds great. Enjoying the heat?

He’s such a little scientist, I thought to myself as I shook my head and chuckled.

And I knew that deep down The Fonz was probably way more profound and witty, but he was no doubt far too busy building one of those volcanoes that erupts with baking soda or preaching about barometric pressure or something, so there was no way I could hold his complete lackluster, lab geek response against him.

As it turned out, I wasn’t the only gal in Vegas getting asked out on a date from the East Coast. By 10:30am, Teeny had received a date inquiry by way of The Book (jury still out on this method, folks):

Hey Teeny, nice re-meeting you the other day. I was getting over being sick and was trying not relapse/spread the germ love.

Pause. Ummm, really? I felt awkward just reading it. What exactly is germ love? I could only hope it wasn’t something that had made its way to the Upper East Side. Un-pause:

I have a whole free range chicken in the fridge and a head of escarole waiting to be chopped into a salad, but my roommates are all out of town. You interested in a home cooked meal?

“Where the eff did you pick up this germ-loving, escarole chopping, free-range freak from?” I asked with concern. Suddenly, Alfonso’s humdrum reply wasn’t so bad.

“A house party in Brooklyn,” Teeny replied with apprehension while frowning at her phone.

“What did I tell you about picking up men in Brooklyn?” I scolded as I shook my finger at her.

But before I went off on hipsters from Brooklyn who thought they were cooler than the rest of New York society for absolutely no reason other than the fact that they wear dirty jeans, tight t-shirts, and find out about really cool music way before everyone else, I realized that maybe Facebook Free-Range Freddy wasn’t as bad as we so speedily set him out to be.

Here was a guy, that even in his deepest of germ-ed out fogs, put himself out there, took a chance on a girl he just “re-met”, took a chance that Teeny wasn’t the vegetarian she was, and offered to make the girl dinner. Lord knew that not-a-one in any of the five burroughs had ever offered to cook me an entire bird.

So here’s to men with balls and chickens in their freezers. And for any men out there without a Teeny to cook for, I’ve got both an open mind and an open stomach…and on a good night other things could open up as well (vodka highly suggested, but not necessarily required).

Playing the Field

2011-02-28T09:23:00.004-05:00

After six too many Magners on ice at Southern Hospitality, Alfonso’s package seemed all things Grade-A. He was a junior high science teacher, originally from Upstate, lived on my very same street, loved trivia, and hated cats. I couldn’t help but envision a Trivia Tuesday at Mad River here or burritos at Blockhead’s there with The Fonz in our oh-so-fairy-taled future, for us to happily frolic arm-in-arm home to our happy little Upper East Side block. Screw cabs to Murray Hill.

The night wore on and our speech got more slurred, our vision more blurred. Alfonso and his sidekick were the first to throw in their drinking towels, but before they settled up their tab, Alfonso asked for my digits.

“So do you think I could have your number? I’d love to grab a drink sometime.” The Fonz asked with his little glint of Zac Efron eyes.

I hadn’t given out my number for this purpose in quite some time (aside from when I gave out fake numbers to blind drunk, under-tipping twenty-two year olds when I was behind the bar trying to hustle for a few George Washington’s). Still reeling on my I-don’t-need-no-Euro high from earlier in the week and Cee Lo Green’s “F*ck You” appropriately playing in the background, I continued my leap of faith and gave the man my number. Why the hell not see if The Fonz’s Grade-A package could turn into an Easy A?

After Alfonso was safely out of earshot, Emily, Annie Smalls, and Jenny Saurs all gave their approvals, with Emily slurring, “Oh yes, Bacchus. I like him. Let’s do a shot.”

Perhaps my friends were just trying to provide me with some much-needed support after my eleventh fallout with Alejandro or perhaps Alfonso would prove to be a good bar-side snag, but either way, I stumbled home with a certainty in my step that I could get over Alejandro once and for all.

I didn’t hear from Alfonso for the rest of the weekend, not even a nice-to-meet-you text the next morning. By Saturday I was frowning at my phone, checking for reception and restarting it several times. I didn’t expect him to take me out a mere twenty-four hours later, but some sort of signal-of-life/I-can’t-wait-to-meet-for-a-drink message would have been nice. But perhaps I was out of practice on this whole dating scene from being wrapped up in my world of Alejandro for the past nine months.

But all things Alfonso and thoughts I tried so hard not to have of Alejandro had to but put to the back burner as I headed off to Las Vegas for work. I spent my Valentine’s Day with two co-workers and George the bartender at The Cosmopolitan and unfortunately for me, my Ketel One on the rocks with jalapeno-stuffed olives was as dirty as my Hallmark holiday of love got.

But then, as luck would have, the vodka gods were looking down on me. My cell phone rang and an unknown number popped up onto the screen. Could it be The Fonz? Or was it just one of my buyers cancelling an appointment for the following day? I hit ignore and hoped for the best.

Hey Bacchus, how’s it going? It’s Alfonso, umm, from the other night. Just calling to say hello and see if you wanted to get together this week. Umm, ok, well hope you’re well and talk to you soon. Ok…bye.

Suddenly “You Make My Dreams” by Hall & Oates was playing in my personal background, just like in 500 Days of Summer. I was filled with joy and hope that good, dateable guys did actually exist on the Upper East Side and I took it straight to the craps table.

After a hot winning streak, I cashed in my chips for the few hundo I had won and called it a night. In the morning I would carefully draft my reply to The Fonz, but in the meantime, cheers to playing the field on the tables in Vegas and in bars on the Upper East Side…

A Leap of Faith and a Cardigan

2011-02-12T17:00:00.002-05:00

In terms of all things love (and sex), I started 2011 on a slow (and sexless) foot. But as fate and hormones would have it, Alejandro and I couldn’t stay away from each other any longer. I had received multiple phone calls, texts, and BBM’s from him and had managed to stay strong since our one heated night back in December until this cold winter’s night. I finally agreed to see him at one of the apartment complexes he was selling on 82nd Street after an open house.

As we sat in the beautifully furnished, two bedroom apartment on the fourth floor that my fashion industry-salaried ass could only dream of living a non-rental life in, we stared at each other in between small talk of fashion week and the real estate market.

And then, just as I had expected, Alejandro turned the conversation serious as he confessed, “Bacchus, I miss you so much. I want us to make this work and give us another shot.”

It was a conversation we had had at least three times, but the strength I had once had just a few short weeks back uncontrollably dissipated. Over the next few weeks, we fell back into our old routines of Saturday night movies, I Shouldn’t Be Alive marathons, and weeknight “home-cooked” dinners a la Alejandro’s freezer. Eventually, I got that key to his apartment back—and even a drawer and a few hangers in his closet this time around so I would no longer have to do the “eat, bang, and run” routine on work nights.

Something was missing from our somewhat domesticated lifestyle, but I couldn’t put my finger on what exactly it was until one night after a long day at work and an even longer hot Vinyasa class. As I sauntered over to his apartment (as was always the case), sweaty, stressed, and downright exhausted, I texted him to inquire about our evening’s dinner plans. His reply was not one that impressed me.

I already cooked dinner for myself. Just got done eating.

