I met my second New York date on Bumble. In our first message exchange, he told me he was out for drinks alone, having just been stood up on a first date. I liked his candidness; it was the kind of over-sharing I’m usually guilty of. I could tell from his name he wasn’t Jewish, so I probably wouldn’t end up walking down the aisle with him, but we agreed to meet for a weekend drink, and I promised I would show up.
We met Saturday afternoon, as I had evening plans. He picked a bar called Asellina near me, which was thoughtful. As I had arrived drunk to my first New York date a few weeks prior, I wasn’t anticipating the strong jitters I felt pre this sober date. I bucked up and headed out, wearing tight blue jeans, a mint v neck sweater and black, low heeled boots.
He was sitting at a table in the spacious bar when I walked in. Luckily he looked exactly like his pictures: a cute, approachable, clean cut, wholesome American guy: plaid shirt and all.
As we started talking, I observed a camp-ness to his mannerisms; something I’d noticed in a number of American men. It’s a combination of profuse chattiness, animated hand motions and a nasal tone. I didn’t feel electric chemistry, but conversation was fun, engaging and put me at ease. He had a witty, dirty mind, which I always appreciate.
After 2 glasses of wine, I was pleasantly buzzed. When we said goodbye outside the bar he lent in for an unexpected kiss. It was a perfect first kiss: soft but teasing, and left me wanting more. I waltzed away, fuzzy and pleased, fairly confident we would see each other again.
He messaged later that evening and we set up another date. We saw the latest James Bond movie on a Sunday night on the Upper East Side. He bought us popcorn, which came with free refills (only in America).
Post movie dinner was at Bar Roma, a quaint, cozy Italian restaurant he knew nearby (sadly Bar Roma has since closed down!). We sat in the window. He had lasagna, I had a bowl of warming, minestrone soup and a portion of handmade, over-sized gnocchi in decadent rosemary garlic butter, served in a mini skillet.
A bottle of wine and some lively conversation later, he asked if I wanted a night cap at his. I knew what this was code for. I was reasonably attracted to him, hadn’t had sex in a while, wasn’t sensing marriage material (thus little reason to prolong the suspense), and I had Monday off work. We cabbed to his.
His place was great: doorman building, sparkling clean 2 bed apartment, and stunning Manhattan views. His housemate wasn’t home. We promptly started making out on the couch, then relocated to the bedroom, half dressed.
Even in bed, he embodied the American cliche of uber open communication, which I should have seen coming. He asked, frequently, in his strong American accent, if I liked what he was doing. He told me each time he wanted to change it up. He verbally reacted whenever he liked something (“oooh – that feels gooood”).
Now I’m a fan of communication in the bedroom, but this was too much. Although I appreciated the enthusiasm and responsiveness, it wasn’t a turn on. I also found everything a little fast and un-sensual. I didn’t orgasm, but not through lack of him trying!
We hung out naked in his living room after, snacking and laughing. He introduced me to new music and hilarious YouTube clips on his giant projector screen.
He was particularly adamant in showing me the Broad City episode where Abi (a girl) wears a strap on and has sex with a guy, doggy style (known as pegging). It’s since become my favorite episode, and everyone should watch it. This triggered a story about his biggest life regret in saying no to his ex-girlfriend when she wanted to try this with him. I couldn’t help but think he was trying to drop a strong hint. I hadn’t heard of pegging before, but I can’t say it had much immediate appeal. Perhaps if I was really into someone, and they really wanted to, I would consider it. Who knows, maybe I’d love wielding a faux penis!
He wanted me to sleepover, but I just wanted to sleep, so I called an Uber home. As much as I enjoyed his company, the spark wasn’t there for me. Eventually I copped out by pulling the Jew card (‘I had so much fun with you but should only be dating Jewish guys, as that’s the route I want to go down’).
We had a lot of laughs, some excellent gnocchi, and some average nookie. But this Jewish girl was ready for New York man numero 3.