by Andi Dorfman
“Just take the one to Seventy-Second Street, then follow your map with the address I’m about to text you.” She makes it sound so easy.
“Do I need to purchase a ticket ahead of time? ”
This makes her laugh. “You’re hilarious. Yes, buy a card at the station on Fourteenth. You’ll see the stand; you can’t miss it.”
Later that evening, I walk a few blocks to the corner of Fourteenth Street and Seventh Avenue, where, just like Michelle said, a staircase leads to the station below. I see the kiosk she was talking about and walk over to it. I press “Start” and proudly select the option “Buy a Card.” I add forty dollars to it, and a credit-card swipe later, I have my first yellow “MTA” card. I take a minute to observe the other passengers as they swipe their cards and then promptly push through the large metal rotating door. Swipe, then push—next—swipe then push—easy enough. I walk to the turnstile, where I follow suit and swipe my own card. A green light goes off, and the reader indicates my new balance of $37.25. I push through the turnstile, but it resists. Fuck, which way does the turnstile thing go? Fuck, now a red light is blinking, and there’s a beeping sound going off. I’m trapped. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Someone is yelling “C’mon!” behind me, I don’t know what is happening! I swiped it, it was green, it should be letting me through. I reach my hand back and furiously swipe my card a few more times, I keep pushing, but it’s not letting me through. I swipe again and try to push the other way. Finally, I break free.
Traumatized and having just spent more money on all those swipes than an Uber would have cost me, I follow the signs and make my way to the platform. It isn’t long before I see a train speeding toward me with a red digital circle and the number 1 on the front. I step onto the train and take a seat. It smells as if someone has just urinated nearby. Everyone looks grumpy. People aren’t singing and asking for money, nor are they talking to the people beside them. I definitely don’t see any celebrities. This is nothing like I imagined.
Upon arriving at Michelle’s, I immediately wash my hands, despite having doused them with half a bottle of hand sanitizer already. She asks how my first ride went, and I tell her how disgusting I feel and that it will be both my first and my last time ever taking the subway.
“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” she challenges.
Michelle has not only cooked a nice dinner of chicken, steamed broccoli, mixed green salad, and wild rice and orzo, but she’s also set the table with real silverware and floral linen napkins. I don’t know if it’s New York or her boyfriend, but something has turned her from the partying train wreck I once knew into a gourmet chef who owns real napkins. Who would have thought?
Pete gets home from work shortly after my arrival. He drops his briefcase on the couch, and Michelle immediately walks over and moves it to the table in the entryway.
Without saying a word, he grabs a beer out of the fridge, pops the top, and takes a gulp. “So Michelle tells me you are friends from Atlanta? ”
“Yeah, from back in the day.” I’m trying to give him the benefit of the doubt but so far his first impression isn’t a great one and my semi-disgusted tone probably makes that obvious.
“Nice, and you’ve just moved to the city? ”
“Yeah, bought a one-way ticket, and here I am.”
“How are you liking it? ”
Before I can answer, Michelle interrupts to say that dinner is ready. We take our seats around a round glass table. At some point after talking about the vast differences between Atlanta and New York, the conversation turns to the topic of dating.
“Okay, don’t get mad at me,” Michelle says, “but I have a great guy I want to set you up with!” She’s annoyingly excited.
I take a large gulp of wine. “Like as in a date? ”
“Well, yeah!”
The look on my face sends her into a two-minute monologue of profuse apology. She fears she’s overstepped and feels terrible for assuming I was ready to get back into the dating game and can’t believe how she could be so insensitive.
I can’t help but laugh. “No, it’s not that at all.”
“Oh, whew! So what do you think? ”
“Ehhhhh, who is he? ”
“He works with me,” Pete says, “but I don’t really know him that well. He just started, but he seems cool.” From the chugging of the beer upon his arrival home to the simple description of this guy, it’s obvious that Pete is very much a dude-ly dude.
“He’s very, very cute,” Michelle adds.
“Cute or hot? ” I need clarification.
She looks at Pete. “He’s hot,” he admits.
“Hmmm, I don’t know,” I say. “I’m not sure if I feel like going on a blind date.”