I don’t know if it was from severe dehydration after sweating in a room over one hundred degrees for an hour or the stresses or work, but this answer was not acceptable to me. As I stood in line at Subway to get my own dinner since Alejandro had so selfishly forgotten to cook me any dinner or even wait for me to get home to dine with, I realized what was missing and why I was frustrated during round 343 of Alejandro and I’s go at some sort of a proper relationship—I was merely an afterthought to the man.

When I arrived to his apartment with my footlong and bad attitude, I knew something of epic proportions may go down. My birthday was coming up and I would be spending it in Dallas for work, but I had yet to hear about any spectacular, thoughtful birthday plans from Alejandro before I departed for the Dirty South. So when I asked Alejandro what his weekend plans were and his reply of a boys night out and an eight-hour real estate class did not meet those spectacular birthday plans I was hoping that he was planning on surprising me with, I realized he hadn’t even remembered my birthday or business trip because it wasn’t something that involved him.

I was done being an afterthought, a girlfriend of convenience. I wanted a boyfriend who would wait an additional twenty minutes for me to arrive home to eat, no matter how hungry he was; a boyfriend who would cook enough for two; and a boyfriend who would remember my freaking birthday. So I grabbed an empty Trader Joe’s bag, emptied out my drawer, slid my clothes off their hangers, and packed up every single item I owned that was in Alejandro’s apartment right down to the used razor on the ledge of his shower.

“Am I ever going to see you again?” he asked as I headed for the door. But there was nothing left for me to say that I hadn’t said a dozen times before, so I simply walked out.

As I headed out of his apartment building to hail a cab and return to my Upper East Side life that I had left behind in Murray Hill for far too long, the Trader Joe’s bag filled with my work clothes and hair dryer of course broke, its contents spilling everywhere.

F*cking Trader Joe hippies can’t even make a proper f*cking paper grocery bag.

I could have easily thrown in the towel and headed back upstairs to Alejandro for another bag and another conversation regarding our ever-failing relationship, but it was time for me to make that jump once and for all. So I scooped up my belongings, stuffed what would fit into my purse, and hailed a cab to head to uptown without shedding one tear.

The following night as I waited for Emily, Jenny Saurs, and Annie Smalls to meet me at Southern Hospitality for a celebratory I-don’t-need-no-man drink, I found an open seat at the bar. I turned to the man next to it to ask if it was free and I found a Zac Efron look alike sipping on a Stella.

“I like your shirt,” he commented as he looked me up and down. I looked down at the smoking skull on my tee with glee, thanking the Upper East Side gods for placing this little hot number next to me (and that I had pulled this shirt out of my dirty laundry in a last minute wardrobe change).

“I like your cardigan,” I replied, smiling. Yes, he was wearing a cardigan—but in a Mr. Rogers-meets-hipster/I’m-not-afraid-to-rock-geriatric-clothing kind of way that was damn sexy.

“My name’s Alfonso. You come here often?” he asked as he extended his hand.

Now, now I do, Fonz. Bottoms up to leaps of faith and cardigans…

Health, Happiness & Hangovers in 2011

2011-01-16T12:50:00.006-05:00

Unfortunately for me, 2011 did not start out with a bang. Instead I spent my New Year’s Eve behind the bar at Saloon with half-conscious twenty-one year olds tipping on every other drink all the while trying to stuff one dollar bills down my shirt in an effort to bribe me to kiss them when the ball dropped. Unfortunately for them, I was not in the hooking and/or pedophiliac mode and I therefore remained un-kissed (and thankfully, un-fondled) at the strike of twelve.

It turns out I wasn’t the only one who started 2011 off with inappropriate men. As Emily and I sat at the Stumble Inn and recounted the year past, she decided to recount her weekend past as well. Her on-again/off-again lover of the past two years, Bucky Badgerstein, had graced her with his belligerently drunk presence at 3:00am on Saturday—the same Bucky Badgerstein who she professed her undying lust for one drunken night by texting “I want your hard dick…in my soul.”

As seventeen too many Spotted Cows would have it, Bucky and Emily got down and dirty that night as Bucky whispered not-so-sweet nothings in Emily’s ear—so not-so-sweet that it can’t even be recounted in a blog about sex. Post-coital, Bucky decided it was time for a restroom break. He arose from a tangled pile of blankets in his beer-bellied haze to stumble to the bathroom. A half-asleep Emily suddenly heard a ruckus in the kitchen—could it be elves coming to bake her favorite cinnamon rolls to cure her morning hangover? Or perhaps her roommate making late-night Stouffer’s lasagna? She heard the oven door open, but no clanking of pots of pans, no whirring of a hand blender preparing the cream cheese frosting—only a solid stream of liquid hitting a baking rack.

Emily heard the oven door close and then nothing. Bucky never made it back to her bed. Instead, Emily found him stark naked in the fetal position on her couch, shivering and slurring his way to Sunday morning. She walked over to her stove to find it on at a cool 425 degrees as she later found out “to burn the germs off.”

As Emily and I sat at the bar, laughing at the ridiculousness of the men that we put up with, Brady Follows (aka The Hebrew Hammer) and Pepsi Wankerstein sauntered up to the bar to say hello, two whiskey-Coke loving fellows from our old school days of blacking out at Mad River.

“Hey Bacchus, remember when you came over to my apartment and drank nine bloody Mary’s and smoked a pack of Marlboro Menthol Lights out my kitchen window?” Brady recounted from years past.

I sat at the bar perplexed with my chin resting on my hand as I sipped my Magner’s on ice. “I don’t remember, but it sounds about right,” I replied with puzzlement.

“And then we watched the season finale of So You Think You Can Dance,” he elaborated. Well if that doesn’t sound like one of my creepier nights, I don’t know what does.

I was racking my brain, but the memory was just not there. God only knew what else I didn’t remember, which I decided was probably for the best based on this small snippet of a story.

“Yeah, not ringing a bell. But I do remember when your dad walked in and found us passed out on your bed and I mistook him for Carlos, the bar back from Mad River. And then I had to borrow your t-shirt that had “Super Sexy” written in red velvet on the front. That was a damn good t-shirt.” I recalled as I also silently recalled how months later The Attorney eventually adopted that shirt, unknowingly that it was from a night I spent with another man. “And if it makes you feel any better, I don’t remember 85% of college.”

“Yeah, I don’t think my Jewish father with white hair appreciated being confused with a 5’ 4” Hispanic man from south of the border,” Brady chuckled. “And no, that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

As we laughed on, Pepsi brooded in the background, obsessively checking his BlackBerry.

“What’s his deal tonight?” I asked, nodding toward the sulking Pepsi.

“He’s agonizing over his long-distance relationship with a Swiss chick he picked up on Euro night at Tin Lizzie. They communicate via Facebook now that her semester abroad has ended,” Brady explained.

“Well if that doesn’t make for a lasting relationship, I don’t know what does,” I declared as Brady, Emily, and I clanked our glasses together for a cheers.

