Where is a hit man when you need one?

Ok, folks, it's time for me to tell you about the most horrific, shocking, unbelievably douchey and cringeworthy date I've ever been on... Not just the worst date of my life, but the worst date in the history of womankind. It's a doozy. And 100% true (unfortunately... ugh). When I tell this story, there are times where I still have to question, "did this actually happen?! Why me? What have I done/who did I piss off in order to deserve this? Am I being Punked?" and so forth... After several weeks of nearly dry-heaving when I'd think of that god awful night's events, contemplating changing my phone number, email, name, zip code, etc., and constantly looking over my shoulder throughout the streets of Manhattan in fear that I would bump into The Douchenozzle Himself, I'm now ready to talk about it in full... and realize that TDH (the douchenozzle himself) has technically inspired this blog's existence the most... so cheers to you, you crazy bastard. 




It was an unusually warm Spring Saturday in March of 2010 on the island of Manhattan. I had just finished my morning Pilates/Yoga/Pain in My Ass class at my gym in TriBeCa, and after my ride home on the subway, I decided to stop at Dean & Deluca for one of their tasty fresh-squeezed lemonades. Now, even though I take pride in the fact that my work out clothes are very cute and stylish and since I'm that annoying girl who puts a touch of make-up on before gym-ing it (don't hate), during this particular visit to D&D, I was in no mood to be hit on. My metabolism was up, I was ready to chug some lemonade and then head back to my 'hood and inhale a burrito somewhere. I was sweaty, I had my big, ol' sunglasses on and my typical "F*ck Off" sign stamped to my forehead. Ya know, the ush. So as I'm playing on my iPhone and patiently (or as best I can) waiting in line to pay for my beverage, I can feel this guy (TDH) in front of me with his back facing the cashier and his front facing me, and he's just staring at me and smiling... Now as most NYC residents know, we're not a fan of this behavior. Do not be nice to us for no reason. Do not smile at us on line at Starbucks. Do not make conversation with us in the cab. If you do these things, we're going to give you an intense, "what the hell are you looking at me for, clown?!" look... which is exactly what I did. I looked behind me to see if there could be any other pour soul who he'd be acknowledging. When I realized that I was said pour soul, I bitchily asked him if I could help him. And as he began to speak, I suddenly felt a bit of relief because he was clearly gay (wrong actually... but read on). So as he's telling me about how he just moved here and is trying to locate/join the best gym in the city, while getting opinions from fellow gym-goers (e.g. Me), I'm starting to feel less typical-angry-New-Yorker-ish and figure I ought to be nice to the guy. So as I go on and on about my gym and how "there are super cute guys in suits there... it's the best one in the city yada yada yada" (keep in mind, I was assuming the Gay at this time), he then asks if he can get my phone number or business card. I became a little hesitant and gave him a weird, confused look-- to which he assured me that he was just trying to meet new, interesting people in the city. So, since I know what it's like to be the new kid in town, I gave him my card and went on my way home....


Within the next half hour and seconds after I walked into my apartment, I get an email from him. It was very witty, short and sweet. He said that he enjoyed meeting me and that he had an extra pass to the TriBeCa Film Festival the following weekend, and was wondering if I wanted to attend some screenings/after parties with him. So since I was still thinking he was just an over-friendly gay guy who was looking to add another fashionista-type to his social circle (my gaydar FAILED me), I said yes.... BUT that I would like to get to know him over dinner or drinks beforehand. He happily concurred and we set up a time to meet that Tuesday. Then up until that soon-to-be-dreaded Tuesday, we exchanged a few witty, friendly emails-- and he said to meet him at The W Hotel bar in Times-too-many-effing-tourists-Square at 8:00. And he also put in his email for me to "dress nice." Pssshhhh. I wanted to reach through the computer and punch him. 


So that Tuesday as I was getting ready for this evening out with Mr. Ambiguous (aka TDH), my roommate began to inquire what my plans were for the night. I told her that I "wasn't entirely sure...." and that I quite possibly had a date with gay man... She laughed and assured me that I would enjoy myself. She's clearly not psychic.... 


20:00 W Hotel bar TimesSq:
I'm dressed in an LBD (little black dress for the straight men reading) and heels. As the elevator doors open on the bar floor (my favorite floor!), I see him sitting at the bar. He waves. He's dressed in a suit and looks pretty decent. But again, I'm still thinking he's gay... mannerisms, voice, etc. He motions to someone who I assume is an owner or manager and we are led to a private table. I order champagne, he orders a cosmo (gaydar is through the roof at this point). For the first few minutes, we discuss our hometowns, college majors, and jobs (he said he worked in Finance... Gaydar went down a tad). Casual conversation. THEN... the douchiness begins. And it's just the tip of the douchey iceberg. 


TBH: "I'm very intuitive and can tell that you're very close with your parents; particularly your father."
Me: "Yes..."
TBH: "Tell me the greatest childhood memory that you have of your dad and you."
Me: *begins to tell a meaningful story about my FATHER* 
TBH: interrupts me mid-sentence and says, "I have to interrupt-- I can tell that you're a very orgasmic person because you stroke and touch your arms a lot when you speak..."


!!!!!!!


