Once there was a man named Jim. And Bert and a guy named Harry, who thankfully I did not kiss. There was a Karl, yes, with a “K” though he was nothing like Karl Marx. There were also men with more exotic names: Rumaldo, Mario, Roberto, Maurizio, Costas, Vasilius, Adjin, and Hassan.
Before I dated and married the man of my dreams I met regular guys in the likely places.
At the grocery store, a boy named Trevor. After one date—dinner at the Olive Garden—I caught him lurking in the parking lot of my apartment building enough times to call the cops and get a restraining order.
The bar guy was called Alex. Another bar rat named Mike although he spoke with a thick accent that told me he was from a place much further away than Texas. Which reminds me of Jacob from Texas, who I also met at a bar. And then there was Ben, the bar tender.
My personal favorite was meeting a guy at the library—Michael. We shared the love of books but he dressed so poorly on our first date (who wears long gym socks and shorts at the age of 30?) and then he got all huffy with the Indian waitress at the Indian restaurant we went to because he, as a Swede, knew the difference between the her fake chapatti and the real thing.
Which reminds me of the waiter that I knew from my favorite Indian restaurant. He hounded me for weeks for a date. In a gorgeous act of fate, my evil twin was visiting me in NYC and he took her out instead. And this brings to mind Tucker who I met in a restaurant and whose real name turned out to be Raj because his white American hippy parents gave birth to him in India.
And I will always remember Moe from a Fashion Week party in Soho. Moe turned out to be my next-door neighbor’s best friend, which turned out to be really awkward because he knew where I lived.
And speaking of knowing where I live, I have met a couple of delivery guys in my days (okay, so sometimes the UPS guy is really cute) there was Rudy who delivered a new bed and then came back an hour later to ask me out on a date and then there was David who delivered office supplies at my work-study job in college.
Then there were a series of now faceless guys I never called or who never called me in my college years.And then there were guys who always called or asked for your number and you wished they hadn't-- like those peter pan types—the balding, aging gents who, when I was 20, didn’t remind me of what my husband would look like in 15 years.
Of the memorable Peter’s was Gary who demanded that I take his phone number after he nearly ran me over in front of my dorm. I thought he was stalking me because I saw him all the time. It turns out that he lived next door.
Also from my college years were guys I met when I was an undergrad and they were in graduate school. There was a guy named Jon who was really cute and smart but I didn’t know what to say to him because he actually read Karl Marx and I only dated a Karl. Then there was this German grad student who I went to a party with. Sadly he got weepy and drunk and professed “erotic love” for me. I can’t remember his name but that phrase will stay with me forever. Then there was the Dutch grad student (oh the joys of going to college in NYC) who I shamelessly turned into my straight guy friend (every girl needs a male ear to lean on) even though I knew he liked me.
And since we are talking about guys from other parts of the world there were a couple of guys I met at the same party in New York --Rory from Ireland who is an unforgettable hottie. Thankfully I lost his number because he had “this will end badly” written all over him. You know the type. And from this same gathering was Philip from Israel. And on separate occasions Mikhail was also from Israel, Wahid from Morocco, a couple of guys named Roberto from Italy and Ecuador, and a beautiful Robert from New Zealand and another lad from the common wealth, Tobias. Rafael was a dreamy guy from Brazil and randomly there have been more than a few Greek men, including Yanis who, I’ll admit, I asked him for his number. And there was Jean-Pierre who I met on the Metro in Paris.
And less you think me fussy or not willing to hand my digits over to blokes born in the US, there has also been a Rodney, a Bill and a Eugene.
Don’t be alarmed. Yes, my list is long. But it is merely a record of all or most of my relatively harmless fully clothed brief encounters with the weaker sex.
Okay, so I am a recovering international man-eater.
And now that I have confessed, tell me, who is in your closet?