He referred to himself as a “functional alcoholic.”  He elaborated, saying “I don’t fuck up relationships or lose jobs because of my drinking… but do I need vodka to fall asleep every night? Absolutely.”

He told me he had slept with thirty women and was shocked/appalled when said he should get tested before I’d sleep with him.

Jason Lee

He legitimately said “sit on my face” during a hook up.

The first time I spent the night at his place I gave him two blow jobs and cooked him dinner, yet he didn’t cuddle with me in bed. At all.

On his 28th birthday (I was 21), he came over to my dorm room before we were going to head out to a party with his friends. I’d gotten dressed up because I was excited to meet them and I was tired from class all day. So when he started to make a move immediately I said “later tonight, but right now I just want to finish getting ready.” He stopped for a moment but maybe five minutes later resumed the attack. I thought, fine, I’ll make out with him a little… but then he just unzipped his pants, pulled his dick out, and said “come on…” I said “I told you, later, I’m really not going to do anything right now. We’re late and I just did my make up.” He looked like I slapped him. “Seriously? You’re really not going to give me head right now? But it’s my birthday baby (yes, he also said “baby” sans irony) and I’ve been thinking about this all day.” I told him sorry, but no. Then he got more offended: “What the hell!? Come on. It’s my birthday! You owe me this!”

Not-Jason-Lee

I then proceeded to tell him that I, in fact, “owed” him nothing. That we were not in a relationship (though even if we were he damn well better show me more respect), and he was merely some dude I happened to be hooking up with that month, so he should be honored merely that I was acting as his date for his birthday extravaganza.  I shot down his guilt-trip manipulative affront and told him to have fun at the party without me. He proceeded to apologize profusely, beg me for another chance, and even went on to say how he has never really done the serious relationship thing (how surprising!) but that I was the most awesome girl he’d ever dated and he could really see a future with me and I inspire him to be better person (yes, it was a paraphrasing of As Good As It Gets). I called to end things the next morning.

Even after I called things off, Not-Jason-Lee said he still wanted to be my friend, so he went ahead and burnt me about 20 gigs of music and comedy on a bunch of DVDs. I met up with him in Union Square and he also gave me some CDs of his old band. He said “Yeah, I was going to give you the album art too, but you aren’t dating me anymore so… ” Boy oh boy did that make me regret my decision. ALBUM ART!? What the fuck did I pass up!?!

Just as we were leaving he said “you’ll date me again. You’ll see. I’ll write you an essay on why you should be with me. We’ll try things again, there’s something there!”

Never saw him again.

The day rolled around and I got a text from him saying that he’d be having dinner with a friend in the East Village, and I should meet them for wine afterwards. I was considerably thrown off, as I didn’t think this was a “meet my friends” kind of situation. But I shook off the shock, sexed myself up for him, and headed over. When I got there, I was introduced to his beautiful female friend (who I happily realized he was legitimately not screwing) but soon enough she left for a party and The Photographer and I cabbed back to his place. He was already quite drunk and the night was off to a fun start.

He adorned me with compliments, telling me how pretty I looked, how sexy I am, etc. and we played a neat little game in his apartment where we stood on opposite sides of the room and looked at each other, and every so often would tell each other to take off a piece of clothing. Finally, we couldn’t take it anymore. We jumped each other, ripped each other’s clothes off, and got down to business.

The problem was that, once again, he wasn’t getting into me. And rather than using lube which would have made sense, he was using spit, which to be quite honest is very disgusting and just plain stupid. Spit != lube. Spit does not make it easier to get into a person. The end.

After a little pushing and shoving we were back in action, screwing on the couch, on the bed, facing the windows, in front of mirrors…

But something was wrong. He was not having fun. He looked like he was going to be sick. Suddenly he pulled out, went to the bathroom, came back and said his stomach hurt and that he needed a break. No problem, I said. I needed a break, too.

We laid down and he was clearly in a lot of pain, groaning and rolling around holding his stomach. At first he wanted me to touch him, then he wanted me to leave him alone, then he wanted me to rub his tummy, then he wanted his space. It was a whirlwind of confusion, so I just decided to curl up on my side of his giant bed and wait to see what happened.

In about six hours he made roughly 20 trips to the bathroom and clearly was having some sort of intestinal issue. He cursed under his breath all night, making it more than a little difficult to fall asleep. Finally he seemed to feel better, which I know only because I felt him come up behind me, bend me over, and try and push into me again.

