Now most people ask if I have “must own a boat and invest in cryptocurrencies” as requirements on my Bumble and Tinder profiles. Not the case. I’ve just accidentally met a lot of guys who do one or both of those things. This time though, I swiped right because of the boat pictures. This guy was cute but not my normal style. My normal kind of guy is ridiculously gorgeous with a super hot bod. I could go for cute-ish and chubby though if he has a boat. We agreed to meet at RPM Italian for dinner and drinks, despite the fact that I told him I’d skip the carbs from pasta and just drink a couple Manhattans or tequila cocktails with him.
I was running early and he was running late. I popped into Ema to have a drink before he arrived. Two cocktails later, he still wasn’t there but said he was a few minutes away. I decided to walk over and grab our table at the restaurant so I asked what name the reservation was under. He didn’t make one. How the hell did he think we could casually walk into RPM Italian and get a table like it’s a fucking Applebee’s?! I did a walk-through of the bar area to see if any seats were available. Booked as hell. I told him I’d be standing outside on the corner like a prostitute waiting for him since we would have to go somewhere else. Moments later I heard some man screaming my name. I spotted him in his brand new Mercedes waving at me to come over. I hopped in the car and my nostrils were assaulted by an overwhelming dose of cologne. My date was about 30-40 pounds heavier than in his pictures and missed the top three buttons on his shirt, exposing his bushy chest hair and gold chain and giant cross. His hair was shaved on the sides and the top was long but cemented down with heavy duty, super strong hold hair gel. On his profile he said he was 31 but in person he looked like he was closer to 50. He started driving, never apologized for being almost an hour late and just repeatedly asked me where I wanted to go. Everything he said, he repeated 3 times in the strongest Jersey Shore accent I’ve ever heard. It was good that he did repeat everything multiple times because his accent was so strong I definitely couldn’t understand him the first time so it saved me the trouble of asking him “what” over and over.
We ended up heading to the rooftop at the Godfrey. He rudely chucked his keys at the valet guy’s chest and we continued to the elevator to the rooftop bar. While I was looking at the cocktail list, I heard him order a pitcher of strawberry mojitos from the bartender, despite telling me earlier he was avoiding sugary drinks so he could drop 10 pounds (or 30). I couldn’t believe he ordered for us without consulting me first. The bartender started to walk away and I put my menu down and this guy called the bartender back over saying, “Get mah lady’s ordah!” I asked for a Maker’s Manhattan up and was thoroughly confused as to why this guy needed 5 full strawberry mojitos to himself on a Tuesday night but I am not one to judge, especially on alcohol consumption.
He explains to me that he’s an only child, a momma’s boy and VERY Italian. I didn’t know you could be more than just plain old Italian so I was obviously intrigued. The reason he was late to our date (and not sorry about it in the least) was because his momma made him some meatballs and spaghetti. He tried to leave after one plate but she made him have another. His mother, the love of his VERY Italian life, is controlling everything in his life, but mostly his waistline it seems. Within about 20 minutes of this date, he tells me he wants me to meet his mother and she would love me. She loves a good, pretty Italian girl. I’m 6% Italian according Ancestry DNA but I didn’t tell him that. Let him create his own weird fantasies. Who am I to tell the truth? A bad move on a first date is to talk about the girl you just met meeting your mother. My boner was gone in a heartbeat.
Besides talking about being VERY Italian and a momma’s boy, he had a ton of other interesting topics of conversation. He loved talking about his money and his family’s money. Also fun, was talking about his friends’ money. We talked about his boat and expensive, fast cars. We talked about clubs and bottle service. My mind was so stimulated I could have exploded. This guy was dreamy. Listening to all of this coming from a guy with the accent of Pauly D or The Situation and the body of a slightly elongated Danny DeVito, was beyond my wildest fantasies. This was my guy. This was my next future ex husband.
I finished my second Manhattan and was pretty buzzed after the two drinks I had at Ema and because we never actually ate dinner. He offered to drive me home and I accepted because I’ve become stuck up as hell and would rather choke on my own vomit than take public transportation when I’ve been drinking. It wasn’t until the check came that I noticed he consumed two pitchers of strawberry mojitos. It wasn’t until I thought about the date the next day that I realized he drove me home after 10 cocktails and that was probably bad.
He insisted on walking me to my door, which was nice but, of course, after 10 cocktails, he had the balls to try and stick his tongue down my throat. That was gross. Momma’s spaghetti and meatballs were probably still in his teeth. We said goodnight and I went inside to my couch and my dogs. He sent me a few texts when he got home saying that he wished I was with him in his bed. I responded as I think most nice Italian girls would, by saying, “ha, thanks. nite.”
I’ll never understand how people can’t read body language, facial expressions or tone of voice. I don’t get how you can’t tell when you’re not connecting with someone. Maybe 10 mojitos had something to do with it. I don’t know. The Meatball and I will likely never see one another again. That’s what I get for swiping right for boats. No good can ever come of it.
Swiping My Life Away 