NY Barfly

Dispatches from the Drunken Dating Front: Dating in Shades of Gray

LittleFly's back - with more debaucherous tales from the drunken dating front! Let's see how she feels about the color gray.

As an NY Barfly, I’ve had a lot of interesting experiences in drunk NYC dating.  I’ve forgiven others’ late night eating habits, chosen to walk away from specific religious beliefs and learned a thing or two about singles of our neighboring continent before ultimately cutting ties. 

Throughout it all, there has been one common denominator.  Each and every relationship has been “gray” – located somewhere between the sheets of “just friends” and “I suppose that’s kind of dating.”  Due to this ambiguity, each has eventually become awkward - is it going to far? do they actually feel too much? That’s when the lies have to start.  I didn’t want to throw up devil horns at the Lutheran radical to make him go away. “Sorry, but I do believe I am a prophet of Satan”. I had to tell the donut hog that his sweet tooth was less than desirable: “I can’t see you anymore, my mother is diabetic and it makes me uncomfortable”.

Why the white lies to soften the blow? Are our souls so numb from whiskey that we couldn’t possibly be bothered sustaining something gray and …honest? I’ve always noticed our Barfly counterparts have chosen to behave in the same fashion. White lies light up the room.  “I bought those panties for you,” I once heard upon discovering a crumpled up pair that wasn’t mine.  The hazy truths are probably the reason we are attracted to the other party in the first place (aside from the bourbon and the cigarettes). 

I decided I had enough. The next situation would be different.  If my new gray partner handed me an unsuspecting pair of drawers in the morning when I’d been searching frantically with a hangover, I would be honest and say “Um, thanks but those aren’t mine” and move on.

5 weeks later, I found myself hanging suspended in the midst of another gray relationship. Thus far things had been all out on the table. I was feeling almost confident that it was possible to continue my relationship habits minus the lies.  Each party knew full well the extent of the relationship.  There was no pressure (except for that one err, butt thing), no expectations or secrets (he did in fact wind up in the hospital after that one time he got loaded on Jack and slid down the stairs).  Lots of alcohol and consenting extracurricular activity, it was the perfect recipe for a successful gray relationship.

3 shots in on a fun day Sunday (i.e. beginning to drink at 3pm and falling off our stools by 4:30), things started to waiver.  Perhaps my motor skills were lacking from all the booze on this particular Sunday but something was skewed and I couldn’t grasp the problem. After a few hesitations thrown my way, a previous night of suspicious unavailability (let’s be serious, Barflys don’t choose to learn to roast squash when they could be out drinking) it was time to find out what the problem was. He must have been feeling as though things were going from gray to a clearly defined black (or another color that is a step from gray). Was I going to hear the truth?

Dispatches from the Drunken Dating Front: LittleFly Searches for Superheros in Astoria

When I decided to attempt a trip into Astoria again, I thought about packing my boxing gloves. My last trip to remote Mykonos was so action packed it seemed only to be the sensible decision. If only they could fit in my Cole Haan purse.

I landed safely off the beaten path of the N train to be greeted by Spike who promised a much less confrontational evening beginning with a movie. I'd be forever traumatized from refereeing his dueling roommates at 3am while I stood wrapped in a "toga"

When he told me he was interested in seeing Batman I thought it best to stop for a martini and a gyro first. I never quite shook the craving after I fled the boxing ring that was his apartment that night. 2 martinis later and we thought it fun to try and leap frog all the way to the theater. How fun to act like children! We only knocked over two actual children and one stroller before we finally arrived at the movies.

Somehow surviving the full two hours of trying to take Bale's gritty SUPERHERO VOICE seriously we strolled down Steinway Street jokingly shouting in our imitation Batman voices at passersby. Some of the older authentic Greeks shouted "Malakas!" back at us. I know now that this is a Greek word that translates to the equivalent of "A**holes!"

Like perfect mischievous children do when they learn a new, funny word we wore it out appropriately with repeated use. When we stopped for the integral six pack at the corner deli we successfully alienated the clerk by shouting "MALAKA FACE!" at him and doubling over with laughter.

