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…
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.
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.
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:
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
OK, so was she.
“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.
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.
Typically, the entries in this space explore my dealings with women in a dating capacity. Often, the women in the story are the butt of the joke. I’ve fallen asleep on a date, had women go out of their way to tell me that they had a great time but didn’t want to see me again and, most recently, a woman ignore me at first because my last name ended in a vowel.
Of course, if you’re reading any of these with more than a cursory glance, you’re obviously aware that my ineptitude is just as big of a focus of the joke as these women are. The point, generally, is this: we’re all fucking clueless, some less so than others.
That all said, the story that follows fits like a Bizzarro World entry to the ‘Single Man’ cannon because, this time, I take center stage as the jackass.
I dated this girl for about a month… about a year and a half ago. You may wonder, why write this now? I don’t have a great answer for that other than boredom on a slow day at work. During down time, I found myself going through old e-mails and conversations and hers came up. Sifting through the correspondence, the events of that time period from over 18 months ago came sprinting back to my conscious and was met head-on with a strange cocktail of anger, annoyance and sick-to-my-stomach-ness.
We met (shocker) through Match.com and (honestly here—shocker) she was remarkably well-adjusted. She was easy to get along with, attractive, fun to be around and had no issue coming to Hoboken. Oh, and somehow saw something fun in me*.
We’d hung out a number of times, gone to dinner at a few places, spent the night a few times. I met a few of her friends, she met a few of mine. To a normal outsider, it would appear that things were going swimmingly, that something legitimate could be blossoming.
However, I was on the inside and when it comes to things of this nature, I’m anything but normal. I remember exactly how things ended and that’s the part that cycles over and over in my head.
I’d spent the night at her place in the city. She had work in the morning somewhere further downtown, so while she got dressed and ready, I put on my clothes from the night before and prepped myself to take the busy subway with her. She stepped closer to me once we were on the train, probably out of necessity but also out of something else. In what has to be one of the sweetest things ever done for/to me, she innocently placed her head to rest on my shoulder. And instead of taking that for what it was—a girl (one that I liked and was beginning to like more and more each time I saw her) feeling comfortable enough to relax around a man that was a stranger not more than a month ago—I freaked out. I took it as a sign that she was getting too comfortable, that we were some how now an official couple because of this gesture.
An attempt at explaining these (totally insane) thoughts and the “logic” behind them is pointless. Essentially, I’m a self-saboteur and as such I took this obviously positive sign as cue to look for any and everything wrong with this girl. I picked at nits with the honest ambition of finding the one that would unravel everything. And, naturally, I was successful.
Immediately, I broke off contact with her at that point**. The next time we “spoke” was through a drunk text I sent at around 11 PM, about a month later. Not surprisingly, she ignored it. The following times we spoke were on G-mail about three or four months after that. And then, again, a few more months after that, once again on G-mail.
I got to see her again in April or May of this year. Out of a mutual love for Justin Timberlake, I’d finagled what I hoped to be another chance out of her. We met for a few drinks, got some food after and—on the crowded streets of New York—I expressed how stupid I felt about having let her go, how I wanted another shot. She smiled, even kissed me good night before disappearing into the subway.
This time she was the one walking away from me and I couldn’t really blame her.
Postscript: I should clarify, this isn’t a “woe is me” story. I don’t spend hour upon endless hour thinking about this girl. Just because I follow her every movement on Instagram, Twitter and Facebook doesn’t mean I’m a lunatic.
Kidding. I honestly don’t do any of that (we’re not friends on the Face, I don’t know if she has a Twitter account and I can’t figure out what the fucking point of Instagram is).
I think this is just a case of regret for the one you let get away. Even the happily married have that person in their past, to some degree.
*Let the record state, this was before the dating-related chip on my shoulder grew to be what it is today, so big you can “see it in AUSTRALIA”, as one friend mildly put it recently.
**I’ve spoken with her about that… she attests that she was the one who backed away from me. Neither here nor there, really.
This story is, in fairness, a few years old at this point. That doesn’t remove any of its value or humor.
I was at a friend’s birthday party in New York City. I felt generally uncomfortable for a few reasons:
- I didn’t know anyone besides the friend whose birthday it was (and he is/was one of those kids with a seemingly never ending supply of pals… all of whom were in attendance).
- It was in a trendy hotel bar with one of those oh-so-cool decks.
- Everyone was dressed up like you’d expect them to be (which is to say aggressively straddling that line between douche and douchier*).
So, there I am, generally feeling like I was watching the whole event from outside of my own body. It was, as a friend and I like to say, a Robin Williams moment. My one and only concern was finding someone or some group that I could either talk to or that would let me stand close enough that it wouldn’t be weird (and would still appear as if I was in their group).
Most of the time, I flitted in and out of various mediocre conversations… until I met her. She was cute. Long, dark and curly hair, a sharply featured face and mind to match. She was a real joy to chat with and I even asked myself (at the time) if that was influenced by how badly I wanted to find someone to attach myself to. The answer was, resoundingly, no. I was, to my surprise, having a legitimate good time.
