City of Swipes is our anonymous dating diary of a twenty-something female meeting New York City’s most (in)eligible bachelors. Our writer goes on a date every Thursday in an attempt to find the ONE. All men will be kept anonymous unless otherwise stated.

We meet down the street from my apartment at this intense Japanese cocktail bar, RAKU.

He was a bit chatty throughout the week via text. Not my favorite but it’s more effort than most, highly appreciated. When I get home after work, it kills me to think I’ll have to leave in 3 hours. I split a bottle of wine with my roommate and head out the door 5 minutes before my date.

He shows up in a faded plaid button-down, which for some reason, I find offensive.

I’m in a chiller version of my usual date outfit. Slouchy black tee and high waisted leggings, always, all black. I swap my usual boots for TOMS and dress it up with dangling, gold, chandelier earrings. The restaurant is tiny and packed. There’s one seat left at the bar, next to a nervous-looking dude. I take the cue and slide in.

“Hey. What’s good?”

J is not outwardly attractive, but he works on a TV show I really like and used that as his opening line. He proceeds to fill 70% of our conversation about Judaism. It’s weird, intense, and unnecessary. He’s obsessed with his identity of being Jewish. At one point he says, “I’m not taking this date seriously.”

Yeah. Really. No shit, Sherlock.

“I’m not taking it seriously because you’re not Jewish. We can fool around but I wouldn’t date you because you’re not a Jew.”

“Bit intense, yeah?” I deadpan back. I wish I had just opted for a Gin and Soda, I love cocktails like the next girl, but this sippin’ shit isn’t my style.

We split the bill despite his constant bragging about having a wealthy childhood and talks of still living on his bar mitzvah cash.

When am I ever going to get my bill paid?

He invites me over and I say sure.

  • 20% Curiosity about his apartment.
  • 30% Blog material.
  • 50% I really, really want a backstage tour on this TV set.

He lives in a housing complex, probably a housing lottery winner. The building reminds me of the prison tour I went on last year.

He lives in a housing complex, probably a housing lottery winner. The building reminds me of the prison tour I went on last year. Once we get to his house, he proceeds to make out with me. It’s awful and teethy. He’s opening his mouth way too large.

We can’t have sex because I’m on my period. And I don’t want to either after feeling his erection. It’s kind of a sad penis. I have my first dry hump session since highschool. The whole thing is amusing. I spend the majority of the time thinking about the return of the Ameriboo.

He pleads for me to suck him off, but his dick is so sad looking. I love my lips too much to disrespect them. I compromise on a handjob and hock a loogy into my palm. I jerk him off until I get bored.

When I get up to leave and he asks, “You don’t wanna see me cum?”

I openly, “Hmmm.” shrug. “Well, I guess. Why not.”

He jerks off furiously in a weird genie position. The palms of his feet are pressed together, knees spread open.

It’s deeply unsettling. He cums on my shirt and surprisingly I don’t care. The entire night is already so stupid. He walks me to the door and I’m ecstatic about being able to walk home.

Encounter rating: 5.3/10

Lessons learned:

  • Different sects of Judaism.
  • I was never a bad kisser.
  • I give great handjobs.

App: OKC

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This week’s Thirsty Thursday consists of Red Hook IPAs, peanut pretzel bites and the only dive bar in the West Village.

I told myself I wouldn’t date musicians anymore…but my OKC is so biased towards them. When L, a freelance guitarist, opens the conversation with, “What’s your favorite Bill Evans piece and who is the best Star Trek captain?”,

It’s my honey pot.

We exchange numbers and plan to meet at Kettle of Fish, apparently, the only dive bar in the WV. I walk in and secure two barside seats.

The bar is an instant turn off.

I’m not anti-dive, but this is a bit much.

It gets even more annoying when the bartender asks what year I was born, then doesn’t even remember my damn order.

Sorry— but what under 21 year old is ordering a Gin and soda?

Ten minutes after 6, L shows up, his huge guitar case in tow. “Hey! Sorry, I’m late. My lesson dragged a bit.”

The conversation is fine; he has a surprising amount of knowledge on my profile. I noticed him checking out my Instagram feed all week. Oddly, I find it more impressive than creepy. Our conversation quickly turns to politics: local to state to national.

“Did you ever feel the Bern?”

I haven’t heard that expression in so long it’s like he just asked me if I’ve ever had an STD.