Finally we arrived at the building of the modified boxing ring (his apartment). Spike continued to assure me the feuding duo would not bust in again for a rematch and we immaturely raced up the stairs two at a time until we reached a crossroads. To our left, the front door. To our right, a ladder in the corridor. Out of breath and looking up, I saw it lead to a skylight.

Dispatches from the Drunken Dating Front: Drunken Goddess Littlefly Breaks up the Fight

As the objective witness to this drunk disagreement, I stood frozen in terror (i.e. drunk paralysis) when she turned to me. With tears of frustration she exclaimed "I mean, am I wrong?"

How did the night end up here?

I had run off to Astoria to visit my great-escape, a sexy bassist with an alias, not to mention 3 martinis and maybe a drunk gyro late in the night. Little did I know when I ran to the bathroom at 3am, sheet tightly clung around me, that hell's brigade (Spike’s band-mate and girlfriend) would come through the door. Had I known, I surely would have slung the sheet out Spike’s bedroom window and made an actual great escape - fleeing down Steinway Street as though I were prancing on the shore at Ornos Beach. Not quite as fetching with the row homes and my Saturday night heels on, but martini haze can create lovely imagery.

I heard an angrily exclaimed "F** you!! F** you!" followed by sounds of slapping, punching and random objects flying. All I could think was 'My god how do I flush myself down the toilet so I don't have to walk out of here and into this mayhem clad only in a sheet?'

We should have went for that gyro. This was too much to bear post martinis.

Several minutes passed and the words became angrier and louder. The longer I waited, the worse it would be when I emerged. I stared at the toilet, hopeful. I stared into the mirror and grimaced. My hair was amok but there was nothing I could do to fix it. I was a drunk mess from top to bottom.

When the martini haze was clear enough, I decided to look mortification in the face and come out. Hopefully, my face would be so mortifying that they wouldn’t involve me.

I opened the door and Spike popped his head out of his bedroom with a horrified expression. The intoxicated/feuding lovers shot looks like daggers at me. The Greek unshaven warrior was munching on what else - a gyro. I eyeballed it. She was hysterical and her words slurred. They were obstructing my path from the bathroom to the bedroom so I waved an awkward hello, tightened the sheet around me and nervously smiled in hopes of making it seem as though I'd heard nothing.

They kept on.

"Every f**ing night. Every f**ing night you call her!" she exclaimed. That's when she turned to me (turned, stumbled, its so hard to remember such fine details).

There I was - tipsy and wrapped in a modified toga (this is probably modern day “Greek slut gear” in Astoria). I was the Greek Goddess Bed Head called in to ref the drunken battle.

In the Ring: Too Drunk to Bother Shaving Rocker vs. Crazy Asian Girlfriend (aka Crasian)

Round 1:

Rocker - Response to her accusations with "When are you going to get the hell out of my apartment?" followed by dribbling gyro down his week old whiskers – 2 olives - Props for trying to get her out. However, a better way to make her go may have been chewing and opening his mouth to show.

Crasian - Drunkenly swinging a punch at his face only to hit the wall – 0 olives – This only makes a fool of you and me.

Round 2:

Rocker - Leaving in the middle of the fight to go get beer – 4 olives – At least he wasn’t pretending to care. The shout-out to alcoholism is worth at least 3 olives by itself.

Crasian – Seeking support from a naked stranger – 4 olives - It was a bold move. I typically find bringing others into your business to be tasteless. In this case, I was just happy for no one to notice what really might be tasteless in the room. Did I mention the toga?

Round 3:

Rocker- Drinking the beer and belching in response to his guitar getting smashed into the bedroom mirror – 2 olives - Again, at least he wasn't pretending to care but he should have at least reacted to his things being destroyed by drunkenly making her go fetch her purse or something...out the window.

Crasian - Being pissed enough about missing his face to smash his most prized possession – 4 olives – Crasian. It’s all in the name.

It was a tie. They were equally as drunk. Equally as mean to one another. Equally as likely to pass out and wake up cuddling amongst the broken glass and gyro-sauce like crazy, drunk couples do. They were bound to repeat the act the following weekend.

