When I complain about my dating fails, a lot of people like to be cliché and remind me of things like the fact that I’m not even twenty five yet. That I’ve still got plenty of time left to find a real guy. That I should stop chasing around athletes that will never settle down with me and find a nice guy that treats me well. “Forget about looks,” my sister once told me. “If he treats you well, you’ll see how much more important that is.” And to some extent, sure I agree with her. A guy’s looks shouldn’t be the end all in a relationship. Unless you’re like, Posh Beckham where your entire relationship is based on poses. But in my mind, guys you don’t find attractive that are nice to you are your "friends", non? I mean, I am pretty shallow, but I also know how to take things in stride. You can’t always get the Brad Pitts in the world, I get that. But should you have to settle for a mutant to treat you well? For me, that’s something I just can’t do. Because I know what it’s like to bang someone you can’t stand the sight of. I know what it’s like to close your eyes and think of someone else to prevent yourself from vomiting at the idea of the person you’re with. You’ve got to have a little bit of a physical interest, coupled with the rest of those feelings that I think I’ve become incapable of admitting to having, in order to be happy with someone.
When I found out that my soccer hottie had "just started seeing someone" (albeit like, seven months earlier, no big deal) I hit a little bit of a wall, assuming that dude wouldn't want to fuck around anymore now that he had "settled down" (clearly this wasn't the case as it's now almost January and I'm still planning on a trip to hang out with him in a month and his level of fidelity isn't exactly staggering). I had come to the conclusion that I was ready to give up the jersey chasing, be a grown up, stop fucking around just for the fun of it, and find a relationship. That I was ready to concede to a normal life with a normal boyfriend who’s athletic skills were probably going to be limited to senior year varsity in high school, if I was even that lucky.
People think that it’s easy to meet guys in New York. Sure, there are ten million people, half of whom I’m assuming have penises, but if your only standard for going out with a guy is that he has a dick, you might want to reevaluate your life, seriously. Even I have a little bit of a higher bar, you fucks. Trust me, even working in what might be considered one step down from a men’s club type of steakhouse, meeting men who were halfway normal was like finding the fucking Holy Grail. You’ve heard it exists, some people talk about it like they have witnessed it, but really, all you’re coming up with is a bunch of ugly ass coffee mugs that end up melting in the dishwasher
I can’t begin to tell you the absolute low I felt going from the likes of soccer hottie, who was just so fucking hot and talented and cool to chill with, who had been in a shit load of mags as one of the best looking soccer players of 2010, to "Joe from Astoria who works in sales and likes the Jets", on Match.com. I don’t know if you’ve ever been on an online dating website – if you haven’t I sincerely suggest you maintain that level of integrity in your life. Because online dating is one step up from Fiddler on the Roof matchmaking; embarrassing, ethnic, awkward, and ugly. I used to love getting “match alerts”, too. “Just like you, UWSPete likes dogs!” That’s great, Match.com. UWSPete also has a unibrow, he’s five-foot-four, and he has such bad acne it looks like he has a swarm of bees on his face, but since we both like dogs, I’m sure it’ll work out! How can I pass up this gem? I might never find a guy who likes dogs again! Personal hygiene and employment are so overrated; it’s all about the pet preference when it comes to true love. Fuck my life.
I went out on a lot of dates that made going to the gynecologist seem fun. Where I actually had to wonder if people really found this more enjoyable than getting cheated on by hot assholes.
“I don’t go anywhere I can’t wear jeans,” one guy said.
“I think first class on airplanes is pointless and classist,” another one complained.
“What, do I have a booger in my nose or something?” another said.
“I’m waiting until marriage to have sex. But blowjobs don’t count as sex.”
“I’m done, I’m DONE!” I said, slamming the door to my sister’s house.
“Done with what?” she asked.
“Match,” I said. “I’m sorry, but at least dating athletes has its perks. They’re hot, they’re funny, they know about sports, there’re bragging rights. These guys are like, straight out of an Ashton Kutcher social experiment TV show.”
“So just give it until your subscription runs out and don’t renew it,” she said, simply.
“I’m going to be single forever,” I said miserably, throwing myself onto her couch.
“That’s because your standards are too high,” she argued. I hated when my sister got all preachy on me. She had been married for five years. Her opinion meant little. “You want to marry these,” she seemed to struggle for the word, mainly because she only ever listened to my stories with half an ear, so she wasn’t exactly sure who I had dated. “Football players and models.”
“I’ve never dated anyone that played football,” I sighed, annoyed that she was missing the point of my frustration.
“Well whatever, you focus on their looks and their bodies, maybe the looks and the bodies won’t matter so much if he treats you nice.”
Again, why was everyone implying I couldn’t get a guy who was both remotely attractive and nice? Why did it have to be one or the other for me?
I sometimes go through these lulls where I swear off men. I do everything in my power to turn off my brain and ignore the fact that I love sex and dudes and hanging with dudes and then having sex with said dudes. It lasts about three days while I focus on something completely stupid and then get bored, or until I happen to see a good looking guy on the subway or learn about a new player on a team (Nick Schommer style). I was going through one of these moments when I met Christian. Having sworn off the penis, focusing on my writing and finding a job that was as far away from serving the douschebags of Barclays Capital as I could find in an island fourteen miles long, I had no intentions of meeting anyone. Done. I’m going to be happy being me. Alone. I don’t need anyone to complete me. I’m totally fine. Fuck you men of the world, I’m not buying new panties this month.
He popped up in my e-mail from Match.com as a potential match. And while I deleted ninety-nine percent of the e-mails from that site, I paused with my finger over the backspace button with Christian’s.
He wasn’t bad looking. In fact, he looked like an eery twin of my ex laxer boyfriend He was tall. He had played football at Harvard (jesus, do these fuckers have like a special sale subscription to this site?!). He worked in finance. And he lived in Queens.