“I think it would be good for you, Andi. I know you don’t need a man, but you never know. You could meet him and it’s great, or he’s not the guy for you and you find yourself right back where you are now.”
She has a point.
“Come on, do it for me! Pleeaaase? ”
“Ughhhh. I don’t know. A finance guy? I’ve heard about them.” I say it in a way that makes it clear what I’ve heard about them is not particularly glowing.
“Hey, now.”
Shit, I forgot Pete is in finance. “You’re different.”
Truth is, I really don’t know much about New York finance guys or if Pete’s really different from them. All I know is they have a reputation for being assholes, and apparently ninety-nine percent of them are pompous douchebags with nothing but a pocket full of money and a superiority complex. They’re the kinds of guys who’ve never had to struggle in life, the rich kids, quarterbacks on the high school team, who go on to become rich frat brothers wearing seersucker suits and Costa sunglasses to college football games, only to become the even richer kids living in penthouses in Tribeca next door to celebrities like Beyoncé and wearing tailored Hugo Boss suits and Ferragamo loafers. Actually, I’m not sure that Pete is really different from them, except that he lives on the Upper West Side and has a girlfriend. But, given the fact that he’s the boyfriend of my only friend here, I need to give him some leeway.
As Michelle continues to beg me to accept, I realize I’m not going to hear the end of it unless I agree. Plus, I’m thinking I should find a man soon to help me change some lightbulbs and hang the rest of my picture frames on the walls. But knowing that if I outright say yes I’ll feel obligated to actually go out with the guy, I decide instead to compromise and tell her that I will definitely think about it. This leads her to do a celebratory fist pump. God, I love her.
Then, two days later, I get a text from a 917 number I don’t recognize. The texter introduces himself as Ryan, Pete and Michelle’s friend, and asks me how my Friday looks to grab dinner or drinks. Fucking Michelle, I’m going to kill her. I’m reluctant to respond. Do I really want this? It’s been a while since I was blithely dating twenty-six men on national television. Am I really ready to start all over again?
I ponder for a few hours before I send a text back, and tell him Friday will be good. He tells me he has to go to a happy hour event after he gets off work but that he can meet me for dinner as soon as he’s done. We make plans to meet at eight o’clock at a restaurant I’ve never been to called Bell Book & Candle. And just like that, here goes nothing.
Fast-forward to seven o’clock, and I’m demolishing my closet in an attempt to find the perfect outfit for my first real date as a New Yorker with my new Number One. Hell, it’s my first real date since being engaged. Yikes, that stings a little bit. It’s not that I haven’t had the opportunity—well, I haven’t, really—but that isn’t what has me in a tizzy. When it comes down to it, I absolutely despise first dates. If I could somehow magically land a man without having to go on another first date for the rest of my life, I’d give up wine. (Just kidding, I’d never do that. But I would be forever grateful.)
Long ago, in my early twenties, I didn’t mind dates so much because they meant a free meal. I put up
with some brutal Friday nights just to get a complimentary buzz and a juicy medium-rare steak. Maybe it’s because I can afford my own food and booze these days that I don’t feel those sentiments anymore. Or perhaps it’s the fact that I went on twenty-six first dates on national television. Whatever the case, I despise first dates. They rarely lead to anything, and they’re just so damn awkward. I never really know how to act when I’m on a first date. Like every other single woman, I’ve read the dozens of advice columns that talk about the dos and don’ts of first dates, but I’m still flustered. Some say a kiss is appropriate, some say it’s not. Some say not to talk about this or that, some say talk about whatever you want. Personally, I prefer transparency, because I figure sooner or later, if he makes the cut, he’s going to figure out the real me anyway. Then again, maybe that’s why I’m still single.
