Flavor of the Week: The Year of the Asshole

 

 

 

Last year, my friend convinced me to sign up for a dating site that she called "the most painless one out there." I order everything from pizza to eye cream on the Internet, but I was still embarrassed about shopping online for a boyfriend. Women with classic features and virtually zero childhood trauma shouldn’t need a website to meet men who are lying about their height.

 

But the whole online dating thing redeemed itself when it led me to the man I was convinced would be my next big love. Even better, I didn’t have to contact him through the site. His profile wasn’t even trying to be anonymous. He linked his Twitter account, which led to his blog, which prompted me to Google him… He was a filmmaker who’d been traveling the world for six months. He was the kind of hip, unisex-named, vegan guy I’d never had nor wanted.

I quickly emailed him to ask about his travels. He followed me on Twitter and friended me on Facebook. We started instant messaging: me from my office, he from another side of the world where people have riots about things other than Black Friday sales.

We flirted online for almost a month.

My friends and I started affectionately calling him JewTube after his documentary project about Judaism in fringe populations. Everyone warned me not to get emotionally involved with someone I’d never seen—or touched or spoken to—in real life. It was too late.

A week before Christmas, I finally met my new like-interest at a bar. He was smaller in real life and had a New York accent. We still liked each other. (I was apparently the kind of hippy, anchorwoman-haired, carnivorous girl he’d never had nor wanted.)

He turned me into a new woman, the kind who leans into a guy in tiny jeans and big glasses and draws on the inside of his arm. I pulled him onto my lap and asked what he wanted for Christmas. He didn’t say me. He wanted some sort of gaming system. And when he pulled me to his lap and asked the same question, I said, "An Amazon gift card. Duh."

At the end of the night, we did exactly what we were supposed to do: We hugged; he hailed me a cab; and I managed not to stare at him as it drove away. He’d be in San Francisco for a few weeks before permanently returning to New York. The cyber-flirting got as aggressive as it gets (ping me! ping me harder!), and then he asked me out for New Year’s Eve. His friend had comped him two tickets to see this edgy, costumed band I’d never heard of.

I needed a good New Year’s kiss—and everything else—but ushering in 2011 together seemed like a big deal. We agreed to go out December 30, so New Year’s Eve wouldn’t be our second date.

When the day came, he brought flowers and a Flip camera he’d take out sporadically to film what we did. I imagined us watching the footage months later, diagnosing every bashful pause as nascent love. We ended up at a club party his friend was hosting. We drank for free and kissed like we were getting paid.

Then the ball—and the other shoe— dropped. On New Year’s Eve, he showed up at my apartment early when I was running errands 30 blocks away. He waited in the sleet and was understandably annoyed. I unloaded groceries and apologized. Then he spilled wine and stained my countertop. I almost got bleach on his shirt as I cleaned it up.

On our way to the concert, he put on these boner-killing fuzzy mittens. I removed them as affectionately as possible and squeezed his hand. Soon everything went back to good. The music was undanceable noise, but we ground our bodies together anyway. We drank absinthe and cuddled at a house party afterward. No one believed we’d just met. They were surprised, or maybe just wiser than us.

We took a cab back to my place and got horizontal as soon as I could peel off my clothes. He said all the right things and I felt like I’d never roll my eyes at "Like A Virgin" again and… he couldn’t get hard. We tried a few things. Nothing worked. The new year wasn’t going to start out with a bang.

I woke up refreshed the next morning; he was hung over. But he’d drunk no more than I did, and I’m a notorious lightweight. I told him I’d take care of him. He ran to the living room and started getting dressed with his underwear inside out. When he couldn’t find one of his mittens, he had a meltdown. Ever see a drunken, nearly naked hipster ranting about mittens? I laughed nervously until he finally agreed to get back in bed.

Once he recovered, we went to Shake Shack, where I accidentally ordered him a non-vegan shroom burger. He ate half of it before realizing it had cheese, so Iguess he was still incapacitated. We went back to my place, got under the covers, and he said that he had something to tell me: He was so out of it that morning, because he enjoys taking OxyContin recreationally.

He hadn’t said anything because he knew I wouldn’t be into it.

He thought I acted like a princess; I hadn’t even officially thanked him for the concert.

And losing his mitten was not funny. He just got those mittens! So what if I didn’t like them? Did I know he could get, like, three girl’s phone numbers just riding the L train?

He left shortly after that, in tears as he put his clothes on the right way. It felt like a breakup without the relationship.

I didn’t need to consult the Chinese zodiac to know that this was a very bad portent for the rest of the year. 2011 will be the Year of the Asshole.