Me: *cringes and pulls sweater over self* 


Ok. Keep in mind, I was "touching my arms" because I was trying to cover up my cleavage (or what little there is/was) because he was blatantly staring at it/them. (gaydar: dowwwwwn) When I get uncomfortable in a situation, it's pretty freaking obvious and my stance, posture and demeanor change. But this Douche with a capital D of course turned in into something sexual... a huge No-No! I'm not a dating expert (although, with my experience and track record, I should maybe look into it as a career...), but, Men of the World, if you are trying to impress a classy girl on a first date, believe it or not, you should NOT talk about sex-- or anything related. Especially the word 'orgasmic.' And especially while a girl is talking about her FATHER. *shudders* .... And believe it or not, I'm a bit of a prude on the first few dates. I rarely ever kiss on the first date (unless of course he has a Pit Bull)-- and if I do kiss on the first date, I usually never see him again. It's just how I operate. I like to keep it casual and light: get to know one another, have some PG (maybe PG-13)-rated fun and flirt. 


Ok, so THIS is when I should've downed the rest of my champagne (or broken the glass over his head-- whichever) and bolted for the elevator. Instead....


Me: (after fighting the urge to castrate him) "Ummm, I wasn't touching my arms... I was trying to pull the top of my dress up because these seats make you sit kind of awkwardly." (or, I dunno, I said something of the matter. It's kind of a blur....)
TDH: "Oh! Speaking of... have you had any work done? You have really nice breasts."


Again with the !!!!!!!


Me: "Umm, no, they're real... Have YOU had any work done? (asking jokingly......... should've known)
TDH: "Yes, actually. I have butt-implants. I got them while I was living in Rio."
Me: *long, blank, confused stare.......* ????
TBH: *stands up, turns around so said implants are in my face* "Look. I'm very proud of them."


And yes, he was being serious. I may have poor gaydar, but my sarcasm-dar (is that a thing?) is superb. 

At this point, I should have left yet again. But I'm either a masochist or I was so intrigued/frozen by the enormous amount of douchey monstrosity of whom I was out with on a Tuesday night, that I had to see more. Plus, I was hungry. So when he asked me if he could make a quick stop at his condo, which was near the restaurant, to change into some more comfortable clothes, I told him that that was fine and I would plan on waiting in the lobby for him. So as I'm waiting in a big, fancy lobby of a swanky condo building, out walks.... 
well, there are no words... 
but, basically, this: 

Only, add LOTS more rhinestones, a bit of fringe, jeans with similar prints/embellishments, and the horrible realization that he actually thinks he looks gooooood.

I took one horrified look at him and scoffed... and then started to giggle uncontrollably. I can say that I honestly looked around the lobby expecting my friends and a camera crew to come out of hiding. This was a joke. A prank. Anyone who knows me well knows that I loathe anything that Christian Audigier designs and that I'm more than happy to mock it/judge any toolbag who wears it....

But then I realized that he was indeed wearing this on our "date" (*shudders again*) and I stopped laughing and annoyingly proceeded to dinner with him.

A short cab ride later, we arrived at a very, very fancy French restaurant called Per Se (at the time, I hadn't even heard about it). It was unusually quiet and we were seated at a table next to this sweet and attractive Greek/Hispanic family. They had two beautiful daughters and my date immediately began flirting up a storm with them. Now, normally, I'd be offended if any guy did this exact thing while on a date with a pretty girl who deserves his full attention... but since I was out with The Douchebag Himself, I could give a shit and was anxiously awaiting the waitress to deliver my bottle of red. Once she arrived, I drank up. I drank up a lot. Anything to numb the douchiness that I was experiencing and was about to experience even more. I also ordered the lobster special just to be a bitch. Normally, I am not that type of girl who orders the most expensive thing on the menu simply because she can. Honestly. And I've happily gone dutch on several dates. But after all of the stunts he was pulling that evening, you bet your ass he was going to get an enormous bill at the end of the night. And he deserved to pay every cent of it.

So during dinner, he OUT OF NOWHERE begins telling me this long, elaborate, ridiculous story about a stripper whom he met while in Rio (I'm seriously never ever going there) who had a levitating vibrator (yep! you heard right). A levitating vibrator.... What is this, you ask? Hell if I know! I just remember him being very vivid in his descriptions and hand motions, that at one point during it, I'm pretty sure I levitated out of MY body, looked down at us and shouted, "Come the $!*#!* on!!" I was appalled. Shocked. Amused by the fact that people like this actually exist. Also, keep in mind, he was doing/saying all of these things in a gay voice and mannerism... Now, we all know I LOVE my gays. Love, love, love! But do I want them to hit on me, talk about my Father and orgasms in the same sentence, tell tales of strippers and floating vibrators, while complimenting me on my boobs and wearing Ed Hardy? NO!!


So, it was at this point in time where I told him that it was time for me to head home (not before ordering a semi-expensive bottle of dessert wine, just for shits and giggles). He paid the check (but not after making some sort of un-funny joke about how "we should go dutch"-- to which I kindly told him to dream the eff on) and we walked out of the restaurant; as I was hugging myself tightly, while walking at least 5 feet ahead of him and praying for TDH to just disintegrate. I hailed a cab-- I would've hailed a serial killer in a beat up van at this point. I thanked him for dinner and opened the door to the magical yellow car that I was so happy to see. I was about to fling myself into the car or even hop on the hood and hope for the best, when he grabbed my arm, pulled me into him and said, "You know.. most serious, committed relationships begin with sex on the first date...."

Me: *PUNCH in TDH's FACE*



The cab ride home is kind of a blur, because A. I had had a lot of booze, let's be honest. B. I may have had the cabby pull over because I had the urge to throw up; not from the booze, but from the evening's events. And C. I was still so incredibly bewildered by the human whom I had just encountered.... but as I walked into my apartment and as my roommate noticed the dazed and horrified look on my face, she quietly asked: "How did it go?"

Me: "Where is a hit man when you need one?"

--Emily