Tag Archives: dating

New direction…


I know it has been quite some time since I have posted… Heck, it’s been a long time since I have written anything.

Originally, Cupid’s Eros was to be a love blog of sorts. Not love advice, but a chronicle of the journey, my journey, to love. I’m not sure if people understood this, but all my stories on Cupid’s Eros were past events. I was in a relationship when I started the blog and wanting to find humor in every situation, thought it would be fun to recount the tales of all the awkward dates, poor choices, and straight-up weirdness that led me to my present (but now past) situation. Well, things did not quite turn out as I had hoped and as I never felt quite comfortable writing about present-day life matters, the writing came to a halt. Out of respect for myself and my dates, I could not bring myself to blab about my current (and again, now past) dating adventures. So Cupid’s Eros sat and collected dust… kind of like my love life. Eerie.

I’ll be honest though, you didn’t miss much. I putted through dates like a game of half-hearted mini golf. Everyone encouraged me to get back out There, and I still have not found just where this mythical There is. But, my pursuit of the Land of There lead me to sitting in a bar, on a date with this man who scratched his balls at the rate a human baby blinks. These were not minor adjustments… he was scratching with a deep digging vigor one does when trying to get pasta sauce out of one’s brand new cream-colored carpet. First and last date. Another time, I found myself sitting across the table from a man who let the check sit on the table for eons while bouncing his eyes from me, to the check, to his watch, and back to me. Only when I gestured to pick up the tab, does he say, “I’ll treat you. I normally don’t do this. I’m not going to go gaga over you, I know better.” Oh really, dude? First and last date.

Each date was more lackluster than the previous which ultimately lead me to dating someone I had known for years, but never paid very much attention to… myself. I took myself on vacation, twice, to places I had forever longed to see. I started to learn more about who I am, how I am, and what made me attractive in my own right. I learned that I am as fearless as I am chicken. As agile as I am clumsy. As “fantastically romantic”, as one friend called me, as I am a total goofball. In the past, I had never actively sought out a partner. I went about my normal life and if I happened to meet someone I wanted to be with and who felt the same about me, we got together. I was forcing myself to go on dates, forcing myself to find someone I liked and ended up not liking anyone, at times, not even myself. My turning my love and attention inward had led me to live again as my most authentic self.

So what does this have to do with Cupid’s Eros? For starters, no more date stories. Yeah, I know. **Tragic. But, I will be sharing my travel stories and general ideas and thoughts on growing into my mid-twenties. It will be a potpourri, little bits and pieces that contribute to a whole, lovely sweet-smelling experience. When I finally get my dSLR (I’ve been dreaming of the Canon T2i for some time), I’ll share my photography. For now, you’ll have to settle for a photo I took while in San Juan, on my first solo vacation, this October.

It was my first day in Puerto Rico and I was still in New York City mode. I hurried down the street like a mall speedwalker. I wasn’t making eye contact with anyone and mumbled a rushed Buenas to those who passed, until I saw this Stop sign. It had dawned on me that I had never seen a Stop sign in a language other than English, so I took a photo of it. Standing in the middle of the street, adjusting my camera settings, I had finally stopped. I heard the Coquis, the waves, and stopped worrying that I looked like the ultimate tourist taking a picture of a traffic sign. On the walk back to the hotel, I took my time and enjoyed the streets and residents of Condado, greeting and returning a genuine greeting of Buenas.

**said in my most sarcastic voice.


Thank God for Google Voice! A Story in 3 Acts…


Forget a new haircut.  A new pair of heels.  A new attitude.  The one thing no dating girl should be without is Google Voice.  My request for a GV number was answered a week into my new adventures in Singledom and could not have come at a better time.  Though I’ve only given out the number a handful of times, its endless worth is unmistakable.  Let me count the ways.

Act I. Jamal. 29. Internet Marketing.

Jamal approached me outside of Maoz as I about to cross the street.  “Excuse me,” he says, in such a tone that I thought he was looking to walk around me, not start a conversation, so I move to the left.  As we cross the street, he looks over and says, “That was an opening to talk to you.”  A wordsmith he is not. Once we cross, he formally introduces himself, chats me up a bit and actually gets a few laughs out of me. “You seem like someone I’d like to get to know,” he says and asks for my number. Awkward opening aside, he is upbeat, confident, the owner of a killer set of dimples. I oblige and give him my number. My Google Voice number.