I'm not sure what came to be for the two in the morning as I made myself presentable, bode farewell to Spike and saw myself out of new Greece as soon as I could break past the lovebirds. I headed back to Manhattan, to the safety of my own bed. The life of a goddess – exhausting.

Dispatches from the Drunken Dating Front: Littlefly's Duck and Cover or Pray and Cover?

I waited for the buzzer to go off with bated breath. It was expected this time, unlike the previous weekend when I heard the buzzer and immediately crouched down onto my living room floor. My rum and diet was dripping condensation onto my lap when it rang. That could only mean I should drink faster.

Wisconsin was on the way and I had to drink the shame away.  For selfish “investigation” reasons I had decided that all the warning signs to this attractive Midwest import’s craziness should be collected. This would be a stepping stone to some real answer to what his problem was - the source of his insanity. Why was he so crazy?

The buzzer sounded again and for a brief moment I contemplated clicking the light off. Instead I downed the rest of my drink and exited with no destination - aside from Crazytown.

Wisconsin and I started the evening with a stroll down the far West Side for a friendly smoke. We had some polite chit chat about the weather and some interaction with a threatening bum (we decided to give up half of our smoke to him…on 11th Ave this is currency for peace) and then he started rambling about his life. I stopped him and decided we should duck into a West Side dive. Without a drink I’d start to zone out and there certainly was no point in the evening if I was not going to leave Crazytown with answers.

Consoling martini in hand, Wisconsin spoke about his interests. “Singing Gospel music,” he claimed. I visibly grimaced. Why I asked. He told me of his upbringing in a Lutheran church in Wisconsin. I didn't mean to respond out loud with "Eww".

He went on to say that he had moved into New York City over a year ago and he was thinking of going back to Wisconsin to find his religion again. I gave him a dirty look.

"I need to get away from these demons and drugs," he told me.

I thought very seriously about bringing him back to my apartment and disappearing - only to emerge with a headband of devil horns from an old Halloween costume. It’s clearly what he expected from New Yorkers.

He kept talking about these "demons and drugs" and that's when I made the decision to go to the bathroom. Except I walked out the front door instead.

I was happy I had found my answer so quickly. It seems that Crazy = Lutheran Radical Freak. That concluded my investigation.

A few minutes later my phone rang and it was Wisconsin.

"Hello, this is the Devil speaking, do you want some drugs?" I answered.

He hung up. I can only assume that he prayed.

Dispatches from the Drunken Dating Front: Littlefly's Duck and Cover

The surprise ring of the apartment buzzer immediately set off thoughts of the worst.

“Shhh. . . ”

Last Sunday, I found myself crouched to the ground of my living room. I mirrored my roommate’s horrified expression and leaned over quietly to click the light off - Anne Frank style. The duck and cover maneuver was much smoother than the panic that ensued seconds earlier. I heard the buzzer and scrambled around - trying to find the remote control so I could turn the volume on the TV down (and give the illusion of ‘no one home’). I knocked over a precious cocktail.  I’ll be sure to remember that poor lost spritzer next Memorial Day.

The life of the party, the most attractive guy at the bar, the force behind our on-a-whim Friday night dance party had done a 180 on me.

I reached over quietly for the phone and saw them - all 16 texts and voicemails. He explained his “wanting to take care of somebody” and being “in a weird place right now” not to mention being “sorry for acting so irrationally” and “needing to see me”. At the end of each message after #7, he claimed it was the “last one” he was sending. And now the buzzer was ringing.

This was a sorry situation.  Sorry because this on-a-whim Friday night looked to be very successful i.e. drinking, dancing and accidentally peeing on the floor - “I thought it was the toilet”.  How did such fun turn into a young man’s baffling psycho woes?

After 10 minutes of sitting in the dark, whispering and signing panic at the door (i.e. the middle finger) – it seemed that the mystery buzz was not him showing up to cry his pains away in person. I calmed down, refreshed our vodka sodas, and reflected on the weekend. How could this attractive, most magnetic person turn out to be so crazy?  Were there signs that were ignored?