Keep drinking, Upper East Side—it can only get better (and fuzzier) from here. Here’s to health, happiness, and hangovers in 2011…

Goodbye 2010

2010-12-30T21:09:00.001-05:00

Unsurprisingly, my meeting with Alejandro did not go as planned. When I walked into the bar, there he sat with a vodka and coke, in a light blue button down with those bright blue eyes and his dark wavy hair at just the length I liked. The knot in my stomach grew as I took a deep breath and pulled up a bar stool next to him. We held the old obligatory cordial conversation routine of how have you beens and what’s news that were required to be asked, but in reality, the questions’ answers were immaterial. I didn’t care that he had scored a hat-trick at soccer on Tuesday night and my story of falling on a patch of black ice outside of Mad River after a few too many glasses of wine at trivia night was completely irrelevant as to why we were now uncomfortably sitting at a bar with a bag of my belongings between us.

The conversation quickly turned when Alejandro addressed our break, “I’ve really missed you, Bacchus. But when I said I needed a break, some time to sort things out, I didn’t mean a full on break up as you so eloquently wrote about.”

“Well I don’t do breaks, Alejandro. You’re either with me or you’re not,” I replied with my voice cracking, willing the tears that had welled up in my eyes to magically evaporate just as quickly as they had sprung.

“Why does everything have to be so black and white with you? There’s never any room for a little bit of grey. I just needed some time.” Ironically, Pearl Jam’s “Better Man” was playing in the background.

I excused myself and went into the bathroom before a public emotional breakdown could ensue. I wasn’t about to be that sad, pathetic girl crying in her beer, slightly hyperventilating with snot running out her nose—that move was so 2009.

I looked in the mirror and took a few deep breaths, wondering when this rollercoaster ride of love with Alejandro would end—or would it? Maybe he was right, maybe a little grey now and then was ok. But I had never been one for grey.

I returned to my seat and faced him, unsure of what to say next. Alejandro grabbed my hand and looked me in the eyes, “You know I care about you, Bacchus.”

I held his hand tight and didn’t want to let go. Our hand holding turned into a hug, the hug into a kiss, and the kiss into another, and another, and another. One thing that was for certain is that I was grey about whether all of this was wrong or right—it felt so right in the moment, but any outsider looking in would have said, what a fool that girl is, she better be blind drunk with an IV of Jameson straight to her liver.

Before I knew it, we were heading out the door and south on Third Avenue, Alejandro’s one hand carrying my bag of belongings, his other squeezing my hand tight, leading me back to his apartment, back to where this whole ride of ups, downs, and spinning around and around had started. And if you’re confused about what happened next, I hope you’re extremely high on salvia.

As I spent a week in Ohio for the holidays, everyone wanted to know if I had in fact gotten my stuff back from Alejandro, were we still together? I smiled and nodded, telling my grandmother, my uncle, Cakes, Chico, La Bamba, Rulalenska, St. Nick, and hell, even the waitress at Coccia House that everything was great. But deep down I knew it was still a situation of grey—except it was a shade of grey I was now willing to accept, whether right, wrong, un-black, un-white, or just plain foolish.

When my flight back to New York was cancelled due to the Blizzard of 2010, I was forced to rent a car and drive back to the city unless I wanted to stay in Ohio until March of 2011 (not an option as much as I love sledding off the back of a tractor and drinking Jack Daniels before noon). So it was me, a white 2010 Nissan Versa, 479.2 miles of open road, and eight hours of country music to reflect on the past year. So thank you Kenny, Tim, Taylor, Carrie, and even you too, you oldster Reba—you’ve soothed my soul with all the twang an Ohio girl could ask for under severe highway hypnosis.

And what a year 2010 has been in love, hangovers, and that brief quarter life crisis. So goodbye 2010 and goodbye to the bullshit of Billy Blue; goodbye to drooling, farting, snoring Jason who wanted to be “held like a baby” and left behind his sweaty socks as a parting gift; goodbye to Yankee Jim who so gracelessly tried to recreate the hallway scene from Unfaithful; goodbye to Guitar Jim who may or may not have cheated on his girlfriend had he had one more shot of chilled Stoli O; and lastly, goodbye to Jimmy Bats (sigh), the one who got away—ok, the one I could never have. And as for Alejandro, it wasn’t quite time to say adios just yet.

Who knows what 2011 will bring in all things love, but here’s to a new year of sex and hangovers on the Upper East Side!

The Un-Perfect Match

2010-12-12T13:56:00.003-05:00

Chilled Stoli O shots paired with Ricky Roche’s live music at Tin Lizzie the night prior had left me less than calm, cool, and collected as I prepared for my “neutral” meeting with Alejandro. Rather, I was experiencing the next-day-shakes as I sweated out vodka and tried to cover up the bags under my eyes with my two-year-old Chantecaille concealer. I was less than prepared and could have used at least ninety minutes more sleep, but it was time to end this Alejandro love rollercoaster once and for all.

Before heading out the door, I sat down at the island in my kitchen to have a cup of much-needed detoxifying green tea and do a little Facebook stalking in an effort to calm my nerves. As I was perusing my 1,351 “Friends'” most recent status updates, a glint of something black and shiny caught my eye. In the middle of my pile of junk mail and irrelevant documents (including my Social Security statement which would be null and void thirty years from now) was my black patent Claire’s Boutique wallet from high school that my Dad had come across in our basement when digging out the Christmas decorations over Thanksgiving.

Aside from the Subway Club card, the only other interesting thing of note in my old wallet was my high school boyfriend’s senior picture. Even more noteworthy than the fact that he looked about fourteen (which, in turn, made me feel like somewhat of a pedophile) was the note he had written on the back of the photo.

My clumsy, ticklish, cute, cuddly Bacchus. I’ll never forget our first date at Jenny’s house where I puked and passed out, yet you still wanted to go out with me.

Christ, I knew how to pick ‘em even back then. Well, at least I’m consistent, I thought to myself as I read on.

How could I ever say no to you, considering you are the perfect match for me. I’ll never forget you or the million memories we have. Love, Jameson

I smiled to myself as I put the photo back into my wallet. How easy dating was back then. You told your friends who you had a crush on, then they told your crush’s friends, then your crush’s friends told your crush, and before you knew it, you were skipping school to lose your virginity in a less-than-romantic setting with a more-than-awkward sequence of fumbling, grabbing, grasping, and heavy breathing that lasted, at most, twenty-five seconds.

For a good two years Jameson and I were the perfect match for each other, in a world where your biggest concern was making sure your hair was perfectly curled for the Friday night football game and who’s parents would be out of town for Homecoming weekend. Thoughts and stress of work, renewing apartment leases, health insurance, and 401k’s never crossed our minds—how could they with the impending stress of prom, college applications, and getting caught drinking the weekend before summer began?

The simple words on the back of a picture, written almost ten years ago, put into perspective the lack of perfect matches in my life. If Alejandro had been the perfect match for me, I wouldn’t be heading to The Black Sheep in Murray Hill, our “neutral” location, to have our final talk. I suddenly had a knot in my stomach, in addition to the nausea I had had since waking up that morning.

As I got out of the cab, lost in my thoughts of how to make this talk as quick and painless as possible, I was suddenly jarred to the present as a passerby going in the opposite direction rammed directly into my left shoulder.

