Dating in New York is hard. Just this morning, in fact, while walking to work, I saw an attractive-ish, late-40-something guy complaining in his cell phone outside a gallery about “how hard it is to meet women” in this town.
Buddy, I know how you feel.
I have to say, hands down, that this is the hardest town to get a decent fuck in. Now, notice that I used the word “decent” there, little cowboys and cowgirls. Because while anyone can stagger into a bar and get Tom from Fort Wayne, N.J., to go down on you (guys and girls apply), it’s much more difficult to find some quality ass.
And it’s not just the quality. It’s the time crunch. In other cities you probably have at least an hour or two to work someone over before deciding if you’re bringing them home or not. Not here. Getting laid is like closing your eyes and jumping into hyperspace in Star Wars. You hope for the best, but you really don’t know where you’re going, or what you could possibly bump into. But one thing’s certain—you’re not going to have anyone nearly as hot as Han Solo next to you when you open your eyes as the cruel light of morning comes poking through the bars of your garden apartment window. “Oh, yeah, hey….it’s you. Hey, you…Why don’t you get the hell out of my apartment now?”
In my life, this is the only town where I have been shot down for completely no-strings-attached sex. The first time I propositioned a young lad, he took off running down the street away from me. Seriously, there was motoring going on. A month or two later I ran into him at a party with his new girlfriend, a rotund woman with pumpkin-colored hair. And then I saw him with another one. “Ah, so that’s it,” I said to a friend. “He only dates girls who look like pumpkins.”
So that kinda made sense.
Mmm, what’s my point here besides a scorned-woman rant? Oh, yeah, it’s this. In my experience, unless you are a psycho or have a tumor the size of an orange growing out of your neck or haven’t bathed since last week, then odds are most guys will sleep with you. Hell, even if you haven’t taken a shower in a while, they’ll find a way to work around it. So, what is up, New York? What does a girl have to do to get a little action?
Here’s the other problem, and admittedly, it’s my own—I don’t find the guys who live here that attractive. They are, shall we say, on the small, fey, precious side. And while they’ll lecture you all night on the merits of Grizzly Bear, while pushing up their retro glasses and asking if you have any more cash to buy drinks because they are, uhum, poor and working for the man is for suckers and no, I don’t want to listen to Regina Spektor while you fingerbang me on your futon (again) because you are too drunk to get it up.
In short, New York men are not real men. They do not know how to change a tire. They do not know how to light a pilot light. They do not know when to shut the fuck up and take charge. They have no, as we women like to say, throw down.
Now, excuse me. I have to go find that guy with the cell phone.