"There are some men who just won't take no for an answer. Those men should have deeper pockets."

A friend once asked me if it’s worse that a guy is broke or that he’s cheap. In which case I replied, “Who cares? Either way, it won’t work.”

Months ago, I met a guy named James at a friend's party. He's wasn't really my type—for starters, we were all headed to a fabulous night out on the town, and he wore sneakers. Manhattan, my dear, does not play that. So to me, that was flag number one. Flag number two, and I knew this was a borderline deal breaker for me, was that he didn't bring any cash with him that night. None whatsoever. That means he couldn't pay, let alone chip in for the cab ride there, nor could he pay the measly $10 cover to get into the club. He even had the audacity to become upset with the group for “leaving him” while he begrudgingly walked to the ATM, inserting irreverent and inappropriate remarks into our conversations later on that night. Dude, we don’t even know you. Whatever, I was over it.


Anyhow, recently he’d been bugging me to hang out with him. I didn’t really want to—he’s cheap, and physically, I’m just honestly not that attracted to him. He’s got that whole body of a God, face from Hell thing going on, and really, who has the time? Anyhow, earlier this week he guilted me into going out with him, so I finally said yes. He then sent me an email with a bar near my house he thought I may like. “Fine, whatever,” I thought to myself. He proceeded to (get this!) email me a coupon for the bar, asking me what I thought about the discount. A coupon for a bar. Wow. He must’ve been on a roll because he then sent me another email saying that we should forego that bar because the fine print said he was only allowed to use one coupon for our table. Double Wow. I then rescinded my acceptance to this splendid date and instead opted for much needed quality time with my couch and television. Hey—I can’t help it if they miss me.


Why I somehow fell for stopping by James’ place last night I’ll never know. Well, I do kind of know—I was bored and he invited me over. Regardless, I must say that to my surprise, he had a really nice apartment. Even—dare I say—a bit extravagant. And upon conversing with him, he boastfully mentioned that he had a well-paying job in the technology field. Why, then, do you fail to bring cash when you go out, then offer to take me on a date but only if you can use multiple coupons?


Our night ended up going ok; that is, until I went home. It was late and he lives pretty far from me, but instead of offering some sort of assistance with my getting home, he asks me if I’m going to take the bus. Nice. And when he walks me outside to hail a cab, he lets me haggle the price with the cabbie all by my lonesome, and doesn’t say a word. But I’m on to him—he knows that saying a word could result in him spending a few dollars. Out of the question.


On the way home, the cab driver asked me if that was my boyfriend, and literally sighed relief when I said no. “You don’t need a guy like that, keeping you out late like this and he’s not even your boyfriend.” Mr. Cabbie, I think you’re right.

“Wait…but you’re engaged!!" “Ughh…Can I just see you?!?”

This past weekend, I was reconnected with an old pseudo flame. I call him pseudo because despite his extreme persistence, we never nor will ever have intimate relations with one another. He’s a successful doctor, arguably handsome, and ready to settle down. So what’s the problem? He’s settling down alright—just not with me. That, and his penchant for alcohol, make him a STAY AWAY mating candidate.


So Dr. Thirst, as I like to call him (“thirst” or “thirsty” meaning someone who is super desperado), has been after me for awhile. Since last summer, to be exact. That’s when after a few weeks of dating, in a seedy bar in Brooklyn he decided he suddenly had to tell me something. Ahh yes, the inevitable doomsday confession us single gals hold our breaths for. “I should probably tell you something,” were his exact words. “I’m kind of seeing someone.” Turns out, he was kind of living with his girlfriend. Coupled with his rampant alcoholic binges, I decided that maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t the guy for me.

Fast forward to last week, where Dr. Thirst resurfaced again like the Ghost of Christmas past. He sent me a text declaring that he simply must see me. After getting shot down several times, he got all Shakespearean  on me, upping the ante by stating he was now “longing to see me.” Hey, I gotta give it to the guy for trying. On another evening, he even [hopefully] feigned jealousy when I told him I couldn’t see him, telling me I should “drop that zero and get with this hero.” That zero was my best friend, Shaunie.

So after all the incessant berating, I finally agreed to lunch with Dr. Thirst this past weekend. After all, a girl does like a free meal every now and then. In the beginning, everything was fine. He’s been sober a few months now, and actually admitted he’s now ENGAGED to his girlfriend. I thought that he must be trying honesty for a change. Something new. But then he started in on how sexually attracted to me he was. Something old. He then began to detail how he’d like to begin sleeping with me, at least until he gets married in December. Obviously, infidelity doesn’t count until then. And after that, if I’d still like to sleep with him, he suggested that we can work something out. After all, he is a doctor, and he knows a woman’s anatomy and really just wants to make me feel good. Man, is he considerate. Plus, his girlfriend is out of town this week so we can really have a go at it, at their place and all. I suppose the old adage is true: while the cat’s away, the mice will play.

One thing he did mention that actually piqued my interest was how he said that he’d told his fiancé that he will undoubtedly sleep with other women from time to time throughout their marriage. But her response was just to let her know when he’s going to do it. I was shocked, to say the least. I personally would like to believe that the man I marry isn’t already thinking about cheating on me before the ink’s even dry. I mean damn, can you at least be head over heels for me for a little while?

This to me begs the questions, are these our options in this day and age if we want a successful husband, or any husband, for that matter? Maybe in the days of yore, a man would at least be discrete about his indiscretions. Nowadays, maybe Dr. Thirst and his cohorts figure it’s easier to just put it all out on the table. Is it naïve to expect your significant other to not be thinking about sleeping with other people before you’re even married? What would you do if your fiancé, male or female, in their sweetest, most loving voice, proposed that sort of deal to you?

Welcome!

Hi All,

So as a relatively novel New York City transplant, I've decided that I have a lot to talk about when it comes to dating in this city. I moved to Manhattan about a year ago from good ole’ Georgia, though I'm a California girl at heart. Suffice to say, gone are the days of the manicured Southern gentleman and the mellow California dreamer; the New York man is quite another beast. Enter the emotionally unavailable lawyer, or the career obsessed Wall Streeter (or as my roommate likes to say, the "finance douche bag"). Yet and still, for whatever reason, I seem to be a lead in the Drew Barrymore film 50 First Dates. I am forever going on date after outlandish date, most rivaling a Stephen King bestseller. In an Oprah "Ah-Ha moment," I recently thought to myself, Why be selfish keep these wildly entertaining anecdotes all to myself? And if I can't at least entertain others with the random ridiculousness that I regularly encounter, than what the hell am I even doing going out with these psychos?!?

I promise to take my readers along for the ride as I delve deep into the perils of dating in one of the most wealthy, narcissistic, promiscuous cities in the world. Sex, drugs, and rock n' roll. Well, truthfully, I've chosen to abstain from a lot of that (Hey, I don’t know these randoms like that!) And the men here tend to cancel themselves out before we even do the deed anyway. Trust me, give ‘em time and they will inevitably do something egregiously inappropriate or offensively stupid, and there goes any prospect of intimacy. I usually  run into these winners at some point in passing and thank God we never slept together. Happens every time.

So, Ladies and Gents, I'll be candid, I'll be shocking, I'll be hysterically funny (or at least the men in their ridiculous quests to sleep with me will be), but above all, I promise to be truthful about what's it's like to be a singleton maneuvering as best she can through El Dating Jungle in New York City. Because in the end, aren't we all just trying to avoid the ever looming prospect of spinsterhood, dingy apartment and hissing cats included?

Oh, and I won’t use real names!

Best,

JungleMaster