Chronicles of the Single Man, Episode 17: The Sexual Power Rankings

What follows is the product of intense years of study, effort and research conducted by yours truly. I’ve been out there, in the battlefields and trenches, with women who have made the mistake of allowing me into their lives. More times than I’m sure they’re willing to admit we’ve done some sleeping together, these womenfolk and myself. All times (but one) I’ve been almost assuredly the more surprised party that it was occurring.

While I won’t claim to have any sort of wealth of knowledge on the subject, I think we can all agree that not all sex is created equal. And I don’t simply mean positions or people involved. I’m talking the types of sex that you can have. It’s not all the same, and so, with the help of some gChat conversations I’ve had and my own highly involved ranking system, I think I’ve developed the proper sexual power rankings.

Without further ado, in reverse order…

7. Break-up

This is awful sex. It’s just terrible. There’s some passion, some heat in the beginning–that’s great, sure. But that quickly fades and in its place are just two sweaty people who probably don’t really like each other as much as they did 24 hours ago, but desperately need genital friction. So, they have sex. They make that last ditch effort and I’m pretty sure it ends up the same way every time: sad.

6. Nothing

That’s how much I fucking hate break-up sex. I’d literally rather not have sex than have break-up sex. You know how bad that has to make break-up sex? Think about that for a second. The thing that we spend most of our lives working for in some regard (school as a means to getting a job as a means to getting money as means to providing as a means to having as a means to impressing as a means to… you guessed it… SEX) has a variety that is so bad, doing nothing actually beats it out.

Chronicles of the Single Man, Episode 15: The Day I Found Out I Was A Douche

I guess I can spoil the surprise: it was just over two weeks ago. Like most people, I’ve never really considered myself a douche. I suppose if I’d ever stopped to do some self-reflection, I’d have conceded that I do have some definite douche qualities. But, a full-fledged, certified douche? I hadn’t ever thought of myself that way.

In doing some quick research, it turns out that’s the case for most douches. I asked a bunch of guys that I consider to be douches, and almost to a man, none of them felt they fit under the category of “douche”. Hard to see the forest through the trees, and all that.

The exact timing of this discovery (like I’d said, two weeks or so ago) and the method through which I discovered (Gchat) are immaterial when compared to the actual nature of the discovery and facts contained therein. I’ll get to them in a moment, but before we do… a little back story.

I met this girl probably five years ago, we both went to the same college—she having graduated a year after I did. We’d had some mutual friends and met through them one night at a bar in the city. Over the course of time, we’d wind up hanging out a number of times in a relationship that boiled down to, primarily, alcohol and intercourse. Now, for women reading this, it’s probably pretty apparent to you where this is headed—Duh, she thought you were a douche because you fucking WERE a douche! You can’t just treat a girl like that and not expect to be thought of that way! And to you, inner-monologue, I say, fair enough. But, I’ll also add, at the time* I felt as if it was a pretty mutually understood situation we found ourselves in. There would be no formal dates, no gifts, no hugs. It was, as they say, what it was.

That took place probably 3-4 years ago at this point. Since then, we’ve both moved on to various other partners (spreading our seed, y’all!) and randomly, a few weeks back, she and I spoke over gChat, that oh-so-familiar time-suck provided by our great pals at Google.

Somehow in the conversation, a guy she had dated in the past had come up. She described him as “a complete douche” and proceeded to detail several things he did that were, unequivocally, things a complete douche would do. So, we moved forward. We discussed my female situation (more on that, in full, when we get to the next episode) and a few other topics until we landed on the question of whether or not I was still living in the same place I had lived when we fooled around.

I still am, so I said yes. She asked if I was still living with my roommate, a peach of a young gent. I still am, so I said yes.

It was at this point I sort of had a sense for where this might be going. She started talking about this one time my roommate had made her french toast (for reasons unknown, I wasn’t there) and how he helped her sister (who also lived in the building at the time) with a car break-in once. So, to sort of help my case—which, in comparison to his on a nice-ness scale, will always pale—I simply typed in that I felt that, as swell of a guy as he is, I am as well, simply in my own, albeit different, way.