Perhaps the worst part about first dates is the shallowest part: picking the outfit. Men have it so easy; they throw on a pair of pants and a shirt and they’re done, while we women have to put in all the effort, as usual. It’s bullshit. This outfit conundrum is clearly evidenced by the pile of clothes mounting on my closet floor. Nothing looks good on me, I have no idea how dressy this restaurant is, how tall or short he is, what style he likes. Fuck, why is dressing for a date so difficult? It shouldn’t be. I feel like when it comes to style, there are essentially three looks. Number one is the no-makeup, yoga-pants, just-rolled-out-of-bed look. Men seem to love this one, especially when you’re rolling out of their bed, but it’s not first-date appropriate. Then there’s look number two, with maybe some foundation, eyeliner, mascara, and jeans. Good for a Saturday stroll, but if you wear this on a first date, your second date is bound to be somewhere as mundane as your look. And finally, there is the dressed-to-the-nines, red-carpet, full-hair-and-makeup, Momma-is-ready-to-get-her-some look. Obviously, category three makes you look like you give too much of a shit. Plus, it sets him up for unrealistic expectations of what you won’t be looking like come morning.
In addition to categorizing looks, I have this “rule of seven” when it comes to dressing for dates. Basically, it is the only time in my life where, on a scale of one to ten, I allow myself to publicly look like a seven. This ensures that I put some effort in but not too much and that I was neither overdressed nor underdressed. However, that rule doesn’t seem to be solving my current issue. So I pour a glass of wine, take my phone off the charger, and look up “date-night outfits” on Pinterest. As I scroll, one outfit catches my eye: black leather leggings, a white top, and a moto jacket. I have all three, I think to myself. I dig in the pile of clothes on my closet floor and find the leather leggings I already tried on, then put on a white top and my black Joie leather jacket that I got a week ago at a sample sale and, of course, my new Burberry wool coat. I take a look in my full-length mirror and decide this will do. The clock says it’s five after eight, which means I guess I’ll pack my clutch and start heading over to the restaurant, which is only a few blocks away. I’ll be about ten minutes late, which I think is appropriate but not offensive for a first date.
When I arrive, I check in with the hostess, who tells me the other person in my party isn’t here yet but offers me a spot at the bar. Apparently, fashionably late is a gender-neutral thing in New York. It’s now twenty minutes past eight, and I’m dying to order a glass of wine, but I don’t want the first time this guy sees me to be with alcohol in my hand. Although at least it would give him a preview of what life with me is really like. I decide instead to text him.
“Hey, just got to the restaurant, what’s your status? ” I lie so I won’t seem desperate. Three minutes of wondering if I’m getting stood up go by before my phone chimes.
It’s him. “Oh, shit, totally got stuck at this work thing. I’m leaving now and headed to meet you.”
“Oh, no worries. Do you want to reschedule? ”
“Nah, I’ll be there in five.”
Ummm, okay. What the fuck?
Fifteen fucking minutes later, I get a tap on my shoulder. “Andi? ”
“Yes? ”
A tall, blond-haired, brown-eyed man reaches out his hand and shakes mine. Pete was right, he’s hot. His tailored navy suit, sans tie, has me feeling way underdressed. Shit, he’s really hot. But he also really smells like booze. Strike one. We’ve barely said five words to each another, and already I feel that I might be secondhand drunk off his breath. I follow him to the hostess stand, taking note of his great ass. The hostess brings us to a table along the wall and without hesitation, he takes the banquette, leaving me to sit in the wooden chair. Strike fucking two.
“So. How was your day? ” he says after I’ve taken my uncomfortable seat.
And for the first time, I actually see his full face. His eyes are barely open but appear to be bloodshot. He keeps sniffling. Something is going on, and it’s more than him being a little tipsy. The waitress comes over and asks if we’d like something to drink. He looks up and orders tequila on the rocks. And that’s when I see his nostrils. Oh. My. God. They have remnants of white powder around them. Holy fuck, this guy is not only drunk, he’s drunk and high on cocaine.
After ordering a glass of wine, I try to ignore the fact that I’m on a date with a drunk, coked-out, tardy asshole who took the good seat. I ask what he does for a living. Cue the slurring as he goes on and on about hedge funds. Wall Street, banking, business school—the buzzwords start to nauseate me. My drink has come, thank God. As he continues on and on about his pretentious career, I start to play a drinking game with myself: every time he says the word “million,” I will drink. I’m almost done with my first glass, and we haven’t even ordered the entrée, when in walks an obstacle.
