And here it is, Part one?!?!

So I think now’s a good time to lay out the Reese story.  I honestly can’t think of a legitimately interesting post topic (because let’s face it, my life is full of problems that no decent human being can relate to), so I’m gonna cheat and rehash/recount something from the past.

You may remember I mentioned Reese in a previous post about Saturday Night Live cast members.  Ironically, searches for “SNL cast hangouts” are my main source of internet traffic.  How can I get rich off that?!  Naw.  Anyway, Reese.  I’ve had a little wine tonight, so I’m going to be brutally honest.  It won’t make me look like sunshine, but it’ll be more fun for you, my lone reader.

Ok, wow. So, we met on an interesting night.  I had been invited to attend a party at this dude’s super fance condo in Williamsburg (former center of the cool universe, current center of the commodification and consumption of cool), and the party was designated as “wear something elegant” or something.  I haven’t talked much about this group of friends, but they party like rich people.  Many of them are, it turns out.  I was lucky to be invited to this one (because I only get invited to about 5% of the total super-fun group activities they do, not because the swankiness was super desirable), so I went.  Earlier that night, and because when I get one invitation I get 30 on the same night, I had a back yard dinner party at an ex-coworker’s house in sketch Bushwick.  Which justifies my choice of slightly not-elegant clothing.  Ok, it wasn’t elegant at all at all.  I was just dressed for a sat night.  But if I had dressed fancy, I would probably have been shanked in the kidneys and left for dead.  Just sayin’.  Good thing too, because this guy had a hookup for the original Four Loko, which I tried for the first and last time (baby sips).

I show up at the thing.  It’s interesting.  There’s some sort of fancy laser light ball installation thing that works via remote control.  The place itself is two stories starting on the ground floor, with a back yard filled with beach sand (WASTE), with a sort of overhanging walkway thing leading from the back wall of the top floor to the ground.  Party upstairs, party downstairs.  Rich douches “spinning” tunes on fancy laptop plus PA speakers plus DJ software setups.  No-one dancing yet.  There’s food that’s trying reeeeally hard to live up to the “elegant” requirement.  Failing. And most people are in sharp suits and cocktail dresses.  Or fancy dresses from the 20’s complete with feathers and shit.  Whatevvvvzzzz. It was a little awkward for me, especially since my closest friend there (basically dominating the elegant outfit requirement) is also this girl I dated and got dumped by twice, and for whom I carry a touch of the hates right next to the torch, and probably always will.  She’s hot AND annoying.  She swooped me up (lets face it we have this insane chemistry, too, like Diane Chambers and Sam Malone from Cheers)

and took me around introducing me to the lovely people.  We had conversations that got awkward and from which people walked away without a word.  I was a regular fish out of water.  But not really, as my Diane pointed out to me.  And then her pointing that out to me turned into an excuse to get mad at me.  She stormed off.  And thusly was I liberated, free to cast my line as it were and see what I could catch.

First off, I ran into this crazy Polish chick I had sex with about 5 years ago.  Weirdly, she was a satellite of a completely different group of kids who I went to college with but don’t EVER see anymore, so it was a really interesting treat to run into her there in swankland.  She wasn’t happy to see me.  In fact it was pretty clear she had been nursing a grudge for all 5 years.  We had gotten hot and heavy really early in our fling, and then one night we had a date lined up but she she fell asleep and was 30 minutes late.  I had a headache and was in a foul mood so I told her we should just reschedule (she was still at home “getting ready”, and I was outside the spot).  I got on the subway home and when i emerged I had a string of intense voicemails starting with honey and ending in vitriol.  Moving on.

Ran into some dudes I knew and we rated ladies.  Turned our attention to guys and started rating them.  It turned out we were all super jealous of this dude who was basically a tall hipster Kennedy, who we all decided was going to nail whomever he chose that night.  We also figured he was probably going to ruin our chances with the ladays he didn’t nail.

So the party heats up and I see this tall blonde smiling and laughing and chatting with my acquaintances like she’s one of the gang.  Which intrigued me because I had never seen nor heard of this girl.  A regular piece of American apple pie she was.  And dressed well and cetera.  I don’t remember how, but I managed to get introduced and to pour on some charm and we talked and smiled and laughed and drank.  I have to admit she was pouring on quite a lot of charm too.  Then, of course, there was a bona fide fight upstairs.  Like between the rich dudes who really identified most with “street culture.”  I think one of the dewds was literally wearing a bandana.  You could see it through the floor-to-ceiling large plate glass windows from the ground level.  And hear the shattering tinkle of some fine crystal getting smooshed.

