Fish Sticks and Dicks

OK ladies… I typically would refrain from writing about something as gross as this, but I feel that it is appropriate because so many fucking men claim that women smell of fish. I can’t stand when men say that about our vagina!!!

Fuck you boys! Like your balls don’t smell, but we never say anything. It’s such an excuse for them to not go down on us after they have cum in two minutes and they say, “I’m just too tired to reciprocate and you just don’t smell right!!!!”

In my opinion, it is just an excuse because they are incompetent in many ways… Lazy!!!

I was getting a pedicure the other day and the women that was painting my lovely toes started talking about embarrassing dating stories. I asked what was her top three and this story to follow was the inspiration of this blog post.

Her night started out at L’Artusi, a hot spot in the West Village that has hot bartenders, an amazing wine list and very rich men sitting at the bar with wedding band tan lines…. Hmmmm???

Anyway, it was my friends first date with a lawyer. It was a blind date and as soon as he walked in, she was in love. Italian, great hair, amazing smile and a money clip that was full of Franklin’s….


So we proceeded to order. We had some expensive wine and ordered some fish for dinner. When the meal came, I was overwhelmed by the smell of the fish. We were sitting at the bar by the kitchen, so I assumed that the overwhelming scent was coming for the grill….

When our fish stick appetizers arrived, owe gobbled them down and then the plates were taken away.

10 minutes passed and the fish smell was still all around me. I smelled my wine thinking the red wine was having a chemical reaction to the dish washing fluid???

“Check please,” John said.

“Thank god,” I said. “This fucking restaurant smells!!!”

So John has driver pick us up and we end up at the Soho Hotel for a romantic sex romp.

We start kissing and I start to unbuckle his pants to reveal a man hung like horse. My eyes bulged with excitement, but suddenly started to water as this gas from his boxers surfaced to what felt like Pepper Spray!!!!

Oh my god, the fish smell was back!!!!

I knelt down on my knees to give him an after dinner blow job(all men expect that) and almost vomited as his dick smelled like and old freeze-dried vandicamp fish stick!!

I jumped up and said you need to wash your dick!!! It so smelly!

He told me to fuck off bitch and threw me out of the house.


What a fish cock!!!!

Anyway, ladies… Let’s this me a reminder… We are not the only fish swimming in the pond…

Dont ever let those men say that we smell, one never knows what lays beneath the trouser abyss!

Ms. Vandi Camp


I got a T.W.W ticket today!

<Hello friends,

This is an unusual post as it has nothing to do with dating stories (well sort of does), but felt compelled to write this as I was walking in the subway today. I have recently moved back to New York and have realized that the city at 35 years old is a hell of a lot different from when I lived here at 25 years young.

Everyone is on their phones with their heads down, walking full speed ahead and bumping into every poor innocent tourist. I can barely maneuver Penn Station, let alone Grand Central. It’s a war zone!

While I was trying to dodge human paint balls in the belly of Grand Central, I thought to myself, “What’s worse than texting while driving? Texting while walking!”

Really people….?

Some jack ass ( a rather cute banker type) just cited me with a “T.W.W” verbal warning when he sat down next to me on the train.

I grumbled, “What the hell is that?”

He answered with a whisper, “It’s stand for “Texting While Walking! You about killed me just now as you entered the train.”

I chuckled, “Sorry, I was playing “Words with Friends, what do you expect?”

He was not amused.

I swear I have had more pedestrian head on collisions since I moved back to NYC two months ago. Either I’m checking my email incessantly, responding to every text message within seconds or trying to get my damn compass to work on my I-Phone while walking around the city.

My friends make fun of me because I have no idea which way west or east is in the city. My friends always say, “Walk the same direction the cabs are going when you get off the subway!”

What’s the rule on responding
to text messages anyway? What do people think when you respond in seconds? Maybe they are wondering if have a life? Don’t answer that.

What about autocorrect? Fuck! It’s so god damn annoying. I can’t tell you how many times I have been asked if I speak Hindu as my first language? Sometimes I give up and “jug” send the text message anyway.

And the LOL’s, OMG’s, TYLL’s, NP’s …. I’m done, especially with “LOL.”

