I like to think it’s a right of passage to date a model if you live in New York. Naturally, the model I dated was a poor-girl’s model – but a model none-the-less (if you’re thinking this is cool or impressive in any way, you’re misguided).
I met model-in-question at a bar with friends. We were at one of my favorite places in Manhattan, The Back Fence. This place has sawdust and peanut shells on the floor, bowls of salted peanuts (in the shell) on every table and dancing is outlawed (Hellooooo Footloose).
My friend nudged me and let me know that there was a “sexy” guy looking at me. I had a few initial thoughts:
1. He isn’t looking at me, I’m probably blocking someone he was trying to scope out
2. He has a lazy eye and the “bad” one juts out in my direction
3. He is, in fact, looking at me and there is something severely wrong with him
“You have to go over and talk to him,” my drunk friend urged.
“No I don’t.”
“If you don’t, I will.”
“Promise? Be my guest,” I laughed.
“OK, but if I go, I’m going to tell him you really like him and are too shy to approach him.”
That got my attention.
“Fine, I’ll go over that way and get a beer – what do you want?”
She told me to get “whatever” and I made my way over. Before I had a chance to belly up to the bar, he initiated conversation.
“I know this is corny, but I’ve been looking at you.”
Blank stare from yours truly.
“I wanted to come talk to you, but you looked like you were having so much fun with your friend. I got nervous. Then you came over here. “
“Oh yeah, I’m just getting a drink.” Smooth.
“Oh – right. Sorry.”
“No, no – I’m sorry,” I said as I told him my name.
We struck up a conversation and he was beautiful (not my type). He told me he was a model and I laughed hysterically, assuming he was kidding. I was wrong (clearly). My friend came over and joined the conversation and talked to one of his friends.
“Well, I think I’m going to head home,” I said, totally uncharaceristicly – I’m notorious for never being the one to call it a night.
“I’ll walk you.” Fauxlander said.
“You don’t have to do that. It’s a little walk and I’m a big girl.”
“I know I don’t, I’d like to. I’m having fun talking to you.” My friend shot me a glance that clearly communicated if you say no I will pluck your eyes out and kill you right here.
“Ok. It’s a free country.” What a jerk I was.
So we left the bar and started walking toward my apartment. It had stopped raining, making it a little easier to navigate the sidewalk in my flip flops.
In one of my less than elegant moments, I turned to him and said, “So, you’re a model. I bet you date a lot of skinny girls.”
“Oh I never date models.” Mmmm-hmm.
Then, as I laughed and attempted to say “I’m not judging, you probably date a lot of ‘skinny bitch –,” my foot hit a wet patch. My legs flew to eye height – I was parallel to the ground, waving my arms and legs like a cartoon and I landed flat on my ass.
“Ooh,” I said as I looked up at him and burst into laughter.
I was entertaining a crowd, all laughing as soon as I did (thank GOD).
“Oh my gosh, are you ok?”
I assured model I was perfectly fine – still on my butt.
He lifted me up, “That was the most elegant slip I’ve ever seen.” I have to give him credit, he said it with a straight face and appeared to be serious.
We made it back to my building with his arm around my waist – more for protection than to show affection, I’m sure.
He wasn’t invited up, but asked for my number. I gave it to him. He was a saint. If I’d been more interested or concerned, I’m sure I would have been humiliated.
When he called the next day to set up a date, I agreed. I shouldn’t have.