Dating Websites (Part 2) (Girl Fail #9)

In 1979, the trial for a convicted rapist and murderer by the name of Ted Bundy began. Despite the fact that all of his victims were women (some say as many as 100 victims), he received hundreds of love letters from deranged female “fans.” Fan mail included nude pictures and even marriage proposals. In fact, dozens of his female “fans” attended the trials and made an effort to resemble those he had murdered. During this time, I bet every single guy in America shared the same sentiment as Bill Hicks:


Why am I telling you this? Well, it’s complicated. I’d suggest starting from the beginning, which is actually my previous post (click here). Carrying on…

Believing it to be a massive cop-out, I swallowed my pride and, reluctantly, joined OkCupid six months ago out of sheer desperation to cast a wider net and to increase my visibility (at least, electronically). My naivety regarding dating sites encouraged me to rely on the rumors and stereotypical experiences of others. I thought, with all the schmucks out there (with their pompous bios, their idiotic poses with tigers, their belligerently perverted openers, and their superfluous dick pics), at least one date would spawn from this online platform. This had to auger well.

450 messages later, nothing. Not one date. Not one friend. Nothing.

Compounded frustrations + a dark sense of humor = laughing in self-reproach at the photo above. It honestly did leave me wondering if those that I contacted went on a date with a misogynistic womanizer and/or jerkoff instead. Although difficult to say, think of all the dating blogs out there, most of which are maintained by women. Of those, many are reflections on terrible OkCupid or Tinder dates.

But fear not because this wasn’t all in vain. I created a fake female profile to compare and contrast my experiences between both sexes.

The Profiles

ugly-womanPictures:  To make the experiment fair, both profiles had to be appealing on all fronts. Thus, I wasn’t going to pick a photo like this one for my fake account.

I’m a physically fit guy with a six pack, toned body, relatively white teeth, average height, skinny, decent but not perfect complexion, a few gray hairs and a bald spot. With this, I consider myself to be in the “average looks” category – nothing that will get the attention of the nearest Abercrombie & Fitch store but satisfactory to those I’ve been with. Appropriately, I used photos of a girl my age in the equivalent “average looks” category for the fake profile.

Profile Content: Maintaining the fairness of this ploy, the text of her profile had to be equally engaging. A joke for a joke, the same type of vague self-summary spiel, and no interests that could be deemed superficial. Any text that had the potential of being perceived as a flirtatious invitation were edited out of the fake profile. Just so you know, I didn’t list myself as someone looking for casual sex or anything like that either.

Questions: Much of the questions were answered the same way, which renders similar “personality” stats.

As a final test, my friends (both male and female) reviewed each profile and gave their reputable stamp of approval.


Jewish women don't masturbate on OkCupid

Jewish women don’t masturbate on OkCupid

Real Profile: I visited over 600 profiles and sent about 450 messages over the course of six months. Out of those 450 messages, I only received 5 replies. I’ll  reiterate that in case you’re reading too fast. That is 5 out of 450. That equates to about a 1.1% success rate, where success SOLELY means getting a reply. I only received 1 unprompted message but she didn’t seem mentally stable. No one that I visited ever messaged me. No one that visited me ever messaged me unless I messaged them first. I only had 10 quickmatches and, oddly enough, half were overweight bisexual black women (maybe that’s my market?). I averaged about 70 visitors per week for the first month but this number slowly declined. Now I average about 8 visitors per week.

Fake Profile: I visited less than 100 profiles and sent 0 messages. This had absolutely no impact on my ability to get visitors or messages. In fact, before I had ANY content in my profile (only had a couple of pictures), I received 5 messages in an hour! I had equaled the number of replies that took me six months and 450 messages from my real profile in just one hour of creating my fake one. In total, I received 323 messages over the course of six months – all of which were unprompted. 1/10 of the men I visited sent me something. Compared to my 10 quickmatches from my real profile, I had a whopping 1,183 quickmatches in my fake one. It was effortless to maintain about 120 visitors per week for the first three months or so. This number has since decreased to around 50 per week, most likely due to my inactivity.