Why can’t people pick up the phone and call? I had a three week relationship with this guy I met when I moved back to NYC. The relationship was amazing on text. Finally, AT&T called and said I was over my text limit and go out already!


I met Mr. Text for a drink and had nothing to talk about face to face. He was a total dud. I went to the bathroom and “texted” my best friend to call me in 5 minutes so I could get out of the date. My friend called shortly after and I left the restaurant. Of course, I did not “call her,” so I am no better than the people or men I am bitching about!

The next day my “text boyfriend” texted me that we were not right for each other. He didn’t feel we had a connection. Hilarious. Whatever.

So now I have come to the conclusion, there are text boyfriends and phone boyfriends. Texting is the lowest form of communication. If you have a text boyfriend, don’t expect much….LOL!

What’s really funny is that while writing this walking in Grand Central with my head down, I got on the 7 train instead of the E.

OMG! I’m LOL! Oh well, NP!

Until my next commute,

Miss NYanonymous..

He matches me, he matches me not…

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Oh my, I never would have thought I would blog about my days in the city 10 years ago, when online dating was so cool, but really NOT.  No one would EVER admit they were writing profiles online because it sounded so desperate.


Everyone was doing it! But why? Why in a city of 8 million just in Manhattan alone, would a beautiful woman like me need to go online to date?

Well, if you can believe it, I was bored and so were my friends. Every night we would go out in the city and do the same lame thing, drink, talk to a guy in suit and then if we were REALLY lucky we’d get our bill paid with the hopes that we would not have to sleep with the suit, especially if he was the “Happy Hour Suit.”  Those guys were never that cute, pretty overweight and had the worst scotch breath (not to mention they never flossed). Ew!!!

Who knows how long they had been sitting on those stools in the generic pop up irish pubs with the foul smells of beer soaked in the wood from years passed evaporating into their clothes. “The Suits” just sat there waiting for incoming mid 20 year old’s to walk through the door. But in their defense, these suits were walking ATM’s. So it’s safe to say, I have had plenty of fish and chips in my day!

One night my friends and I went out (every night was girls night out) and we were sitting around a table at a swanky restaurant that we read about in “Time Out” magazine. The big joke around the city was who could find out about the hot spots before the masses did (masses meaning the “Bridge and Tunnel crowd.” Sorry if you are reading this and you are from New Jersey, no offense, really.

The life cycle of “cool, swanky, private, exclusive” went quickly in the city.  It seemed if over 100 people knew of a hot spot, it was urban mutiny and we were on to the next dark dingy lounge to be noticed.  How vain we were back then!

Like I was saying, girls night out turned into the contest of all contests.  We all had a couple of poor girls chardonnay, the house wine which was ONLY $15 dollars a glass and discussed who could get the most dates in one day on

There were three of us up for the challenge, the other three pushed their noses up in the stinky smoke that had drifted from the other tables and said, ” No way, they would never go public to admit how desperate they were! ”

Well as Darwin said oh so long ago, “It’s survival of the fittest baby!” And I was not going to fail.

We had 48 hours to secure 5 dates in one day.

We all went to work the next day at our lovely jobs that only paid us 40k a year.

That was another reason we wanted to take on the challenge. We were BROKE and the only way to survive, meaning feed on something besides a pretzel from a street cart like a bitchy woman with low blood sugar was to have a boyfriend.  We gals worked or starved during the day, then they (the walking ATM’s) took us out for dinner. It was that simple. No one cooked in NYC. I think I cooked a meal three times in over 2 years and it came out of a box.

Anyway, I was hungry, boy friendless and needed nourishment.  I was starting to fit into all the children sizes at the GAP.  Did I just say Gap, I meant Armani. Sorry.

The next day, sitting in my uncomfortable chair at work, I wrote my very witty, charming profile and posted it immediately.

I went home that evening from work feeling a little weird and exposed.

I mean what if I’m at Barnes and Nobles and the weird perverted man staring at me in line recognizes me from my profile handle, “Long walks on the beach?”

What if my boss was on Match? What if all the dorks on the trading floor at the bank I worked with were on Match? Is that why they were laughing when I got on the elevator?? I was totally paranoid. I started to keep my head down, every where I went. I was acting like everyone on the street was the Paparazzi!  I wore hats and sunglasses so I would go unnoticed.

