Friday, March 30, 2012

Model F*cker


In New York there is a breed of men known as “Model Fuckers”; in Los Angeles, we like to call them “Producers”. When I first moved to New York, I had never heard this term before, and was unaware of the predators that lurked at the swanky bars I frequented. “Model Fuckers” are men, both young and not-so-young, who like to be seen (and sleep with) young beautiful women. These leeches hang out at all the bars where the naïve and innocent new girls in town hang out, buy them drinks, take them home, sleep with them, and then send the girls home before the sun comes up. Oh, and they don’t ever call the girls again.

I am embarrassed to admit it, but for a period of time in my wasted youth, I was one of these girls. I liked the attention and the free cocktails, and I have Daddy issues, so I was ripe for the picking. These guys also tended to live in expensive apartments and drive nice cars and like the finer things in life, such as food from restaurants, as opposed to the Hayden Hall Cafeteria fare I was normally forced to dine on. One night, while out at some fancy club that I practically had to blow the doorman to get into, one of these aforementioned model fuckers, let’s call him Daniel, made his move. He fed me a dumb line about having seen me at some restaurant I’d never been to and didn’t even know existed, bought me a couple rounds of drinks, and asked for my phone number. 

I figured I would never hear from Daniel again, but low and behold he called me the next morning at 10AM. This was unheard of; the movie Swingers had just come out in which long conversations are had about how long you have to wait to call someone so as not to seem too interested. I thought to myself, “well, obviously this guy doesn’t care about seeming cool, he’s just so into me he couldn’t wait the requisite three days. That’s hot”. (What can I say, I’m really great at being delusional, which is why I currently spend a lot of money on therapy.) Daniel and I made a date for the following Friday night, and then I hung up the phone and proceeded to run around my dorm room like a crazy person freaking out about not having anything cute to wear.

The following Friday, Daniel picked me up in his sports car, took me out for a fancy dinner at one of the best restaurants in the city and then invited me to come back to his place. I, of course, accepted, imagining his abode to be a modern TriBeCa loft. Instead, he proceeded to drive me to his parents’ apartment in Brighton Beach, where he told me he’d been living for the last few months since he came home from Paris after having broken up with his French fiancé. The fact that maybe Daniel wasn’t such a great catch started to dawn on me, but I didn’t want to go back to my dorm room and have to spend the night listening to my roommate have sex, so I figured I’d go with it. Well, Daniel’s Parents lived in a two-bedroom apartment in a cement block building like in the movie Crossing Delancey. And I’m guessing the size of the place was maybe 800 square feet. So there I am, sneaking into the parents’ apartment, and entering Daniel’s childhood bedroom filled with posters of 80’s rock bands, his drum set, and Star Wars sheets on a twin bed. Talk about not exactly making my love come down, if you get my drift. But I did like Daniel, despite the fact that he didn’t seem all that bright and he was a chain smoker. Ok, I liked that Daniel liked me, which was enough of a turn on at the age of 19 to get me into bed. Daniel and I started making out, things got hot and heavy, and soon we were ripping each other’s clothes off and getting ready to go all the way. I was into it! If I closed my eyes I couldn’t see the Metallica Poster or the fact that we were about to leave a wet spot on the Death Star. I couldn’t wait to get my groove on, so I told Daniel to stick it in, to which he replied, “it is.” Oh my God, this guy’s dick is so small I couldn’t even feel it. Apparently, he’d been moving it around down there for at least a minute or two and I had not felt a thing. I mean, nothing. This gave new meaning to the term “baby gherkin”. Daniel finished up, I did not, and then we lay in his twin size bed in awkward silence. While I may have enjoyed the delicious dinner, even $36.00 sea bass is not a good reason for bad sex in an outer borough (this was before Brooklyn was cool, ok people? So don’t send me hate mail from your hipster commune in Red Hook). I eventually managed to fall asleep after Daniel realized the twin bed would be more comfortable if one of us slept on the floor. And by “one of us” he meant me.

The next morning I woke up shivering on Daniel’s floor, with a shag run pattern imprinted on my face. I quickly threw on my clothes, shook Daniel awake, and told him I wanted to leave.
He said, “what’s your hurry, Alice? I thought we could have breakfast with my parents before I took you home.”
I said, “my name is Anna, you idiot, and I want to go home.”
Daniel refused to get up to drive me home, so he gave me cab fare and told me if I walked five blocks over I could catch a taxi headed for Manhattan. 

As I watched the sun rise over the city, I’d never been so happy to be headed back to my dingy dorm room and sex-crazed roommate. Sure, my life wasn’t glamorous, but there’s nothing like sleeping on the floor of some loser’s childhood bedroom to put everything in perspective. Oh, and here’s the kicker: gherkin dick didn’t even give me enough cab fare to get home. Ultimately, the date with Daniel cost me my dignity and an extra twenty-five bucks.

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