“OH. No, I’ve been a Hillary fan since 2008.”

He hesitates and eventually agrees that he also voted Clinton. I’m unconvinced but don’t pursue. I understand the HC reluctance.

He moves on to Donald Trump. “When 45th was elected, I fell into a deep state of cynicism.”

I internally cringe.

Somehow, he connects America’s current situation to the Russian invasion of Poland.

It goes on forever, and I’m half-listening. I’m grateful when the bartender rolls our way. I switch to beer for the rest of the night.

At one point, we start talking about blues music, one of my most hated genres. He talks about his white guilt and how it ties into blues, his apartment in Greenpoint and overall cultural appropriation.

I stifle a laugh when he race drops his Hispanic grandparents, three times in two sentences. We move to a couch in the back of the bar, and I’ve lost track of my pints.

“I’m going to lay something heavy on you now…,”

Dramatic pause,

“I recently started seeing a therapist.”

This time I do laugh, “Yeah. Welcome to New York.”

He continues, “He’s been really helpful. I’ve just always had low self-confidence; growing up, teen years, now. Have you ever felt that way?”

“Mmmmmm,” I let out in a high pitch whine. “No.”


We spend the rest of the date discussing his inadequacies as a single person and musician. I sympathize with him, glad my ego is way-way-way bigger than it deserves to be.

It’s late, I’m not getting paid for this counseling session, and I’m contemplating meeting this other guy that’s blowing up my phone. I walk him to the train, and he starts to slow down. I continue my stride and shout goodbye from up the block.

“Yeah…maybe I can see you again?”


I grab a slice of pizza, head for the train and check out the prospects for next week’s date.

Encounter rating: 5.2/10

Lessons learned:

  • All musicians have issues.
  • Red Hook IPA is pretty good.
  • Dive bar in the West Village.

team ciaooo

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Welcome to City of Swipes.

The anonymous dating diary of a twenty-something female meeting New York City’s most eligible bachelors. I go on a date every Thursday in an attempt to find the ONE…who will know to get me a gin and soda.

Along the way, I’ll be served many G&Ts, checking out what this whole casual sex thing is about, and hopefully picking up new friends.

All men will be kept anonymous until otherwise stated (I’m no monster). —

Rescheduling, Accents, and American pride.

I would love to read your sean spicer fanfic. I believe it’s just what the world has been waiting for.

His name is N, he’s 27. I know nothing about him but the opening line just tickles me pink.

Let’s grab drinks & brainstorm

After a quick swipe through his pictures he’s definitely not ugly, so I give him my number.

He doesn’t text me until a week later…at 7:30 am on a Monday….

Hey! sorry it took so long to text. I’ve been so busy. it’s N — from OKC.

I feel like this should be a red flag, but I kind of like how he still texted. Besides, I always busy af anyway.

We make plans for that Thursday.
He cancels. 

We make plans for the following Thursday.
I cancel.

We make plans for the next Tuesday.
No one cancels. It’s a date!

It’s surprising we kept in touch this long with just texting our schedules.

I choose Zinc Bar — my favorite jazz cocktail joint, but then we switch to| Off the Wagon when he openly admits he’s broke. I appreciate the honesty and remind myself to stop being a bougie-ass bitch.

There are only two stools left bar-side when I arrive. I secure them and kill time by updating my planner. The girl next to me is studying with a pint in her hand. I silently take note of the brilliant idea.

About 5 minutes later, my phone vibrates.

Hey, I’m here.

I turn and am faced with, I assume — my date. He looks vaguely familiar and appears to have the same text thread open. He looks up from his phone and we make eye contact.

He has brown hair that flows like anime girl, big glasses that mirror mine and a huge raincoat that seems to dwarf his small frame.


I’ve only seen his profile once. Twice max. I’ve only made one rule for this adventure: No looking at profiles directly before dates. An attempt to avoid the overly scrutinizing culture of online dating.

“Hiya! How’s it goin’ yeh?”

Hold on.

“Gosh. The weather’s a bit bonkers, innit?”

I’m doing everything I can to keep my mouth closed. Does this dude have a British accent???

He’s talking again but I’m so freaked out by his accent, my brain  has literally stalled. I assumed he was some random dude from Brooklyn, not a beans & toast motherfucker.

He finishes settling in and asks what I’m drinking. It’s a beer kind of day, and I tell him as much. He pulls out a fiver, and I wonder if he’s legit poor, & not “millennial poor.”