Did the extent of this rough data despond you as much as it did me? Probably not. Most people already know that if the object of the game is to get messages, males must be more exigent with their profiles and more charitable with reaching out to others. These are the unfortunate circumstances – I would argue – that arise from social norms, which cyberspace, as we just witnessed, isn’t immune to.

How about the quality of these messages? I’ll confess that I made the mistake of sending the stereotypical “Hey, how are you?” openers a few times but I quickly made a habit of reading a women’s profile in its entirety and conceiving a unique, dare I say charming, message. This approach, deemed the most chivalrous, takes about 15 to 25 minutes depending on the profile. I did this about 300 times before I lost all hope. I’ve heard the opposite sex say that “no response is a response.” If this is true, I wonder if I was being treated with derision. My last 150 or so messages derived from whatever short, witty thoughts or questions I had after a 5 minute browse of their profile and pictures. Since almost all of my approaches were ignored, I’m counting this as Girl Fail #9.

Twilight-PickUp-Lines-14The most ironic aspect of this experiment was the messages my fake account received. Although, I got the gamut of openers, from magnanimous compliments to sleazy invitations, the vast majority of them were perfectly fine and often times funny. No one tried to romance me with “I want to fuck you in my station wagon” but I did get “…so for me intention wise….Honestly….nothing too serious….a fun friend really. With benefits situation is what I’m open to at the moment. Not looking for anything serious at the moment, but having it with someone fun, easy going, funny, witty, smart….sexy goes without saying. What about yourself?” Maybe I was lucky but I didn’t get any vulgar messages nor dick pic offerings. The flood of compliments I received actually boosted my confidence until I reminded myself that I was acting under a pretense.

My personal favorites:

  • I’m just going to completely cut the b.s because you’re the cutest girl I’ve seen here. Let’s get coffee, possibly share orgasms, then get another coffee. So much energy
  • I’ve never met (or read to profile of) anyone with favorite movies including ####, #### and the goddamn Blues Brothers. I normally wouldn’t put so much stock in this sort of thing, but, wow, we should meet. Plus, I’m a huge fan of too many books to list.
  • Hello I’m #### glad to meet you! I read your profile and think you are really great person and I hope we can talk and get to know each other better. I am attending graduate school to obtain my Masters in Forensic Science. I hope you message me back because you seem like an amazing girl with great qualities, and I would like to get to know you if you so choose to get to know me and you are really cute
  • Random personality question – how do you feel about PDA? Write back.
  • this is like ridiculously random and may come off as strange butt,hello there gorgeous lady! 🙂 I have the urge to get on my knees and kiss your feet. haha is this a bad thing?
  • You seem like a cool girl, but there is only one way for me to tell… and that is if you take this little quiz of mine.  (provided a 10 question quiz)
  • After wading my way through a river of 18 year old college students you seem like an actual person with their shit together. What’s up?
  • let’s be a power couple

Did you expect these types of results? What OkCupid stories do you have?

Guys, if you can’t resist sending pictures of your junk, at least do it the right way. Click here to learn more.  :p

-Single Guy in NYC

Girl Fail #8 (Sandals)

I can no longer remember what it feels like to hold someone’s hand, let alone anything else. If the people I met weren’t scoping for Calvin Klein models making six figures, my petulantly redundant Girl Fails would, instead, romance you to blissful content. However, like any lovelorn fool, I present to you with the following.

Location:  A summer-themed, trendy bar in the boroughs of NYC. There were a hundred sandals dangling from a metal frame suspended above the bar in a figure-8 pattern, which is definitely a conversation starter. The bar was also having a $2 draft night, which is completely unheard of in the city. An amazing cover band, one of the best I’ve seen, was performing on stage with a robust crowd feeding them energy. Needless to say, this was the place to be that night.

Outfit: I was looking snazzier than normal; short-sleeved button down shirt, white khaki shorts, and sandals

Who: My brother, his wife, and I

What: While watching the cover band with my brother and his wife, my single guy senses started tingling, so I turned around. Entering the venue were two average girls dressed for the summer season. As they sat at the bar, I started to contemplate how I would approach them. 15 feet from the bar, there was a Song Cemetery with mini-tombstones that read “Call Me Maybe”, “Blurred Lines”, “Somebody I Used to Know” and a few other overplayed hits. Seeing one of girls point to the cemetery and laugh gave me a clue of how I could start a conversation. And with that, I began my descent.

