A couple of months ago, I worried that I’d bro-ed away my chances with this guy Jake, a stranger I’d encountered in the East Village while I was scarfing a hot dog. He had called out the lyrics to “My Dick” as I’d passed with my wiener. I had responded to his call, equally competent with the lyrics.

Initially, I figured I’d stolen this guy’s heart as I spit Mickey Avalon lyrics and swallowed my frank. He introduced himself and we exchanged numbers. I didn’t even know his last name, yet my mind was already starting to pump up the volume of “Tell Me Something Good.”

However, I felt less sure of myself when my brofriend Will insisted that I’d engaged in a bromance of epic proportions. From his perspective, he was sure that my actions had dropped a platonic bomb and I’d be feeling the effects for the rest of my acquaintance with Jake.

So, when I got a text from him a week after our first encounter, I suddenly felt nervous and unsure of myself. Plans to meet up were quickly established, but motives remained unclear. The night began by meeting him and a couple of his friends at a bar, a casual hangout session that failed to shed further light on the situation. But then his friends left. And, well, I’m pleased to report that Will was wrong. Ha! The evening ended in a fairly steamy make-out session that occurred right after we’d run into a pack of rats walking down 6th Street. Perhaps it was that moment, when I shrieked and practically jumped on his back, that my true gender was affirmed–though I like to think it was a romance from the get-go, hot dog and all.

But such a happy ending is really only just a questionable beginning. Basking in the success of the evening was almost immediately cut short by the question, “What next?”

Fast forward one week, 14 texts, and six drinks later. We were at Blue and Gold, my favorite East Village bar. His friends had left him yet again and, soon after, my roommate departed.

“I kind of miss that era of the ‘suck it’ signal,” I told him. We were reminiscing about certain lingo and body language from years past that had faded from the scene.

“Oh yeah—that’s such a good one,” he agreed. “Actually, a funny thing: Years ago, back when everyone was doing it, I told my dad that the ‘suck it’ motion was actually a new cool thing amongst teenagers—like the new high five. And, you know, he didn’t have a clue so he believed me. The next day, I had like four friends over and, as he came into the kitchen, he was like, ‘Hey guys!” and gave this huge, jubilant ‘suck it.’ My friends were just like, astonished. But, I dunno. I guess he thought they were just stunned by how hip he was or something. And for the next month, any time I had friends over, he’d greet them with a ‘suck it.’ It was hilarious. But then I started to feel bad about it, so I told him that it wasn’t cool to do anymore. To this day, he doesn’t know what it really means.”

I laughed. “Wow. That is both hilarious and horrible. Your poor father.”

“Yeah, I gotta admit, I’m pretty proud of it.”

At this point in the evening, I had two things on my mind: 1) I really like this kid and 2) a hot dog from Nathan’s would really hit the spot right now. Six drinks in tends to be about the time when I speak my mind.

“I like you. Wanna go get hot dogs?” I swear it didn’t sound that ridiculous in real life. That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.

“Yeah, let’s do it,” he agreed without hesitation. “I’m starving.” He left me no room to feel self-conscious about my proclamation, nor my proposition. Bless him.

We finished the last of our drinks and departed for Nathan’s, retracing steps back to the beginning of our, uh, history?

“Well, isn’t this just a walk down memory lane,” I remarked as we passed Finnerty’s, the bar where we’d first had our lyrical exchange.

“Yeah,” he agreed, chuckling. “God, I was such an asshole, harassing some lone girl who was just trying to enjoy a simple meal.”

“Ha, I’d never really thought of it like that. I guess it was sort of a dick move–no pun intended.”

“Oh, pun definitely intended,” he said. Clearly, he was getting to know me.

“Yeah, you got me,” I confessed. “But that was a good one, right?”

“Indeed,” he agreed, with a grinning nod of approval.

We arrived at Nathan’s and I purchased my usual dog with ketchup. Jake ordered two with ketchup and mustard on each.

“So, what next?” he asked and we walked out. “Are we supposed to perform another impromptu
duet?”

“Nah. I’d be worried it’d fall short of our debut.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“I don’t know. What do you want to do now?” I said after I’d swallowed my first bite. “I don’t really feel like going to another bar.”

“Me neither. Now that I have these puppies to take care of, drinking can’t be a priority.”

“I agree. Well, my apartment is a couple of blocks down that way. We could hang out there for a bit if you want.”

He shrugged. “Sure.”

Then I had a panic attack.

Yes, I liked Jake. Yes, we’ve had fun. But what did I really know about him? He also lived in the East Village. He went to one of those liberal arts colleges in Maine. He worked at some kind of finance-y job that he didn’t really like that much. And we’d made out once. I’d accumulated other random tidbits about him, but, for all intents and purposes, he was a stranger. Jesus, we weren’t even Facebook friends!

And now, just because I had a “good feeling” about him, I’d invited him into my home.

And what did he know about me? To him, I’d just become some girl that invites guys she hardly knows back to her apartment. Had I just propelled myself to slut-status in his mind?

I nervously stuffed an enormous last bite as we arrived at the stoop of my apartment. Mouth full of frankfurter and mind full of fears, I couldn’t help thinking that I’d just bitten off way more than I could chew.

To be continued…

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