24 hours had passed since the posting. I went back to work to check my email. In those days, I did not have a lap top.  Everything I did on a computer came from a big apple box the size of my parents TV.

I closed my eyes and logged on. My finger tip was white as I pushed the last button to sign on as hard as I could not wanting to let go, I held it for what felt like 30 minutes!

I released to find 300 messages!!! BINGO BABY! Oh yeah, I am was gonna win this contest and gain at least 5 pounds!!

Date 1:

Breakfast at 10am – Jan 2, 2001

Match #1  Bald, Boring and Bad Breath

Date 2:

Brunch at 12:00pm – Jan 2, 2001

Match #2  Fake, Funny and full of flatulence

Date 3:

Lunch at 2:00pm – Jan 2, 2001

Match #3

Mature, Manly and a maniac

Date 4:

Happy Hour at 5:00pm – Jan 2, 2001

Match #4

Strange, Stinky and stinky

6:30pm – Barf in the restaurant bathroom at Pastis

Date 5:

Dinner at 8pm – Jan 2, 2001

Match #5

Hot, Handsome and a Hard Body!

I won the bet, my friends came to meet me at my last date and sat at table across from us trying to be unnoticed to see what Match #5 was all about.

Needless to say I did not need to eat for a week after the contest. I have never been on Match since, but if things start to go south again for me and the hunger pains kick in, I will try!

Ms. will date for food – 2001

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.

Five little pills went into NYC

Does this sound like something your Mom used to say to you at night in Bed when she was grabbing your toes?

“This little pill went to loft party.”

“This little pill stayed in bed with my boyfriend”

“This little pill ended up with all girls”

“This little pill had none”

“And this little pill went eating more pills all the way to the after hours.”

Hmmm….Funny? I think NOT!  The rhyme has been changed to suit my next story, but I wanted to get your laugh and attention. 🙂

There were 5 little pills sitting around on a nightstand waiting for the 5 girlies to come home after happy hour on a hot summer night in the upper east side.

So, Sarah, Sammy, Porsche, Ingrid and Polly made it home after tons of cheap cocktails and put on their super cute clothes from Club Monaco (the clothes were cooler 10 years ago) and looked like  members of Cirque Du Soliel.  The  Club Monaco style was very euro circus performer, but better for us downtown girls, we would get all the hotties  when the Circus acts showed up trying to cut into our bar lines!

First Stop for the first little pill, Sarah:

Sarah, popped her pill and said, “Oh my god girls, there is amazing loft party that I have to crash. So this guy who just launched this drink and it has like vitamins in it, is supposed to be single and hot! I am going to claw my way in…..Later!”

Second Stop for the second little pill, Porsche:

Porsche popped her pill and said, “Why is Sarah alway’s leaving us, what a bitch!” “I am calling my fist Guido pumping white tight tank top honey! “It’s Saturday, so the Bridge & Tunnel crowd should be here by 9:30pm. I’m just gonna chill with Vinny until 5am and then head to Crow Bar to listen to the master mix! Later Chicas!”

Third Stop for the third little pill, Sammy:

Sammy popped her pill and said, “Ugh, you girls suck. Why can’t you be normal? I am going to the Cat’s Meow to find me a cute little woman. Men are so fucking boring . See you back at the crash bad, don’t leave the kitty door open for me.

Fourth Stop for the fourth little pill, Ingrid: 

Ingrid popped her pill while she was shopping for clothes and said, “I’m going out on the town by myself to find trouble. This pill should hit soon I hope. I took it two hours ago and haven’t felt a thing!”

Ingrid grinds this statement out of her mouth walking down the street, “Hey guys want to party?”

“No, are you a prostitute?? The twin brothers from Queens responded.

“No,” screams Ingrid “I am on “ex”!

Looks like Ingrid got the bad apple in the group of pills. It turned out she had pure speed in hers that told her mind to send her down to the meat-packing district talking real fast to italians coming out of Ray’s Pizza and to ask them if they wanted to party all night.

LOL!! Poor Ingrid!

Fifth Stop for the fifth little pill, Polly

Polly popped her two pills or as they say in New York, “2 in the chute!”

