We're starting a new feature from time to time called "Staci's Soapbox" because -- spoiler alert -- I have lots of opinions and thoughts. I feel all the feels.
Today I bring you the topic of love in New York. You know how sometimes when you travel, you get a vacation crush? No? Oh...right...me either...
In college I missed my New York friends so much during my summers at home, I started making a trip up every summer to visit. This tradition has endured every spring and sometimes in the fall too. Mostly I go up with no plan at all except to see my friends and eat my face off.
I am going up a little late this year, starting tomorrow for the weekend because Jen the Running Evangelist has FINALLY talked me into doing a race with her. It'll be my first legit race, and my other New York friends, Stephanie and Cammy, are joining as well. I'd tell you how to track me Saturday morning, but that is sure to end up being embarrassing.
This got me thinking about all of the boyfriends I have collected over my many weekends in NYC.
(Dad, you might want to stop reading right about here.)
No, I'm not talking about the exhibitionist who whacked off in front of me while I was waiting on the subway platform on my way to work one day, or his schizophrenic friend who, while yelling something unintelligible, walked up to me and stroked my hair ::shudder::. No, friends. These are real boyfriends.*
And now, a romantic trip down memory lane.
Lawrence L. Craig Jr. (Baritone). #Sorrynotsorry, I'm listing this guy's real name. On the first day of one of my trips, I dropped my stuff off at Sabrina's apartment, and while she went for a dentist's appointment, I decided to head downtown to meet a friend for coffee outside her office. One of the many things I love about New York is that you don't have to talk to anyone if you don't want to, and most people don't want to talk to you either (schizophrenics aside). On this afternoon, however, on my subway ride back to the UWS after coffee, this dude decided to chat me up, despite my stubbornly averted eyes.
"Are you a dancer?" he asked.
"You look so graceful," said no one ever.
After making severely uncomfortable small talk for several stops, I mercifully got to mine and rushed off the train -- but not before he gave me his Comic Sans-laden "business" card, telling me to get in touch if I was trying to get on stage (wut). Naturally, Sabrina and I immediately Googled this fool, found out there was a sexual assault case against him, and he became the butt of all jokes all weekend long.
Cup of Chad. On two trips during my younger years, I partook in a little drunk brunch with the Australians at the Sunburnt Calf. These are the only two times in my life when I've gone day drinking, and there's a good reason why it's only happened twice. On the first occasion, I sailed away blissfully on a sea of mimosas and promptly passed out afterward in Central Park like an NYU dropout who partied too hard with the Olsen twins and found herself a homeless hobo sleeping in the park.
I woke up with a sunburn on only half my face, and my friends and I stumbled bleary-eyed and smelling like...um...nature into the nearest Joe for some very necessary caffeine. I ordered something with lots of sugar and stumbled back out to Sabrina's apartment. I put my coffee down, went to the bathroom, and heard Stephanie call into me. The barista had written his number on the coffee cup! Clearly your girl's got mad game, half a sunburnt face and all.
To this day he remains in my phone as "Cup of Chad."
Tasti D. Look, I'm not gonna lie to you. Unlike some of the others, I'm unabashedly proud of pulling this one. He was a beautiful man with pretty eyes, full lips, sweet dimples, and big muscles. I ignored the tight Ed Hardy t-shirt because what can I say? I'm really pretty shallow (I love bad bitches, that's my fucking problem). Somehow (I really don't know how because I'm not particularly friendly but I WAS particularly drunk so I don't remember), this guy and I got to chatting at George Keeley's, where Steph has her name on a plaque because she tried so many different beers there.
This guy's initials were DD and he was gorgeous so we thusly named him after my favorite chain of frozen soft-serve chemicals, Tasti D. He was also Dominican, which, in my stupor, I took as a good omen. Honestly, I don't know why, but the amount of admirers I have from the island of Hispaniola is absurd. That sounds arrogant, but REALLY, it's a stunningly abnormal ratio, given the tiny size of the island and my absolute lack of any kind of spicy Caribbean streak.
ANYWAY, Tasti D and I got to talking...and making out...in a bar. Not my finest moment sure, but hey, YOLO, amirite?? At least until he made a casual yet utterly misguided rape joke and my friends dragged me out.
We texted a bit the next day, and to this day we remain close Facebook friends, wishing each other happy birthdays, and he is a big liker of many of my Instagram posts ::brushing my shoulder off::. Actually, I hope to god he doesn't click on this link when I post it on Facebook. But if he does... Hi! Your girlfriend is lovely and you two look very happy, wishing you all the best! Salud!
To this day, he remains in my phone as "Tasti D."
The Cat Burglar. The next time I started my day at the Sunburnt Calf, it was Halloween, Jen's birthday! I love birthdays, but truth be told, I'm far too lazy and cheap for Halloween costumes. But since it's Jen's jam and I happened to be in New York for it, I sprung for some $5 cat ears from Party City.
Alas, this wasn't enough for my friends. After getting shitty at the Calf, Steph, Sabrina, and Cammy dragged me a few blocks away to the nearest Ricky's. If you're not familiar with Ricky's, it's a New York institution -- a chain drug store that also specializes in high-end beauty products, sex toys, and Halloween costumes. As this was the big day, there was a line around the block for this particular two-story Ricky's. We went in, tried on a bunch of wigs, and I came out with a black tail to match my ears.
The four of us went back to Sabrina's and napped, only to wake up hungover just in time for the evening's festivities. Before hitting up Jen's birthday, we were to make an appearance at a Halloween party in Brooklyn. Cammy left early to go throw up on her boots. Steph, Subway, Sabrina, and I left a little later.
As we were climbing the steps to the train, some fratty-ass bro grabbed my tail and straight up pulled it off. Little did he know it had been dipped in a toilet earlier that evening.
No comment on why I was still wearing a tail that had made a foray into a Brooklyn toilet.
The Foam Roller. So even when I'm sober, I like to go sit around with my buddies in Central Park as long as the weather's nice, and last spring, it was glorious. While there, we watched a beautiful, golden, shirtless man with muscles on muscles foam roll himself out for what seemed like hours on end.
I basically gawked. Then he played some soccer by himself. Then rolled some more. And I gawked some more.
Technically he's not a boyfriend, since I just admired him from afar. I guess that makes him a crush. And let's be real. A man that handsome probably doesn't like the ladies. But he makes the list because it's my blog and I do what I want.
The Schmuck on the Sidewalk. Also last year, as a little afternoon snack, Sabrina, Steph, and I went to Levain Bakery, which is this little hole in the wall that sells gigantic half-baked cookies. (Naturally, it's become one of my many food pilgrimages when I visit NYC.) As we were walking back to Sabrina's apartment in a postprandial glow, some weird-ass motherfucker in bike shorts with a terrible accent (German?) called out to us.
"How about a lap dance?"
Of course, we immediately stopped our conversation, dropped our cookies, and began grinding on the stranger in broad daylight. JK, obviously we ignored him because no one likes a cat-caller. He didn't like that.
"You're fat and ugly."
And you, kind sir, are a doodie-face, so there!
See ladies? There are plenty of fish in the
*These are not real boyfriends.