“So, what happens when the band plays a tune from the song cemetery?” I inquired the two girls after ordering myself another round.

Laughing, one of the girls responded with, “Well, the bar actually forbids any band to play those songs.”

“Makes you wonder what band is dying to impress a crowd with “Call Me Maybe”, don’t it?”

We joked around for a few minutes before introducing ourselves and getting into our occupations. It was going quite well and I’m sure we appeared as long time friends from afar. My flirting was addressed to both of them and whoever had the wittier remark would respond first.

Gesturing to the sandals above, I said, “Please tell me there’s a funny story behind all these shoes.”

“I think there may be. People leave them here and they decorate with them.”

“Perhaps it’s a fashionable recycling outreach program?”

“Good call!”

“Some businesses have a take a penny, leave a penny policy. It’s obvious they have a take sandal, leave a sandal policy. How novel!” I added.

“Oh absolutely. Look!” one of the girls said extending her finger to a worn out birkenstock dangling above us. “That one even has someone’s name on it.”

Following the direction of her extended finger, I read “Jesse Oberman” inscribed on the sole of the shoe. “We must find this person before they go home shoeless!” I wisecrack. “This bar is nothing but a clever disguise for a sandal library.”

In my mind, my adroit flirtation brought us to the pinnacle of conversation that evening. Upon reaching that figurative summit, the girl in the blue dress turned toward her friend and coaxingly asked, “I think it’s time to go to the bathroom. What do you think?”

Looking puzzled for a moment, the friend squinted but then had a subtle moment of clarity. “Yes, I think you’re right,” she replied aridly. Standing up, she informed me that they were both going to the bathroom. I told them to hurry back because the band was too good to miss.

After finding my brother and his wife in front of the stage, I turned around just in time to see the two girls walk right past the bathroom and out the door to the street. I couldn’t believe it and couldn’t stop feeling guilty about this. No one goes to a $2 draft night just for one drink while an amazing band is performing. I must have spoiled their evening. If they resented my company, why laugh at my jokes and keep the conversation going? Why lie to me in order to covertly escape? Part of me wishes I ran outside and confronted them. Not in a contentious way but just to apologize – for what, I have no idea – and let them know that it’s fine to stay and I have no problem leaving them alone if they wish.

How can one not feel a sense of indignation from moments like these? I’m beginning to get sick of being told, by women in particular, how much of a “great catch” I am. Yet, fisherwomen keep tossing me back in the ocean with a hole in my cheek.

Yikes, this was a downer post. I’ll comment on something funny next time. Hopefully.

-Single Guy in NYC

Dammit, I Suck at This Whole “Being Single” Thing: Struggles & Treatments

The Struggles:

A man approaches a woman at a bar, says “Hi,” and introduces himself. After an agreeable two minutes of small talk, the man offers to buy the lady a drink of her choosing. Smiling, the woman accepts the kind offer and orders another drink. Holding the paid concoction in her hand, she lifts it up to thank the man then innocuously walks away to sit down at a table with friends.

Elmo Single Guy in NYCIf you’ve been unhappily single for a while, it’s tempting to not only reflect back on your past experiences but those of your single friends as well. The above short story is an example of this, which is why I’m frugally reluctant to buy a girl a drink at a bar. So what does this have to do with being single? For starters, you’re most likely lonely and occasionally get jealous of couples you see on a daily basis. Not only that but getting rejected ad nauseam. When you vent about your troubles, your friends then vent about theirs. Unless you have a unique sense of fortitude when it comes to rejection and a penchant for having a good time, these stories compound in your head, creating a pulverizing migraine.

I mean, who doesn’t miss the midnight phone calls when you’re feeling blue? Or feeling accomplished because you successfully consoled your lover? Or those “I love you” texts that come when you least expect them to? Personally, I miss having someone to joke around with, especially in public. I was at a party two years ago and my girlfriend seductively leaned in and cooed in my ear, “I’m not wearing any panties.”

“Good news everyone!” I exclaimed to the crowd.

