Leo Tinder Fuckboi

As usual my well thought out plan had gone awry and I had to think of a back-up. The plan was to get her to come with me to what was sure to be a super fun birthday party with drink specials and mutual friends. There we would drink, laugh, socialize, but then always return to each other as if we were bound by an inescapable magnetic charge. Unfortunately that charge was weak as she declined the invite to do something else. Something without me. So when a wrinkle appears, naturally the solution is to pull out the apps and start swiping. I noticed a recent conversation that lay dormant, but not out of malice or by the grace of a moronic message. It was just over. So I figured to start it up again and see what would happened. Worst comes to worst I could just see some pals and see where that takes me.

Before the party, I decided to meet up with a friend for happy hour drinks. It was raining and he was bored at work, so it came as no surprised that he was a few in when I arrived. We took advantage of the two for one drinks and I was settling into a soliloquy about why Bob Dylan is a god (a subject only popular with a very select few individuals), when I felt my phone vibrate. To my surprise the flame notification appeared and I was presented with a resurrection. Looks like the conversation wasn’t dead.

As expected, I ignored my friend and started typing away seeing what was up. She was vague, sarcastic, and quick – just what I wanted in my messaging. Feeling the confidence that a few whiskey cokes brings to my already overinflated ego, I invited her to hook up with me at the party. It’ll be fun, I suggested, why not. She was down to crash this party, but gave me a warning that she was tall and that she could slouch if I felt that was necessary. Of all the threats to my masculinity height is at the bottom of my list. Who cares if she’s taller than me, as long as she looks like her pictures and sounds like her messages I’m fine. My friend agreed with the sentiment and we took to the train to get to the party.

Nothing says fancy like a velvet rope and that’s what greeted us at the southern restaurant/bar in Union Square. We said the magic name and the rope lifted and in no time were enjoying the remnants of a birthday happy hour. I found the birthday girl and said my thanks and congrats on making it through another year and I did mean it; she is a lovely person. One of the gems in my book and I explained that I would be sharing her special day with a random girl from Tinder. In fact I made it a point to warn or tell everyone that they would be privy to one of my infamous tinder dates. The scene was set.

An hour passes and my friend is deciding whether he wants to mingle or stumble on to the bathroom. He picks the second option which we both agree is wise. I look up to outside the velvet rope and see someone who matches pictures two, three, and five on a specific tinder profile and I slip into “charming Tinder mode”. By this I mean I go through the publicly weird process of asking someone if they are indeed the person from the picture square on my phone. She says yes and I’m relieved because pictures two, three, and five were the best ones on her profile (she later would mention that I resembled pictures one and three on mine).

So we get to talking and I assume I’m being witty because I see her mouth turn upright into a form that most would describe as a smile. But at this point happy hour has been going on far too long for me and it’s beginning to show. I usually make it a point not to drink before meeting a new person, but then again I don’t always follow my own rules because I’m an idiot. Some things are unavoidable. But apparently I’m charming because she keeps biting at what I’m saying while throwing it back at me in double time. I can respond to most of her remarks and she seems impressed that I’m holding my own despite being in the middle of drunk squints. By this time my friend has left to do his own thing but before he leaves I introduce him to my date and he mutters out “the things I would do to her”. If there’s a better compliment in the world I haven’t heard it.

As with most birthdays it becomes that time in the evening where the venue must change for fear of stagnation and we decide it’s time to depart and go our own way. She asks if I’d like to go to Beauty Bar and “do some drugs”, to which I reply with the very debonair “okay”. Smooth indeed. So we’re walking to Beauty Bar where I decide to employ my classic pick up line of “hey on the way to Beauty Bar let’s make out, it’ll be fun we’ll walk, we’ll talk, it’ll make the time pass”. She agrees and we go for it in front of an apartment complex with raised grass and very pointy barriers. This is when the height starts to play a role, as I have to lean up to get any traction with my drunken, slobbering make out. What a delightful reversal of roles I think and before I can come to any sort of conclusion we’re off and walking.

