Update: Guy across the street

Finish my sweaty sesh at hot yoga tonight, which just so happens to be across the street.

Which just so happens to have a nice little balcony where everyone convenes after class.

Which just so happens to look directly into my studio apartment.

Which just so happens to have the lights on.

Which just so happens to reveal that you can see absolutely everything inside my place.

Which just so happens to include my bed, my shower, and my couch.

You think I'd learn my lesson. Walk in, peel off sweaty clothes, now blogging on couch. Naked, but much cooler.

Good night yoga peeps. Good night creepy guy across the street. Good night tourists on the top floor of the Circle Line bus tour. Good night moon.

Oh, and for those of you who can see me, don't judge me for eating this Cutie Tofutti in bed.

So, you CAN get a date on a Lesbian Vacation

Yes, that’s right chica’s, I’m pulling on up to the winners circle as I just secured my final diz-aaaate (more deets to come on that) but first, a quick recap of the last few days…

San-fran-tastic…

** Saw a hottie mc hot hot at a Stanford tailgate and immediately imagined us having adorable mixed babies and fighting over if our kids would go to Stanford or Duke (sigh, gotta love elitist fantasies)

** CW’s (female) boss told me I looked pretty (yes, that’s all it takes for me to feel accomplished for a weekend)

** San Francisco food = eating my body weight in carbs


San-fran-fail…

** San Francisco food = eating my body weight in carbs

** CW losing her fave sunglasses .5 hours into the trip and almost breaking her finger on the plane (reserving lesbian joke possibilities for the sake of, well, anyone reading this)

** Burning myself on my curling iron, well moreso branding myself as my right arm now says CON (of Con-air, the brand, not Nick Cage). This happened shortly after I, literally, punched myself in the face while trying to pull up the sheets in a much needed nap.

** I got my favorite ring confiscated at the airport. That’s right. Confiscated. The bia at security told me I was rocking brass knuckles and despite my efforts to explain that I bought this (one of a kind) ring at the checkout line at Urban for $12, she still considered me armed and dangerous.


That ring was such a good conversation starter. Especially after my sprained wrist healed and no longer had an excuse to rock a wrist brace.

I would say I can just rest on my charm, but clearly, I will need to find another prop before tomorrow’s date…

Meat Man

Food or sex?

A hot and steamy hairy-chested Italian or a gorgeous plate of melt-in-your-mouth prosciutto?

'Tis is the question that plagues millions of women around the world.

Both can make your eyes roll back in your head, but let's face it, the prosciutto is more likely to give me an orgasm. The problem: prosciutto can't give me the post-coital cuddle.

Now imagine if you could have both.

Enter the best Italian deli/restaurant in all of Manhattan. Sure, I am biased. Their 24-month prosciutto is to-die-for. (So good it's only sold at 7 places in the United States.) And the guy at the meat counter... HOTTEST. MAN. ALIVE.

For those of you who have recently become a Meat Man follower, you know what I'm talkin bout. For those of you who haven't, let's just say I've gained some prosciutto pounds getting my flirt on.

I've made all kinds of excuses to drop by and order a half-pound of this, a half-pound of that. I've had dinner parties, packaged meat as gifts (don't act like you didn't like it), even taken aSixteenDate there. All to see the Meat Man.

And this week, after weeks of flirting and snickering about his mouth-watering sausage, I got the digits.

Which means I am one step closer to what is sure to be the most orgasmic experience of my life. (Picture hot steamy sex with prosciutto dangling from... or don't. Hate for you to lose your appetite.)

Anyway, it turns out Meat Man is a personal chef. Yeah, get jealous.

For the first time in my life, I'm thrilled that my kitchen is five feet from my bed.

Bring on the prosciutto.

P.S. This is likely to trump the time I lured the pizza guy into returning after his late-night shift to deliver a free pizza and some hot action. And no, that's not a porn but the start of one of my favorite college romances. Loves ya Mario!

Dear guy across the street

It didn't take you long to realize the new tenant across the way lives by herself. And often likes to be, shall we say, free.

Of clothing.

Yes, working, reading, cooking (ok, that's a stretch...), eating dinner while watching Jon Hamm be the hottest man alive -- always better sans clothes.

But seriously now. Are you stuck in that window? I mean, I see you. And you see that I see you.

You're cute. I'll give you that. But that is no excuse to let the creep out.

Now, if you want to come down and ask me on a date in person, I might be inclined to put some clothes on.

Wait a minute, am I seriously considering going on a date with Rando who watches me sleep at night?!!?!!!!

