I was at work when I received an unexpected Facebook add from a dark and handsome man I didn’t recognize. His picture resembled a professional head-shot, and sure enough, after further investigation, it was clear that he was an actor. We had one mutual friend, a gorgeous actress from the musical Chicago, and I assumed this was a blanket invite to a hot new play or something, so I accepted.
In reality, I had been internet stalked. He had seen me on the dating app Hinge, where you can only connect with people who are friends with your friends on Facebook. He’d then searched for my name via that mutual Facebook friend, and added me. A perfect blend of creepy and flattering.
He was straight to the point and asked me out. When not acting, he worked nights as a maitre d’ in a fancy restaurant, so the only time we could liaise was a coffee on a work day. This is never my ideal first date scenario; I’m usually quite stressed and rushed at work. Plus, it doesn’t provide the option of an alcoholic beverage, which usually calms the nerves and maximizes the chance of attraction to the stranger across the table.
It was pouring with rain and windy that day. I wore a cute faux black leather skirt, a black v neck sweater and a red/pink lip stain. We met at a shitty coffee place, because that’s all there is near Times Square. He was wearing serious looking glasses (not the cool hipster kind), jeans and a zip up hoodie. Very casual.
He was dynamic, super confident and the conversation was good, but I wasn’t sure if I was attracted to him. Despite being 6’3 and extremely broad, I found his mannerisms slightly effeminate and theatrical at times; he told me he’s the only male actor he knows who is straight.
Later that day he asked me if I wanted to see him again. I hesitated because of the attraction question mark, but then I reasoned: he had a good personality AND an interesting career AND he was really tall AND Jewish (holy grail combo) AND older (38) AND owned an apartment. I said yes.
I wasn’t expecting that for the second date he would offer to cook me dinner at his place. Everyone in their right mind understands that this is code for sex, and yes, one coffee in, this was a tad premature. However, no one ever cooks you dinner in New York; in fact no one ever invites you round to their apartment full stop because they’re so freaking tiny. I was intrigued to see his cooking skills, be pampered a little, and check out his digs. That, and I hadn’t had sex in a really long time 🙂
He asked me to bring dessert: something chocolatey. This I could deliver on. I was meeting a pal at the Guggenheim that afternoon, so stopped by the tiny and adorable Two Little Red Hens bakery on the Upper East Side. I went for one of their classics: The Brooklyn Black Out Cake, but since you can never have too much chocolate dessert, I was also persuaded to take a chocolate mud pie.
I can’t say I wasn’t nervous on my way to his place, but had done some detective work through our mutual Facebook friend, so was able to confirm he wasn’t an axe murderer. His apartment was high on the Upper West Side: an old but characterful one-bed, with separate kitchen and living room. It was simply decorated, spacious, and clean enough.
We sat side by side on the couch. To start, he brought out tomato and mozzarella slices, drizzled with balsamic and olive oil, and a bottle of white. Main course was chicken with pesto pasta; he wouldn’t make it through a master-chef heat but I appreciated the effort.
At this stage, the wine buzz had set in and I was staring at him on the couch, still debating whether I fancied him. Suddenly he leaned in for a kiss, which was excellent, and he smelt really good. Then he pulled me onto his lap, and somehow managed to cradle my ass in one, giant man hand. In that single, hot maneuver, I became putty in his hands.
Before I knew it he was carrying me into his bedroom: a giant dark wood bed, candles flickering and beautiful photographs on his navy walls. In the bedroom, his bellowing actor voice was suddenly quite ’50 Shades’ and everything he said turned me on. He was direct, sensual, and made me feel very sexy. Because I didn’t know I fancied him until that moment, I felt completely uninhibited. We had great foreplay and sex, and no acting was required: he gave me a much needed orgasm, with his tongue.
An hour later, at midnight, lying in bed recovering, I hear him start to gently snore. That’s when my alarm bells rang: but what about dessert!!!!!! I hadn’t spent 30 bucks on two chocolate cakes and schlepped them all over the city to not taste the g-ddam things.
Also, sure, I fancied him in the moment but I wasn’t suddenly in love with the guy. I didn’t envisage waking up together. I wanted to sleep well in my own bed and enjoy a chilled out start to Sunday. After 15 minutes of worrying, I decided the only thing I could do was wake him and demand dessert.
Understandably, he was confused and suggested I stay over, but I wasn’t having any of it. I dragged him into the living room while I fetched the desserts from the fridge and two forks. And bloody delicious they were. The pie had rich but fluffy chocolate mousse in a buttery pastry case; the Brooklyn Black Out was swirls of sweet chocolate icing generously spread between 4 moist tiers of soft chocolate cake.
After the last bite and a near sugar coma, I called an Uber home.
We met once more at my place for a fun few hours the following week, before he got an acting job in Utah for the season. I was relieved to have avoided an awkward conversation. Although the sex was great, I wasn’t feeling it outside of the bedroom, and didn’t see it going anywhere. I doubt I’ll make plans to see him again, but I will never, ever forget that Saturday night: one of the sweetest, most satisfying nights a girl could ask for.