I need to start off this post by letting you know that I do NOT think that all male models are stupid, intellectually deficient, or are null and void of current events knowledge. I will however let you know that the current guy I’m dating, let’s call him Brendan, is one of the most visually stunning men I have ever seen in the flesh. But the man has nothing between his ears.

Brendan moved to NYC after he was scouted by a big modeling agency here, and he just booked his first print campaign. And the man is so jacked/ripped, that on our first night together, I could not stop staring at him. Granted I don’t consider myself to be a superficial gal, and have prided myself on the fact that I’ve always gone for smart guys. But they’re not always so great either, and its not like guys don’t go for girls based on their looks alone. (Trust me, I’ve heard numerous conversations in the office from the boys’ about their latest conquests and tips on how they cheat on their girlfriends/wives. Real classy info.)

Back to Brendan.

After the drama with my ex, I just wanted to forget about everything. So I did. My girlfriends and I went out to Crobar, and went crazy. Simply put: lots of house music, Patron, and Grey Goose make Zoe C a very happy girl. And then, when I was getting my umpteenth drink of the night, I felt this cold beverage being spilled all over my skimpy top. As I turned around, to start a raucous rumble, I found myself face to face with Brendan, half-white and half-Chinese, and I seriously couldn’t stop breathing. HOT!

He apologized immediately followed by a slew of lines that every girl wants to hear, that I was beautiful, different and unique. Blah, blah, blah. Even if he was lying, I loved hearing every syllable, like most girls do. I have no idea how we managed to have a conversation, as house music was blaring in our ears, but we did. He insisted on taking a cab with me to my ghetto apartment, and we’ve been hanging out ever since.

So what’s the problem?

Okay, the sex is fantastic — probably the best I’ve ever had. When the lights are off, everything is perfect. He rocks my world. But when he opens his mouth and words out, I cringe. Literally. Brendan has absolutely nothing of importance to speak about besides his gym regimen, which brand of protein bar he will be eating that day, and how his modeling agent is a scary-looking cougar who is after his body. (That last part is slightly amusing, though, and probably true.) I soon found myself thinking, “Am I like all those guys in my office who go for models that look hot but have no brains?” Sadly, yes. Am I no worse then my money grubbing co-workers who use the term “models and bottles” on a regular basis?

Sigh. 

I made a mistake. Okay, several. I don’t know what to do with Brendan. I mean, I avoid any type of conversation with him as that just turns me off … maybe this should be my New Year’s Resolution? Never to date a male model again. Or, at least, one with nothing to say.

Oh, and FYI, I didn’t sleep with my ex. I just took a long look at him, left a $20 for my margarita, (La Bottega is way overpriced) and bounced out. He is so 2009.

Anyway, in my first post, I talked about my ex and how he broke my heart when he hooked up with a wannabe model.  This hot, smart, attractive, driven guy that I put on a pedestal, used to drive me crazy with his constant mind games, nonchalant attitude, and arrogance that makes girls like me go buck wild.  He was like a drug that I needed constant hits of especially when I craved his love and affection.  And when we broke up, it was as though I was thrown into rehab. You know…they try to make me go to rehab and I say no…no…no.

I couldn’t get my fix and it killed me.  Like all drugs, you know its bad for you, but you keep going back for more.

But time does have healing effects and whether I was rebounding with boring Steve-O from the office or spending time out with my gal pals, I started to heal.  The nights when I’d remember the “good times,” slowly became distant memories as I began replacing them with new images of fun, craziness, and spontaneous acts.  Hey, we might be in a recession, but I do live in New York City where you can find a crapload of things to do for very cheap.  Avenue B, anyone?

And then it happened. He called me and asked if I wanted to get a drink.  WTF!!!

I’d love to write that I texted him back, “Get a life, you loser and don’t contact me again,”  but of course I didn’t. (Though I did wait a few minutes to write him back)

We met at La Bottega in the Meatpacking District last night. I was 15 minutes late because for some reason I felt like that would show how nonchalant I’ve become.  (Makes no sense, I know)  Am I Audrina Patridge to his Justin Bobby? SIGH

I dolled myself up more than usual with my thigh high boots, minidress and my hair in tousled waves.  The entire time that I was doing my hair, I kept reassuring myself that I actually didn’t care what he thought of me.  Even though I obviously did.