Beauty Bar is a fun place, and I go there often. It’s got a dance floor and for a small price they do your nails. I’ve never gotten but it seems fun so why not. Anyway, she doesn’t feel like dancing so we’re sitting adjacent to the dance floor and the conversation moves to sex. In a boastful way she claims that she never orgasms during sex. Great, I think, the pressure’s off for the night! Don’t worry I assure her, that ain’t gonna change tonight. My assurance plays well and she motions that it’s time to do drugs. After a bouncer denies our attempt to go into the bathroom together we figure that maybe the old fashioned way of one by one is better. She goes first and then attempts to hand me a bag but I drop it akin to Alvy Singer in Annie Hall. Thank god it’s in a bag and I go into the bathroom do a bit and then it’s off to be jittery on the L train.

I’m shaking on the L train when she pulls out a notebook and asks me to review her art. The sketches are fine, but it’s not like I was going to say anything else. Plus I find the L train to be a notoriously bad place for art criticism. We get off and get to her place and start doing things, until well things end and I decide it’s time to go to the bathroom because why not seems like the right thing to do. So I tip toe through the darkness and turn on the lights only to see the effects of what I previously thought was gentle neck gnawing. Turns out what most people would consider gentle neck gnawing my body took as the tiger that attacked Siegfried and Roy. My neck is all shades of black, red, and purple. Simply put I look gross.

It’s around 7 in the morning when I arrive back in the room (I left for the bathroom at 6:55). I tell her about my mauling and she feels embarrassed but more so about the disparity in souvenirs. I figure it’s time to leave because she has to wake up in a couple of hours and I’d rather leave when I’m wide awake and horrified sooner than later. She’s cool about it and I get dressed and take a very long walk through the foggiest parts of Brooklyn to the train. The people on the train stare and I don’t blame them, it’s not every day you see an active warzone on a guy’s neck. Lucky them.

I make it home and attempt to use every hickey trick in the book, but at best I can only manipulate my neck into varying shades of maroon. Since I’m mortally opposed to turtle necks, it looks like I’ll be wearing my night out for a bit. So in the days that follow life returns to normal, minus the first round of questions and horrified stares from friends. Such is life I suppose.

A week or so passes and I hit her up again and we go through the same routine but far more sober and in Brooklyn. It’s fun but nothing special until the end of the night when she tells me she keeps a list of all the guys she’s slept with and a little bio about them. I ask to see mine and she looks, laughs, and says “Leo Tinder fuckboi. Christened my mattress”.

Fuckboi? Really, I ask her. The Leo and tinder part are accurate, but fuckboi, yikes – was I one of those? She says not really – she claims it was there because she thought I would never call again and my doing so mitigated the term to something a bit tamer. I can’t remember what she turned it to because like a previous other demoralizing ranking, it began to cloud my mind. I couldn’t focus like before and went into a low power sarcastic mode. The night went fine and we bantered, but who knows what about because man does that term just sting. We went back to her place and I told her to lay off the neck because my family already had enough things to talk about at Passover and things happened and then like before I left but this time not as a fuckboi. Well at least a fuckboi that wasn’t going to call her back. So I guess I was a fuckboi again, but why would I want to call somebody back who called me a Leo Tinder Fuckboi. I was surprised she remembered my sign. These thoughts kept me occupied as I strolled through the foggy Brooklyn neighborhoods. I felt a bit like Walt Whitman walking through old timey Brooklyn, but then I figured Walt Whitman had never been referred to as a fuckboi. Or at least not in the versions of “Leaves of Grass” I’ve read. I made it to the train and prepared for the long trip back to Queens knowing two things. One, I was not going to see this person again in a romantic way again. And two, I was going to spend a good amount of time taking “am I a fuckboi quizzes”.