She nudged my ribcage laughing to keep me quiet and it worked. At least until I texted my buddy about it later that night.

A guilty sense of indignation creeps up on you as you ponder each rhetorical question. How come that glib jackass gets lucky? Why didn’t she text me back? Doesn’t she want to be with a good guy? Now what do I do with all this lingerie I bought? How did I just max out my credit card at this liquor store?

“Be good and you will be lonely” -Mark Twain

The Treatments:

Accept the hardships of the situation and get stoic: As my good friend once said to me, “You got balls man. You have to use them!” Straight men, for example, don’t have the privilege of loafing on the sidelines until someone approaches them. Don’t be lazy; you and I both know this girl is too beautiful for you not to say something. Even if you fail, and you will, at least you tried. After all, they can’t all be winners.  😉

Privily take care of your needs in the meantime: Your penis will love and fear you – the essence of sadomasochism – whether or not your consciousness will admit it due to the obvious ploy of masturbation to deal with built up tension. I say “fear” because this becomes a common outlet to clear your head (both of them). Gilbert Gottfried famously phrased this as such, “If masturbation’s a crime, I should be on death row.” If I’m not mistaken, Pee-wee Herman exalted this.

Boyfriend_PillowLaugh off your newest lows: It was a sullen struggle at Bed, Bath, and Beyond when I found myself buying lube for my alone time with myself. Or realizing I bought a package of 50 condoms with approaching expiration dates right before the breakup and my sense of parsimony won’t let me forgive myself. In short, have you ever caught yourself having full-length conversations with inanimate objects? Perhaps when your doctor asked, “Have you been having sexual relations?” you blurted out, “You mean, with other people?” Whatever it may be, just give a good laugh about it later and keep moving. Otherwise, this feeling of dejection will resonate when you talk to strangers. Don’t be that person that gives out their number and follows up with, “Here you go but it’s not like you’ll ever call me.”

Fake it till you make it: Seriously, if you want to be <insert adjective here> but it’s not in your nature, at least not instinctively, fake it. If you lumber around others but want to come off as charmingly poised, you act as though you’re charmingly poised. It’s fine to alter your behavior in a healthy manner towards a personal goal as long as others don’t disparage you for it.

So tickle your “Elmo,” get yourself a girlfriend/boyfriend pillow or whatever you need to sleep through the night and don’t be contrite about it. We all need pick-me-ups to get us through these harrowing weeks.

Yes, I’m being hyperbolic but you get point. If not, just leave a comment. 🙂

-Single Guy in NYC

My Dad and Cockblocking (Girl Fail #7)

Well, I never thought I’d use that combination of words in the same sentence, let alone use it as a headline (shudder).

“Never say ‘never'” – Every Elementary School Teacher Ever

Many single people have been caustically asked, “Why are you still single?” or “What’s the deal with you?” or “Have you made any arrangements yet as to how you would prefer to die alone?” These pointless inquiries are often equivocated by the responder, which, to me, adds to the pointless exchange. When I’m painfully greeted by these questions, my answer is always the same: “Shouldn’t you be asking the last girl I hit on?” Unfortunately in this instance, you’ll have to ask my Dad.

As a tall, cumbrous man, with a megaphone as a voice box and a spiritedly unapologetic demeanor,  my Pops has mastered the art of standing out in a crowd. While attending one of my live performances, my father sat at one of the tables in front of the stage, surrounded by attractive 20-something-year-olds.  (I’m the lead sax player in a Fusion band. “And you’re still single?” I know, right? My good friend once told me that women love men that play music, just not me. But I digress.) While performing, I tend to keep an eye pealed on my audience and my “single radar” on point just in case there’s someone checking me out for a change. Occasionally, my “single radar” – as Michael Winslow hysterically put it in Spaceballs – loses its bleeps, sweeps, and – arguably the most vital – creeps when I’m focusing on the music. Luckily, I had a few friends in the crowd to give me the scoop on whom was giving me the eye.