Jesus, people’s sidewalk manners in this neighborhood are atrocious, I thought to myself as I made a vow to not come back to Murray Hill until 2011.

“Oh, excuse me,” the passerby mumbled as he turned around to acknowledge that we were simply walking down a sidewalk rather than engaging in a game of rugby in the middle of Third Avenue. I bit my tongue to hold back the rude remark I would have loved to fire back at the violent sidewalk walker. I looked up as I went to formulate a more socially acceptable response to find The Realtor grinning at me, ear to ear.

“You asshole. Learn how to walk.” I replied as I punched him in his left shoulder. I was completely unsurprised that of all days, of all neighborhoods, in front of all the bars in Manhattan, I would run into this ex-lover as I was on my way to meet an ex-boyfriend. If this was a sign from God, I supposed that I better take it.

“What are you doing down here, anyways?” he asked. I looked back and forth, hoping Alejandro was already inside, as I really didn’t need to be making any awkward introductions in my hungover, emotionally vulnerable state.

“Oh, I know why you’re here,” The Realtor replied knowingly before I could answer. “I forgot he lived in this neighborhood.”

“I’m just getting the rest of my stuff,” I justified and turned to walk into the bar.

“I expect a call later tonight—unless of course, he conveniently forgets to bring your stuff,” he laughed in jest as I gave him the finger and opened the door to the bar. One non-perfect match down for the night, one more to go…

Ex-pired

2010-11-29T21:04:00.005-05:00

Unsurprisingly, Alejandro never called the next day to have our “talk” that he had promised we would have regarding the “break” he decided we were going on the night before. I laid in bed, watching my phone, willing it to ring, in a hungover haze of Jameson and Café Patron from the night before, never having felt more dejected and discarded, feeling more and more like the butt of those Marlboro Lights that Alejandro was always smoking.

Six months of dating and he couldn’t even take five minutes out of his day to do the respectful thing? I thought to myself as I shook my head, which ferociously pounded in response.

It wasn’t as if we had been together just a few short weeks—it had been half of a year for Christ’s sake and for this Sex & the Upper East Sider, that was no interval of fidelity to be taken lightly. Shame on Alejandro for so easily disregarding me and shame on me for not seeing through his bullshit sooner.

After cursing out my laptop for not picking up a wireless signal strong enough to stream the Damages episode next in my queue on Netflix, I decided that it was time to stop feeling sorry for myself. I got out of bed, threw on my gym clothes, and booked a ticket to L.A. to visit my best friend for the following weekend. This “break” wasn’t anything a little yoga, Chelsea Handler, and the Hollywood Hills couldn’t fix.

I came back from L.A. reinvigorated and rested, ready to take back the Upper East Side by storm. I don’t know if it was the magical touch of Chuy’s tiny midget hand or the inhalation of a new smog, but Alejandro was old news in my little black book by the time my plane touched down on that LaGuardia tarmac—that is, until I recalled that I still had to pick up the rest of my belongings from his apartment.

As I was behind the bar during a slow shift, I mustered up a little mettle and texted Alejandro to see when I could stop by for my stuff. As I hit send, I heard two customers rustle up to the bar and I looked up only to find Billy Blue and his sidekick, Abu. I rolled my eyes and shook my head, but had to smile.

“And what brings you to this fine establishment today, gentlemen?” I derisively asked.

“Well, you can always count on a good Irishman, can’t you?” Billy answered with matched derisiveness, grinning ear to ear, mocking my last article’s ending note.

“I think what Billy meant to ask was, are you going to give him another shot? And if the answer is no, are you ready to give me a shot?” Abu piped in as I opened two bottles of Coors Light. Billy and I both ignored Abu.

“Bacchus, do you know what today marks?” Billy asked and I inquisitively shook my head no, waiting for some sort of dramatic reply. “It’s the one year anniversary of my sister’s wedding. Didn’t we have such a wonderful time?”

“Well I sure as hell hope she and her husband last longer than we did and that he doesn’t have eight different girls on the side, as you did.” I quickly replied looking him square in the face with my eyebrows raised as I handed him and Abu their tab.

Billy handed me his credit and explained, “You see, Bacchus, I’m very much like this credit card. I’m willing to give you my credit card number, the name on the card, even the expiration date. But I never give up that three digit security code on the back. And from what I’ve read, it sounds like you should stop giving out your security code…because that’s when you become the victim of fraud.”

Jesus, where do I find these freaks? I asked myself. I’ve got to stop picking up men in bars—especially men from the continent of Europe.

I took the card from Billy, processing his somewhat ridiculous analogy. But as Billy and Abu headed out the door, on to the next bar, and on to torture the next bartender, I realized Ole Blue just might be onto something, after all. Maybe I had too easily given up my “security code” to Alejandro, and here I was, fraud-ridden and alone after I had so willingly offered him that code to my heart.

I was still processing the wisdom of Billy Blue when I felt a vibration in my pocket. It was a response from Alejandro.

Let’s meet tomorrow. Somewhere neutral. I will bring your things.

I sighed and replied with a simple “ok”. It was time to wrap up this case of “fraud” once and for all. If only had I known what that simple “ok” would lead to…

Wankers & Whiskey

2010-11-17T19:08:00.004-05:00

After receiving Alejandro’s message stating his refusal to see or speak with me after my somewhat dramatic, or if spun by a Euro, “ridiculous” outburst via BBM the night prior, I was in no mood for Halloween tricks or treats. Thankfully, the mental health gods were looking upon me as I already had an appointment with my shrink on the books for that afternoon. As I trudged up Second Avenue on that gloomy fall day, dodging dog dung and construction workers’ cat calls all the way to 91st Street, I replayed the chain of events in my head—just how “ridiculous” had I been with Alejandro last night?

I had called Alejandro after my bartending shift around 1:00am to see if I should meet him at either his apartment or a bar. After my phone call went unanswered and unreturned, I sent over a quick, two-line BBM inquiring about his whereabouts. Thanks to the modern day technologies of BlackBerry Messenger, I was then able to see that my message to Alejandro was not only successfully delivered to his phone, but also read by the phone’s owner (a.k.a. Alejandro for anyone who isn’t following this simple rundown of “ridiculousness”). It was then that it became apparent that my boyfriend of six months was quite simply ignoring me.

I found this behavior unacceptable and unsettling--and this wasn't the first red flag to be raised recently. Two nights prior I had taken him out for a fabulous birthday dinner at Flex Mussels and was denied “dessert” when we got home due to too much wine and the old “I’m tired” excuse. Hell, The Realtor and Jeremy were well over thirty and I had never heard any hackneyed horseshit from them in love affairs past. So in between the denial of sex and blatantly being ignored, as well as a few other of life's factors, I was upset, suspicious, and downright pissed. Hence, the string of "ridiculous" BBM's that followed.

I plopped down into Dr. Zemkoff’s chair and poured out my heart, a few tears, and a buck seventy-five. An empty wallet, a few Kleenex, and two new prescriptions later, I found myself on the M15 to Murray Hill. Alejandro's and my relationship was suddenly staring the porcelain gods in the face and I was latrine-bent on giving it my all before it flushed itself down the toilet and into the Hudson River. I picked up a dozen yellow roses, a package of Reese’s Cups, and scribbled an apology note. “Ridiculous” behavior fixed.