And then, there he was.  Hot as ever. Chiseled jaw.  Slight stubble on his chin.  That goofy grin in his face.  I think my heart dropped a bit as I slid into the banquette.

HIM:  Long time, Zoe.  You look good.

ME:  Thanks.  You have dirt on your chin. Oh wait, that’s stubble.

HIM: Love the sarcasm.  Oh.  Happy Birthday.

Pause.

ME: Why did you call me?

HIM: I know I messed up.  I just… I’m still in love with you.

I just froze, but started feeling my face getting hot.  Why does he have this effect over me?  After all the crap he’s pulled, the excuses, lies, and heartache that he’s caused?  How come he gets to make me melt when he’s done me so wrong?

Can you guess what happened next?

I used to have one of those metabolisms that would be able to power through junk food, late-night drinking sessions and, of course, eating “street meat,” from the stands in Midtown. My ability to eat like a guy has won me much kudos amongst the males in my office, but I’m starting to notice that my metabolism isn’t as active as it used to be. Could it be that I actually need to get to a gym?! Not my idea of fun.

Anyway, I’ve been drowning my sorrows in large sizes of Pinkberry, pizza slices and, naturally, that amazing falafel from Mamoun’s that is super cheap, but filling. You want to know why? Remember Steve?

Well, I have a feeling that he told his finance buddies about our little evening escapade/romp which, to be frank, was not too exciting from my end. For the first couple of days after our hook-up, I seriously received tons of smirks and lopsided grins that seemed to say, “Hmm…so, THAT’s what you’re like in the sack?”

I barely remember anything! Though I do remember being awfully bored and wondering when we’d be done. I’m mean, but honest.

You may have heard that the markets are back up and so everyone at my fund is trying to forget about the past year and a half of hellish misery, but the remnants are everywhere. Everyone is working extra, extra hard and then they release all the stress with boys’ nights out — complete with some non-prescription meds.

What does that have to do with office dating? Well, everything. What I’ve learned by working with a bunch of men is that they don’t really gossip, they just compare notes and statistics whether it’s about women, sports, salaries, number of miles they run, or number of pounds they can bench press.

And apparently the associates know that Steve and I hooked up because they keep looking at me with this LOOK! I confronted Steve about this and he said, “Yeah, I just told _____, but its only because he was there with me at the club that night.”

The thing I learned is that if a guy does this at work, he immediately gets props from the other guys. But if you’re a female, you’re automatically considered a slut and everyone starts to look down on you. It’s crazy that in 2009 (and in NYC), this still seems to be the case.

Women make up half the workforce now, but we still deal with this BS? I don’t get it. Yeah, I made a mistake in hooking up with Steve-O, but now I’m the one that’s paying for it.  With what? My reputation.

By the way, I am craving some Ben & Jerry’s. I think I may start a diet tomorrow. Just kidding.

I love Fall in New York City as you don’t have to feel the gross humidity and nasty smells in the summer heat.  Instead, I like to just walk and enjoy the crisp air, though its a lot warmer than usual.  I’m adjusting to my desk job and Adam the A-hole is his usual boorish self.  I’m pretty sure that he’s having an affair and to be honest, I’ve met his wife and her “too-much-plastic-surgeried,” face freaks me out.  Maybe he’s too scared to look at her?  Sorry, I’m mean.

So, by now you know that I cocktail at a club on the weekends and business is picking up a bit but its still so slow!  Companies that used to hold huge parties just don’t anymore though we get a bunch of Eurotrash who have no idea how to tip.  Anyway, I worked this Fashion party on Friday night which is never fun because its a bunch of anorexic models, hot gay men (Great to look at, but doesn’t do much for a straight gal), and of course tons of booze and meds.  But… I saw one of the junior associates at my hedge fund and he completely recognized me in my thigh high hooker boots, short skirt and skimpy top.   See at my office job, I wear the most boring outfit that was created by the H&M; a White shirt and gray pencil skirt.  I’m sure that I look uber-boring to most of my male colleagues who hand me their administrative work and ask me to send faxes and do errands.

Anyway, this guy, I’ll call him Steve, came up to me and I was completely mortified as I held my cocktail tray up and he could see my belly rings and tattoos.