You tell us dear readers. Here is the list I collected:

1)   He didn’t have any money. I believe he is in musical theater due to the plie-battle he had with another guy at the party.

2)   None of his “friends” knew him. I found out as everyone was leaving and I overheard them slurring about the weirdo at the bar who invited himself.

3)   There was a point in the night when we noticed he was missing and then came to find he was staring-in at us from the fire escape in the rain. Wasn’t he just cooling off?  It was awfully hot with everyone trying to learn Thriller in unison. Hmm. . .

As the phone buzzed once again, I decided that I would take people’s numbers in the future rather than give up my own.

The list of warning-signs sat on a napkin with ashes from the ashtray. They seemed kind of incomplete. This might be a case for more investigation. Why not – I answered the phone, and agreed to see him a second time. All the warning signs may be there – but please refer to the above article and see the part about him being attractive.

Donut-Face

Littlefly brings us back to the dangers of the drunken dating front -

How does someone deal with something like this? It wasn’t so much that on the particular occasion I felt shocked and totally confused (and it truly was those things…it wasn’t just drunk). It was that I had to come to terms with the fact that things like this happen.

People have experienced worse things, of that I am sure. Things involving blood, physical trauma. I wasn’t in any kind of danger. I simply never saw it coming.

Birthday parties at Irish pubs are so much…fun. A proper end to something that is so “fun” can only be one of three things: pizza, greasy diner food or donuts. There was no guilt involved when we stopped for a full half-dozen doughnuts. I’d already downed an eighth of whiskey- there was not much guilt involved about anything at that point. They seemed the sensible treat to share before we retired to a drunken slumber.

Bladder bursting, I booked it for the bathroom the second we stepped through our front door. But, maybe he could hear me? To deal with my bout of stage-fright (re: drunk paranoia) I ran the water. I thought about whether or not he knew the tap was on because I didn’t want him to hear me pee – I guess the whiskey didn’t succeed in erasing all my shame. Damn the countless trips to the bathroom during a night of whiskey and beer – he probably thought I was some sort of monster.

After what seemed to be a lifetime I finally finished. I washed my hands, ran my fingers through my hair and started out the door and down the short, narrow hallway.

I knew he heard me coming because my heels were loud on the wood floor…in the way that sound is twice amplified when you’re hammered. I also seemed to be “stomping” if you will, allowing my feet to come down like a ton of a bricks. The planks creaked like the floor of a good old beachfront home does.

Upon reaching the doorway of the bedroom I hesitated…I couldn’t tell you what told me to do so…perhaps the ghost of Jack Daniels kindly tried to interfere and stop me from witnessing true horror. I stuck my head just within the frame and I saw his back to me. He was in a hunched position at the edge of the bed. He was very involved in what he was doing…and at this point it still could have been anything. Only a single bedside lamp was on. The illumination of the room was soft and dim. He could have been taking his shoes off. He could have been scratching an itch…killing a bug…countless things…

I got the feeling I was intruding and began to feel uncomfortable. There was a sense of shame in the air…. And though the possibilities disgusted me to think them, I thought “My God, is he doing what I think he’s doing?”

To his left on the bed was the television remote, to his right…the Dunkin Donuts bag.

I shifted and the floor creaked.

His head turned slowly.

“Hello?” I said it quietly, afraid.

He stood up, spun around and snatched the Dunkin Donuts bag off of the bed gripping it tight to his chest.

I took a step back. The light of the lamp illuminated his face.

Then I saw it. White powder. The remnants of the 2am batch of powdered donuts. On his chin. Around his mouth. Spread across his cheeks.

We stood stuck in a staring contest and a million thoughts ran through my head.

He suddenly scurried to the garbage and deposited the empty bag. I jumped at the sudden movement. Then he nervously muttered “Excuse me,” before running out of the room and past me.