“Hey, you!” a female voice shouts from behind me.
His eyes light up as he stands. I turn around to see the voice is coming from the slender blond bartender who kept asking me if I wanted a drink while I was waiting. He gives her a hug, and they start to have a full-blown conversation with each other above me as if I’m not sitting below. I can hear the tone; it’s more than friendly. They definitely have a past. And from the look and sound of it, that past is still very much part of the present. A few minutes and no introduction later, she disappears.
“Friend of yours? ” I ask.
“Yeah, we dated, not gonna lie.”
He’s too drunk even to notice the shift in my demeanor. We continue talking, but within minutes, he excuses himself to go to the bathroom. A few more minutes pass, and he has yet to return. I’ve ordered my second glass of wine. When I turn around to see him not standing in line for the bathroom but standing at the bar talking to the blonde. He’s flirting with her. She’s laughing. He’s laughing. They are laughing together. They’re taking a shot together.
He heads back to the table and immediately pulls out his phone. The meal arrives, but he doesn’t notice. How could he? His eyes have yet to leave his phone. A smirk has made its way to his face, right below his coked-out nostrils. Suspicious, I turn around. The bartender is on her phone, too, the light of the screen spotlighting the grin across her face. I look back at him and back at her. Back at him, back at her. Holy shit, now they’re not just flirting in front of me, they’re texting in front of me! He’s literally texting on our date . . . with the fucking bartender. The entire situation is part horror, part comedy. Is this really happening? Is this really how my dating career in New York City starts?
I can’t stand to be here any longer. I’ve barely touched my meal when I lie and say, “I’m not feeling great. Would you mind if we call it a night? ”
He looks up from his phone. “Oh, no worries. Do you want me to walk you out? ”
“Sure. Should we get the check? ”
“No, I’ll just come back in and pay it.”
I stand up and tell him it was nice to meet him and that I can walk myself out. I don’t even bother being polite by giving him a hug or telling him thanks for the worst three glasses of wine of my life. He’s so
drunk he won’t remember anyway. Plus, I am one hundred percent certain he’s going home with the bartender tonight.
As I walk the few blocks home, alone, I text Michelle. “Your ass is grass. Call me in the morning.”
ménage à nah
Not only have I never done a threesome, but in twenty-eight years on this earth, no one has ever even asked me to participate in one. That is, until this weekend. I don’t know whether to be proud, mortified, perplexed, or all of the above. And the way it went down (pun intended) makes it even more . . . even more . . . I don’t even know what it makes it, honestly. Then again, based on the worst first date in history, I don’t think I really know what to say when it comes to men or threesomes for that matter.
Flashback to how this all came about. Long story short, I’d been invited by a charity event on an all-expenses-paid trip for me and a plus-one to attend the Kentucky Derby. Now, I get that everyone knows how legendary this event is, but you have to understand, to a Southerner like myself, the Kentucky Derby is more than legendary—it’s the mecca of sporting events, the once-in-a-lifetime-if-you’re-lucky, must-do-before-you-die event. And now here I was, getting my chance to go for the very first time and for free. I couldn’t wait to sip mint juleps by day and attend the legendary parties by night.
I’d bought myself a tacky black wide-brimmed hat, which I adorned with a DIY brooch that was really just a cluster of peacock feathers and pearls that I’d found at a store in the Garment District and hot-glued together. And although I didn’t have a hot guy in a seersucker suit as my plus-one, I had something better: my childhood friend Kristen.
Kristen is the type of woman who is hard to describe in words alone. She was always the “developed” girl growing up; she got boobs before anyone else did, got highlights before anyone else did, had sex before anyone else did, even got her belly button pierced before anyone else did. After college, she moved to Los Angeles, which was no surprise to anyone. She belonged there and nowhere else. She’s the kind of woman who has no qualms about saying what is on her mind, regardless of how politically incorrect it is certain to be. When she walks into a room, she owns it, and you want to hate her for it, but you don’t. Probably because she’s the type of woman who is hot but in a messy kind of way. Basically, the only thing you know for certain you’ll be getting when it comes to Kristen is guaranteed entertainment.