We start the date by discussing our days. His is “quite shit” due to the fact that his research paper got rejected. He works in political data research. It’s actually interesting, and I care enough to hear the intricate details, before we head into our second round. 

For that, I suggest splitting a pitcher. We get a Bronx pitcher. He’s thrilled about the selection. — “… genuinely believe that Bronx Brewery has the best lager in the world.”

When our first pitcher goes, I’m pleased when he insists he gets the next.

Somewhere along the line, we begin comparing the UK and NYC. I miss London. I miss my late night food runs at Tesco runs. The £3 meal deals a delicious sandwich, snack, and drink. I miss grabbing a gin and soda in a can from their version of a bodega!

He’s from Manchester. It takes everything I have to not bring up Karl Pilkington, one of my favorite comedians from Manchester.

We discover we’re both “Mitchell & Webb” fans and he goes ballistic as I continue to list out all my favorite shows. It’s my love of the panel show, “Would I Lie to You Anyway” that throws him over the edge, but I have to berate him for not being a fan of “Spaced”. (One of the best shows ever created.)

We switch to politics (Isn’t that one of the things you’re not supposed to discuss?) post-bathroom break, with a serious discussion about race in America. He goes on a four-minute tirade on why “All Lives Matter” is trite and I play Devil’s advocate until my body can’t take it.

He goes on about how much he loves America. It’s kind of endearing, but I only have city pride. 

To have a white young immigrant seriously discuss his love of America in 2018 is astounding.

I’m having a good time, it’s so low key, it feels like friends hanging out. It doesn’t help that I’m in a terrible outfit (I thought he was going to cancel!) and my acne is flaring up. 

I decide to roll with the flow. More friends are great.

By the fourth pitcher, we’re on a synchronized pee schedule and take turns saving each other’s seats.

We exchange music taste and he’s appalled I haven’t heard of “Run the Jewels” or given “Tyler, ‘A true genius!’, The Creator” a listen.

He takes my phone and saves the albums on Spotify.

He begins rolling a cigarette mid-conversation and excuses himself for a smoke.

I forgot people still smoke, but I’m low-key impressed by the setup.

When he comes back, I suggest finishing our drinks, grabbing a slice and heading out.

Till the bottom of the pitcher; we have an in-depth conversation about the differences in immigration, past and present. I feel myself begin to slur and hope I don’t appear a mess.

As we leave the bar, he heads towards Joe’s pizza. 

I intensely shame him. My favorite dollar-slice is up the block.

He’s in love with the slice, and desperately searches all his pockets for a second dollar.

I’m feeling smug. It’s the best slice in all of Manhattan, I’m sure of it. I was once a well-traveled brokeass kid.

When I begin to say goodbye he teases me for heading off to another bar on a Tuesday.  

My friends are waiting for me at our weekly Happy hour. (A boozy burden I must bear.) 

We exchange an awkward but friendly hug, and head our separate ways.

Four steps later— he texts,

Hey, i had a really great time and didn’t expect to.

I’m a bit put off and then realize I feel the same exact way. 

I watch the secondary typing bubble re-then-disappear.

My friends are waiting for me in our regular booth and as I slip in, I decide to keep my date a secret. 

A gin & soda is already waiting for me.

So– it makes sense when 4 hours later I stupidly text back,

Yeah. Same man. Let me know when you’re free for another hangout/Date 

It seemed like a good idea when was 10 drinks deep, but in the morning…. I’m horrified. I delete his thread and pretend the whole encounter never happened

Until that afternoon when he texts…

sure! next week? fit you in before I head to LA?

Encounter rating: 7/10
Lessons learned:

  • Ameriboos are real.
  • Smoking still turns me on. 
  • Nervousness is an emotion I can rope in and curb.

App: OKCupid

team ciaooo

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City of Swipes is our anonymous dating diary of a twenty-something female meeting New York City’s most eligible bachelors. Our writer goes on a date every Thursday in an attempt to find the ONE. All men will be kept anonymous until otherwise stated.

I nab a second date with N, the Ameriboo.

Actually, can we do nine?

Nine is fine. I’ll head to the library then head down to you around 8:30. I’ll pick a cheap bar.

Ace! See you then.

I crush a set of logical reasoning questions and give myself a break when the next section is Logic Games.