Round two? Really? Okaaay…

It was terribly uncomfortable, but I tried to play along, in the hope that I would stretch myself out enough that he would eventually fit. Instead he flipped me over, took one look at my face and said, “I’m hurting you.” He promptly pulled out and went to the bathroom. Then I saw. There were spots of blood on his sheet. Fuck. Fuck Fuck Fuck. Fuck. He came out of the bathroom, and I have never felt more like a child. I looked up at him in complete terror and said “Houston, we have a problem…”

He told me not to worry, “it happens,” but his face looked fairly agitated. And at dinner the night before, his friend had mentioned that he was very passive aggressive. Needless to say, I was worried.

We sat and ate breakfast and had a relatively enjoyable conversation, minus some awkward moments. At one point, he said that a client saw my headshots and really liked them, and I asked (jokingly) if he told her he was banging me. His response? “Well, it’s not really working. I don’t exactly fit.” Ouch.

While I was somewhat bruised by the comment, I later tried to make a joke out of it. I mentioned that my friend saw his photography flyers around and asked me how he was, and I said, “well he’s too big, so don’t think about sleeping with him. He probably won’t fit.” Rather than enjoying the turnaround, he practically coached me on how I should respond if anyone asks about him.

Ugh.

Finally, after showering and getting dressed, we headed into the elevator and several floors down a woman got on who knew Mr. Photographer. They were chatting and joking the rest of the way down and decided to share a cab, as they were going to the same place. I said of course, I needed to take the train downtown for school anyway.

About 30 seconds later, he realized that he was actually going downtown and so we walked together to the 6 train, making somewhat forced conversation along the way. Most of the time, I was wondering what had happened that changed everything so drastically…

We got into the station, where a 6 train was waiting but packed to capacity—early morning rush hour. Fuck me. (Except, don’t, I’m far too sore…) However, The Photographer pushed his way into a train (cramming himself into things is a trend, clearly) that obviously could not handle him, let alone another person, and tried feebly to get me to join him. As the doors started to close, I could tell that I wasn’t going to fit. Completely mystified by his decision to get on, I shouted, “It’s clearly not going to happen. Bye.” I barely got the words out before the doors shut and the train pulled away.

I stood and waited for the next train, wondering what the fuck just happened. Really? 38 years old and we’re still playing games? I give up.

The worst part is, I actually fell for it. Normally, I can look at such things and laugh and be like “how awesome, I banged my photographer.” And I’m sure I’ll feel that way soon enough but for now, it really stings. I worked so hard to knock the Midwestern naïveté out of me, and I got conned into sleeping with my photographer and thinking that we might actually be friends. Or more.

I feel small and foolish.

Good thing I have a date with a millionaire on Monday. Legitimately. That’s the beauty of New York, and having an (exquisitely?) absurd life.

Then the fun began. First we were simply making out on his couch, but soon we were rolling around. Our clothes came off and suddenly I saw what must be the thickest penis I have ever encountered. Literally: a soda can. Think about it. It wouldn’t go in at first, and after two tries, I was convinced he was going to give up. Then he unexpectedly rammed himself into me, and after I recovered from shock, I realized that it was going to happen after all. Suddenly he had me up against a wall, one leg under me, completely supporting me while my legs were wrapped around his waist. At another point, I was facing the stunning view he has (practically his entire apartment is windows overlooking the city and the river). We continued on like this for sometime before finally taking a break. Several hours (of sleep) later I woke up to him going in for round two. A shorter, less comfortable round, as I was beginning to feel sore. Very, very sore.

When round two ended, we went back to bed. When we woke up for real he made me breakfast and we had a very enjoyable morning. I learned that he had dated one of my teachers, and I had dated his assistant—two very awkward yet wonderfully hilarious things to learn about a person you are sleeping with. He made several (more) remarks on how young I am, which began to make me think he was less comfortable with it than I thought. But, apparently he wasn’t too distraught because he suddenly ripped my clothes off again, and tried fucking me at his desk, which was simply not going to happen. “Are you sore?” he asked. Sheepishly I nodded and smiled. “Okay then, we’ll just have to wait.” I got dressed and we parted ways with a very noncommittal “I had fun.”

I didn’t know whether I would be hearing from him ever again, nor did I find myself terribly concerned. It was a fabulously enjoyable evening, and I didn’t need any real closure if it turned out to be a one-night stand.

However, it wasn’t. He texted me that day saying how much fun he had, and how he couldn’t wait to see me again. Sure enough, we set another date.