Polly heard two pills are  better than one. Probably not the best idea. Polly did not get home from a Brooklyn afterhours until 48 hours later. She made  A LOT of friends, but no one she could introduce to the family.

The five little pills were never to be seen again —— UNTIL NEXT WEEKEND!

Ms. Pilly Wiggle 2003


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.

Retreat Gone Wrong

Oh my god, where in the hell is Jennifer Anniston when I need her?  Seriously!  I thought I was in one of her movies when I whisked myself away to a nudist colony in upstate New York, which I thought was a yoga retreat (note to self, magazine reviews are not always accurate).

So let me back up, I am a 30- year old women living in NYC, working for Comedy Central and living the dream!

I live in the East Village, own cute clothes, men adore me and I am self sufficient. I thought all was perfect in my life until one day I looked around my small studio and said, “Really, my god I am NOT Sarah Jessica Parker, who am I kidding? Am I really happy?”

I needed some inspiration and to regroup. I felt so disconnected with myself.  New York will do that to you.  I mean it’s go- go- go all the time and you forget who you are as you are SO caught up as to who you should be.

OK, enough of the Wayne Dryer channeling…

So while hunched over my desk, bitching about my bunions squished into my one size too small Marc Jacob pumps, I opened up New York magazine’s June publication that was featuring all the hot spots and weekend getaways.  Thumbing through the magazine I found and ad for a yoga retreat in upstate New York. The pictures looked amazing and the spa food looked delicious.  It looked perfect!

The program was yoga in the morning, raw food for lunch and dinner and then meditating at night. I can handle that I thought to myself. Right? I mean, this is what I needed to get grounded and find some meaning in my life……and I will loose weight because I will only be eating lettuce and juice, so it’s a win win! I will come back centered and thinner!

When something sounds to good to be true, it is!  A very basic truth we should all remember and live by.

Well, I should have read the fine print a little closer. My mother used to always say, “It’s all in the details.”

The weekend arrived and I had to rent a car (having an encounter with an Avis rental is not an “om” moment by any means), so I was already off to a terrible start. I HATE DRIVING, especially in New York. It is a nasty out of body experience in itself.

I popped in a self help CD and tried to find my “Zen” as I was darting in and out the paths of the kamikaze cab drivers. I keep pushing on and three hours later I arrived to Serenity Sun.  And no it is not a rehab clinic!

As I pull up to the resort,  I look around and then look back at the cut out of the ad from the magazine.

Hmm, it looks a little bit different.  The resort is not a resort and there is not one yoga mat to be found in sight.  There are two little houses or huts rather and one large main house.  Hmm… this is weird? Where is everyone? I take out my suitcase from the car and start rolling it over the stones or boulders rather that line the walk way. They are not even leveled! My god I am roughing it!

At first, second and third glance, this retreat looked very overgrown with no caretaker in sight. Serenity Sun did not look like the photos in the magazine. The pool was dirty and there was not a hot yogi guy sitting by the pool mediating and drinking a fresh smoothie like I was promised when I signed away a whopping $3,500.

I open the door to the main house and walk in quietly.  Three cats run by (shit, I hate cats) and I start to smell some sort of curry on the stove.  Suddenly, “Rado” the spiritual guru walks over to me, rather floated it seemed. Perhaps he was levitating because he was wearing those dam Crocs shoes that nurses wear. Sorry, just don’t like them.

Rado seemed like a very nice cute little man when reading his bio on the website. Rado owns Serenity Sun.

In person, Rado is 6’6, from Germany, bald and had these incredible piercing blue eyes.  Beyond his appearance, his choice in clothing was questionable. He had on a very tight tank top and some lion cloth thingy that went just above the knees.  Great! This is going to be interesting. I kept trying not to stare at his you know what, but lion cloth, crocs…come on?

“Shit,” I kept mumbling,  “Why did you not read the fine print? And where are all the cute girls running around in lulu-lemon shorts and drinking smoothies?”

“Sara, I welcome you to Serenity Sun. You are the only one here at the retreat. This is very exciting, it has never happened before.”

“WHAT! What do you mean I am the only one here?” I thought there were up to 8 women that were going to be retreating with me.”

