But the funny thing about heartbreak is, it doesn’t even matter who you meet, because no one stands a chance. (Although I will say that, despite the vastness of this city, I’m constantly perplexed by how difficult it is to meet someone who hasn’t already slept with someone I know.) I’ve met some really great people in these past months, too-a beautiful artist who looked like a young Richard Hell, a hot androgynous Ivy League girl who could talk about books and movies for hours. I’m not trying to make a sweeping statement that modern dating is doomed, or to echo Carrie Bradshaw’s claim that dating in New York is somehow harder than in other places. This is generally when you find yourself in bed with a random French guy who only mentions that he’s married after you’ve had sex, right before he tells you that the crutches in his living room are for when he pretends to be disabled to skip lines at the airport. But if you don’t want to be celibate, sometimes you have to lower your standards. The reality is, it’s hard to find someone who you can imagine having sex with more than twice, who doesn’t make you want to kill yourself as soon as they start talking. When I recounted this story to my best friend over a PTSD brunch the next morning, she-ever the competitor-immediately informed me of the time she slept with an older guy who, after he came, had to put on a full-face oxygen mask “to keep him alive.” She never lets me win. I’m pretty sure I’ve never felt more gay than while watching him fasten the leather strap around his un-manicured balls. To make the situation worse, the doctor then took out a cock ring from his bedside table, which he informed me was necessary for him to stay hard. Not to mention that once they hit 30, almost all of them have back hair. But men gain weight in all the wrong places they look like pregnant trolls. When women gain a few pounds, they just become more pillowy and fun to cuddle.
The thing about older men is, they rarely look good. Once the doctor took his clothes off, he looked way older than 50-he may have been pushing 60. I was looking for an experience, but this was the wrong one. Primed by my screening of Nympho, I was eager for an atypical experience, so I agreed to go back to his apartment. He was wearing high-waisted khakis and had overgrown nose hairs, but he was really sweet, and was becoming funnier with every sip of punch I took. I ended up in a long conversation with an older, seemingly early-50s cardiologist.
I wore a slinky silk dress and intentionally went to the party alone, to force myself to mingle. After the Tinder fail, I watched **Lars von Trier’**s Nymphomaniac, trying to will myself into the headspace of the film’s main character, who takes great pleasure in fucking strange men-something I, too, used to find sexy and exciting, before my ex-girlfriend tore out my heart and threw it in the trash along with my will to live and my problematically high sex drive.Ī couple nights later, I went to a dinner party on the Upper East Side. Sometimes the idea of “getting out there” seems like torture, but you have to do it, because the alternative is a life of sitting home alone, eating bags of beef jerky while watching Mob Wives in your uncle’s hand-me-down sweatpants (something I’ve been doing regularly). If you don’t watch out, your legs will get blown off and you’ll end up begging for money on the L train.” That might be a bit overdramatic but I understand the sentiment. My very wise friend Ally once said: “The New York dating scene is a war zone. When I woke up from that nap, I downloaded Tinder. This is also the phase when you begin the dreaded coital dance known as dating.įor me, this phase began with writing “living well is the best revenge” on a Post-it, sticking it to the wall beside my bed, then staring at it for twenty minutes before deciding to take a nap. This is when your brain tries to trick your heart into thinking that you’ve moved on, and you suddenly have tons of energy for things you’ve never cared about before, like alphabetizing your bookshelves and figuring out what the best food podcasts are, even though you never cook and literally don’t own a single pan. Then there’s this period where you just feel numb and find yourself staring at inanimate objects, having really cliché, intro-to-philosophy-type thoughts like, “What is happiness, anyway?” Eventually, after you’ve regained at least some of your dignity, you enter the classic “I’ll show them!” phase. First there’s shell shock, followed by denial, and then some combination of paralysis, anger, and loneliness. Three months deep into my break-up, I have experienced almost all of them.
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