I was beginning to think that this might become something worth consciously hiding from my family, and I mean that in the best way possible.

After roughly an hour, he walked me out of his expensive doorman building and took me to an organic vitamin store. He then found (and attempted to pay for—which I promptly intercepted) cough drops that were “the only cough drops worth taking.”

As we parted ways, he kissed me on the cheek.

I was instantly taken aback, but convinced myself that this was simply how all photographers were. In order to get good pictures, it’s important to have a comfortable relationship with your client, so for a sexy male photographer, it’s more than likely that he flirts with all of his female customers and in the end gets very seductive, stunning shots.

Two weeks later was the shoot. He made me a special blend of tea, raving about how great my music selection was, and when the shoot finally began it quickly reached a level of sexual intensity that neither of us had expected. I was rolling around on his bed, making unintentional “fuck me” faces at the camera. Several times he had to take a break and say “Okay babe, tone it down a touch. You’re going into the wrong business with these faces…”When the shoot ended, The Photographer made me soup (I hadn’t eaten in roughly three days in order to look good for the pictures) and I casually mentioned that I was going to get a drink. He promptly invited himself along, and together we went to a nice nearby restaurant and got a bottle of red wine and calamari. We sat and drank for several hours, talking about everything and anything, all the while flirting shamelessly. I attempted to pay, but he quickly stopped me, saying that he had too much fun to let me pay, but I could get his next drink, after we went to a different bar. He leaned in to kiss me, and I was shocked.

He looked at me and said, “I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable, but you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t interested. And you aren’t going to get out of tonight without kissing me once…”

I was hooked. This man with his confidence and charm and good kissing skills was perfect. I mean, aside from the fact that he was almost 20 years older than me.

Off we went to bar number two, a sports bar, where every other barstool was a saddle. Thus, I was straddling a saddle, while he paid very little attention to anything other than my position. We kissed quite a bit, and at some point decided it was time for me to go home. He walked me to the subway where he said, “I think we’ll be great friends. Goodnight, Princess.”

I felt like I was being pampered. After my previous experiences with what I now refer to as “boys,” I finally found what was so alluring about “men.” They know what they want, they are sexy, and they spoil you without making you feel weak. It’s perfection.

Maybe I’ve found my Prince King Charming once and for all. Or, at least someone who I can sleep with that doesn’t make me want to kill myself during and/or immediately after… In my world, those are practically the same.

mmm his blue eyes

My progress was assisted when the student staff decided to raise money for cancer (if only all of my sleazy stories started out so nobly). We held an RA auction, where the residents were able to bid real money to go on a real date with us (proceeds went to Relay for Life). As I took the stage, prepared to be sold like a pokemon card collection on eBay, I was nervous–what if no one wanted me or I was forced to go out with someone terrible? But then, in the back, who should start calling out dollar amounts but my target! I’d met him briefly in the dining hall a few weeks before, when I had unabashedly complimented him on his eyes (I have a lethal weakness for the blue eyes/dark hair combo). But now, here he was, my barely-legal prince willing to pay over twenty dollars (not a meager sum for a freshman) to go out with me. Of course the gesture was fueled by his friends, finding the whole thing hilarious, but nevertheless I immediately started plotting as soon as he won me.

Rather than lunch, I chose a sexy lounge in the East Village for a late Thursday night dinner. I went all out in a little red dress, and when we met downstairs in front of the security guard’s desk I felt insanely confident.  Dinner was fun, we talked in the dimly lit haunt about past relationships and I thought “Hm, this is actually sort of a nice date.” Then he admitted the past relationship he was talking about was actually from middle school, because four years ago for each of us turned this semi-hot cougar action into straight-up pedophilia. Ew. Still, I was a woman on a mission and so I brushed off the fumble and tried to stay focused on the game. After the food, we started walking back to the dorm but I asked if he actually wanted to get back. He told me he didn’t have class the next morning, so could stay out if I had something in mind. Boldly, I took him to a nearby dive bar (which may have been my plan all along), assuring him that if he ever told a soul I would write him up and make sure he was kicked out of housing. We drank a couple beers (he paid) before finally returning to our residence hall. Earlier in the night he’d mentioned that he played guitar (as all freshman boys do) and so I coyly insisted that he simply HAD to play for me and bring his guitar to my room so we could “jam.” It was fun using idiotic bait, a throwback to when I legitimately thought these were clever lines.  But then when he brought his guitar, he actually made me listen to him play every song he’d ever learned, and there were several moments when I had to question whether the glory could possibly be worth the agony. Finally I lured him over onto my twin bed by playfully saying we could take some pictures in Photo Booth. He put his arm around me and it stayed there, but still nothing happened–part of the rules were that we should not be the aggressor, since we didn’t want to actually pressure children into deplorable acts (but hey, if they want to live dangerously, who are we to stop them). Finally around 5 am (do not ever question my competitive spirit) he made a move. I was so tired and unimpressed at that point that it basically just sucked, but is anyone really surprised about that? How skilled can a freshman really be?

