Date with an urban cowboy….


Oh, Where do I start?  Have you ever dated a guy that turned into a cowboy after midnight? I didn’t know they existed in Manhattan, but they do. When I accepted to go on a date with Kyle, I committed to attending my first “Manhattan Rodeo” unbeknownst to me.  Kyle seemed interesting enough, but was loosing hair rapidly (I found a few strands on my dress during the date) and was shorter than Napoleon.

He had money and was on his way to starting one of the most popular fashion magazines in New York at the time, so I thought I had nothing to loose. I was hungry for a nice dinner and was broke.  The big joke amongst our friends was that if we looked skinny, it meant we were single because we could not afford to feed ourselves. All our money went to rent, clothes and the subway.  If we were “healthy” looking, then we had a boyfriend, most likely an investment banker. For every woman on the street, there were three bankers. The ratio was crazy. Every guy I met back then, I asked what fund he worked for before I asked his name.
What happened on the date with Kyle is not where the story begins, it’s what happened after.  He asked me up to his loft after dinner. I was living in the West Village at the time and he was only four blocks away, so why not? If we started dating, my subway and cab fare would be eliminated, which is always a plus.  This guy was geographically desirable!
We went up to his place on the third floor of his building that was across from a pub that I loved to frequent. It was one of those lofts that looked like a set for Architectural Digest. Wow, I hit the freaking jack pot! He offered me a Cosmopolitan and said he had to use the men’s room and would be right back.  I sat down to wait for him for what seemed to be longer than your typical restroom break.  Suddenly, I heard loud steps coming from down the hall along with a very large cowboy hat staring at me.

Underneath it was his very small head that could barely keep the hat level.

“Hey Tex! What’s going on here?”

Uh, what the hell? He had taken his shirt off and was standing opposite of the kitchen island that I was now leaning against to get a better look. The island prevented me from seeing what he was wearing for pants. I assumed some wranglers as he was trying to role play and “rope” me in.  He suddenly leaped from the kitchen island onto his all to pimp white leather couch.  His loft was not well lit, but one does not need much light to see what was happening. Little did Kyle know that this was not my first rodeo or encounter with total douche bag.  I knew it, most dates that took me to sushi for dinner always turned out to be pervs. Maybe it’s the corrosion in the sake box that leaks into the sake that makes these guys turn into perverted vamps after midnight. One will never know.

Kyle whispered in a cowboy drawl, “Cowgirl, Why don’t you come over here and get to know me a little bit better?”
He then spread his legs and sunk down in his white couch that began to sweat around this body. Ick. What a fucking insult!  Kyle had decided that his best bet to get me in the sack was not to be a gentleman, but to turn into a Manhattan Cowboy and take off all of his clothes and wear just a cowboy hat and boots.  The conversation that followed went something like this:
“Wow Kyle, You want me to come over where?”
“I want you to come over here and get to know me better” he said as he pointed between his legs.
“Oh you want me to come over “there” and to get to know “it” better?”
God, what a jerk. How could he screw up the first date like this? He is just another New York male floozy hiding behind his swanky job and cool loft to get laid. And I thought he really liked me!
I sarcastically snickered, “Kyle, The only thing I going to get to know is the doorman so he can let me out of your fucking Venus woman trap.”
I threw my Cosmo martini (what kind of man drinks a Cosmo) between his legs. Perhaps the alcohol did his privates some good. I am sure they needed to be sterilized in the worst way.  I turned and galloped to the elevator. It opened after the longest three seconds of my life and I jumped on. The door closed quickly as did the chapter of dating urban cowboys. The real ringer was when I was running out from the elevator to the door, the doorman opened it, smiled and said, “You must be coming from Kyle’s on the third floor.”I still to this day laugh every time when I see a man, especially a short one, in a cowboy hat.
— Cowgirl, Manhattan 2005
©  Miss NYanonymous, 2011 | Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Miss NYanonymous with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
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