The entire time I was playing, there was a cute blonde girl in the crowd taking pictures of the band but keeping her focus on me. Naturally, I added “talk to the cute girl” to my to-do-list that evening. After I got off stage, one of my friends informed me that my best bet was some cute blonde girl that was periodically taking pictures of the band. I chuckled and told him I knew which one he was referring to. She moved to a stool beside the left wall to talk to friends, which was around where my Dad was standing, so I decided to venture over. After thanking my father for coming out, I began honing in on the girl and ruminating about what I could say. After running through a myriad of greetings in my head – yes, I think way too much – and looking back to see if anyone has stolen my instrument, I finally decided on a perfectly innocuous question: “Hi, what did you think of the band?” And with that, I took a step towards her to begin my short approach.

“You need to hit on this blonde girl standing right beside me!” my Dad blurted out emphatically.

Frozen in motion, the girl turned her head, derisively leered at me and my father, then down at my extended foot and then back up at me in order to acknowledge my disappointing approach. She was no longer impressed by me but, instead, critical of my looming presence. I instantly felt unwelcome and nervous, as if she pressed the panic button on her keys to scare me off. This awkward moment lingered for what seemed like a half an hour but was only a matter of 15 seconds before she turned back to her friends.

“Thanks Dad,” I said weakly.

And so, the opportunity was gone. She left shortly thereafter.

Lastly, let me add that I love my father and this post is in no way supposed to mock him. He’s one of the most consistently benevolent beings I know. The man was only trying to help  a brotha’ (or son) out. Stories like this are bountiful to the point where children believe it’s their parents appointed duty to embarrass them.

In the distinguished words of Herman Cain, “Awwww shucky ducky!” – which, I presume, was a sigh of defeat.

-Single Guy in NYC

The Horrible Wingwoman (Girl Fail #6)

Upon my vindictive return to the same bar as my last fail, Girl Fail #5, my friend Sherry offered to be my wing-woman.

“Just point to a girl and we’ll go over,” she decided reassuringly.

After clarifying with her that pointing at a complete stranger is not the ideal first impression, we made a plan – although contrived and arguably not so ideal as well.

The plan: After selecting a group of girls, she would infiltrate the enemy base, deploy a cunning compliment targeted at one of the girls and just when all hope is lost, I would parachute down, eliminate the threat (Sherry), and hoist everyone to safety with my irresistible charm.

What actually happened: Sherry suggested a group of people behind me, to which I asked, “Which group?”

Extending her arm, she answered “That gro-”

“Don’t point!”

“I’m going to compliment her blouse or something.”

“Whose blouse?” I exclaimed.

And with that she walked right past the group of people I assumed we were talking about and right up to a group of three girls by the back of the bar. ‘The hell with it,’ I commanded internally. I walked over to them, parachuted down, and overhearing Sherry deploy her compliment, assailed her with the following: “You causing trouble over here?” My timing was flawless but my delivery was horrendous.

As if acting on a poorly rehearsed cue, Sherry gestured to me with both hands and, like a circus ringmaster introducing the next act, announced “Well! Let me introduce you to Single Guy In NYC.” (Keep in mind that this was only her second sentence to these strangers.) Mayday, mayday! Abort!

Struggling to recover my balance, not to mention my abating confidence, I peered at the three girls that were addressed and made note of their justifiably displeased countenances.  Turning back to Sherry in an effort to smooth over this erratic transition, I was surprised to see she wasn’t there. Ten feet away from us, fleeing the scene, was Sherry displaying a smile of wholly satisfaction at what she conceived as a job well done.

Bracing for a diatribe from the three girls, I looked at the one that caught my eye and said the first thing that came to mind: “Did you come here for the game?” nodding to the TV overhead. Yes, it was rude of me to address only one of them but I was outnumbered and getting the notion that my efforts would be futile anyway. Instead, I was greeted with a cordial smile and a sincere response from her. Fortunately, her two friends just contemptuously glared at me and turned around. And just like that, we began a conversation that lasted, believe it or not, for two hours.

She was smart, funny, cute as all hell (is hell supposed to be adorable?), and charismatic. Not only that but we lived within 20 minutes of each other (distance is everything in NYC – a Bronx and Brooklyn couple is basically a long distance relationship), listened to the same music, enjoyed the same cafes and bakeries, and both loved Europe. I haven’t felt so much at ease conversing with a stranger for a long, long time. After my last relationship, I’ve grown extremely reluctant to fall in love again but it was already apparent that love would only come naturally if this conversation led to something more serious.