A few hours later Alejandro called to thank me for the flowers. I was all smiles as he went on and on about how thoughtful I was and how he appreciated my efforts to apologize. But my smile quickly vanished when Alejandro said, “I think we should take a break.”

Tears sprung to my eyes for the second time that day. “Wait, what?” I stammered with confusion as my heart sank and my stomach tied itself into a knot.

“Just for like two weeks . I think we just need to take a step back,” Alejandro explained with that English accent that suddenly wasn’t so charming. Wanker!

I was no foolish girl who pumped herself full of fables and falsehoods in an effort to avert the negative thoughts of lying, cheating, and/or scumbag boyfriends. I was a jaded New Yorker who had played (and lost) this dating game a few too many times and I had received Alejandro’s message loud and clear.

“But I really do think we can make this work,” he droned on. “Let’s sit down tomorrow and talk face to face.”

Translation: I don’t feel like dealing with girl drama tonight. I’d rather go out and drink with my friends.

“I don’t think there’s really anything to discuss at this point.” I snidely replied while trying to muffle a sniffle. “If you really wanted to talk about it, you would talk to me tonight.”

As Alejandro retorted to my somewhat cutting commentary, I slipped on my jacket, grabbed my keys and purse, and slammed my door behind me. I found myself in front of Bailey’s Corner Pub. I said goodbye to Alejandro and walked into the bar with mascara running down my face.

“Jameson and ginger, please.” I ordered. In an uncertain world full of assholes and Englishmen, it’s good to know that you can always count on an Irishman…

Crossing Park Avenue

2010-10-29T10:53:00.013-04:00

All Billy Blue bullshit aside, I had more important things in life to worry about than the mind games and trolls he would bring to whatever bar I was working at this week. About two months ago I entered into what I like to call my quarter-life crisis where I quit my miserable job making eighty cold calls a day at a market research firm so I could avoid jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge, to rather spend my days focusing on my writing career while continually kicking myself for ever quitting my job in the fashion industry, and bartending all along the way to pay the bills (which sadly no longer even included basic cable).

About one month into the "post-real job" phase of my quarter-life crisis, between dealing with beyond inebriated Europeans who vomited on each other and non-tipping college kids who called me fat, I quickly grew sick of working full-time in the bar industry. I felt like a vampire, going to bed at 4:00am, waking up at 2:00pm, and wandering from Starbucks to Starbucks on the Upper East Side just so I wasn't stuck in the lonely melancholy of my silent, cableless apartment for hours on end. It was a sad, pathetic version of Twilight, sans the blood and flock of 'tweens following me around.

Not only was my professional career and mental stability at a crossroads, so was my relationship with Alejandro. I felt as if I was crossing Park Avenue but didn't make the light in time, so there I was, standing on the center median with the dying tulips of the summer past, with cars and cabs whizzing by me on each side.

On one side of the avenue I had my friends like Annie Smalls, Jenny Saurs, and Pookie. Annie had just moved into a new apartment with her boyfriend while Jenny and her boyfriend had just bought an apartment together in Hoboken, spending the past month thigh-high in bathroom renovations and the trials and tribulations of picking out a new mattress. Then there was Pookie who was recently engaged, her free time now consumed with wedding dresses, flowers, venues, and one very demanding, soon-to-be mother-in-law.

Conversely, on the opposite side of the street were friends like Emily, who was still recovering from her traumatic Saturday night of bringing home a 5'11'' nameless blonde in a Red Bull and vodka haze. After coming to in the shower with flashbacks of the Stumble Inn and penetration, she found the nameless man face down and naked on her futon. In between a slurred conversation and Emily trying to push the John Doe out the door with his pants still in his hands at 6:30am on Sunday morning, a phone call to Emily's mother back in Wisconsin was somehow placed, and a conversation that a mother should never hear was overheard from an odd 900 miles away.

And then there was me and my relationship with Alejandro smack dab in the middle. Over the few months we'd been dating, we had established the boyfriend-girlfriend titles, the exclusivity, the routines, and more. But between my new lifestyle as a writer/bartender working five nights a week and Alejandro's schedule as a real estate broker with only Saturdays off, I didn't get to see him as much as I used to back in my nine-to-five days. One of us was always tired or hungover or stressed. We enjoyed each other's company, no doubt, but life in general was tough, not to mention the pressures of New York City, the high cost of living, and the even higher cost of stress that came with it all. So last night when a customer berated me for not making his Cosmopolitan with Absolut, although he never specifically ordered Absolut, I had reached my breaking point (and for the record, no straight man should ever order a Cosmopolitan in public, and this man was straight, and therefore deserves a Cosmo made with rubbing alcohol).

So when my shift wrapped up around 12:30am and I called Alejandro only to be sent straight to voicemail as he was out drinking with his friends, all of my pent up anger and frustrations of failed careers, relationships, making rent, and goddamn Cosmopolitans came out in an irate string of BBM's to Alejandro--not one of my finest moments.

I finally received a reply to my relentless messages this morning at 11:17am saying:

Your behavior is ridiculous. I don't want to see you today or tonight. Please respect my decision.

And Alejandro was right. My behavior had been ridiculous and I couldn't take it back. So there I was, stuck in the middle of Park Avenue, alone.

So Happy Halloween, Upper East Side. I'll be the lonely, somewhat slutty Chilean miner at the end of the bar drinking alone...

Game Day

2010-10-15T13:59:00.018-04:00

I woke up on Sunday morning back to feeling warm and fuzzy about Alejandro with my overly premature thoughts of what a wonderful boyfriend he would turn out to be, albeit one week into our courtship. But visions of feeding each other ice cream while watching romantic comedies and frolicking on the beaches of Spain aside, it was Sunday Funday and I was forced to immerse myself from my mound of blankets and pillows deep inside my cozy cave of a bedroom in the Love Shack and head to Tin Lizzie for a day of football, beer towers, flip cup, and dance parties.

As I was behind the bar stocking cups, limes, straws, ice, and any other item a bar could possibly need for a twelve hour day of serving keg after keg of Bud Light and bottle after bottle of Jameson, a familiar couple walked up to the bar and ordered a bucket of beers. I eyed them up and down as they returned my stare, racking my brain as to why they looked so familiar. Had I worked with this woman in my prior professional life in the fashion industry? Had they been customers at one of the many bars I had slung drinks at around the neighborhood? Or had I accidentally made out with this man one drunken night before (or while) he had put that huge rock on his girlfriend's finger and soon that bucket of Bud Lights that I had just handed over would be analyzed in a crime scene lab in the "UES Girl Slain by Beer Bottle" investigation?

And then from my fuzziest of fuzz memories, I finally placed these two patrons' faces. It was Billy Blue's brother and fiance who lived in Connecticut and whom I had met almost a year prior at their sister's wedding. Of all the hundreds of bars on the island of Manhattan, if this couple had come all the way from Connecticut to watch a little Sunday football at the one bar I was working at, it could only mean one thing--Billy Blue wasn't far behind them.