Her exact response, perhaps the highlight of the entire exchange:

Ehh.

The simplicity. The honesty. What’s not to love? She’d follow that up with this:

You weren’t that nice to me at all. I mean, I was kind of a mess when I met you, admittedly, but I don’t have a lot of fond memories. In terms of power-ranking my “ex’s” of any kind, you’re like just a few notches above [that previous guy we’d just called a douche].

Once I’d clarified that above, in this case, meant better, I surmised that I had to be, by the square is a rectangle, rectangle isn’t a square rule, a douche. Her response:

A different kind of douche, but kind a douche nonetheless. But that other guy I was talking about was a racist homophobic. I think deep down you have a good heart.

I may have lied before. That may have been my favorite part. Truly, it is hard to pick, isn’t it? I loved that the ordering of men from her past went, Racist/Homophobic/Expensive tastes douche… then me. But, thankfully, that wasn’t wholly true:

lolol No wait, there’s also an ex of mine that turned out to be a heroin addict.

Alrighty. So, to recap… it goes, Heroin addict, Racist homophobe, Scott Spinelli. That’s some company. She assured me that I was more “like a funny Disney villian”, which isn’t necessarily the worst thing in the world to be told. We ended by me saying I’d maybe see her around, which wasn’t (honestly) any sort of invitation or olive branch, simply what I felt was a nice thing to say to someone that lives in the same town as I do, to end an otherwise strange conversation. She countered with yet another honest, simple response.

Probably not.

And so there you have it. That’s how I found out that I was a douche. Honestly, kind of felt like this.

And while I know, nothing wildly specific was provided and that the way I acted with this girl wasn’t necessarily in-line with the Gentleman’s Guide, it’s still quite something to be flat-out-told: You. Are. A. Douche.

Live to fight another day, I suppose.

*I went back and looked at some of our old conversations, via e-mail and chat. Of course, none of this is hard evidence, and this girl did say that she didn’t expect to be–for lack of a better term–wooed, but nothing I found suggested I was actively acting like a douche. OK, I’m done providing desperate-attempt-efforts to explain away what can be only be described as douche.

Chronicles of the Single Man, Episode 14: Nice Guys, Drunk Girls

Wait… Not all guys are total douches? No way! I’ll have to make sure I forget that for next time!

Labor Day weekend I found myself in the typically unenviable position of taking the PATH train home from New York to Hoboken at around 2:30 in the morning after a night of drinking. I say ‘typically’ because as anyone who has made this trek knows, any number of things (not limited to, but including drunk patrons, long wait times, an INCREDIBLE urge to take a piss) can make that less than a mile ride one of the worst of your life.

I’m happy to report—none of that was the case for me.

I popped on to the train at 14th street after only having waited about 5 minutes for a train, a pleasant amount of time. It should be noted, at that time of night, the PATH runs on a “Every Go Fuck Yourself” schedule from Journal Square to 33rd, with a stop in Hoboken for good measure.

While 2:30 AM certainly seems late, for New York on a Saturday night it’s in that weird window of time before the true drunks come stumbling aboard. From around 2:30 til the bars close down, you’re only dealing with a select, smaller group of alcoholics. After that time period, all bets are off.

Either way, as I got on the train, it was apparent I was in the clear. First off, it was blissfully quiet. Second, there were seats. I felt good knowing my ride would be an uneventful one.

Then, I looked in front of me.

There was a girl, a pretty, skinny one at that, completely passed out in the seat opposite mine. Her head leaned to her right awkwardly in such a way that her neck and chin combined to pool together all of the “fat” she didn’t have into one of the most awkward faces I’ve ever seen a good-looking girl make. I had to take a picture*.

As I snapped away, the guy sitting to this girl’s left on the train—Oh, did I mention, she was on the train… BY HERSELF. More on that in a moment—took notice. Removing his earbuds, he asked me if the girl was, in fact, passed out. I answered in the affirmative, and, cool guy that he was, he continued to let her rest on his shoulder.