He promised to keep what had happened secret but I naturally doubted whether he had developed the power of discretion yet. To my surprise the next day his friends actually believed that he had “pussied out” and that nothing had happened, despite his staying in my room all night. But his friends also now thought I was “cool” so they invited me to come drinking with them that night. We all went (my target included, as well as a boy who will be a future story) to a local bar known for its loose carding procedures and I couldn’t help but feel victorious as they lauded me for being “the best RA ever.” Just then who should walk in but another of the RAs with his target. We each saw the other’s guests and burst out laughing. My friend came over, high-fived me and said “I totally won our game” to which I proclaimed “I won too!” We cracked up.

“Won what?” asked our conquests.

“Nothing, children. Nothing.”

The story starts out in standard fashion. Boy eats Chipotle (the not standard part). Boy goes to club with friends. Boy gets drunk. Boy
meets boy. Boy leaves club with other boy. Other boy’s name is Andrew. Andrew is a twenty-seven-year-old investment banker from England and, while he was cuter inside the club, he’s still cute enough for me to go back to his apartment. Picture Chad Michael Murray but way less cute.

Chad Michael Murray, the real one

We get in a cab and one of the first things he asks is how old I am. I always enjoy this moment. I don’t know if I look thirty or if men are just trying to fool themselves, but they are always “shocked” when I tell them my age. They pretend to feel bad or guilty for a few seconds…and then we both move on.  I tell him that I’m twenty (which was true then) and Andrew demands, “No, you’re not!” I reply with an “Am I not? Oh, no wait. I still am.”

Andrew then asks me if I’m a “top” or a  “bottom.” I tell him I’m a virgin when it comes to sex with boys (which was also true then). Andrew demands, “No, you’re not!”

I would soon find out that Andrew has a very small arsenal of phrases; one being “No, you’re not!” and the other being “Oh, come on!” Unlike with my age, he does not believe me this time and challenges my virginal status. He asks me the same question over and over again, and I tell him over and over again that I’m a “virgin.” He decides to humor me and ask what position I think I would be if I were to have sex with a boy. I’m honest and share that I’m not sure but I think I’d be open to either side. Andrew on the other hand is neither a male on male virgin, nor is he confused about what position he prefers. In fact, he’s a “total top.” I spend the rest of the cab ride listening to him tell me how much fun we’re going to have together.

We get back to his building and as he starts to open his apartment door the first sign of a Cardinal Rule 14 violation pops up (and/or
out). I’m all of a sudden struck with horrible gas.

Ohhh. My. God. I fart.

Andrew and I are both caught by surprise. However, I cannot demonstrate my surprise because I am very busy pretending that nothing
has just happened. I focus all of my energy on staring at Andrew’s hand turning the key in the door handle. Andrew’s hand although has, to my great pleasure and surprise, stopped turning. He slowly turns to me with a half disgusted/half shocked wave over his face and asks “…was that you?”. Quickly and casually I play back with “Was what me…?”. He proves to not be that bright and he buys my innocence act.

Andrew wastes no time. No drink offer. No conversation. Just making out while walking me into the bedroom. Up until this point I have made a general assumption that when guys hook up with each other, blowjobs are essentially guaranteed to happen and be reciprocated.  It turns out this is an ignorant assumption. All clothes are lost and I go down on him for a while. Wanting a little motivation to keep going, I start making out with him again in hopes that he will begin reciprocating. Instead Andrew gets up, walks over to his nightstand, opens and puts on a condom, and walks back to the bed and spreads my legs.

WOAH ANDREW.

I start doing the backwards crabwalk from 2nd grade PE class across the bed, quickly, because Andrew is crawling at me like something ferocious. And then it happens for the first time. “Oh, come on!”