I took my cue and wandered away (you don’t want to cling at parties, it’s a recipe for failure).  And I got swept into a tiny whirlwind around this shorter, crazier brunette.  She was the real fire at the ball and we swapped a few jokes slash flirts.  But nothing deep or memorable until i passed her on the “dancefloor” upstairs.  I sort of fake danced behind her, which she embraced as real, and we danced a little…ironically and not.  We swayed and moved closer, smiled, and she grabbed my junk, and then breezed away smiling even more.  After that, I guess the ice was broken so we talked and laughed and I’m having a great time.  Meanwhile it had started raining.  People were escaping the back yard, tracking wet sand into the ground floor.  Until the water, which hadn’t been draining from the “beach,” began to encroach on the indoors.  A drain in the bathroom also began to let water into the house.  Everyone fled upstairs, people began calling cabs, which of course everyone in the neighborhood were doing, so there weren’t any.  I went to the bathroom and saw that Reese was still there still having a good time still charming all and sundry around her.  When I returned upstairs Brunette was gone.  She had driven (her car!) to the party so I assume she drove away too.  I also assume (and I’m always right about this shit) that she either had a boyfriend or a fiance or a husband and needed to get the fuck out before she went “too far” with the random dude from the dancefloor.

At the time I just felt rejected.  Chastising myself for letting the rush of a junk grab distract me from the real prize, I VERY drunkenly staggered up to Reese and asked her for her number.  She obliged.

Having gotten that, I felt better.  I waited in the hall by the front door for a cab with a bunch of friends who happened to still be there as well, and when one finally pulled up I piled in with (lo and behold), my Diane.  When her stop came she dragged me upstairs to her place and we had probably the best night we’d ever had.  Not going into detailz, losers.

So.  A few days later I summoned up the courage to call Reese.  She does not have voicemail.  What?  No voicemail? What. The. Fuck?  So what do I do? I leave the rest of our story for PART 2.  It gets better and worse.

Writin’ About This Love Thing


A couple nights ago I went on a date (ish) with a girl who writes a relationship blog.  That makes two girls with relationship blogs I’ve had dates with (that I know of).  Both are fairly disaster-oriented.  Both are blonde (!).  Both blogs have gotten quite a (relatively) large amount of attention (more than mine, of course).  And both dates got interrupted at a key point, ruining everything forever.

I’ve read their blogs.  I’m not sure if I should link to them…  wait, who am I kidding?  The first girl was a lovely, very sexy early side of mid-twenties with family ties to Manhattan and a nice cynical wit.  Her blog is called datemeintheface, which she shares with a friend.  They open it up to reader submissions and encourage people (like me, during our date) to send in dating horror stories which they’ll publish/post if they’re sufficiently good.  Let’s call her Face.  Face was my first back-in-the-saddle moment (discounting summer fling girl, please) after special lady friend left me for points north.  I say back in the saddle and you think we fucked.  Nope.  Not her.  That honor goes to… oh man am I a slut… it goes to a married girl who wanted to even the score on her cheating husband.  But that’s another story for another post.  Face was the first girl that I got up the balls to approach at a bar and ask for her number.  A seriously big deal for me as that’s definitely NOT my typical MO.  (like that link? good).

Over the course of my life, the vast majority of my hookups, romances, one night stands, long term stable rewarding relationships that should have ended in marriage and kids, dancefloor make-out sessions and bathroom blowjobs have been initiated by the girl.  I used to call my “style” the zen hookup.  Yeah I know that’s ridiculously cheesey, but we’re talking about freshman-sophomore college years.  Which is also before the intensely disgusting advent of the intensely disgusting line of books and seminars on how to trick girls into fucking you.  But it’s not totally wrong.  I basically just wait until the girl I’m interested in gets tired of waiting for me to make a move and does it herself.  Less work and anguish for me, and I’m not proud of that.  It also has meant that I end up dating a certain personality type, which isn’t actually all that bad as I’m discovering.  But at the time I was like, “HIE, get over there and get that girl with the incredible body’s number!  The only way to get a girl who isn’t a little batshit is to get one that waits for the fella to make the move!”

So that happened.  I must say I was about as smooth as month-old sour milk.  But I got her number, we had a date, we made out in a “speakeasy” and were asked to stop.  ASKED TO STOP.  Which was the bucket of ice water on that little fling.  I saw her again randomly at a boutique hotel bar, but she ran when I called out to her.  Probably because I mispronounced her name.  I am terrible with names.  I live the guilt to this day.

The second girl, let’s call her Reese because she looks like the Witherspoon, writes a blog called Moths to a Flame.  She’s the flame, guys are moths (to be fair, she calls herself a bugzapper).  I think the metaphor is meant to imply a destructive end caused by some flaw in her own personality, as in she burns the moths (dudes) when they get too close and ruins future chances of happiness.  But really it just sounds egotistical.  Which I personally am fine with.  It’s good to be honest about shit like that.  This girl is hot.  Like total package can I take you home to the family hot.  Tall, did I mention blonde, slim, smart as a whip, funny and cultured.  (aside: these are the only two blonde girls I have ever dated, they both have relationship blogs for telling horror stories, etc, etc, yadda yadda you get it. weird)

But of course as with every girl I’m attracted to, there’s a pretty sketch dark side.  Not all that surprising, but…  I’ll tell the story tomorrow later.  Pretty interesting.  I hope she doesn’t mind.  Fuck that, if I don’t rate a page on her blog, I’ll make my own here and be proud of it. Heh.