This is a great read! Simply substitute NYC for your city as most experiences are the same. Enjoy!
The plight of the single lady
by Jen Doll
February 9, 2010
The Village Voice
My years of New York City dating—if you're counting, there have been 12—have involved a lot of guys, short- and long- and mid-term. My longest relationship lasted two years. My shortest—minus the one-off hookups that we all know aren't "dates" at all—was somewhere in the range of two weeks. There have been certifiable crazies, like the Eastern European fellow who broke my bedroom window in a fit of rage and told me not to complain that he'd broken my "fucking window." There was the Jersey boy who worked in women's handbags; fond memories involve him drunk-puking at the Hilton, then giggling hysterically, running, and "hiding" our soiled comforter in front of someone else's door down the hall. There was the super-successful corporate honcho with a cardboard box for a nightstand. The best friend with whom I had zero sexual attraction. The self-described "bi-coastal but not in a gay way" guy who didn't come home one night because he'd passed out in a planter underneath the Manhattan Bridge. (We continued to date for at least a month after that.)
Their ages have ranged from nearly 15 years younger than me to going on 15 years older. There were Peter Pan Syndrome–afflicted man-children, full-fledged adult males with zero desire to grow up, maybe ever. There were drunks and drug addicts and maybe once a teetotaler. There were Christians and atheists and Jews. There was a clammer from Cape Cod—a real, live clammer, with his very own waders. There was a man who shaved everything . . . down there . . . every single day. There was the dashing Argentinean only in town for a week; the Ronkonkoma deli worker barely old enough to drink; the beleaguered i-banker who came over regularly just to pass out on my couch. And I can't forget the "totally eligible" magazine editor who moved to the suburbs while we were dating, convinced me to take a bus to visit him, showed off his two-story brick house with granite kitchen counters and an actual backyard, as if knowing it was exactly what I aspired to—and then promptly married someone else. There were men who have dropped me on my head, literally and figuratively. I could show you bruises.
Read more at The Villiage Voice
Email her: jdoll@villagevoice.com
Follow her: @thisisjendoll
by Jen Doll
February 9, 2010
The Village Voice
My years of New York City dating—if you're counting, there have been 12—have involved a lot of guys, short- and long- and mid-term. My longest relationship lasted two years. My shortest—minus the one-off hookups that we all know aren't "dates" at all—was somewhere in the range of two weeks. There have been certifiable crazies, like the Eastern European fellow who broke my bedroom window in a fit of rage and told me not to complain that he'd broken my "fucking window." There was the Jersey boy who worked in women's handbags; fond memories involve him drunk-puking at the Hilton, then giggling hysterically, running, and "hiding" our soiled comforter in front of someone else's door down the hall. There was the super-successful corporate honcho with a cardboard box for a nightstand. The best friend with whom I had zero sexual attraction. The self-described "bi-coastal but not in a gay way" guy who didn't come home one night because he'd passed out in a planter underneath the Manhattan Bridge. (We continued to date for at least a month after that.)
Their ages have ranged from nearly 15 years younger than me to going on 15 years older. There were Peter Pan Syndrome–afflicted man-children, full-fledged adult males with zero desire to grow up, maybe ever. There were drunks and drug addicts and maybe once a teetotaler. There were Christians and atheists and Jews. There was a clammer from Cape Cod—a real, live clammer, with his very own waders. There was a man who shaved everything . . . down there . . . every single day. There was the dashing Argentinean only in town for a week; the Ronkonkoma deli worker barely old enough to drink; the beleaguered i-banker who came over regularly just to pass out on my couch. And I can't forget the "totally eligible" magazine editor who moved to the suburbs while we were dating, convinced me to take a bus to visit him, showed off his two-story brick house with granite kitchen counters and an actual backyard, as if knowing it was exactly what I aspired to—and then promptly married someone else. There were men who have dropped me on my head, literally and figuratively. I could show you bruises.
Read more at The Villiage Voice
Email her: jdoll@villagevoice.com
Follow her: @thisisjendoll
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