All I can think is that if he only knew of my secret and desperate desire for him to step outside of the room for a minute (so that I can
relieve myself of an insane amount of gas pressure…which is constant and fierce) he might be reconsidering his approach towards me in this fashion. I’m not disgusting though so, instead of sharing that with him, I whip out my own soon to be repeated phrase of the night. “I’m not going to have sex with you”. Unfazed, he continues to crawl at me and continues to mutter, “Oh, come on!” I match his persistence and end up having to pull the condom off of him; at which point he finally pretends to respect my decision not to have sex.

We make out a bit more and then end up talking for a while which is surprisingly nice. Temporarily. He ends up telling me that I’m nothing like he thought I was and when I ask him for a clarification on what exactly he means by that, he elaborates to tell me that there is a real person behind my sass and that I “actually have a brain”. Apparently he thought I was a brainless ball of sass; and apparently conversation and compliments are not his strengths.

We go back to making out and I, hopeful that we can turn this hookup back into something pleasurable, decide to go down on him again. I soon discover he not only has a non-negotiable policy on being a “total top” but he also has a non-negotiable policy on giving head. He’s “just too much of a top”.  This conversation then conveniently transitions into him trying to have sex with me again.

Over being told how beautiful my ass is, while feeling like I’m on borderline gaseous explosion status, I decide maybe it’s time for me
to leave. While Andrew begs me to spend the night I make up some excuse about how I have a play rehearsal in the morning and tell him that I am going. While I get dressed he tells me how lonely he is and promises that he will stop trying to fuck me – asserting it would just be nice to sleep next to someone.

Then, I see I have a text message from my roommate telling me that he won’t be coming home tonight – he’s met someone too apparently. Realizing I’d be going home to my dorm room bed and nobody to tell my horrific story to, the alcohol in me decides that since I have nothing better to do I might as well sleep here in a comfortable bed. I begin to undress again while telling Andrew that I had just text messaged my stage manager and that it turns out my rehearsal isn’t until the afternoon now. I excuse myself to the restroom and alleviate myself of most of my built up gas. Cute, I know.

Relieved and feeling better, I crawl back into bed and end up becoming the little spoon in a cuddle session. For a while it seemed like he was going to keep his promise; and for a while it seemed like my gas was gone. Instead, he had redirected his plans and was thinking that if he
makes me feel more comfortable and think this is a real connection, I will change my mind; meanwhile I’ve instead developed a never-ending burrito-induced gas problem. For about the fortieth time I assert to him that I am not going to have sex with him.

The next morning when I wake up hung-over, pissed, and confused as to why I am still there, Andrew begs me to stay even longer. “Stay the day.” NO! “Stay the morning.” NO. Making up that my non-existent rehearsal has been moved back to the morning, I dress myself – this time with purpose and intention. Get. The. Fuck. Out. He tries to pull me back into bed and I rip my arm away and leave. Great night.

I so wish I could say that that was the last of Andrew. Although actually… I’m quite pleased with where things go next.

Months later I find myself at a different club. I am walking in the lower level with my roommate and all of a sudden my arm is grabbed and I’m pulled against a wall. Who should I see before me?! ANDREW. The club is quite loud and it’s hard to be heard, but we shout the following conversation at each other:

Andrew: “You’re cute!”
Me: “…we’ve met before…”
Andrew: “No we haven’t. I would definitely remember you.”
Me: “Apparently no you wouldn’t because we’ve definitely met before.”
Andrew: “I swear we haven’t.”
Me: “Your name is Andrew. You’re a twenty-seven-year-old investment
banker from England on a two-year leave in the United States. You live
on 32nd Street and 6th Avenue. You want to try and take me home
because you think I’m cute and have no brain. You’re going to try and
have sex with me all night long and I’m going to refuse. You’re going
to pretend to respect that and then you will continue to try and have
sex with me all night. Do you remember me now?”
Andrew: (a bit taken aback) “…Oh ya. You were that sassy one.”
Me: “Yeah…I was that sassy one.”
Andrew: “Well what do you say, come back to my place?”
Me: “…Are you kidding me?!”
Andrew: “Oh, come on! We’ll have a really great time.”
Me: “No thanks. It wasn’t worth it the first time.”

As I walk away I experience many different feelings; Satisfaction, disgust, shock, but most of all forgiveness. Not forgiveness for Andrew. He’s a creep. I feel forgiveness towards myself for the rocky road I had to go down to learn Cardinal Rule 14. Silently emitting tiny toots on his penis all night had made me feel bad and gross. That is, until he forgot our encounter, then remembered it, and then had the nerve to ask me to repeat it.