Not, however, before we could snap a few more pictures. Nothing lewd, mind you. Just one casual arm-around-the-girl-boyfriend picture and one where he chucked up a deuce as she clunkily napped on his shoulder.

It slowly dawned on me as we approached Hoboken that we needed to find out where this broad lived. I know that term isn’t really PC any more, but come on… you’re drunk, alone and passed out on a PATH train after a night out with your friends… You are, sadly, a broad.

She woke from her stupor, barely, to inform us that she did, in fact, live in Hoboken.

I may not be the best guy in the whole world, but I knew that it was going to be up to me to make sure this steaming mess got home alright. And, you know what, I was cool with that.

To my surprise, the other participant in the photo session and another guy from the train both got off at Hoboken with me (despite needing to take the train to Journal Square and in so exiting that specific train were now at the very mercy of that “Every Go Fuck Yourself”schedule we were talking about earlier) to help.

There is no big surprise ending to this story. We walked her up the stairs, wounded soldier-style, as she confessed that she wanted to go to the bar. I told her, politely, that it wasn’t probably the best idea. Turns out, she was trying to say that she actually worked at that specific bar. A bouncer from the bar, once we unloaded her, brought her to her apartment. Or, so I was led to believe.

Either way, those two other guys both headed right back down the steps to the PATH train, grimly realizing (I could sense) the horse shit situation their kindness had created for them. I walked back to my apartment.

That’s really the end, but it’s a nice story, isn’t it? I felt the need to share because while there are some incredibly untrustworthy dickbags out there, there’s still a group of guys willing to do the right thing.

Even if that thing involves missing your next train at 2:30 in the morning.

 

*If you’re thinking I’m a piece of shit for doing so, A) read on and B) hey, at least I didn’t post it here.

 

Chronicles of the Single Man, Episode 13: The Opposite of Hot Dogs and Hallways

For a few (somewhat obvious) reasons, I’ve found a decent amount of success on St. Patty’s Day. Of course, by ‘decent amount’, I’m referring to three singular instances and by ‘success’ I’m referring to sexual intercourse with women.

In my life, I’ve picked up (maybe) 2 or 3 random girls at bars. It’s just never been something I’m good at. Combination of my main weapon being a sense of humor (sarcastic one, at that) which is negated at a loud bar and my crushing lack of self-confidence in that arena, and you can see why that number is so embarrassingly low.

Once (or twice, depending on where you live) a year, there’s a day in the social calendar where we’re allowed (nay, encouraged) to start drinking before noon*. Hard alcohol shots, green beer, and lots of Bud Light. That day, of course, is St. Patty’s Day. Where I live, in Hoboken, I have the good fortune of being able to celebrate the day twice… once a few weeks early in my own town and then nearer the actual holiday in New York City.

Since moving to Hoboken, I’ve only really done the one in town. I’m not that cool, don’t have enough friends. One is, sadly, enough.

Two years ago (meaning, 2013), a friend suggested I come to the city with them for New York’s version of the Irish holiday. I didn’t have work the next day til late, so I figured what the hell, let’s get drunk in the name of a patron saint.

We can cut through some manure here and get to the point where I somehow find myself talking to a pretty attractive young lady. My friends sense what’s happening, they make the smooth exit and let me know where they’re heading, in case I don’t find myself back at her apartment.

She and I leave the bar, both starving for something to eat. The warm, stale air of the bar has been replaced by the chill of mid-March in New York. As we walk towards a Subway, I begin to nervously outline my plan for the evening, any and all cool from the bar now gone in the rush of the city streets.

“So… I was thinking… I don’t know, we’d get something to eat. Somewhere quick. Then, maybe we could go and meet my friends back up for another drink… Or, you know, whatever you want to do. If you don’t want to do that, we can do something else. Really, it’s whatever… I mean…”

Thankfully, she threw me a life jacket.