I was left in the doorway of the bedroom bewildered. I heard the faucet in the kitchen running. I looked into the garbage at the crumpled Dunkin Donuts bag and that’s when the massacre became clear to me. His 3 doughnuts weren’t the only ones that were slaughtered. My poor donuts had also sacrificed to this interesting ceremony.

After a few moments he pushed past me back into the bedroom and I wanted to drunkenly slur “Hey don’t f-ing push me out of the way you disgusting donut-hog son of a bitch.” But instead he spun around and stared at me with wide, bloodshot eyes and a face only half clean and said “mmmpht blalala phist” before going over to the bed and passing out.

Coming to terms with the fact that things like what had happened actually happen - 2 olives - I mean, it was funny to hear him deny the story in the morning despite the remaining powder on his face but…

Engaging in tri-state area late night eating - 0 olives – If only I had entered the bedroom two seconds earlier, I would have had the opportunity to drunkenly pry my donuts out of his devouring hands

Going back to the bathroom to pee and falling asleep on the toilet – 4 olives - I didn’t think I could top him…but in a sense, I did. It’s only because the sound of the running faucet was so, uh, soothing.

Dispatches from the Drunken Dating Front: Without lies, what would we have to believe in?

Gentle reader, we now reach the end of littlefly's life threatening saga - dating a Canadian. Enjoy (and beware!) -

“Well tomorrow night I have my boss’ 50^th so I’ll be in touch after this weekend.”

There must be something special about Canadians because even after a shockingly small Continental Divide and a filthy mouth, I didn’t give him the boot and send him back into the freeze of the north.

But then we encountered a third issue.

I sat on the other end of the phone rolling my eyes.  What a crock of crap, I thought.  There is no boss’ 50^th event tomorrow night. 

Upon hanging up the phone I paused for a moment. When do we stop assuming that every thing a man says is a lie and start giving them the benefit of the doubt?

I started to catalog all the silly things I’ve heard over the years. 

“I was giving a piano lesson.”

“I was having dinner with my mom.”

“That wasn’t my girlfriend. I don’t have a girlfriend. It was John. We always say ‘I love you’ before hanging up the phone.”

In each instance things would have been much easier had I just believed them. That's the answer! That is what I would do from now on. I will just believe everything the Canadian says and see what happens.

With this newfound notion I learned so much about him. 

He’s a family man!  Like that other weekend when he had to “fly home” to visit his pregnant sister. Who else would fly to Canada for the weekend to visit his new nephew…what was his name? I thought…then I recalled the conversation we had about it-

“What’s the baby’s name?”

“Ummm….err…he doesn’t have a name yet.”

Well then, I guess the baby doesn’t have a name yet! How nice of him to visit Nameless for the weekend and fly back in time for work.

Because of my bright new outlook on I found myself pleased when he returned from coddling said infant and we decided on a Sunday night out indulging in two for one.

“Hey, how’s it going?”

“Phew, I am pooped. Organizing my uncle’s 60^th this weekend was a lot more work than I thought.”

Nanook  bit his tongue and looked at me with fear – he knew that he slipped up and he was waiting on me to call him on the lie. But, going with my new found system of “beliefs” I did what any good girlfriend should do – smiled and nodded.

Nanook was apparently heartened by my trust, so he started letting me in on some other little secrets. That night I found myself getting tied up and spanked in the center of an authentic hand woven rug from India with the lights on and the back door blinds open. 

I awoke in the morning in a compound with 7 other women who seem to be Nanook’s wives (they say they are just a circle of friends) while he is “away on business”. Therefore I’m currently using the state of art facilities available here to write this blog. Why not? Nanook is in Chile on a “business trip” and I get to hang out here with all his cool “friends”.

In response to my own question: just believe everything they say. Trust truly is a beautiful thing.

Dispatches from the Drunken Dating Front: I don't speak F&#(!# Canadian, eh. .

Littlefly's saga continues. . ..

Willing to accept the fact that the Continental Divide between Canadian men and American men was much smaller then I had expected. I decided to do more “research” on our friends from the north and found myself in the middle of a night of debauchery

Ah.  The feel of expensive cotton under my bum. A clean face mopping up the nether regions.  The sound of….hardcore porn?

