It was undoubtedly one of the most unusual threesomes of my life. I watched them slobber over each other’s faces while I subtly got an Uber quote.
“Do you think the three of us could be happy together?” He asked; hope in his eyes.
I forced and smile, and tried not to spit my wine on the expensive rug. It was the hardest I’d worked at anything since I tried to teach myself to death-drop and dislocated my ankle.
I hadn’t expected the evening to pan out this way when David offered to show me around the Upper East Side. I’d spent the last couple weeks getting white-girl-wasted all over Manhattan, so was looking forward to experiencing a different side of NY life. David owned a PR firm, and his puffed out chest and red beach shorts were faintly reminiscent of Hasselhoff in his heyday. He also had a boat and a house in the Hamptons. So there was that too.
We met Under The Bridge; an authentic Greek place with an amazing view of Queensboro Bridge. And TK Maxx. There was no lack of conversation, but the entire process just felt more like an interview. And not the kind where you blow them under the desk ‘cause you want the position. He asked to see a five-year plan, and I think there may have even been a presentation at one point.
I snapped out of my daze somewhere around the “beautiful house in the Hamptons” mark. It must’ve been something in the wine but I was suddenly more attracted to him. Was it shallow? Perhaps, but there was no denying that a beach house was a prominent feature in his column of attractive qualities fighting the distinct lack of chemistry between us.
The waiter asked if we’d like more wine, and I duly noted my date’s side-comment about me being “gasping” for one. Which is ironic, as I certainly wasn’t the thirstiest one on this date. (Flash-forward to our future and I’m smuggling Smirnoff minis into the family’s annual charity event).
I mean, a man who counts your drinks on a first date? I really don’t need that kind of negativity in my life. I should have known that we weren’t compatible then. Confirmation came when I asked what he wanted to do after, and his eyes shot wide-open as he glanced at his watch. It was all of 10pm, after all.
“Well, do you wanna walk my dog with me?”
Not really. But I had a feeling that suggesting going for a drink would go down like acid reflux.
Is dog-walking seriously part of NYC dating culture? I thought it was pocket-money for busty teenage girls. So I agreed, because although it wasn’t ideal, sometimes people that want to go to the Hamptons have to compromise.
What he presented, was the most adorable puppy I’d ever seen. And I proceeded to watch her take a full-grown man for a walk. If David was any lighter, she’d have been kiting him along the riverbank. I cringed as the tiny canine got my date entangled in her leash… and his own limbs. It was quite clear who wore the four-legged trousers in their relationship. I’d seen Paris Hilton walk chihuahuas with more elegance – and in 6-inch heels.
He proceeded to ignore me, and gush about her with the other enthusiastic dog walkers, and suddenly I felt like the invisible husband accompanying my wife on the nursery run.
“So I think I need your help getting her back in the cage,” he subtly suggested as we approached his building. Trust me, I’d lock the bitch up for good if she’s gonna steal my limelight.
Watching him get dragged around the Upper East Side by a poodle was an instant turn-off, but he had just got her, so maybe I was being too judgemental. A night-cap was needed to fully assess the situation.
Back at his, over (a thimble of) wine, he leaned in for a smooch…
It was one of those traumatic kisses where he thrusts his tongue down your throat and jousts you with it like an eel under attack. As I used every fibre of my being not to laugh – and choke on his tongue – I decided to end things there.
At which point, the mutt runs over like she’s in an airport love scene and starts licking my date’s face. The problem was he seemed to rather like it, and promptly returned the favour. It was the dog I felt sorry for. They say dogs are man’s best friend, but I draw the line at PG-rated bestiality. And dog breath.
When I instigated leaving, he stood up abruptly, threw his toys out of the pram, muttered something about an early start and sulked off into the bedroom with his tail between his legs. I hadn’t meant to bruise his ego, but if you can’t handle a three-month puppy, you’ve got no chance taming me. Besides, there’s only ever space for one bitch in my relationships.
And as nice as I’m sure the Hamptons are, it was the only attractive quality left. And by no means worth fucking for (especially after that kiss). Besides, there’d probably be a drink-limit anyway…
To read more from the Single & Fabulous? series click here.