After an awkward re-introduction, it was confirmed that Billy Blue was in fact on his way. And then his brother asked, "So did you ever see much of Billy after the wedding? It seemed like you two had a great time together."

"Oh yeah, we saw each other a few times after that," I said casually, trying to hide the look of shock and confusion on my face.

Billy clearly hadn't kept his family in the loop that we had ended up dating after the wedding for several months, but then again, why would he considering he had also been dating at least one other woman during our time together. This two-timing was confirmed one day last winter when a woman named Jenny emailed me, stating:

Apparently "Billy Blue" is "Billy Two"! I also got the same invite to his sister's wedding, the same date at Pio Pio, etc. I saw him during the same time span, which is sickening, but true. He name dropped your site more than once in an attempt to get me to read it.

I never wrote back to Jenny, but I hoped that she had moved on to bigger (yes, in that region) and better (yep, that too) men as I had. No woman, aside from serial killers and baby shakers, deserved a cheating man.

And as predicted, not twenty minutes later did Billy Blue saunter into the bar with his latest lady in tow.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't Billy Blue." I said, forcing an unheartfelt smile as he saddled up to the bar, notably without his new girlfriend.

"What? No kiss on the cheek hello?" he impishly asked.

"What? No introduction?" I shot back, gesturing at his girlfriend who was eyeing us from her bar stool at his brother's table.

"Isn't this crazy!? Of all the bars in Manhattan we came to the one you were working at!" he smiled coyly and looked around, as if this were some chance encounter. But that twinkle in his eye that I used to see no longer shone, and that mischievous smile of his was now just plain obnoxious.

"What can I get you to drink?" I asked, rolling my eyes and ignoring his last comment, as I clearly did not believe that he had come to Tin Lizzie unintentionally.

Eventually, after Billy realized that I had no interest in continuing with his little mind games, or even a conversation for that matter, he headed back to the table to join his brother, girlfriend, and company. He never returned to the bar that day to order another round, but instead sent someone else from his group (aside from the girlfriend) each time. Finally, in due all-day-drinking course, with no further communication between the two of us, Billy and his girlfriend staggered out of the bar without a goodbye or a tip. And for the first time in my bartending life, I could honestly say that that was one drunk man's money I did not want.

Ironically enough, the NYPD motto is "Faithful Unto Death" and I could only hope for Billy Blue's new Sue that he would carry out that maxim both on the streets and in the bedroom this time around. But until my next Blue encounter, whether it be via text or being tracked down wherever I was bartending, I had much more important things to worry about, such as my outfit for tonight's KY Jelly wrestling match at Saloon. Here's to love and lubrication, Upper East Siders...

Stood Up: The Aftermath

2010-09-27T08:23:00.006-04:00

Saturday morning I woke up after a restless night's sleep with my BlackBerry clenched desperately in my hand. While I did have two Facebook friend requests, an email from my mother regarding health insurance, and a text message (a.k.a. booty call S.O.S.) from a hook-up of many moons past un-so-slyly saying, Hey, its been awhile. Are you out? at 2:56 A.M., I sadly did not have a missed call, text, email, BBM, smoke signal, message in a bottle, or any other possible form of communication from Alejandro explaining why he never showed up for last night's scheduled rendezvous.

As I wallowed in the aftermath of my shattered Teenage Dream over some Bagel Express and The Daily 10, soaking up the fully deserved twelve to eighteen hours to feel sorry for myself, I received an influx of communiqué from multiple friends who were attempting to recover from last night's debaucherous (and somewhat lewd) acts.

Emily was trying to recuperate from her thwarting horny-turned-slightly-poetic late night text to an ex stating, I want your hard dick...in my soul; Lenny awkwardly (and impressively) got hand blasted by a thirty-five year old engaged woman in the middle of a Vince Neil concert; Jimmy John got his monkey unsuccessfully spanked by an unnamed girl whose name he already forgot (although he did know that her friend's name was Destiny, who contrary to popular belief, was not an exotic dancer or escort of any sort); and Mumbles, sadly, woke up in the corner of his room naked and alone. I wasn't exactly sure what went on in the Upper East Side last night, but there for shit sure wasn't any true love or Teenage Dreams, let alone proper communication or acceptable sexual acts for persons over the age of seventeen.

As I spent the rest of my Saturday afternoon watching bad TV in my Ohio State sweats with the good company of my blankies (yes, my blankies from childhood), I suddenly saw my Facebook Internet tab flashing. I clicked on it to find an instant message from Alejandro. I didn't know whether to be excited, angry, or simply glad to know he was alive--he had spent his evening multiple vodka bottles deep with a bunch of Russians, after all.

Luckily for Alejandro, based on his hurried typing, the Russians hadn't gotten drunk enough to where they had played that finger chopping "game" with cigar cutters:

Bacchus, I'm so very sorry I never showed last night. My phone died, then I drunkenly left it in the cab, but luckily Hadar was still in the cab, but I didn't have the cab come to your place because I forgot your address because I didn't write it down because I was in the middle of the Russian party. And I couldn't call you when I got home to let you know I was not coming because my phone, which was dead anyways, was in the cab with Hadar.

If Alejandro had a nickel for every glass of vodka he drank last night and a dime for every "because" he just gave me, it seemed like he would be a very rich man who I should probably at least get another few drinks out of. But all becauses aside, I did, imprudently or not, believe his vodka-infused spun tale. I sighed and thoughtfully considered how I should respond.

I hope you can accept my apology, Bacchus, as I would love to see you again. But I understand if you think I should just sod off.

I could hear his relentless apology in that sexy British accent and I had to smile--and after about thirty-six seconds of contemplation, I decided that I had to forgive him too.

As long as you promise to never leave me staring out a window again, I wrote.

And promise he did. Hell, if the likes of Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton got second, third, and fourth chances after multiple DUI's and drug arrests (apart from the country of Japan), then a vodka-chugging European with a bad hangover and what seemed like a genuine apology definitely deserved another chance.

Here's to hand jobs, regrettable text messages, and second chances, Upper East Side...

Teenage Dream

2010-09-06T20:25:00.003-04:00

Well it turned out that the rumors swirling around Spaniards and good sex were absolutely, undeniably, irrefutably true. As I relished in my warm fuzzy Alejandro feelings of the night before and hummed Katy Perry's "Teenage Dream" while cold-calling my day away, I received my customary, monthly text from Billy Blue.

Wow, Bacchus! You base a relationship on if a guy is good in bed?! LOL. Your next blog should be "How I Prioritize My Relationships."

I rolled my eyes and replied with a snarky comment, but after I hit send, I realized that Billy Blue's idea actually wasn't half bad. As I stared at my computer pretending to prospect (ok, stalk) potential clients on LinkedIn, I gave some hard thought to what was really important to me in terms of relationships and the kind of man I wanted to be with. And I then realized, oddly and scarily enough, that Katy Perry was actually onto something too.

I wanted to be with a man who thought I was pretty without any makeup on; who thinks I'm funny, even when I'm not (which, let's face it, is quite the rarity); and who I can let my walls come down with. I could do without the whole making forts out of bed sheets bit she threw in as a filler in the third verse, but as cheesy as it was, I did want a guy who could make my heart stop when he looked at me--what girl wouldn't? I was sick of all these New York schmucks with the same Brooks Brothers shirts and bullshit lines just looking for their next lay. Enough was enough and I wanted to the real thing, dammit.