Over the course of conversation, we exchanged phone numbers and last names. Hers was decidedly Jewish… mine as you can tell, is not. Once we separated for the evening, we agreed it would be great to see each other at some point soon. And why not? We seemed to be experiencing some physical attraction to one another and the conversation was certainly stimulating.
A few days later I text her to follow up, asking if she’d like to get dinner that week. A few hours later she responds to my text**:
Scott, I had a great time meeting you last weekend and you seem like a great guy. It’s just that I’m looking to date seriously right now and am only interested in Jewish men. I don’t want to waste either of our times.
As you could imagine, I was floored. I responded, fairly shortly thereafter:
Well, unfortunately for you, I’m Jewish. How does this Thursday sound?
She thought I was kidding just to get a date. I didn’t say this, but I wanted to tell her not to flatter herself. We exchanged a number of texts that ultimately ended in the following things happening:
- Me explaining the whole “your last name can be Italian and you can still be Jewish” thing.
- Her saying she was sorry (several times).
- Me saying I understood even though I didn’t.
- Her saying that she would love to go out that Thursday.
- Me saying I’d see her then.
- Me realizing I’d never, ever date this girl more than once or twice.
And of course, that’s exactly what happened. We had a lovely first date, a mediocre second date and then never saw each other again. I couldn’t get my mind off how she was willing to not see someone she had a great time with simply because his last name ended in a vowel. I could get into how truly ridiculous this, but I’ll spare everyone.
The irony of the situation is that she didn’t want to go out with me because she assumed I wasn’t Jewish, and I wound up not wanting to go out with her because I was.
Life’s a trip.
*For anyone that’s ever been to The W in Hoboken and been told they can’t come in because they’re wearing sneakers with the wrong colored soles, you know what I’m talking about. Fuck that place. For real.
**As this was over two years ago, I obviously don’t have the exact text, but this is the general gist.
Obviously, this doesn’t end well.
I mean, if it did, would it still be a series called “Chronicles of the Single Man”? No. It would be something like “Mildly Entertaining Musings of the Spoken-For Man” or “Tales of the Bored, But Having Sex with Fair Regularity Man”.
Before we get into the specifics of what actually occurred, I want to say I (honestly) have no ill feelings towards the woman at the heart of this story. It’s just that this sort of thing, what I’m about to describe, has happened to me a bunch in the last few years and specifically last few months and I find it beyond puzzling. So, without further ado…
It was a week or two or so ago. I decided that instead of doing the normal, “Let’s get drinks” routine (subtext: I don’t know if I want to commit to the time and money that “Let’s get dinner” implies”), I decided to see if this young lady wanted to go to the San Gennaro Festival in New York… and then get some drinks.
Not shockingly, she loved the idea. What human doesn’t like a carnival/fair atmosphere, teamed with drinking? Throw in the fact that unless you’re the most naïve person on the planet, you know that all that fun, for you, is free.
This has nothing to do with the evening but because it happened first and will come in to play later, it’s worth mentioning now that this girl showed up about a half hour late from when we agreed to meet. Wasn’t a big deal at all, she apologized profusely, I pretended like I was annoyed, I made fun of her and that was it.
As it would turn out, this gal was something else. Beautiful, intelligent, etc. We spent the whole night together, walked the length of Mulberry Street for the whole fair, drank a bottle of wine at a bar, hopped in a cab to another area of town to get a drink some where else, sat next to one another laughing and talking at the bar we found after walking for a while, hand-in-hand through the city and finally wrapped things up with a few make out sessions (the bar, two or three times on the street, etc.)
Again, if this wasn’t me and this wasn’t this specific series, you might think the story ended there (or, at least with this girl as my new girlfriend). Right? It seems fair to assume that type of evening (which, I should add, didn’t end til around 3:30 AM) would only have a good ending.
The next day, I texted something about how I had a great time and was jokingly sorry about keeping her out so late, she responds back with something about how it gets late quick when you’re 30 minutes late (and one of those stupid fucking smiley faces that girls seem to be obsessed with nowadays).
The following day I asked about hanging out again later in the week (which she had told me to do during one of those make out sessions a few days prior). The whole day goes by and eventually I got a text that, to summarize, said the following:
You are a great guy and I had a great time with you but I don’t see us working out. Best of luck!
I had/have no issue with the text. Frankly, I wish more girls (and guys) were that honest with the people they date. If you’re not interested, especially that early into a “relationship”, just say so. Women should take note–we’re like you… we just want to know. No need to play the game, just rip the band-aid off.
While the events of the evening leading to “I don’t think I like you like that” is an absolutely baffling sequence, I’m thrilled that this girl was straight up.
Of course, if she was being totally honest, the text may have read something like this:
You really aren’t that great of a guy and I had a good time, in comparison to how little else I had to do that night, but when I woke up and thought about you in the light of sobriety, I realized that the thought of having sex with you repulses me to a degree I can’t fully explain.
That’s what she should’ve said.
Either way, I’m glad she said something.