It doesn’t have a local NYC area code which automatically draws a raised eyebrow from him. He clears his throat and sternly says, “Hold on, let me call you so you can have my number as well.” I know what that means… “This sounds like a fake number. I want to make sure your phone rings.” Phone to his ear, he’s studying my face for a trace of deceit, as if he had busted me. My rule is this: If I don’t know you and none of my friends know you, you’re a complete stranger. Strangers get the Google Voice number. Needless to say, my phone in fact does ring. “You thought it was a fake number,” I say upon answering. “Well, it didn’t sound like a New York number…”

Later that night he calls and boy was I glad I had not let those dimples sway my judgment. Gone is the easy-going cheerful guy I had met hours before. His tone is now accusatory, investigative. He asks me why I gave him my phone number, what I was looking for a in a man, and what I felt I had to offer. Jesus Christo, tranquilla papa! I felt I was being interrogated. I decide make the convo less SVU and more Sweet Valley and ask him what he does for fun, what his hobbies are. Simple enough question, right? “I like to think everything is fun. From working, to going to the club, to having sex. Even taking a shit is fun.” I laugh out a What?! only to realize he is completely serious about what he said. He then spits my question back at me with an air of “I couldn’t care less” in his voice. To make things worse, in response to everything I say, his response is, “Hmmm.” Hmmm? I’m growing increasingly annoyed. “What are you ‘Hmmm’-ing about?” I look at the clock… 11:30pm. “Oh goodness! I totally didn’t realize what time it was,” I say ever so sweetly. “I have to wake up early tomorrow, so I’m going to say goodnight, but it was nice talking to you.” He’s silent for a second. “Hmmm. Yeah, likewise.” Another Hmmm. I rolled my eyes so hard I gave myself a headache.

He texts me a couple of days later asking if I want to go out. I wonder, if I had texted back “No.” would he have texted back “Hmmm”? Oh well, if he decides to ring me again, he will be greeted with a recording saying that my number is no longer in service. Google Voice, you are a beauty.

Oh, and regarding what he said about my number not sounding like a New York number… it’s not. It’s a Florida number. Florida to reflect my sunny personality.

Is That a Hotdog In Your Pocket?


This date will be one that I tell my grandkids about. Not because it was steamy and hot and heavy, because it was not. At all. I’m not sure I can even call it a date in the traditional sense, but nonetheless it was awesome.

Marcus. 25. Real estate.

Marcus wasn’t exactly a stranger. We had been friends for months, talking almost everyday via Twitter and Gchat, but never hung out. I suggested we go to the movies, (Law Abiding Citizen had just opened) and he agreed. No big ideas of treadmills or hot tubs. Whew! He joked that he would finally find out if I was a “good crazie or crazy crazie”. I like to think I’m a good crazie, but of course I’m biased.

Thank goodness he already bought the tickets, because I was 15 minutes late. I managed to get out, “Hey!” as I tried catching my breath. I ran 4 blocks in heels and was reminded of my unfit state. For a split second I thought, “Maybe I should have gone to the gym with Bobby.” Eh, nevermind. I needed a slushie and made a bee-line to Concessions. It would be the 2 hotdog combo meal for him.

It didn’t feel like a first meeting or like a date, for that matter. We skipped the usual play of 20 Questions, preferring a conversation between two friends. I hate to say this, but for lack of a better word, the whole thing felt very familiar. Safe. No sexual tension. No sexual attraction. Marcus is a good-looking guy, but the spark wasn’t there and I could tell he felt the same. That wasn’t the weird part. The weird thing was that we didn’t care. Neither of us took it as rejection when we didn’t get closer as the lights dimmed for the film or when goodnight was said with a half hug and New York kiss on the cheek. I don’t remember what led to this, but as we were walking to the bus stop, Marcus turned to me and said…

“In case you were wondering, yes, that is a hotdog in my pocket.”

I doubled over with laughter in the middle of the sidewalk. Marcus just stood there like, “What did I say?” Clearly, he does not have the sense of humor of a 13 year old boy, but I do and that was hilarious to me. “You said, ‘hotdog in my pocket’! That’s classic. Oh, that’s good! I’m so stealing that one!”  He explained that he didn’t mean it in a sexual way, but that he had only eaten one of his hotdogs during the movie, so the other he stashed in his pocket. I’m crying tears at this point and he’s laughing at me cackling.

When I told Gram about our date, she asked all the typical post-date questions. “Did you kiss? Did you touch hands? Did he put his arm around you?” No, nope, and nah. He treated me like a person and not like a mission to get to a second date. “Oh, well then he’s not really into you like that”, Gram said, and that was fine with me. You know a date was a success when you smile during your ride home. When you really enjoyed the other person’s company. When you tell your friends how fun he was. But the ultimate sign of a great date is when you leave with something beneficial for life. I now know the answer to a question women have asked for ages: Is that a hotdog in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

It really is a hotdog.

photo © Andrey Kiselev | Dreamstime.com

H-E-double Hockey Sticks


One of the first guys I shared my new single status with was Bobby.  25. Financial Advisor.

We met over the summer at a Dos Equis event, where I found out that he was friends with a kid I went to high school with.   He and I somewhat kept in touch since.  A text, Facebook wall post here and there.  I wouldn’t say we were friends, but knew a little about each other.  When I told him I was single, he said he was both happy and sad.  Happy that I was back on the market, but sad for me about how the situation went down.  Our Gchats got more and more flirtatious by the day until he asked me out and we set a date… Friday, November 13th.  I remember the date because I made a joke to the effect of, “Ooh… Friday the 13th! Scary! Hope it’s not the date from hell.”