“Well Sara, sometimes it works out this way. Perhaps you need solitude and me as your guide. Let’s walk out and begin our breathing exercises and tree work.”

Tree work, what the hell is tree work? Am I at some friggin co-op where I have to plant trees before I eat them?

Oh my god, what have I got myself into? I could still run out. I could still see my gas guzzling SUV parked up in between the trees of Serenity Sun. I thought back to the days that I used to watch Night Rider and wanted to call out to my car, “Kit come and save me!”

The booming sound of Rado’s voice abrubtly dissolved my getaway fantasy.

Before I knew it I was hugging trees to feel their life force and then Rado had me on my back, leaning over me and telling me we were going to be breathing the next 2 hours.

“Sure, that sounds great Rado!” Just want I want to do, is have you lean over me, a perfect stranger hitting bells, pulling on my forehead while touching my breasts and stomach.  I could hear my mother saying, “It’s all in the fine print!”

So, being the good sport that I am, I took each breath in and out like he asked.  It went on and on, but soon I felt like I was seeing visions, visions driving away and stopping at the casino 10 miles away!

After the two hours of power breathing,  he laid on top of me to help encourage the gravity of the universe?

“Wow,” I said, “Rado, I can’t breath, can you hop off?

OK, I said to myself. Rado is a total pervert.

So here I am, three hours from NY, alone at a retreat with a 6’6 man laying on top of me.  I had the damm Liberty Bell going off, saying get the hell out of there!

But, being the adventurer that I am, I stayed. I paid $3,500 for the 4 days, I wanted my to get my $$ worth.

The next day Rado whisked me off to a hot springs to bathe with the other free balling spirits of the world.  I of course showed up in my hot little bathing suit totally shocked as Rado said the hot springs was clothing optional.  I thought someone would be wearing a bathing suit. Nope. Everyone naked. Everyone was very hairy. Everyone was very very white and did I mention hairy?

All of the onlookers were staring at me and finally I took my suit off after 30 minutes.  Rado mentioned that I would feel more comfortable if I was naked because our bodies are just vessels.  Clothing is not important.

Now, I have Rado’s number!

So here is this guy who has a “yoga retreat” with no yoga, makes women run around hugging trees, laying on them to help them breath and then has them bathe at a nudist colony? Wow, smart guy.

At this moment, I tried to think what Jennifer Aniston would do in one of her quirky movies?  How do I exit this situation with some humor and grace?  And how do I do it naked? It is really hard to escape when you are naked.

Finally, Rado said it was time to leave and we headed back to the retreat. I went straight to my cabin and packed my bags. I grabbed a kale smoothie and told Rado it was time for me to go back to NYC.

He waved (and was still naked) and I just smiled and shook my head….”It’s all in the fine print.”

I arrived back to my small studio in NYC and put on my flannel pj’s (trying to cover all of my body) and grabbed some fattening food and pigged out. I popped in a movie with Jennifer Anniston and laughed myself to sleep.

Perhaps Jennifer’s next movie will be called, “Retreat gone wrong” and she would let me be and extra – a naked one of course!’

Naked yogi girl…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.

Lions, Tigers and Swingers…Oh my!

Have you ever been to a party where you did not get an invite? How about a party where the only appetizer being offered was a box of wheat thins? Better yet, a party where everyone was only wearing tiny lion boy shorts and little tiger sweat headbands? Have you guessed what kind of party this is? Um, yeah, it’s a swingers party, a really bad one.

Living in New York, you tend to meet people from all walks of life, rather all walks of differing sexual preferences. I used to hang out with hetrosexual, bisexual, gay, lesbian and yes even swinger crowds.  I tried to mix it up. It was more fun that way….

I found myself very drawn to the deviant dark side of the swinger world though, I don’t know why?  What the hell are swingers anyway? Do you know? Bi, gay, straight with a dash of bi? Let me tell you a little story about me and a swinger party, then you can decide what way a swinger swings. Tee-hee!

It was a Tuesday night and I had just returned from working out at Crunch.  For those of you who are unfamiliar with Crunch, it used to be the cool gym where you could get picked up on pretty quick if you were wearing the hot lulu lemon pants and the cool new tennis shoes, that have never been worn.  Get it…lots of girls didn’t really work out there, just climbed the social ladder on the boymaster (stairmaster, for those who don’t get my sarcasm, but as you get to know me through my posts, you will understand and hopefully like it).