Around 8:45, I finish my make-up and head down to Christopher St. I know every bar in this area and want to pick one that fits my vibe… without spending $10+ for a pint. I feel like Goldilocks. This bar is too crowded. This bar’s too dive-y. This bar’s too bougie!

I’m in between Shade or Triona’s.

The first, a faux-dive with 15 dollar cocktails but cheap beers. Triona’s, a sports bar with cheap beers but water downed mixed drinks.

When he texts me he’ll be late, I treat myself to a cheeky cocktail at Shade.
I grab my favorite seat and pull out my workbook. Logic Games can’t beat me with a cocktail in hand! I’m 100% wrong and end up spending most of my time texting my date for next week— a freelance guitarist from Greenpoint.

N catches me off guard. He slips into the chair across the table with a cheery, “Hiya!”

“Hey!” I wrap up my books and phone conversation like a guilty child.

“How was LA?”

We pop into the conversation like old friends. I’m delighted when he opts for staying at Shade for one more round. I insist he adds his beer to my tab to avoid the hassle of opening his own.

We exchange week events and he shares pictures of LA beaches. It’s beautiful, but I could never see myself out there. Like most New Yorkers, I can’t drive. He tells me about his hour-long bus ride to the center of town and I silently thank my immigrant parents for picking the right coast.

We shuffle next door to Triona’s. When I begin to order a drink, he grabs me by the shoulder and insists he buys the next round. He’s staring me down. His brown hair has turned less floofy and more tame.

“I-uhh, I-I’m going to get liquor.”

I’m not rich by any means, but I remember his poverty comment from last week and feel bad. The fact that I freely throw my card at bartenders means most of my disposable income (gladly) goes to booze. Booze that’s mostly pricey gin.

“What are you getting? Vodka?”

His intensity is throwing me off guard.

“No — gin.”

Niceeee,” he coos. His UK appreciation overtakes his intensity, but it rolls back when I correct his pairing assumption.

And soda? What are you mental?”

He gives me shit until the bartender comes over then asks for my preferred gin and orders. He opens a tab. We’re in it for the long run!

I’ve got a smug blush on when we settle into a side table. The conversation flows well; he tells me he’ll be gone till mid-May for a stop back home to England. We match pint to pint once I finish my gin. Alternating rounds depending on who’s too lazy to get up.

At one point his phone chimes and he groans, “Ugh. Sorry. It’s my program. It just crashed.” It’s the reason he was late today. It’s a bunch of coding shit that vaguely ties into politics, but he surprisingly explains it in an uncomplicated way. I’m impressed and can actually make sense of it.

“So, if it’s just that one digit that’s off…can’t you just replace it with the proper unit? How long will it take?” I speak slowly to not fuck up the basic terminology and… because I’m entering the tipsy territory.

He nods. And, when he tells me it’ll take a few minutes, I insist he does it right away. We squabble until I put my foot down. “Promise you, I’m not offended. You’re gonna be behind tomorrow. It’s not worth it.“

He begrudgingly pulls out his laptop, opens up the terminal, apologizing the entire time through. “So sorry.” He repeats, typing away like a mad man.

“Literally, no stress.” And I mean it. I’m definitely tipsy and decide to check on my #boysquad.

Date going well?

Yeah! Hardly feels like a date though. Def friend-zoned myself.

Make a move!!!

I scoff and put my phone away just as N slides his laptop away.


“Already! Thank you! Next pint on me?”

He begins to prep a cigarette when I mention it’s a skill I never developed. He props paper and tobacco in front of me and starts a How-to lesson. It’s an awful cigarette that he ends up reshaping.

“Not so bad for the first time. Shall we pop off now?”

It’s an amazing cigarette. I’m not just saying that because I (kind of) rolled it.

In between drags, he gives me his UK number.  “Y’know, in case you want to talk to me while I’m abroad.”

“Uh…okay sure.” I ash my cigarette and save the number as “Nx2”.

When we head inside, I suddenly realize I’m tired of the scenery.

“Hey, do you wanna head to another bar? Grab one last pint?”

“Yeah. That sounds chill.”

We’re standing up to close our tabs when he reaches for my hand and pulls me over for a kiss.

It catches me off guard and I pull away with a, “Whoa. I—“

 “Oh god. I’m sorry. I thought you wanted—“

“No. I— I do. I think you’re really hot. I just wasn’t expecting that. I didn’t think you were into it.”