Chronicles of the Single Man, Episode 12: Revenge Is A Dish Best Served Nearly 8 Years Later

I’ve never claimed to be a great guy. I’d say, more often than not, I’m a pretty decent one all things considered but, in the interest of full disclosure I should tell you up front, this story will not paint me in a flattering light. At least not to women. There’s definitely some section of men that will not only smile at this story, but think, “Good on ya, well done.”

It started my sophomore year in high school. I was, in the words of A&P, fresh obsessed with this girl in my English class. She had long blonde hair, kept mostly to herself and didn’t seem to know quite how attractive she actually was. In other words: I felt like I had a real shot.

Naturally, in my efforts to court her, I did nothing to grab her attention. In fact, I don’t believe we ever had any real conversation of any kind. Basically, all I had going for me were a few scattered, disjointed AIM conversations. Back then (and probably still to this day) I was convinced that any actual conversation I had with her would only hurt my chances. You’ve heard of playing it on the low? I was subterranean in that bitch.

After a handful of these meaningless AIM convos, I decided now was the time to pop the question.

Would you want to go out sometime?

I may have been generic and non-specific, but hell if I wasn’t direct.

Wait a beat–maybe thirty seconds.

No.

OK, so was she.

Chronicles of the Single Man, Episode 11: Where It All Began… I Think

“I know what I’m doing,” I shouted at my mom (probably with a shitty, teenage know-it-all tone).

“All I’m saying is, if it’s meant to be, it’ll be. That’s all.”

It in this case was the relationship I had with my then-girlfriend in college. We were both going abroad to London that year—the only problem was that she had planned to go during the Fall and I had planned on going during the Spring.

My mother, who has been married to my father for over a quarter century, spoke to me as if she knew about relationships. Calmly, she explained that I shouldn’t feel any pressure to change everything and that not seeing her could make us grow closer. When I tried to explain that it would effectively be a year without us seeing one another (as if she couldn’t figure that out on her own), she simply gave me a polite smile and reasoned that it wasn’t as if we were going to be on different planets.

Of course, I knew more than she did (and still do, about everything) so I pushed ahead and made my decision.

I decided to completely change my plans. Re-arranged my course load, figured out where I’d live when I got back in the Spring and switched everything with the appropriate people in buildings with titles like “Registrar” and “Bursar”*.

What happened, or at least the series of things that happened, led me on the path to becoming the single man I am today. In fact, those events were the last time I was ever not-single, if that’s a thing.

Chronicles of the Single Man, Episode 10: I’ll Take, “Things To Do If You Don’t Want A Second Date” For 1,000

I remember the exact night this story occurred. It was September 8th of this past year. How do I know that, you ask? Well, I had spent my morning/day watching my favorite football team (the Tampa Bay Bucs) lose to the New York Jets in horrific, embarrassing, game-ending fashion.

Looking back on that day, it’s interesting to think there was a point in the season where I actually had hope for the Bucs’ season, but that’s neither here nor there for this post*.

Either way, as I went to the game with a couple of my friends and I’m no longer in grade school, we were not strictly in attendance to watch the football game. Tailgating started around 10:30 in the morning and seeing as how there were only four of us total, there wasn’t much to do aside from drink (and, occasionally, eat).

Of course, the game gets going and we don’t stop drinking. In fact, all the beer from the day is making us more aware of how rapidly ‘last call’ at MetLife Stadium is approaching, so there’s now a little urgency in each sip.

Once the game is over, mind you, it’s only four in the afternoon. It’s a gorgeous day out, I’m drunk but not wasted… I’m not ending my day here.

Now, as we all know, drinking tends to beget poor judgement and a little… shall we say… desire for companionship. So, like a moron, I begin scrolling through my phone for two things… First, someone (anyone) to continue drinking with once I returned to Hoboken… and Second, any girl in my contact list that I hadn’t already either burned a bridge with, insulted or otherwise ruined an opportunity for some sort of physical interaction.

I found the former in my roommate (who was actually going to be out watching the 4 PM games anyway) and the latter in a girl I had been texting with from CoffeeMeetsBagel. We’d discussed meeting for a drink at some point in the near future, but ol’ booze brain decided it would be a good idea to meet her that night.