So it was now officially my mission to find my "Teenage Dream" guy and after a week of bliss and one unforgettable night at the Love Shack, I was confident that Alejandro could fulfill all of my unrealistic, idealistic dreams of good men and true love in Manhattan. Who would have guessed that a pop singer and a narcotics detective could help open my eyes to what I really wanted in my Sex & the Upper East Side life, but at this point, I'd take it.

That evening I went out for a multi-hour happy hour with my co-workers and as I finally plopped in a cab to head home to air conditioning and some Friday Night Lights, I received a call from an unrecognized number. I picked up, wondering if it'd be some old flame of years past looking for some late night action or a telemarketer based in India, not realizing it was 11:00pm on a Friday night in the U.S. of A.

"Hey you," a sexy British accent cooed with a slight slur over a racket of noise that was either a bar or a war zone. "It's Alejandro. My phone battery died but I wanted to see if you'd like to meet up for a nightcap."

I could hardly hear him but did manage to catch "meet up" and I was sold.

"Sure, I'd love to. I'm actually in a cab headed home though. Where are you?" I asked, trying not to sound overly eager.

"This crazy Russian party with Vladimir and my boss. But we're leaving shortly. How about I just come 'round to your place?" Alejandro suggested.

Direct and forward--exactly what I was looking for based on both last night's performance and the six vodka sodas that I had just consumed. I gave him my address and he told me he'd be there within a half hour. I could only imagine what went down at a "Russian" party, but had to assume that it involved excessive vodka consumption, a little AK-47 talk, and a handful of leather jackets.

When I walked into my apartment I immediately brushed my teeth, made my bed, and touched up my twelve hour old make-up job, although based on his level of intoxication that was conveyed in our two minute conversation, I highly doubted my primping would matter.

After forty-five minutes passed and still no Alejandro, I was on the verge of a vodka coma, dying to put on some boy shorts and cuddle up with a box of Girl Scout cookies. I reluctantly called the random number that he had rang me on almost an hour ago, only for it to be answered by an unfamiliar voice of a man named Hadar who informed me that Alejandro had left the party shortly after we had spoke.

I hung up defeated, discomfited, and down right ready for bed. I stood at my bedroom window for ten more minutes, hoping that the difference between New Yorker time and European time would eventually coincide. But much to my disappointment, Alejandro never surfaced on my stoop. I went to bed that night with a crushed Teenage Dream, wondering if it would ever be repaired...

Eleven Blocks to the Love Shack

2010-08-29T13:58:00.023-04:00

While slightly disheveled and considerably hungover, I staggered into work the next day still reeling from my previous night's encounter with the very charming Alejandro. I settled in at my desk with my morning coffee and protein bar, unable to focus on my fourteen unopened emails and the eighty phones calls I was required to make between now and 5:30pm.

"Well someone got laid last night," quipped Giggles, my balding, beer-bellied teammate who lived for the New York Jets and Kentucky Fried Chicken. For someone who was more excited for the NFL season to start than his upcoming nuptials, I could tell he was more than eager to find out why I looked like the cat who had swallowed the canary, or in this case, the girl who had been kissed by a European.

"I actually kept my pants on, Giggles, but thanks for your vote of promiscuity," I retorted. "And I'd love to hear what went on under the covers in your house last night, but considering you only get laid when you bring home a commission check and payday is a week and a half away, I'll assume you have nothing to report."

My other teammate and our manager chuckled while our fourth teammate, who had the potential to go postal at any moment, silently surfed plentyoffish.com for his next coffee date. As I launched into my lengthy anecdote of Alejandro, Vladimir, leather jackets, and too much sangria, I felt like Carrie Bradshaw as she brunched with Charlotte, Samantha, and Miranda in an episode of season six, excessively excited and overly optimistic about her relationship with Jack Berger that didn't actually exist, as they had yet to go on their first date. But rather than have three women feign excitement and pledge support of my fictional relationship with a man I had known for twelve hours over mimosas and Eggs Benedict, I had four co-workers chortling and eye rolling as they prepared themselves for a day of cold calling and rejection from CFO's and EVP's who had absolutely no interest in market research.

Needless to say, in between daydreaming of my next encounter with Alejandro and the anticipation of the "day after text", I was extremely unproductive that morning. At 11:30am it finally arrived, asking if I was free for lunch. We met at a cafe a few blocks from my office where we spent more time making out than eating, much to the dismay of the other patrons who were attempting to gag down their paninis and Pellegrinos in between our hour of lip-locking, hand-handing, and eye-gazing. But in my opinion, our romantic antics were far more appropriate and endurable for a lunch crowd than the near pornographic scenes I had seen in the dark corners of The East End on a Saturday night.

By the time Thursday night came around, I had seen Alejandro on three separate occasions and couldn't have been more smitten. This was the best three day "relationship" in my New York dating history and I was ready to take our "relationship" to the next level. But I had to ask myself, was it appropriate in such short time?

I didn't want to come off as some sort of "fast" American woman, but my pocket rocket could only get me so far. And while I realized that this wasn't the age of Little Women and chastity belts (hell, that thing was long gone, anyways), I hadn't dated anyone in quite sometime where I had been properly courted--where it wasn't their primary interest to get in my pants by using the classic "let's go back to my place for a drink" line two hours into a first date. Alejandro's gentlemanly approach was refreshing (and rare) and I didn't want to take it for granted.

I calculated the number of dates Alejandro and I had been on in order to assess if I could in fact take this to the next level. After all, if he was terrible in bed, this could go no further. Monday's meeting technically counted as two dates, as there were two different locations over the span of several hours, then lunch on Tuesday, and the tour of the condo he was currently selling on East 82nd Street on Wednesday made Thursday's date number five. It could take people a month to get as far as I had gotten in a week, so kudos to me for such efficiency.

As we finished our drinks at Tin Lizzie, Vladimir in black leathered tow, I demurely suggested that Alejandro come back to the Love Shack for the evening. As he handed Vladimir his keys and finished his vodka and coke, he jokingly said, "You must have heard that the Spanish are good lovers."

Spanish, English, Uzbekistanian, first date, fifth date, I didn't care. I grabbed his hand and led him out of the bar and up Second Avenue, eleven blocks to the Love Shack...

Mission Man-Picking: Accomplished

2010-08-16T15:00:00.047-04:00

After three too many martinis and coming to peace with the fact that I had no other option for picking up men in Manhattan than in a bar, Alejandro had whisked me off my staggering feet to a bar in Murray Hill. The bar was (predictably) a stone's throw away from his apartment--the very same apartment where he was currently housing a leather-rocking Russian and God only knows how many tonnes of enriched uranium. Yet, I was so smitten (and perhaps somewhat unsober) that the sixty blocks between me and my bed and the looming hangover between now and tomorrow morning didn't phase me one bit.