“And do you come here often?” she asked earnestly.

“Wow, worst pick up line ever! I expected more from you.”

Laughing out loud, she remarked “Oh sorry, I honestly didn’t mean it like that. Let me try again.” She took a step back with one foot, dropped her lush hair down to her shoulders, gazed at me salaciously and in a seductive tone asked, “So,” pausing briefly, “you come here often?”

Forget what I said before, I was already in love. Well, as much as one can be the first time one meets someone new. We were so caught up in our flirtatious interactions that we didn’t bother ordering another drink for the rest of the night. Needless to say, I left with her number and was soaring high on cloud nine. I texted her the next night and this was our conversation:

Text Single Guy in NYC

I’ll give you a second to reread her last sentence. Don’t bother searching Google or asking friends for insight. What she said was pure rubbish meant to kill the conversation. The question is why.

She didn’t reply, so I knew I had to think of something witty. After 20 minutes, I responded.

Me:  Are you filling out a mad lib at the moment?

Her:  Haha no just tired  🙂

Me:  Fair enough. Don’t operate any heavy machinery in the meantime

Testing my luck the next day was also fruitless. All I wanted was to have a short conversation through text before asking her out. After our second conversation (if you can even call it that) dissolved into nothingness, I agreed to go with the Hail Mary and ask her out, even though she hadn’t responded to me in days.

Me:  Hey, what are you up to this weekend? Texting is overrated and I know this great brunch place in Chelsea

I never heard from her again. I suppose she had other options and, more importantly, nights like ours were more of a banality to her than to me. Truth be told, since this Girl Fail, I haven’t been able to muster the courage to meet anyone new. It’s now been close to three months and I feel as though we broke up without having dated. There must be something wrong with my head. What do you think?

-Single Guy in NYC

Mind if I just murder this conversation? (Girl Fail #5)

There’s nothing like going to your favorite bar with your pals. As a single guy, I now look at these moments as canny opportunities to assist my friends in refining their wing-man skills. While grabbing a drink at the bar, I hear “Did all three of you just come from work?” Two girls sitting at the bar were turned towards us and after being asked just one simple question, it was quite easy to start a conversation. Following the standard name introductions, topics ranged from movies, music, religion, college, and travel. Needless to say that within the span of an hour, we knew a good amount about one another.

Rachel had my interest. She was laid back, confident, Jewish, and a straight shooter. The problem was that she didn’t do much to add to the conversation. It seemed like she expected the men to play 20 questions and try not to have it appear like a job interview. This is not only a challenge but agonizingly annoying. Yet, why not give it a shot? Nothing better to do.

“What do you do?” I asked.


“Ah, how did enlightening the city’s youth go this week?”


This isn’t to say that she didn’t have a personality – she did. But having a conversation with her outside of the group conversation that my buddies were having with her friend was unnecessarily difficult. Granted, she didn’t always provide a one word response but she didn’t show much interest either. After an hour, Rachel’s friend left but Rachel stayed to have another drink with us. At the end of the night, while Rachel was in the bathroom, my friend Mick told me that he overheard her complaining about her love life to her friend – saying that she doesn’t have anyone and it’s been a long time, blah blah blah. “We’re not exactly hitting it off though. You think I should ask for her number anyway?” “Of course! She didn’t leave when her friend left, so she’s expecting something tonight.”

To my surprise, her face lit up with charismatic delight when I asked her for her number. Maybe I was wrong. Was there a connection? Due to scheduling conflicts, we couldn’t get together right away. For a couple weeks, we texted a bunch and I came to realize that we had more in common than I thought. Finally, after 3 weeks, we were able to plan on getting together at a hip bar in Manhattan.

I HAVE A DATE. How do people prepare for this stuff again? Shower? Find clothing? Trim your pubes? All of the aforementioned? Ah,but as always, your luck catches up with you.

After planning out the evening, she texted me the day before our night out. She wanted to tell me that because I wasn’t Jewish, we couldn’t have a relationship. If we went out, it’d be strictly platonic. “I’ll convert!” I texted back, followed by cancelling the date. It’s interesting because I swear to you that I actually felt the joy escape from my body like it was a restless captive.  Till next time.