I think it's time for another SixteenDates intervention. Look what you've done to this girl.

P.S. Kudos to anyone who can tell me the window climbing reference here...

Too close for comfort

It’s all fun and games until:

1) You are looking through prospects on one of the online dating sites and you see TWO people you know.

2) You realize that this could have happened to THEM or other men you know also.

3) You realize this could have happened with men you WORK with. Or I guess even girls (this thought becomes more relavant when people you work with could think you are a lesbian). Oh. Junk.

4) You are chatting with someone about the blog and one of the guys you went on a date with randomly comes up. Like physically comes up. “Whatcha guys talking about?”

5) People start using the blog as blackmail.

6) This blog comes up in business negotiations.

So, are you lesbians, or fag-hags?

Wait, so after two months of failed dating in NYC, these are my only two options now?

Let me back up by saying that I am essentially on a couple’s retreat with my roommate CW. We always joke that we are “life-partners” or each other’s significant others (even though she now has a real BF so we sometimes have to re-evaluate) but never before had we encountered actually being considered a couple.

Several interesting/hilarious facts that contribue to this:

1. We decided to take a labor day vacation to San Francisco

2. She was going due to a work trip and I decided to tag along for the free hotel room/free cabs

3. We have a day activity planned with her parents

4. We are having brunch with her boss and her boss’s family

5. She told me I was welcome to come to any of the work convention events, but that it might be kind of weird

6. I responded “of course, that’s totally unprofessional”

7. She responded, “no, its not that, it’s just the nature of the conference…”

Yes, my female roommate and I are at national convention for lesbian and gay journalists.

Before I left NYC, I was reading the blog at work and one of my old bosses came by. When he asked “what are you doing?” I quickly clicked any other window besides the blog to avoid being outted.

Of course, the document behind it was the word doc CW sent me outlining our trip entitled “KG and CW’s Lesbian Vacation” due to the ridiculously hilarious circumstances.

After a moment of silence he said, “so, are you a lesbian?” Despite me trying to laugh it off, say "NOOO" and explain the whole story, it seems like I was worried about being “outted” in all the wrong ways. Apparently "herway" being on my screen has a whole new meaning.

Although we are having an amazing time, this is not helping my chances with the challenge. Last night we not only got asked “so…are you lessies or fag-hags” but we got approving looks from many other gay couples (I mean, we looked hot) and went to an after party involving copious amounts of champagne and cheesy pop.

At lunch today:

Me: That waitress totes thinks we’re together

CW: That’s because we just ordered a bottle of wine for lunch and the only aphrodisiac on the menu.

I mean, I kinda wanted to throw this on the DTC (does this count?) board ,but I felt that I couldn’t justify a lessie vacay as a real date. I mean, we do have separate beds afterall.

So when I get back to NYC I will have only a week to find and land a final date with a guy who’s eyebrows aren’t more sculpted than mine…

If you guys have any suggestions, please let me know. For now, napping off today’s gluttony.

Date Recap: Man #1, Dates#1 and #2

Okay, so I should have posted this last week, right after my first date. And certainly before I posted on Man#2 (aka Midwest Man). And on Date #2 with Man#1…

But anyway, here goes:

Background –
Met on okcu. He’s 31, has a masters in classical music composition, lived in one of my favorite cities (Portland, OR), is tall, hipster-y, lives in Bushwick. He’s currently in a band, teaches music, and sells real estate. Oh, and his initials are BJ. For real.

Date #1–
Long story short, it was fine. He’s nice/smart/cute but….eh. He told me that he used to be a drug dealer (TMI for a first date!). I thought he was gay for the first five minutes of our date, which is obviously not a good sign. I paid for the second round of drinks, which was more than twice as much as the first round. The conversation was easy, but I really didn’t feel too many romantic sparks. I made a point to kiss him on the cheek so he couldn’t kiss me goodnight. I could see him as a friend?

Date #2 –
I started to post about this Wednesday, and now I feel like a bi-atch. Yes, he did pick a terrible lunch spot. Yes, it was cheap and my stomach is still grumbling from the bad sushi. Yes, he let me pay for half (it was $20! And we split the first date. I really think he could have paid). On the upside, he’s incredibly sweet. He skipped out of work to hang out, told me he thinks I’m awesome/smart/fun/pretty in a non-awkward way. And he said he’d give me guitar lessons for free…

In the end, I ducked out a bit early and made sure he couldn’t kiss me. It was daytime, after all. I like his company, but not really interested in more than a guitar lesson or two. Meaning, I probably shouldn’t see him again.