As Alejandro, the Russian, and I gathered around a small outdoor table piled with bread, olives, various tapas, and pitchers of sangria, Europeans suddenly flocked from all directions. One from behind a set of burgundy velvet curtains, another emerging from behind the bar, and yet another from the depths of the kitchen. They were all speaking in tongues with arms flailing and wine glasses clinking (ok, so they may have been proper Romance languages such as French and Spanish, with a little Russian here and there, but tongues nonetheless to the girl who could hardly speak English at this point in the night).

Should I Purell my cheeks? I wondered to myself. The European from the kitchen smelled of Grand Marnier, curry, and mutton--who knew what he was gnawing on back there that could have now transplanted itself on either, if not both, of my cheeks. It was a wonder that Europe hadn't seen a bubonic plague, Black Death-style, since the fourteenth century based on all of the cheek kissing that these people partook in with complete strangers.

"Would you like to have a cigarette with me?" Alejandro offered, diverting me from my thoughts of pandemics and sanitizer.

He pulled out a pack of Nat Shermans from the inside pocket of his suit jacket as the Russian pulled out a pack of Marlboro Reds. I was impressed by Alejandro's classy tobacco preference and was surprised when the Russian didn't light two cigarettes at the same time--there was no way that Vladimir didn't have a black lung.

I was also relieved by the fact that Alejandro hadn't offered me a "fag" as many an Englishman from across the pond would have. Ask any of the NARS make-up artists at Barneys what smoking a fag is in this town and you'd never venture past Splash in Chelsea after dark or remotely think of a cigarette ever again. I mean, if I ever wanted to hear about fags, loos, and shopping trolleys, I could just turn on the BBC, for John, Paul, George, and Ringo's sake.

Alejandro was not only charming and handsome, but completely intriguing and unlike any other man I had ever met in New York. He was in high-end real estate and spoke more languages than Jason Bourne and The Pope combined. With a Belgian/French father, an Italian/Czech mother, born in Spain and brought up in London, Alejandro was a bona fide European mutt.

My Ohio roots paled in comparison. Brie and pinot noir were as far as I could get in French and my Spanish consisted solely of requests for condiments, garnishes, and alcohol that I had developed through my interaction with Mad River's bar backs over the past four years. Hell, I couldn't even find Belgium on a map.

Alejandro extinguished his cigarette and stepped closer. "I'd really like to kiss you right now, but I'm not sure if I should," he said with asking eyes.

"Well, I think you should," I replied, holding his gaze. I had kissed both an Englishman and a realtor before, but they paled in comparison to this Second Avenue lip-lock.

The imaginary fireworks that lit up the East side's skyline and the oh-so-real fireworks below my belt during Alejandro and my's first kiss were a reality check that my American girl ass needed to call it a night before my vodka hallucinations could continue--or worse, before I decided that I wanted to see the nuclear warfare bunker otherwise known as Alejandro's apartment in search of some European lovin'. I wisely hailed a cab and said goodbye to Alejandro and his international crew of chain-smoking Russians and mutton-eating Moroccans.

Only time will tell what Alejandro will bring for me and Sex & the Upper East Side...but for this week, Mission Man-Picking was officially accomplished.

"Man-Picking" in the Big Apple's Orchard

2010-07-30T07:33:00.023-04:00

As the handsome Englishman made his way towards my barstool, I had only a few moments to contemplate if I truly did want to go back to my old ways of man-picking from this orchard of bars on the Upper East Side. But where else would I man-pick if it weren’t for bars? Perhaps bars weren’t the most appropriate or desirable places for man-picking, but in a city of eight million people, what was?

I didn’t exactly hangout in libraries, bookstores, or museums, so the quintessential scene of meeting Mr. Right while staring at the same Edgar Degas painting or reaching for the last copy of The Alchemist on opposite sides of a bookshelf were out. The subway was out too, as I only took it ten times per week, to and from work, in which every minute of my time spent commuting those few short stops to Midtown was consumed by playing Gem XXL on my BlackBerry—no time for prospecting when I’m trying to beat level thirteen and haven’t even had my morning coffee.

Sidewalks were a no-go—I was a fast walker with a sick dodge-and-weave, so the likelihood of me accidentally running into anyone, let alone a good-looking, single man with a job and a sense of humor, was virtually unfeasible. My time spent in Carl Schurz Park was dedicated to sunning and reading. I’ve seen many a girl try the old “Can I pet your dog?” trick in this setting, which I find both creepy and desperate, so parks weren’t going to get me far either. If I ever ask to pet anybody's dog, it better be under the covers, in the dark, with some role-playing involved, rather than a public setting in broad daylight.

At least in bars you know that you share one common interest—drinking. And in my personal opinion, after my brief “orchard” assessment of places to man-pick, a bar was the most viable option for this Big Apple girl to start (or should I say, revert to).

As he sauntered up to me, casually and relaxed with drink in hand, I turned to face him. He was wearing a well-tailored navy pinstripe suit with a light blue shirt, no tie, and proper footwear—lace-up, pointed-toe oxfords, appropriately shined—just as I would expect from a European. Test number one passed.

“And how is your…rum and coke this evening?” I inquired, knowing I couldn’t be as far off on calling his drink as he was on calling my apparent martini a margarita.

“Ahhh, vodka and coke, but close enough,” he smiled as I looked inquisitively at his glass. Rum and coke, fine. Whiskey and coke, yes. Vodka and coke? Not something I served (or sipped) often. He must have sensed my skepticism about his drink choice because he immediately pointed to his friend and said, “I’m with a Russian. You drink what they tell you to.”

I politely laughed and followed his gaze to the man whom he had been previously standing next to. Buzz cut light hair with steel blue eyes, a black turtleneck, a black leather jacket and a look of grim death—he was definitely Russian. He studied me with his eyes of ice as he silently sipped his vodka and coke, closely watching my interaction with his friend, the Brit. I smiled nervously, all the while wondering if he was hiding an AK-47 under that leather jacket of his—why else would anybody be wearing a leather jacket in the dead eighty-nine degree heat of July?

"I'm Alejandro," he introduced himself and stuck out his hand. I took it and hastily returned the introduction, confused as to why an Englishman bore the name of a Lady Gaga song. I had deemed him for an Oliver, maybe a Simon, possibly even a Jack, but Alejandro? What kind of tea was his mother sipping with her crumpets?

"And that's Vladimir. He's just storing some enriched uranium at my apartment until he heads home next week," Alejandro jokingly chided. Vladimir narrowed his eyes and nodded once, to acknowledge the introduction.

Note to self: do not go home with this man. Ever.

"Oh, well enriched uranium does nothing for me. I'm far more interested in nuclear warfare these days, anyways," I joked in return with uncertainty, hoping the Russian wouldn't come over and Taser the vodka right out of me for mentioning nuclear.

I wasn't sure how dangerous enriched uranium was these days, but a few drinks later, Alejandro had practically charmed the pants right off me with his damn accent and indisputable magnetism and the Russian had finally warmed up to me (or at least I interpreted it as that when he finally removed his leather jacket).

I was highly uncertain as to who or what I had just plucked from the Big Apple's "orchard" but I was for certain that he was no Yankee Jim, Billy Blue, Benjamin, or any other man I had met in New York City to date, so I said to myself, why not a second date?