YOU’VE GOT MALE: THE FIRST DATE
I am nerve-racked.
The Outfit:
- Fitted navy tuxedo shirt: buttoned to show a tasteful but intriguing amount of cleavage.
- Patterned corduroys that make me look ass-tastic…in a good way.
- Fun studded heels.
- Simple long silver charm necklace, favorite bracelet for luck, favorite earrings for sparkle.
- Cut holes in shirt to show nipples. Just kidding.
Hair/Makeup:
- Down, big, sexy curls.
- Eyeliner above and below, dark brown, not too heavy.
- Nude lips aka Chapstick.
The plan is to meet at a wine bar and then check out a comedy show. On my way, climbing up the subway stairs as I disembarked at 8th ave, I’m sweating, heart racing. I tried to calm myself with one of my recent favorite mantras: it might not be comfortable, but damnit this is what it feels like to be alive!
VOTE FOR THE BLUES
The Harmonica Lewinskies, those post-modern-rhythm-and-blues-boys out of Brooklyn, have been nominated for Deli Magazine’s NYC Artist of the Month. They need your vote. They always have whiskey. They know how you like it. This here’s a two way street. Make your decision here.
YOU’VE GOT MALE, AN ONGOING OK CUPID ADVENTURE
Chapter 1, or: This is Bullshit
I. The Beginning
This morning, I was awoken by the acrid smell of cigarettes. Nauseating. And tempting. My journey to quit smoking began about a month after I picked up my first cigarette seven years ago. Alas, here we sit, no smokes in my pockets, but come night, when the city slips into shadows broken only by the sparkling night time adventurers, I know my will power has little chance of holding.
This also applies to my extremely handsome, eternally struggling ex-boyfriend. He could be a model, but alas, he is a drummer and sound engineer. Musicians right? Last night as we ate cheap, delicious plates of rice and beans at a local spanish place. And talked casually while I tried to find ways not to blut out that I had not but a few days before, fucked two of his good friends.
But he’s gone now, I am alone at a coffee shop and the cobwebs are wiped away. My underwater zombie dreams have abated. Apparently, from our conversation last night, he doesn’t know about the three way. Soo… on to the next one.
Yesterday, I…
Got hit on by a heroin addict on the train.
Had a seven year old smack me on the ass and yell “Spank!”
Sat next to my ex-boyfriend admiring his neck tattoos while acknowledging the fact that the place where he sleeps is the grossest place I’ve ever laid down. Not that it’s a bed, or that he has an apartment.
But this is nothing new. Charming, attractive, spontaneous guys with disgusting apartments and questionable hygiene have emerged as being “my type.” I always imagined my type being a strong, intellectual, sarcastic optimist with a solid sense of self and an even more solid sense of humor. But there I go, describing myself. Basically, I want a hot, tall, guy version of me. Someone who smiles a lot. Who has ambition.
Who has an apartment.
My point: I am going to join OK Cupid. And write about the experience, living out my lingering Sex and the City fantasy. I’m giddy and slightly terrified, but in a rollercoaster-y, you probably won’t get raped sort of a way. I think the best scenario for my OK Cupid journey would be 4-5 guys in my sexual, dating orbit. In my mind, they pick me up, they bring me flowers which I put in vase, then we go out for an exciting, interesting adventure that they have planned. Which involves drinks and hopefully, cocaine. We laugh, we kiss, we walk arm in arm through a city of lights and music. Doesn’t sound too bad.
Bring it on world, mama’s lookin’ for a big dick.
WE DID IT, WE BEAT THE YEERKS AND SAVED HUMANITY BY FINDING OUR INNER BEASTS. See all the photos from ∆ N 1 M 0 R P H S at our Facebook page and don’t forget to LIKE The Culture Whore.
Photos by Andrew Bisdale. Thanks again to House of Yes for having us!
Getting slutty for the arts.