“Oh no. You’re super cute. I’m definitely into it.”

I laugh and excuse myself to the bathroom, where I text the #boysquad —

Wow, I think this dude wants to fuck me???

When I get out, N’s smoking outside the bar. “So, bar?” The plumes of smoke obscure his face.

“Yeah. It’s just a bit late now. I’m afraid they’ll last call us quickly.”

“Well, there some bars in Bushwick still open.”

I laugh. Imagine me going to Brooklyn?

“Or we can go back to mine and have a few cocktails?” He leans and begins kissing me.

I laugh again. “Listen. I think you’re really hot. And I really want to fuck you. I just…didn’t expect this. I thought we were doing more friends thing.

This is great, but the thing is….I haven’t shaved in months.”

He stares at me, genuinely confused and after a beat says, “…So?”

“No no,” I wave my hands frantically, “you don’t understand. I literally mean MONTHS.”

He’s still staring at me deadpan, a stream of smoke jets out of the corner of his mouth.

“So, would you be down to fuck me in, like, a month, when you’re back from England?”

 This time he laughs, holding my hand he answers,

“Yes, I’d be down to fuck you in May… but I’m also down to fuck you now.”

 He leans in and kisses me again. I shake my head and step away.

“You don’t understand. It’s like a Kate Bush bush.”          

He replies instantly,

“I love Kate Bush.”

The lights on Williamsburg bridge are illuminating N’s hand on my thigh.  My hands are folded together in plain sight. I don’t mind the tiny PDA, but the cabbie’s stern glances into the rear-view mirror are making me uncomfortable. It isn’t until the safety of Bushwick’s darkness that I reach over for his hand. He squeezes it tight and I like that he’s not trying to fuck in this cab.

We pull up to his apartment and he pays for it fully despite my (admittedly half-arsed) offer to split. Holding hands, he unlocks the front door, and we silently walk up the staircase. It’s one of those buildings where people leave their shoes outside the door.

The apartment is cool. Spacious and lofted. There’s a tube map on the wall that makes me smile. He makes one Greyhound and one Tim Collins while I’m in the restroom. 

His room is cute. It reminds me of my own. I observe the pictures as I pull off my jeans. There are a bunch of photos of him with his friends. They’re holding beers and smiling hard in most of them.

We fuck for hours. 

I’m so used to a one and done session that I have a back to back orgasm that makes me go cross-eyed.

After the fourth time, I start to get dressed when he sharply asks where I’m going. “It’s so late. Of course, you’re staying. I wouldn’t let you go home at this time; it’s too dangerous.”

I’m thrown off. Most of my sex life has been me getting kicked out at 4 am, and this random dude wants me to stay? I’m embarrassed for myself and successfully play off my dressing as “just underwear lounging.”

I can’t believe he buys it.

After cigarettes and chatting, we settle into bed. He’s outrageously cuddly. He wraps his entire body around me and plays with hair. I’m thrown off by the intimacy. I’ve never had anyone’s fingers through my hair. 

I’m so turned on…

After the fifth time, we actually settle into bed. Octopus’d together, we both knock out quickly.

I wake up before my alarm goes off. I’ve got to get in early to change into my spare work clothes.

N greets me with a groggy, “Mornin’? Off to work?”

He’s still stupidly cute and I regret not calling out the night before. I scramble around the room, cursing myself out for not following my organized protocol. This is what happens when you haven’t had sex in nearly two years.

God— why is it so hard to put jeans on?

I give him a kiss on his forehead and he wishes me a great day. The ride to work is quick once I battle the streets of Bushwick for a piping hot coffee and a bacon, egg and cheese.

I text my group chat the universal emoji for, “I just got laid.”

The chat explodes. One friend replies,

Well. God damn. I never thought I’d see the day you get laid.

Gee. Thanks, guys.

It’s 8:30 by the time I sneak into my office. I’m tired and dehydrated but successfully on time. I sport a stupid smile on my face that evolves into a stupid grin when N texts me around noon.

When I finally get home, I run a bath, schedule STD testing in four weeks and fall asleep with Union Jacks on my mind.

Lessons learned:

  • Gelling with someone doesn’t inherently mean you’re friend zoned. You may just gel well from the start. 
  • I can do the casual sex thing!!!
  • Rolled cigarettes might be my new vice.

Rating: 8.5

App: OKCupid

team ciaooo

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