No.  It was Nanook’s filthy narration.

I let the first muffled sounds of “pussy”, “wet” and “fuck” go over my head.

But the unprintable (of course I’m joking, I’d print anything) mumbling continued, only to climax when Nanook walked over on his knee and made his whale spear appear out above my face….

“Work that tongue on my balls.”

Blasphemy! I cocked my head at the statement. Pun intended.

There it was. The Continental Divide that had so sneakily turned out to be almost non-existant hovered over my face. How ironic that what at first seemed so small actually came to represent the clearly defective lines of communication between Americans and English-speaking Canadians. It was like we were using two languages when in bed together: mine a lady’s English and his some sort of Canadian dog language.

I woke in the morning to the feel of Nanook pumping his language barrier into the crevasse of my bum. I attempted to defeat the lapse in intimate communication by saying "Okay...umm...they are not allowed to meet if they don't have clothes on."

"They" being a lady’s word for privates of course.

Nanook was happy to comply and take care of business in the air. He shouted “I’d like to open up that hot ass with my cock” before letting his Canadian baby gravy land safely on the side of my left cheek.

I turned over after wiping it off with his expensive Versace t-shirt and just stared at him. I wanted acknowledgement that his Eskimo language was inappropriate.

“THAT was intense,” was all I got before he took himself to the shower since after all, our friend from the North does practice fine hygiene. He may have squeaky clean skin but this Canadian should be sure to wash his mouth out with soap after doing the deed.

Dispatch from the Drunken Dating Front: Canadian MountMe

A post from our friend littlefly -

I suppose that this is what they do to pass the time in their endless winters: bar trivia. Here it is, my boyfriend from the north has hunted down a NY bar that makes him feel as comfortable as he does in place Manitoba. They’re even asking questions about the hinterland …something about the Northern Continental Divide between the USA and Canada .. .they’re asking us to name a state…

Someone just shouted Minnesota.

Under pressure to win a free round of drinks I shout “Mississippi!” and I feel Nanook glare at me. I can’t think about anything but M states because I’m too drunk to extend any brain power so I shout “Montana!” just as as the emcee is exclaiming “Mississippi?!” with a contorted expression.

The bartender points at me and I’m shocked. I win! 

“You should have had that one,” I tell Nanook. I’m looking up at him with twinkling eyes of intoxication. I know something about Canada, my correct answer surely is an omen.

Looking at his maple leaf face, his Canadian veneers, his Canadian shirt (actually he mentioned that some celebrity’s girlfriend insisted he try it on at a shop on Rodeo Drive on his last business trip to Beverly Hills…but as long as he’s wearing it I guess it’s Canadian) and his “weathered shoes” that he admits are “supposed to look like that” I realize that I adore Canadian men. 

The bartender hands us our free drinks. I sip and he glows as brightly as the northern lights. What is it that separates him from the American losers that I’ve been dating? Maybe universal health care has given him the healthy sheen? I turn back towards my date as the next questions are shouted and wonder where exactly does the divide lie between Canadians and Americans?   

Admittedly, after learning I was dating a Canadian I did some brief research over a lunchtime glass (bottle) of wine. However, the only thing that really sticks out in my mind is a headline featured in the news section of Canada.com that read “Canadians know good hygiene but don’t practice it”. 

He responds to my cheeky comment by giving me a kiss that feels particularly Canadian. But, maybe it was more of a Upper West Side divide sort of kiss. God knows what a Nordic kiss feels like, but maybe this was one of those. . .

He clanks my glass and tells me “Good answer,” right before his hand finds my thigh. I decide that I should figure out where the divide is. Tonight.

A short cab ride later finds me in his fancy hotel room and an even shorter timeframe from there I discover that Canadian men, like Americans take pleasure in paying for high thread counts.

When the sun wakes me in the morning I think about my case through an alcohol induced haze. The Continental Divide is disappointingly unapparent from all the evidence I’ve collected.

Then I realize as I watch him sleep soundly in the nude. The divide is there but it is much smaller then I thought it would be. Much, much smaller.