50 First Dates PART 2
Ive come to realize that the best things in life make you sweat.
Deep breathing. Heart beating. Sweat dripping. Food. Sex. (and love). Fitness.
All things that make your heart skip a beat, to remind you that yes, you are alive, and human, mistakes included.
I’ve said it before + i’ll say it again, we are all animals - but, ill let you define you. Me, i eat with my eyes. If i see something, i say something: Hot guy at a restaurant, I send the waiter over with my number. Hot guy on a spin bike, i call the desk after and ask who was on bike 9. Hot guy parks car, i casually place my business card on his front window. Like most other things in life, i go after what i want. And let me be clear, i'm not looking for sex. i'm looking for love: the butterflies in your stomach, fairy tale style stuff movies are made of - i believe it exists + i will find it. The majority of my dates are set ups- and sure, there is sex along the way, but it isn't the end goal. Regardless, if im going to advise you to LIVbold, i have to practice what i preach. So, ask for what you want - and see what comes of it.
Perhaps I am searching the wrong streets. See, I like cowboys. Musky. Masculine. 5’oclock shadow. Strong hands. Eat meat. Renaissance men with refined taste and unrefined edges who know how to use their hands, and also look great in a tailored suit. Forgive me but it seems New York refines finance nerds with metrosexual tendencies, gluten allergies, and handy skills limited to selective texting + requesting uber XL's. I guess cowboys just dont grow in these neck of the woods. At least not in the west village.
At the ripe age of 23, i just graduated french culinary school and became the brand new intern at food + wine magazine — ready to take on the world. The ballroom at the Jane hotel just opened. Sexy, dark, disco ball...i arrived with dancing shoes on, fresh eyes + looking for love. Enter Mike-- a Jacksonville born quirky curly haired josh groban look alike. Mike felt familiar for that ‘from florida’ commonality but definitely wasn’t my typical tall dark dirty mysterious type. But I was new to the city + found no harm in having dinner. We did. He insisted on taking me somewhere transcendent. Delmonico’s did not seem so, but to Mike it did. A landmark downtown, pre-redevelopment in no mans land wall street, filled with construction, an empty dining room, but steak, baked alaska and history. Dinner was smooth yet unexceptional, much like the food + conversation, until dessert. As i lovingly lifted a spoonful of ice cream meringue to my mouth, mike felt the urge to smear it all over my face. Shocked was an understatement -- while it could have been funny, his shit eating grin just wasn’t my vibe. Check please! I wiped my face + walked out into no mans land lower Manhattan, a little bit lost, confused + with just enough marshmallow on my face for later. The following day was my 3rd as food + wine’s newest intern and upon my arrival to the hippodrome, i was greeted with a coffee table sized basket of jacques torres chocolate complete with card written to “olivia the intern: the jewish giada de laurentis” -- and a a larger than life apology note for the less than gentlemanly gesture. I guess thats how they do in Jacksonville. Mike continues to wish me a happy birthday via facebook to this day. Southern Hospitality.
Stan + I dated for 8 months. On + off. In + out. At a time I was feeling stuck in life + in love and sought solace in him. we congregated on Fridays over roast chicken. Ive never seen anyone eat a chicken like him. Or me for that matter. our Friday nights were spent silently fighting over the neck and tailbone, after knowingly sizing each other up before taking the thigh or the wing. This guy cleans breast bones with his teeth, like a savage.. I'd say our chicken eating capabilities contributed to keeping us together for some time - a weekly ritual that was rarely interrupted. And when it finally was, I knew our love story was coming to an end. The first chicken I ever roasted for him was delicately stuffed with black truffles + served alongside shaved vegetable salad, sauteed brussels sprouts + wild mushrooms. We lit shabbat candles, I chugged half a glass of red wine, and asked if I was his girlfriend. He nervously answered, "I guess so," and then went after the bird. A roast chicken is intimate. It's eat w your hands kind of aggressive, savagely sexual lick-your-fingers-clean kind of intense. It's carnal. And carnivorous. And simultaneously, it is communal, a gathering. And gathered we did, for just shy of a year.
Somewhere in between i demanded date nights. I wanted to feel sexy - beyond tending house + stuffing chickens near Charlton street. He obliged. I had my hair blown, louboutins strapped, and long silk dress on with nothing under. He was late to pick me up in a taxi on Spring Street and surprised me for shots + beers at Extra Fancy in Brooklyn -- to remind me that i am indeed Extra Fancy.
Feelings dwindled as time passed. As such, our roast chicken fridays evolved into movie theatre sundays followed by roast carrots + cocktails at Maialino with less conversation, less connection and even less intimacy, except for the sex in the Gramercy Park Hotel bathroom after. our sunday sex + cinema series occurred three times, until it ended. but Stan is still the guy who calls me sporadically to ask if im ok - always when i’m not. It is that emotional connection that brought us together and keeps us apart. We had a good run - me + stan, but not even fucking in fancy hotel facilities fostered enough fire to keep us aflame.
More stories to come. Comment below.