Date or no date?

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In actuality, my birthday kicked off on the eve of my special day, when I got a text message from a guy I met for drinks a little over two weeks ago. He is a relative of friends of my mom and dad. We’ll call him Stan.

Stan lives on the UWS and is about ten years older than me. He’s tall, good looking, and tells some fun stories. However, I had written off ever hearing from him since where I come from, if you like someone you don’t wait two weeks to call. He wanted to know if I was around and even though I was annoyed, I decided that going out with him again might afford me the opportunity to glean some insight on the strange behavior exhibited by Stan, and the rest of the male species. When we finally connected, Stan invited me to join him and a few friends downtown. So, it appeared this was not a date. Which meant that drinks two weeks ago might not have been a date. More confusion.

Stan and I executed a stealth move whereby we left our apartments at approximately the same time to head to our respective “1” train stations. I told him I would try to get in the first car. When my subway got to his station, I would step out on the platform to alert him of my arrival and we could then reboard the train together. It worked like a charm.

We exited the train at 8th St. and headed up to 12th to meet up with Stan’s friend Jana. I was under the impression that some of Jana’s friends would be coming along as well but after two beers and conversation we prepared to head to the LES, just the three of us.

At first I assumed that Jana was just a good friend who Stan wanted to meet me, so she could give him her opinion. I wondered if maybe he was interested in Jana, but then it seemed like a really stupid idea to bring me along if that was the case. However as we sat together talking, at times Stan seemed singularly focused on Jana to the point where I considered excusing myself. I felt like I was on one of those trashy reality shows.

In search of live music, we tried the Living Room, then Arlene’s Grocery, where we had our third beer of the evening. While Stan was in the bathroom I suggested Jana and I seize our only chance to talk about him.

“Stan’s a great guy, but my girlfriends and I think he’d be a nightmare to date. After I broke up with my boyfriend a month and a half ago, Stan suggested we start dating but I told him that was impossible since I was part of ‘the harem’ and you don’t date girls in the harem. I’m not trying to dissuade you in you’re interested in him…” Stan had returned. (From what I gathered, the harem is the group of women that Jana hangs out with, together with Stan and his male counterparts. An “urban tribe” if you will.)

With this new information tucked in my skullcap, we headed to another venue, Sin-e. We paid a $10 cover for a half hour open bar and music by “The London Souls” whose sound was a cross between Hendrix, the Dead and Rod Stewart. Great music, great crowd. But I couldn’t help noticing how frequently Stan leaned over to tell Jana something, or the way he seemed to be sidling up to her. When he left to get us another round, I urged Jana to spill more and she volunteered this information: “When Stan suggested bringing you tonight, I asked him if he thought you’d become part of the harem and he said ‘yes.’”

Based on my earlier knowledge that “you don’t date the harem”, my friend status seemed assured. But then again, Jana had to remind Stan of this rule so maybe he felt differently.

Moments later, Jana announced that she was taking off. This might have put a new spin on the situation, but by this time I had completely lost interest in Stan. There wasn’t any chemistry. However, in light of the fact that it made the most sense for Stan and I to catch a cab back to the UWS together, I agreed to stay and listen to the next band.

“Hey Tiger” also had some serious talent but their music was just a little too mellow, so we moved on to a place down the block playing Mambo music. I loved simply watching the large, expressive ensemble, but for the final song before a break, Stan and I got on our feet to dance. “Muchisimo gracias!” the woman playing the maracas called out.

In the taxi on the FDR I leaned back and gazed at the lights of Brooklyn, content within the fuzzy sphere of my five beers. Stan started to move closer and I pretended not to notice. Then he somehow invited himself along to the museum I was planning to visit in the morning. I could feel him watching me until finally he said, “I’d like to give you a birthday kiss.” I was drunk. I was trapped in the back of a taxi. What could I do? (I’d like to add that this is not an original move—most men recognize the vulnerability of the taxi ride).

When we pulled up outside Stan’s place, he turned and said, “I don’t suppose I could persuade you to come up.”

I shook my head and had to stop myself from laughing at him. “It’s my birthday tomorrow and I want to wake up in my own bed.” After I gave the cab driver my address, I breathed a sigh of relief that this non-date was finally over.

The moral of this tall tale? This is dating in New York City: a first non-date, followed by two weeks or more of no contact, then a second non-date spent wondering if in fact, you are not the date but a third wheel. In the end the guy settles on whichever woman is left standing. And then has the nerve to ask her up to his apartment. Attention, Men of Manhattan: Seriously?

The next morning I woke up hoping Stan would forget his offer to accompany me to the museum. I wasn’t interested in the company of someone who didn’t have the common decency to treat me with respect. Fortunately for Stan, after receiving his message inquiring about our outing, I did have the decency to call him and say that I’d caught the shopping bug and was postponing my trip to the museum. I wanted to savor this sunny birthday with someone who clearly did respect me: myself.

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