Finally, we’re getting some testosterone on this blog! Men, that’s a cue for the rest of you to email me some stories now at myscandalouslife@gmail.com. Do it.

In his usual I-have-no-idea-what-I’m-doing fashion, Neuroscience Kid popped back on the scene shortly after Donny fizzled out, right on schedule. Suddenly he was texting me again asking if I needed help preparing for my neuro midterm. I declined his offer to study but the morning of the test he made sure to wish me good luck and message me after to inquire how it went. I was impressed by his thoughtfulness, enough even to give him another chance. We made plans for that night and I traveled to the Upper East Side for a celebration date, having aced the exam. As it happened, he had exciting news as well–he was awarded a National Science Fellowship and another prestigious grant, meaning a huge raise and a ticket into the upper echelon of scientists. Being a nerd, I started swooning pretty hard. We drank round after round, all on him, until we were thoroughly intoxicated and making out in a back corner booth. He asked me to come home with him, so we stumbled a couple blocks up to his apartment. We start fooling around and were naked almost immediately so he began playing his favorite game of Just-The-Tip. I still didn’t quite get the appeal of this move so I asked if he wanted to have sex. Somehow I felt like good sex would erase Donny from my mind (this was only a week or two after he’d ended things). Neuroscience Kid looked surprised and said “yeah… but can we just do this for a minute?” I said sure, and he continued dabbling on the precipice of danger until one overly exuberant exhale pushed him over (er, into) the line. I said “we need a condom” and he agreed and grabbed one from inside his desk. He quickly put it on and he went back to resume and it seemed for a second like things would be ok. Why I would think I might just have a fulfilling sexual experience without complication is beyond me–that is never, ever the case (cue the tragic violins). After one thrust he stopped and mumbled “the condom doesn’t really fit…” He quickly explained that he didn’t expect this to happen tonight and so he wasn’t prepared–he needs Magnums because he’s “pretty wide” so the normal ones hurt. I asked why he even has them then but he replied that he got them from his roommate and he can’t actually use them. He promised next time he would be ready, apologized, and asked whether it was ok if we couldn’t continue tonight. Sigh.

For the record, I do not add this attempt to my sexual partners number.

The only redeeming part of the encounter was that the next morning when I went into work, I had the flush of a hook up in my cheeks and lips. Donny noticed and commented how I looked really “fresh.” With my slightly visible hickey I coyly responded “Really? Thanks, I actually didn’t get much sleep last night…”

Even if the reality was unsatisfying, making that jerk feel inadequate may never get old. Am I a bitch? Sometimes. But you try not having real sex for a year and we’ll see your level of patience.

The Russian

While dating Donny I had gone so far as to deactivate my okcupid account–after all, we were “exclusive” (even writing that now I am  stunned, but oh well, we all make mistakes). But, after that ended I decided I needed to start meeting people again and so I went back to my favorite digital stomping ground with new zest. A guy messaged me and while he didn’t have many pictures or information, I thought he seemed smart so we started talking. I was impressed to learn he was very smart, had excellent taste in films and books, and worked for Google. I agreed to meet up with him at a local bar and was a bit excited, especially since I knew so little about him and that seemed mysterious and fun. When he finally appeared I realized his pictures were fairly deceiving–the biggest nose I’d ever seen, weird teeth, and basically a bowl-cut/mullet hybrid. However, the Google thing still had me curious (I am a true nerd) and so I maintained hope as he approached. “Hullo, it is nice to make your acquaintance” he said in a THICK Russian accent. Never in this dude’s profile or messages had he mentioned being foreign but indeed, he most certainly was. We went into the dive bar and after I ordered my beer, he ordered a glass of red wine. The conversation was a little tricky–not because of his English, but because his voice was hilarious. He’d gone to Canada for University but grew up in Moscow and had only lived in New York for a year, which meant his vocal sounds were a mix between a bad cliche of a Canadian accent and the most over-the-top Russian, plus the actual pitch was high and always warbling.  I managed to hold it together until I asked about his parents and he literally said the phrase “Back in Soviet Russia…” I felt like I was in a bad movie. Then of course all of my friends came in. I stupidly suggested a bar around the corner from my apartment, a favorite spot of my group of friends, so in they walked and one by one they got to meet my Russian. Just before we left, during a lull in conversation I realized the genius of my friends comrades; the jukebox was playing The Beatles’ “Back In The U.S.S.R.”  This is what makes my life a great romcom–the bad dates, the silly soundtrack, and the perfect partners in crime.