WHY DATING SUCKS IN NYC? (Part 4)

                Yep.

                We're back at it, folks.

                Part four.

                I’ve got a treasure trove of material regarding what a soul crushing experience trying to establish a trusting, fulfilling, and honest experience with a person in this fine town. I’m sure it’s rough in Tucson, or Tupelo, or wherever, but out here on these mean streets, dating can turn into a full time murderous act.

                And when I say murder, I’m talking about the murder of our little, fragile, hungry hearts and its dear friend dressed all in white: hope.  

                Now, if you’re reading this and you’ve already found that person that both embodies your physical, emotional, and intellectual needs, this blog is not for you. Y’all need to you go off and spoon to Netflix on demand together in the darkness of night.

                No.

                This blog goes out to the lonely, the hungry, the passion filled, roaming the streets, forever searching, maybe not for that eternal someone, but for SOMEONE WHO WILL JUST FOR A SHORT TIME PLAY THINGS CLEAN.

    I've listened to thousands of stories behind the bar about the torments of dating in New York City. I’ve heard all about how this one person fucked up or is playing hot and cold with you, or how you just found out they were fucking three people behind your back (without condoms).

    The list of minor psychic atrocities goes on and on.

    I know so many beautiful, smart, successful women who can't keep a relationship for more than 3 months. I know men who would give their lives to an ideal of honor and respect, and get shit on by the average girl strutting down Bedford Ave.  

                My roommate and I were discussing this last night over two tall boy Coors.

                He said it perfectly: “Well, there’s only two options round these parts. Either you play everything straight and get shit on or you join the viper pit and get used to the taste of poison.”  

                Maybe it’s because I’ve just returned from one of the most romantic cities in the world to the one of the most cutthroat, and like a new cell phone, I’m not quite used to the settings just yet.  

                Everybody seemed to be making out in Paris. Like All The Time.

    But already since I’ve returned, I’ve heard tales of breakups and deceptions, experienced heartbreak and serious let downs, and watched at least two people cry in the process (and I’ve only been back like 5 days).

                I’m sure there are tears in Paris as well, but they are no doubt romantic ones falling into the Seine and full of tannins.  

                So, yet again, I will jump into the abyss of why it is so damn hard to find something that isn’t full of some form of deceit, emotional cowardice, and excessive amounts of promiscuity.

                Here’s three little ‘stabs’ at, yet again, why dating sucks in the Big Apple:

                 BODY GREED

                Seriously. When sexologists and gender rights activists in the 60’s and 70’s talked about sexual liberation, I don’t think they meant for people to start using each other like fuck machines with no emotional connection whatsoever.

It’s like someone gave you the keys to a bright red Porsche and you crash it at 95 miles an hour into the nearest tree.

As a French girl lectured me over there in the land of frommage: “Matthew, sex is natural. We don’t use it frivolously. We use it extravagantly! There must be talk. Always talk. It’s like making soup. The more things you put in it, the better it tastes” (This is an actual conversation with a French girl no older than 21).

                Now compare and contrast that lovely little quote with one from another young lady of about the same age, but this one buys into the bullshit of Williamsburg nihilism and sexual flagrancy: “Well, I was feeling sad and scared of a relationship so I just had to go and sleep with this other bartender that I don’t even like. I mean, he doesn't even read books!”

                Where’s the poetry in there, folks? Wanna know why you can’t hear it?

     Because there is none.  

                Now it seems that people use the supposed ‘sexual revolution’ as an excuse to violently degrade themselves on a day to day basis.

   Hey, what can I say? It’s perfectly alright to fuck people, but don’t you want to add a little poetry in there? Must it be like a business? I mean, how low of self esteem do you have to merely let anyone touch you? Here’s a little metaphor for you:

              Imagine all human beings are like radio stations, and when you have sex with them you are tuning into that particular station. Now, that music never really goes away. So it’s pretty quiet if you only tuned into a modest amount of radio stations over the years. But when your numbers start resembling the National Debt, you can imagine how loud and piercing all of the mismatched tunes can be.