Ugly Love

You ever see two ugly people walking on the street together holding hands and you look at them and you think good for you guys; you did it. Congrats at beating the overwhelming odds and finding that someone special. You look at these two ugly ducklings and give that nod of approval. Not only did these two uglies find love but they got the approval of me, one of the beautiful people. Now naturally after you pass these two ugly but in love people your kind thoughts turn negative. How is it that these people, or rather these ugly people were able to find love and you, a beautiful person, are still lonely and single? What the fuck?

But then you think, is that really what I want? I mean sure, those people look happy and for all intents and purposes they are, but is that really what life is about? Shouldn’t we be dating out of our comfort zone and try for the hotties upon hotties. Who wants to end up with an ugly? Is that the life for me? These questions linger in your head and then you start to get mad and even a tad bit jealous at those two ugly people you saw holding hands down in the village. I mean how did they even meet? They must be using the same methods as the rest of the human population. It’s got to be some combination of online and app dating. Could it be real life? Is that what I’m missing? Is that how all the undesirables meet – sans dating application? You then dismiss the thought because it’s obviously absurd – it had to be through some online apparatus.

So maybe, your mind begins to wander, it wasn’t the medium but the purpose. Could they have been so worn down by rejection that they just accepted their fate in life and decided to become one half of an ugly couple sandwich. Woo, what a terrible thing to have to think about. What an internal monologue that must be. Sure I’ll be in the ugly but that’s something and something is better than nothing. Then you think, what a sad thing to do. To settle so early and easily. To romantically die without a fight and never try to punch above your weight class. What a tragedy indeed.

Jesus, but who am I to judge on such shallow criteria goes the part of the brain you wish would pipe down more often. Should ugly people have to live a loveless life just because they don’t fit your arbitrary standards of beauty? Why that’s absurd you go, what was I even thinking? Maybe they complete each other emotionally and intellectually, isn’t physical beauty only one of the legs of the relationship chair. But then retorts the part of the brain you wish would speak less, isn’t physical beauty as important as an emotional and intellectual bond. That’s what brings the spark and magic and turns a magical friendship into a passionate relationship. The bonds of the mind and spirit are important but try explaining that to a flagging hard on or a rapidly drying pussy. So in the words of our genitals, let’s not downplay the importance of looks.

Maybe, just maybe, these uglies both find each other beautiful. And not that fake inner beauty nonsense but they truly have the hots for each other. It could happen, people are into weird things. You think about your own body. You certainly have some “eccentricities” and “peculiar parts” that some would find attractive and others would find downright unappealing. Hey to each their own, but then again don’t we have at least a baseline to judge beauty on. Could these people just have hit the baseline or found one appealing physical notion about each other and been like “that’s all I need I’m out”. Could they have been the person that only tries one flavor of ice cream, enjoys it, and then orders it on the spot without trying anything else? Is this the pair of people you just saw passing hand in hand in the village?

Now your mind takes a detour to the past trying to answer what could be a disheartening question. Have you ever in your dating career gotten the approval nod that you gave to the uglies? Has anyone ever given you, “one of the so called beautiful people”, that condescending good for you look when you were walking down the street with a love? The ego leaps into defensive mode saying no never, but then you think back on every walk you’ve ever made in public. You scour your memory banks like some 70’s reporter scanning microfiche at the library for any traces of the look. The results: inconclusive you’re positive it has definitely happened. In a city of 8 million people someone was bound to find you and your lover part of the select group of uglies and thought aww good for you guys, you did it. You overcame the odds.

The thought just sickens you. How could you be a willing accomplice in a vicious cycle that helps nobody at all. Love should be celebrated not ridiculed. The ugliness of the participants should be irrelevant. What a noble stance you think and you become instantly proud of yourself. And to think, you thought this wouldn’t be a productive walk. Never doubt yourself, now that’s a motto to live by. Until of course you see an even uglier couple holding hands as you hit the Chelsea neighborhood of the city (it’s been quite a walk) and think are you fucking kidding me? How did this one happen?