It was the date from hell… and the date never even happened.

Originally, Bobby suggested that we go to the gym together.  Nothing about me says gym or fitness, so I suggested we do something more orthodox like a movie date.  His comeback was, “I figured we could get a good workout in together. You can watch my six-pack greaten and then we can relax in the hot tub.”  Hot tub? Did I sign up for a season of Who Wants to Bed Bobby?  I texted one of my guy friends who, ever the straight shooter said, “Yeah, he’s looking to f**k.”  My idea of a first date included me being fully clothed and staying that way.  Well then.  He could see that I was not backing down from us going to the movies, so he made me an offer one better.  He told me that we would go out Friday and for me to leave everything up to him.  All I had to do was be dressed and ready to have a great night.  I agreed and our date was set.  We had a whole week to become less of strangers and more familiar.  Thank God for that week.

Bobby’s conversations became increasingly self-centered to where we mostly talked about him and his clothes.  He gushed about a pair of loafers he bought during his lunch break.  He sent me links to shoes and clothes when he asked, “Are you a label whore?”  Ugh.  I rolled my eyes so hard, I got a headache.  Anyone who knows me knows I am not impressed by material possessions.  Like any sane person, I do like nice things but I don’t feel the need to parade them around.  For giggles, I replied to him, “Why?  Because I have a Ulysse?”  And of course, he had no clue what I was talking about.  (In case you’re wondering, the Ulysse is an Hermes notebook.)  He rattled off all the designers he was wearing at the moment… so unattractive. More eye rolling.  At this point, I’m completely uninterested in the conversation and less interested in him but I figure that he might be less obnoxious in person so I didn’t cross him off.  I tried to change the subject from his massive closet asking what he felt his best physical traits were.  I expected him to say his height (6′ 3″) or his chiseled jaw.  Nope.  This fool said his abs and his, wait for it… PENIS.  Ridiculous.  That conversation ended right there with me giving him serious side eye via Gchat.  That was the last time we’ve spoken.

The day before our date, I heard nothing from him.  I sent him a text that night asking if we were still on for Friday.  No news.  I knew the date wasn’t happening, so I did myself one better and went out for Korean with my cousin.  The first thing she asked was why I wasn’t out with Bobby.  When I explained that he never called or responded to my text, she suggested that maybe something had happened and that I should follow-up with him the next day.

Follow-up?  What was this, a job interview?  Nothing had happened to Bobby, I knew he was alive and well.  That Monday he was there on my contacts list with a green light and I deleted him.  I wasn’t upset that he stood me up, but that he was such a punk about it.  But what do I know?  Maybe he was hospitalized due to a tragic shoe shopping incident?  How insensitive of me…

“Where’s Your Unlimited Metrocard?”


“If you get back with him, I’m not going to think of you as the smart Kim I know.  I’m going to think of you as weak and desperate.”

Had it not been for my guy friends, I’d probably still be waiting and wishing for a way to get back with my ex.  True, nothing is like a post-heartbreak pow-wow with your girls, but they were all pretty much saying the same thing.

“Wow! He’s an idiot! *pause* Do you think you guys will ever get back together?”

I kept giving the same response.  I don’t know… Because I didn’t.  The last thing on my mind was dating other people.  Convinced I was not girlfriend material, I had accepted that I would be an old maid unless I got my ex back.  Oddly, it seemed that my girlfriends agreed. Some suggested I befriend him, maybe he’d realize he made a terrible mistake. Maybe he would miss me as a girlfriend and want me back.  Maybe he’d see that I’m The One and he’d come beating down my door begging for forgiveness. Quizás. (Now that I think about it, I wouldn’t want any of those things to come true.  Why should I be the runner up?)

The boys were of a completely different mindset.  They told me to delete his number, ignore his texts and emails… completely forget about him.  One even told me to “throw that booty around.”  Metaphorically speaking.  But when my friend hinted at my desperation it really shook me up.  Desperate never was a word that I associated with myself.  Gram (my munchkin, my dumpling, my grandmother) agreed with the boys.  “If you listen to those girls, you’ll be moo-hooing over him forever.  I thought you had an unlimited Metrocard.”  That was our running joke… she would say, “Men are like buses.  There’s always another one coming.”  And I would quip back, “Yep, and I have an unlimited Metrocard!”  Where was my Metrocard?

That was the last time I pined for him.  With all my moxie gathered, I flirted with every cute guy I saw.  Coquette… I was back.

Bull’s Eye


24. New York City.

After my boyfriend of over 4 years dumped me, I ventured back into the dating scene with little abandon.  I met men everywhere, from Twitter to subway trains, and boy was it an experience!  Not only did I get a glimpse into the mind of a man in his 20s (or teens due to my very brief, yet enjoyable stint with a 19 year old), I was able to delve deeper into my feelings of love, lust, and, “I am not into him!”  This blog chronicles these adventures and then some.

We’ve all been in like, in lust, and hope to one day, really, be in love.