– Single Guy in NYC


Zach Galifianakis (Girl Fail #4)

If you think about it, being a single guy on Valentine’s Day has its advantages because all the single ladies (#Beyonce) go out to the bars with their other single friends. Thus, I decided to go out this past Valentine’s Day and test my luck. Getting off the train, I ventured to find the perfect bar to test my theory. After walking past a few bars, I noticed a five dollar bill on the pavement. As I reached down to pick it up, something caught my eye. There was a wad of cash a foot away from the $5 bill. There’s no doubt that this was drug money and it was my humbled responsibility to spend it wisely. So, I put a skip to my step as I surreptitiously scooped up the cash and headed for cover inside the closest bar.

I felt like a million bucks – well, $287 to be exact. Hell, I tend to spend close to $100 on my date this time of year and now I’m making money (it made me wonder if Cupid shot an actual arrow at a handler, who then dropped their cash onto the ground for me to find). Fully loaded and a grin on my face, I requested the best draft in the house and walked up to two pretty brunettes outside the bar’s backroom (which contained live music).

“Hi. I was wondering, do you know who’s playing tonight?” I asked. One of the girls, wearing a black and white striped shirt, smiled at me and said they didn’t know but their friend was playing after this band was done.We spoke for another minute before I departed saying, “I’m going to catch the rest of their set, maybe I’ll see you both in there.” A couple songs later, they showed up. It’s a small backroom and everyone stands within visible distance from everyone else. The entertainment was a hipster folk trio fronted by Zach Galifianakis’s part time impersonator and full time doppelgänger. I stayed in the backroom through their set as well as the subsequent band’s set. Afterwards, I decided to get myself one last drink at the bar, where I ran into the two girls again.

Seeing that one of the girls was with the drummer from the last band, I addressed the girl wearing the striped shirt again. “Hello again.” “Hi!” “So, what did you think of the Zach Galifianakis impersonator hipster group?” It was at this point that I realized 3 and 1/2 beers does, in fact, impair one’s speech. What actually came out of my mouth was “Zoe, hat did yoo tink of the Zach Gal-ee-poe-fank-us em-bur-sonator hipster croop?” She shook her head saying, “What was that?” Luckily I was able to bounce back, enunciate, and render laughter. Mind you, she was inebriated as well. We flirted for another 30 minutes until I told her that I was heading out and if I could have her number. She smiled as I took out my phone and entered her in. Then, I realized that I never got her name and never introduced myself. “I’m Single Guy in NYC by the way,” I said as I extended my hand. “Jo,” she replied. The second mistake I made was not texting her right with my name after leaving the bar. THIS IS A MUST to all you single folks.

I texted her two days later: “Hi, how’s it going? This is Single Guy in NYC – we met Friday night at____ after watching the   Galifianakis folk group”.

She never responded. So, instead of using drug money on a profligate first date, I bought myself something nice. Her loss; my gain? Perhaps.

– Single Guy in NYC


Keep Calm and I Forgot

Keep Calm and I Forgot  - Singleguynyc

Keep Calm and I Forgot
– Singleguynyc

While strolling through the park on my way to work last week, I saw a young couple holding hands and conversing. Soon afterwards it dawned on me that I could not remember what it felt like to hold someone else’s hand in my own. Granted, it may seem like a silly concept because I can, of course, hold my own hand and call it a day. However, we can all agree the couple I saw at the park were engaging and experiencing, whether they were conscious of it or not, something much more. We can also all agree that jacking yourself off or fingering yourself is much different than when someone else does it for you. After all, a handjob is nothing more than a transcendent form of masturbation – if you find the right person that is.

This has been a difficult realization to escape from. In fact, if someone were to hold my hand right now, I believe my first instinct would be to reject it or recoil in some way unless I initiated the action. Have you ever hugged someone who’s rarely touched or hugged? Their body generally stalls at the moment of embrace. This is a common fear of people who’ve been single for a while. The fear of being awkward when it counts in moments you previously were able to show off your suaveness. It’s my assumption this fear is most popular among men. And why not? Women expect a high level of debonair and confidence. Unfortunately, we can’t all deliver – even if we have the ability.