Anyway, I think Crunch’s popularity has died down, but 10 years ago, it WAS also the place to jump into the sauna to shed pounds after devouring a salty plate of fries at Pastis.

I had a great workout and was feeling pretty good about myself. I treated myself to a bite of sushi after and ran into a friend as I was walking home. He was a party friend, so I didn’t really know him that well. I would always run into him from time to time at the various lame loft parties that I would frequent with my friends.  You know the ones that you would pretend you knew the person that lived there?   You would show up and the guy at the door would say, “Who do you know? Or who are you with? What is the password?”

My friends and I were the loft crashers. We always found out where all the parties were that the investment bankers were having on the weekends and we would go all decked out in our H & M flare accented with an expensive bag to cover up how broke we were.  Ah, those were the good ol’days.

My party friend asked me what I was doing later and I told him that I was probably going to bed because I had to work early.  He said he knew of a fun party that was in the West Village and invited me to go. I thought that would be OK as I lived in the West Village and my party friend was really hot. Wow, I think he was a model or wanna be. What the hell! I can spare a couple of hours.

I went home and dressed up in a hot Diane von Furstenberg dress and trucked over to the party. It was 10:30pm, so I figured it was still early and I could not get into too much trouble.  What bullshit!

“Ding Dong” the door opened. I girl in a cat woman outfit opened the door.

I said, “Is John here? I’m Sara, I am supposed to meet him here.”

“Oh,” Cat Woman hissed, “We have been waiting for you.”

Oh shit.

I didn’t really like the sound of that. Why would everyone be waiting for me? Is this what Paris Hilton felt like at every party she went to?  For a fleeting moment, my party radar went off in red flashing letters above Catwoman’s ears “DON’T GO IN. ABORT MISSION. WALK AWAY!”

So, what do I do? I walk in and smile looking up the stairs for what was to come like a good little kitty.

Catwoman told me to keep walking up to the 4rth floor.  She kept eyeing me like I was a little mouse she wanted to eat.  Her mouth would twitch from side to side and I don’t believe she blinked once from greeting me at the door to opening the door to the party. She seemed pretty wired. Great, Cat Woman was already snorting catnip!

Come on Sara, I said to myself. This will be fun. So what about the cat suit? This is harmless.

As the door opened, I was greeted by a group of 20 people or so. I found it odd that the ratio of men to woman was 10 men and 9 woman. I realized that I was woman # 10!

I was asked what I wanted to drink and forgot quickly about how the party was configured and stared to socialize.

I greeted the bankers in boxers and the cute little socialites in their mousey lingerie.

Hmm…so I thought this was one of those new jammy parties that I kept hearing about. Perfect, I thought what fun.

Catwoman asked me to go into the other room and pick out a cat outfit to join in the fun for the “costume party.”  I told her OK and asked where to go.

Catwoman pointed to the bedroom with her fake cat claws, indicating  where the whoredrobe change would take place.

I walked in and put on the tightest outfit I could find….Well, what do you expect. I had to look my hottest! I mean I do work out at Crunch!

So little miss cat meow, me came out and everyone was not socializing!!!! I thought OK, maybe they will be playing spin the cat nip or something theme like.

But no, there were 10 sleeping bags, like the ones my dad bought at Costco when we went camping laid out on the floor.

Tiny lion shorts were on top of the kittens on each blanket.   Ahh… but there was one sleeping bag still waiting for its prey….

SHIT!!! So I panicked! Kitty panic!  I saw a box of wheat thins on the table and started to walk around asking everyone who was already fucking, if they would like some wheat thins.  I actually interrupted them and said like a robot, ” Hi, I have some wheat thins and would you like some?”

They all responded, “Can’t you tell that I am having sex and this is a swinger party, not a bridal shower! Stop passing around food!”

Cat woman looked at me, took away my wheat thins and escorted me to the door with a look of sheer disappointment.

I said, “I tried. Can I keep the cat suit at least!”

She slammed the door.

I have not been invited back since, but laugh everytime I see a box of wheat thins!

Ms. Swinger Kitty, 2001

©  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.

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
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