A Macy's Debacle aka I'm Not Crazy!

So get this. I’m in Macy’s because I need to buy a pair of pants. More specifically brown skinny jeans. Now for some reason purchasing this particular pair of pants has become a Don Quixote like quest for reasons beyond me but whatever. I like me some brown skinny jeans. Why this is less popular than fucking red or purple Joker pants is again beyond me. If I ran the world’s supply of jeans (rather than just the banks and the media – I’ve said too much) things would be much different. Much, much different believe me. But I don’t so I guess I can go, in the words of Mr. Levi Strauss, “fuck myself”. Pearls of corporate wisdom like that are why he became the powerhouse jeans manufacture he is today.

Getting back to whatever point I was making, I’m in Macy’s looking for brown skinny jeans at the Levi’s store in the contemporary men’s floor aka what used to be that weird floor one and a half which was only accessible by a middle escalator when I find me some brown jeans. So far so good. Well way to get ahead of yourself because they only have them in the slim cut. Jesus, don’t you get tired of always being wrong? Terrible. Just terrible. I see that these are the only moderately skinny pants in the brown color persuasion that Macy’s offers so I decide to be generous and see how they fit. I’m just in that kind of mood. So I go to the dressing with my said pair of slim brown skinny jeans and try them on. They don’t fit or rather they don’t fit my European normal or American anorexic body, so I figure I’ll just drop them off and continue my seemingly endless search. And here’s where the problems begin.

Normally dressing rooms have a clothing rack or a hook or something to put your unwanted clothes on after you try them on. Usually they take up the entrance or exit (yes we have taken a minor philosophical detour on how entrances can double as exits) of the dressing room and serve as a way of making sure clothing doesn’t end up on the fucking floor, preserving a sense of decorum in this rapidly declining society. As I exit the entrance of the Levi’s dressing room with my pair of unwanted pants draped over my shoulder I find nary a clothing rack to place them on. Since I’m not, as the kids would say, “a fucking asshole” I decide to ask someone where I should put said clothing. I go up to an associate at the register and ask if there is a rack or place to put my clothes. The lady looks at me and starts talking to me like I’m an insane person. What do you mean you need a rack just put your clothes anywhere, what are you talking about, and so on and so forth.

Is this the way we like to run our store? This is Macy’s, which prides itself on being the premier department store in the world and you can’t provide a basic store accompaniment? Mind you this is not some outlet store Macys, this is the Herald Square Thanksgiving Day Parade Miracle of 34^th street Macys. This is the one that murdered Gimbels. What a steep decline to the excellence I for some reason falsely believed Macy’s prided itself on providing.

After suffering such injustice I decide to do the only logical thing and check out every other dressing room on the floor to see if they have a clothing rack. Well welly welly welly well, they all have places or racks to put unwanted clothes. I snap a picture of every single one and proudly walk back to the lady at the Levi’s store register and show her and her manager the clothing racks, basking in my petty glory. Actually that last part didn’t happen (but I did check out every dressing room and they did have racks – let the record show). Instead I simply folded my pants and put them back where I got them, muttering and ranting until I was kicked out. Well not really the kicked out part. I left on my own free will. But I was a ranting and a raving.

So fast forward to yesterday when I’m still looking for brown pants and again I find myself back at this forsaken Heralds Square Macy’s where again I have been disappointed by the selection of skinny jeans. Why I expected things to dramatically change in a week, I have no idea. Just call me an optimist. So I go back to the Levi’s store and its dressing room and to my surprise I see a sign telling people to put the clothes they do not want on a clothing rack. Good advice I think. I turn to see where this clothing rack is and again it is nowhere to be found. Instead I see a couch filled to the gills with jeans and people looking mildly confused looking for a clothing rack.

In short I’m not crazy. I swear.