We matched on Bumble. He was hot in a ‘typical’ way: brown hair, dazzling white smile, and athletic build. He was 36 and worked in finance, with an MBA from Cornell. Brawn and brains.
Early in our messaging, he said he wasn’t looking for anything serious – just fun. I was open to either, and appreciated his candidness. We moved swiftly to text. He lived in Long Island City, alone, and wanted me to come over for ‘fun’, asap.
Curious if there was a catch, I called him (one of my top tips in My Guide to Internet Dating). He had a Brooklyn accent and a mischievous, confident air – possibly bordering on arrogant. He was bright, and talking to him felt exciting. I also learned that he was Jewish; my ovaries perked up.
I’m not opposed to booty calls with guys I’ve met online, but my rule of thumb is to meet them in public first, ideally for a drink, to check that a) I trust them and b) I fancy them. There could be something off, and once you’re within the boundaries of each other’s apartments, it’s harder to back out.
The only time I’d let this rule slip was in The Online Booty Call… but in my defense, we’d Facetimed a lot.
It’s hard to predict when I’m going to be up for nookie with a stranger. Several factors have to be aligned – like horniness, free time, energy, and an un-bloated stomach (the woes of Jewish digestion). We tried and failed to impromptu rendez-vous at least 5 times.
One night we nearly met. I was trying to squeeze it in between plans, and he was messaging me from a boiling hot subway platform. I ummed and ahhed, but eventually was overwhelmed by the decision and called it off; he was not impressed.
The next almost meet up was after a day of retail therapy in Soho. All the credit card swiping had aroused more than my hunger for new clothes. I invited him to my hood.
Still pissed from my previous indecision, the only way he’d agree was if I ordered and paid for his Uber over. He wanted me to have ‘skin in the game’ and ‘take some of the risk’ so he wouldn’t ‘waste time and money chasing’. This was a first. Suddenly everything felt transactional and weird. I told him he could take a hike.
At this point, I probably should have stopped talking to him, but I’d never been one to play by the rules. Although my huppa dreams were thwarted, I still hoped our stubborn clashes would translate to fiery sex.
Another month passed. One warm, balmy Friday night I was home alone, feeling restless and daring. He was out for drinks, but ready to leave. We agreed to meet near me, at The Copper Still in the East Village. I couldn’t believe it was finally on.
I dressed casually: denim shorts, cream camisole and low heeled, leather, lace-up sandals. My hair was straight, and I threw on a lick of bright blue eyeliner, which I never wear, because it was that kind of night.
Unusually, I arrived first. I ordered their signature Old Fashioned from a quiet, candlelit table, and lent against the cool, grey stone wall, feeling intrigued.
He appeared 5 minutes later. He wasn’t quite as attractive as in his pictures; definitely older and leaner in real life – still perfectly fuckable though.
He was mildly tipsy when he arrived, but barely touched his beer, and sobered up fast. Conversation was lively. We shared mutual fantasies of working for ourselves, and meeting ‘the one’, who would blow us off the singles market (some day).
However, peppered into our banter were tell-tale signs that, beneath it all, he was a bit of a dick. Here are two examples:
He ran an AirBnb on the side. The loft apartment was too hot for sleeping in Summer, but he wanted to avoid forking out for air con. When guests complained, he’d act all helpful and fake arrange someone to look into it, and fake arrange air con installation. By this point, the duped guests would have finished their visit, and have left.
He regularly lied to younger women about his age, by pretending that he was in his 20s. His trick was to ask them to guess his age, which they’d typically guess nearish to theirs. He then told them they were close, and gave a fake age, slightly older than their guess. They never suspect he’s lying, because who’d lie that they’re actually older.
Despite this, and maybe the whisky had something to do with it, I still wanted to sleep with him. I liked the naughty twinkle in his light-brown eyes. I also wanted my time investment, and our painful back and forthing, to amount to ‘something’. It was pathetic logic, but I didn’t care.
We split the bill, and headed to my apartment.
Bee-lining straight for the bedroom, our clothes came off in a hurry. He looked good naked. The throw down was sexy, but fast. In no time he was on top of me in missionary, wearing a condom.
It was surprisingly sensual, and felt delicious. However, somehow we’d missed the foreplay chapter (my favorite chapter). I assumed we would dip back into it, but before I had a chance to suggest, he was coming.
“Not too shabby, eh”, was the first thing he said when we lay down next to each other. Annoyed that he hadn’t made more of an effort to get me off, and at him in general, I was quick to quip that it was “so, so”. I told him that I’d have enjoyed more foreplay.
That could have been his cue to get back to work, but he didn’t. It was hard to tell how much he gave a shit.
After token, horizontal small talk, it was time for him to leave. Half asleep, I kissed him goodbye at the apartment door in my dressing gown. I pulled away to say a final bye, but he spoke first: “can you open your mouth a little less wide when you kiss?”
I was completely caught off guard; shocked and speechless. I mumbled something about him being rude. As he walked down the hall, his condescending retort over his shoulder was: “it’s just feedback – everyone needs feedback to improve.”
This may have been his attempt to snatch back the upper hand after my less-than-enthused review of his sexual performance. Regardless, I couldn’t help but feel offended, ego-bruised, and also totally paranoid. I rapidly texted multiple ex flames, who assured me that my kissing was perfectly great.
He texted most days the next week to invite me to his, clearly hoping that our feisty Friday had kicked off a sex buddy arrangement. I was stunned that he thought I’d want more. I was beyond turned off; the kissing critique had been the final straw. I stopped replying.
It was the first sex-regret I’d had in New York. I’d followed my curiosity, but ignored my gut.
I’d learned a lesson: if they’re a selfish prick in real life, they’re probably a selfish prick in the sack, too. My advice to future self: trust your instincts, and steer away from the assholes… even for sex.
No repeat performance this time.