Regardless, we single folks have to keep on trying until we once again are gratified with myriad transcendent handjobs :p

– Single Guy in NYC

“Just dance…” – Lady Gaga (Girl Fail #3)

My good friend, Puff Girl, invited me to a Latin dance party in the Lower East Side one Friday evening – and like any white person who’s incapable of dancing and dislikes it, I cordially accepted the invitation. The venue was interesting in and of itself. It had a large movie screen playing Jaws (among other classics), plenty of couches and stools, a pool table, multiple bars on the ground floor, and a Rolling Rock Gibson Guitar suspended above an assortment of liquor. However, the dance party took place in the basement of the venue.

Loud music, DJ lighting, sweaty bodies, and a transvestite eyeing me the entire night. It wasn’t exactly my scene. Being the only white person, I stood out like a black guy at a NRA convention. After consuming my 3rd drink, I was prepared to throw caution to the wind and test my sense of rhythm. One thing I noticed right away was that every person there knew how to move, shake, grind, twist, hop, spin, wiggle, etc. Granted, this white man can’t jump nor dance but I’ll try. In the sagacious words of Lady Gaga, “just dance, Da-doo-doo-doo.” Spotting two women dancing alone, I approached one, played a 5 second game of charades in order to invite her to the dance floor, and gave it my all – which was nothing. I went to spin her but must have gestured the wrong way because she got caught off guard and our motions opposed one another till they nullified. She laughed at me and walked away.

After consuming some liquid courage for a half hour, I tried my luck again. I approached the same two girls and gestured to my previous dance partner’s friend to follow me to the dance floor. Openly admitting this was not my forte, I relaxed a bit more and had fun. We occasionally spoke while dancing and grabbed a drink together upstairs. She was friendly yet mysterious in her manner, and fairly cute. Before I could ask her for her info, she pulled out her phone and said, “Okay, I might as well take your number. What is it?” How interesting is this? I thought. This time I’m being asked for my digits; must have made an impression. It was a great close to the night, or so I thought, until I was walking to the metro with Puff Girl (who spent the entire night grinding on gay Dominicans). “You didn’t get her number?” “No, I didn’t think to since she asked for mine. Mistake?” “Definitely.” “Ah, dammit.”

And so it was; she never contacted me. Now it’s possible she met someone else or woke up the next morning and realized she really wasn’t that interested but part of me thinks she chose to ask me for my number as a preemptive measure to avoid giving out hers. It was obvious that I was going to ask and by asking first, it gave me this false sense of, for lack of a better word, accomplishment. It’s a cynical point of view but one would also assume attractive single women in their 30s have some tricks up their sleeves. If so, touche.

-Single Guy in NYC

My bubbles! (Girl Fail #2)

“Do you ever speak to someone on the subway?” I asked. Without much thought my friend simply replied, “I tend to never make that mistake.”

The irony city dwellers face every day festers in their mode of public transportation. Whether it be bus, train, starship, or hovercraft, everyone around you, although clearly in pubic, is lodged into their own little world. In NYC, the locals apply a thick layer of stoic aloofness before swiping their metro card and starting their day. It’s understandable why folks want to appear distant and keep to themselves when around strangers in such a populous area but sometimes I can’t help but try to break down this inexorable barrier.

While riding the subway to work one morning, an attractive girl sat next to me and placed her purse on her lap. Although I was reading a book and in my own little world myself, something about that morning made me feel optimistic and social. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that attached to the outside of this person’s purse via a piece of string was an unlabeled bottle of purell. A little odd but interesting that someone would need purell within reach at all times like that. I gestured to the purell bottle and said, “Always within reach just in case, right?” I instantly regretted opening my mouth. She glared at me with a look of contempt. “Those,” she replied, pausing to point at the bottle, “are my bubbles.” Naturally, I became doubly curious and wanted to know why one would need bubbles within reach at all times. However, her feelings of disgust towards me pacified this curiosity in a bizarre backwards manner.

It sometimes pays to just keep your thoughts to yourself. Damn this innate sense of curiosity.

-Single Guy in NYC