Steve: Zoe, what the F-ck are you doing here?  You’re a cocktail waitress?!

Me:  Uh…. I’m sorry, who are you?

Steve: I ask you to send my faxes for me every Wednesday.

Me:  Uh….oh yeah! Sorry, I have head issues

Steve: Obviously.  So, why are you working here?  Office assistant life isn’t exciting enough for you?

At this point, I’m about to sock him because he’s being more obnoxious than usual as I can see he’s more than buzzed.   (BTW, Steve was born into an extremely rich family, but the water cooler gossip is that most of their family money went to crap after the downfall of Lehman.  So I feel bad for the guy. Sort of)

If you remember from my last post, I recently caught my ex-boyfriend cheating on me and am feeling quite vulnerable.  And to be honest, Steve is hot, in that clean-cut Ivy League kind of way.  You feel safe with him, but you wonder how boring life would be if you married someone who grew up in Connecticut, has never really experienced diversity and thinks Finance is the best thing ever.  Even now.

Well…we ended up hooking up that night at his Soho apartment.  Really quaint place actually and it was clean!  Again, I was surprised…  At first, I was thinking, “What am I doing?”  But of course, after the kissing and the thoughts of, “Well, this won’t be a big deal,” left my mind,  I woke up the next morning, naked and feeling more vulnerable than before.

How is it that a hook-up can make you feel so much worse when just a few hours ago, it felt so perfect as you were passionately kissing and pretending like you were in some cheesy movie? (He was a bit slobbery though)

And even worse, is Steve going to blab about this to all the guys in our office?   I need to call my gay husband!

For the second installment of our “Single Girl Dating Diaries,” please meet Zoe C, an almost 20-something gal who is trying to make it in the big city. She’s not afraid to speak her mind and tell it like it is, so without further ado… please meet Zoe.

As I sit in my cubicle writing my first post, I’m in sort of a funk. For my day job, I work for the biggest A-hole at a big Financial firm. I don’t name names for fear of retribution so I’ll refer to my boss as Adam the A-hole from now on. This job currently pays for my crappy studio apartment that I share with my roommate, an artist, who somehow makes enough by bartending once a week at a stupidly popular club here in NYC, to pay for rent.

I’m 19-years-old, about to turn 20, and dropped out of NYU this past semester because I couldn’t afford to pay tuition. I’m supposed to be entering my junior year this coming fall and it looks like I’m NOT going to be attending. Totally sucks. I know what you’re thinking…ask your parents. Except they don’t have any money.

Anyway, I cocktail at this popular club on the weekends and it used to be good money before the Recession hit and now, its very sporadic. We used to get these big crowds of i-banker douchebags who would roll up with their “models and bottles,” and act like pigs. Frat boy pigs. But you know, if they’re slipping you 100 dollar bills, you’re not exactly going to be rude to them. Judge me if you want, but a girl’s got bills to pay. Funny story, but this one girl in my World Lit. class last semester actually stripped to pay her tuition and you WOULD NEVER GUESS THAT SHE STRIPPED. She always had the latest Marc Jacobs outfits and Chloe and Louis Vuitton everything. Hmm … I wonder if she was a friend of Eliot Spitzer before he got caught.

I was thinking about doing it too, but I don’t have a huge rack. Plus plastic surgery freaks me out, so I think the stripper life is not for me. Boo hoo. Anyway, I know that this first post has to be about dating, so I’ll get to the goods. I recently broke up with this guy that was supposed to be the love of my life except he’s completely changed for the worst.

Is it NYC? Is it the fact that he works for a hedge fund which was NOT AFFECTED by the recession? I don’t know. All I know is that this guy was supposed to be my future husband, someone who I was going to raise a family with Uptown while we summered in East Hampton with Diddy. A cheesy daydream, I know.

Then I found out he cheated on me with some skanky model. Wannabe model, that is. I think she’s done one print ad for Macy’s. Does that count?

I’m about to go drown my sorrows in cheap vodka from my fave bar in the Lower East Side. Pretty sad, I know, but apparently “Gossip Girl,” is shooting on the NYU campus tonight so I’ll have to run through the shot and disturb them. As you can tell, I’m not completely mature and am about to enter my 20s which is apparently the most difficult period of your life. Great.