(Editor’s Note: This week, we kick off a new column about dating, hookups and the pursuit of romance, written with unflinching honesty by MizBlitzed. We’re going to call it “The Shame Train: A Good Girl’s Story of Being Bad About Boys.”)
This is my first entry so let me just give you a little bit on what I look for and some random thoughts associated with that. This one is just a straight purge, so don’t expect a coherent story until my next go ‘round, okay? Just keep coming back – I can assure you it gets better.
I’m a little particular about the kind of men I go for. I was married once and after that swore I’d not give up on any requirements that I knew I wanted. He needs to be tall (sorry, I’m tall – and yes I’ve dated shorter men before but I’m looking to be the ‘small spoon’ these days), funny, hard-working (you can thank my ex for that requirement) and live a similar lifestyle as me. That means lots of drinking, late nights, tattoos, and appreciation of the arts and the pursuit of a lifetime of fun and revelry every day of the week. Yes, I admit it is somewhat of a tall order, but in a city of 9 million people how hard could it be to fulfill?
A lot harder than I thought, actually. First off, here in Bushwick with all the bullshit media coverage we’ve gotten, one would think that the neighborhood is teeming with heavily bearded, creative artists who can build me a table and drink me under it. One might imagine something akin to a bunch of characters from Sons of Anarchy walking around and that a girl with my preferences need merely walk down the street to meet any number future ex-boyfriends. Not. The. Case. At. All.
The closest thing to a rough and tumble “lumberjack that can dunk” that I seek are the bartenders at Pearl’s. Most of them are taken and, quite frankly, in my experience single bartenders are good for one thing–making your fucking drink. Unless, of course, you’re into staying up past sunrise drinking Jameson and doing lines to then have sloppy selfish (his) sex, followed by going home at 11am with last night’s makeup smeared all over your face, calling out from work at just to sleep the rest of the day and becoming another notch on the cocktail shaker.
Trust me, single bartenders get pussy thrown at them every night – they don’t have to be gracious, good in bed or even polite about it because if you didn’t like it or couldn’t deal, there’s just another one waiting at the start of his next shift. Don’t get me wrong – props to them for being able to do it. But I’ve been there & done them (disclaimer – I have not done the bartenders from Pearl’s; I’m just talking bartenders in general) and it’s just not my thing anymore. And no offense to all you bar crush girls. If you enjoy the bartender groupie lifestyle & can successfully fuck your way into a couple buybacks, more power to ya homegirl!
Shit, I can’t lie – I do expect a man to be good in bed. And to be completely honest, after two years of being completely outrageous I’m ready to have something akin to a steady man. Still means no bartenders, though.
So, I was pleasantly surprised when I learned last weekend of the Brooklyn Invitational Motorcyle Show. Which I’ll talk about next time because I’m fucking tired from having stayed up all night doing Jameson, snorting blow, having unremarkable sex and taking the Shame Train home at 11am. Hey, at least it wasn’t with a bartender.