            We’re hung up on this sex for sex sake out here in the States. Damn Puritans.

Perfectly fine with guns. Lots of guns. But sexuality is treated as a commodity like anything else.

So when everybody is running around being body greedy and using each other like fuck machines and robots, it's not surprising they keep waking up asking themselves:

“Why in the world am I so unhappy?”

Take a wild guess, kid.            

I’m with the French on this one. They make the best kind of soup because they know just what to put in it.    

                FUCK FIRST, BUY LATER

               

                Now that we established that here in New York sex is very much like a poorly formed handshake, we must ask ourselves…why are we in such a rush to fuck a person we don't know?

                I started a little sexual social experiment in the last years. I've decided to wait to have to sex with people and get to know them. And do you know what happens to me nine times out of ten?  

                The girls actually get pissed off. Either they insult you, or they retaliate by sleeping with some one you know. They'll call you boring, or they say they feel unwanted. I'll never understand it. It makes me want to go right back to my whorish days. If a woman asked me to wait to have sex with her so we get to know each other, I would think that's fantastic. What a relief! You mean you actually want to get to know someone? What a concept!

                But there is a danger in letting someone get to know you. There is a vulnerability that comes along with that. And that vulnerability is looked at as weakness. And New Yorkers can't have that.

                And I don't blame them. This city is tough. Survival is necessary at all costs. Everybody knows sex gets way better the more you know someone. That way you can learn all about each other's special proclivities, and the two of you can skip down the yellow brick road of sexual perversity together. It's like the good meal metaphor. Without that vulnerability, it's like eating food that has already expired on the shelf.

                And it's this whole 'fuck first, buy later' phenomenon that kills most of that learning process. Random sex can be fun, no doubt, but it's a fluke when you don't feel slightly demoralized. Remember that 'walk of shame' down Driggs Avenue?

                Yeah.

                Remember biting your fingers nails in the waiting room of the Chelsea free clinic?

                Yeah.          

                It's best to get to know someone so you can find out just what a depraved, lying, depressed individual they actually are so you can stop wasting your time, and your body, on spoiled food.

                HEDGING THEIR BETS

                I know people here in New York, both men and women, who literally keep around a cache of partners. They may like someone, and they get to be put on the front burner, but it's the 'Dark Dog' they call up after you just kissed them at the door goodnight.

                They keep around these lovers like a Swiss Army knife, pending on the particular needs of the day, and which tool will suffice. It's wild how much people here treat their love life like a card game, keeping human beings around like a decent hand in poker.

                And this can back fire badly when you actually meet someone you like.

                Here's a scenario (and it works for both genders):

                You're single, you're out there, you're hooking up. There's one person who good for some things, another good at others. Then, out of the blue, comes this human being that's like a glass of water in a hot desert. Before you know it, this Fresh Glass Of Water puts everyone else to shame. But because of particular emotional cowardice and a horrid fear of being alone, you keep these others around.

                Well, when this Fresh Glass Of Water dares to ask the most evil of all questions: "Hey, are you sleeping with anyone else?" That's when everything comes crashing down.  Because when this Fresh Glass Of Water suddenly realizes this cache exists, I don't care who you are or how much you respect honesty, the romantic myth is crushed.

                Bukowski had this to say about this very moment: "Love is a fog that burns with the first daylight of reality."

                And it's a damn shame when it happens.

                And it's happens everyday here in New York City.         

                So I don't know what to tell you when you come in and sit at my bar. I'll keep buying you drinks when you're sad. I'll tell you my terrible jokes just to make a little smile cross your lips.

                But as far as why dating suck here? I guess we'll just have to wait for part five.  

                Till next time. Stick with the thing that never lies or deceives you.

                Drinking.

                Au Revior!     

THIS IS GENERALLY USED IN DATING HERE IN NYC!

HUMAN BEINGS ARE, UNFORTUNATELY, NOT THESE!

THE AVERAGE NEW YORKERS OPTIONS!