Tuesdate:

by piefolk, posted in Uncategorized

Him:  So here he is. 

Me:  So here HE is.  Look at you, small drink of water.

Him:  STOP IT.

Me:  I mean it.  You’re gorgeous. Better than your pics online.

Him:  Isn’t Grindr weird?

Me:  I kind of think it’s amazing.  It’s like Chat Roulette, but in person.  You never know what you’re going to get.

Him:  Believe me.  I know.

Me:  That sounded ominous.

Him:  I’ve met some real creeps.

Me:  I’ve met jerks and nice people.  No real creeps.

Him: Maybe that’s because you’re the creep?

Me:  Nice.  I tell you you’re pretty, twice, and you imply that I’m a creep.  You should write a book on dating.

Him:  Uh oh.  Am I one of your online Jerks?

Me:  Are you?

(pause)

Him:  No.

Me:  Well there it is.

(pause)

Him:  Anyway, who keeps score?

Me: Of what?

Him:  Of that sort of stupid stuff?  Compliments and whatnot. 

Me:  Obviously I do.  I just demonstrated that I do.

(pause)

Me:  Relax.  I might be joking, you know…  I might just still think you’re an attractive little wonder, at 5’6”.

Him:  Stop saying little.  I don’t like to feel little.

(i’m feeling brave, and so i take a step toward him.  i put my face next to his.  i can feel the breath come out of my nose against his cheek.  he smells spicy.  like cinnamon or ginger, but not quite those things. )

Me:  What about now?  Do you feel little now?

Him:  Yes.

(i put my hands on his ribcage and squeeze gently.  the hair stands up on my arms.  i have goosebumps)

Me: But don’t you kind of feel really powerful?

Him:  Yes.

Me:  You’re pretty.

Him:  Ugh.

(he moves away)

Me:  Haha…  okay.  So, no saying you’re little, and I’m guessing – no ‘pretty’ either?

Him:  Why not handsome?  Why can’t I be handsome?

Me:  You can.  You are.  You’re very handsome.  You’re also pretty.

Him:  Ugh.

Me:  Well the good news is: I like pretty.  So dry your eyes on that.

Him:  You’re cute. 

Me: Compliment number one.

Him:  What?

Me:  That’s the first compliment you ever gave me, in person.

Him:  Oh great.  How far behind am I?

Me:  Only a few, but I’d rather stay ahead in the compliment game, if you don’t mind?

Him:  Why? 

Me:  I’d rather you owed me.

Him:  What??

Me:  It’s a thing that my grandfather says.  I used to borrow money from him, sometimes, at the store to get comic books.  I would ask to borrow five dollars.  He would give it to me.  When I got my allowance I’d try to pay it back, and he would say ‘No, I’d rather you owed me.’  Then he would smirk, as if he’d just told the funniest joke in the world.

Him:  That’s cute.

Me:  It’s infuriating.  He’d smirk at me, here and there, for the next few weeks, and I knew he was thinking ‘You owe me five bucks and it really bothers you, and I love that.’  He was right, too.  It was exactly what I was thinking.

Him: That’s cute.  He sounds pretty awesome. 

Me:  He’s a good man.  For sure.

Him:  Can I ask you a question?

Me:  No.

Him:  What?

Me:  Sorry.  That was supposed to be funny.  I said no, when the only appropriate answer was yes.  I thought it would be funny.

Him:  Was it?

Me:  Yes, but you’ll just have to trust me.  You didn’t see your face when I said it.  It was funny.

Him:  I guess I’ll have to believe you.

Me:  Good.  Because I’m lying.

Him:  What??

Me:  Sorry.  That was another joke.  That one wasn’t funny.  I get nervous and act like an idiot.

Him:  You make it charming, somehow. 

Me:  You didn’t know me in college.

Him:  Were you different?

Me:  I was nearly insufferable.

Him:  You’re pretty too.

Me:  Shucks.  Okay.  That’s two for you.  Fuck.

(long pause)

Him:  You’re not some sort of creepy Rice Queen, are you?

Me:  Uh…  I mean..  I thought that was obvious?  You’ve been to my website, right?

Him:  Yeah.  There’s lots of Asians. 

Me:  But not ALL Asians, right?  I like a lot of things.  A lot of people.  I like kind people.  Asians are kind, frequently, if you’re kind to them.

Him:  I guess that’s not so creepy.  I guess that’s okay for Asians.

Me:  Yeah.  Well I forgot to say:  I feed on their tears.  Keeps me young.  I’m like a succubus, or a psychic vampire of some sort.  I’m 183 years old.  I make them cry and then drink their salty tears.  But it only works with Asians.

Him:  Really? 

Me:  Yes.  And did you also know that Black people can levitate?  They’re hiding it from you.

(long pause.  he starts laughing a lot)

Him:  You’re joking! 

Me:  Yes.  And you’re laughing.  That means…..

Him:  What does that mean? 

Me:  It means, you get a kiss, if you want one, later.

Him:  I’ll decide later if I do.

Me: Oh.  I. Like. That.

Him:  Really?

Me:  No.  It’s infuriating.   I’d rather you owed me one.

(we kept talking and walking.  later, he gave me a quick kiss.  it was a good kiss.)

He’s not a jerk…

But you are.  Come on.  You know you are.

SaturDATE

by piefolk, posted in Uncategorized

It’s Saturday, and I’m asking you on a date.

Come see my show?  My comedy band is doing a show at UCB Theater this Thursday April 28th at 6:30 pm.

The show is directed by the hilarious and talented Pamela Murphy.

Here’s a video where I ridicule a straight guy and make him think he’s contracted Hep C.  It explains everything:

If you come to the show, we’ll all go out for drinks afterwards.  Maybe I’ll drink to much and make out with you.  Let’s be honest.  I’ll probably do that even if I don’t drink too much.

Won’t that be fun?

The show co-stars Marcos Sanchez, Ari Scott (who took this photo)  and Daniel K. Isaac.  They are beautiful and much more charming/likable than me.

Thank God.

Just kidding.  There’s no God.

Prove me wrong, Easter.  Prove me wrong.

Just kidding.  That would be weird to have zombie Jesus walking around Williamsburg.  Actually.  Would anyone  even  notice?  Doesn’t a zombie Jesus just resemble a hungover hipster?

I love you guys.  You’re beautiful and perfect.  Come to the show and call me a Jerk.

Jerks.

Mysterious Stranger

by piefolk, posted in Uncategorized

I was visited by a Mysterious Stranger.  A few weeks ago.  It was surreal.

He had a secret agenda that he revealed to me.

He wanted to bake a pie.

What?  You look disappointed.  Did you expect the sort of ominous, post-apocalyptic cloak and dagger that I was hinting around at?

C’mon…  Don’t be naive. I bake pies, give advice, and talk about my cringe-worthy dating life.

So as I was saying, the Mysterious Stranger wanted to make a Lemon Custard Pie.

(Ominous Film Noir Sound Cue)

That’s right.  He held me hostage.  I was his prisoner, and he wouldn’t leave until his hunger for Lemon Custard Pie had been sated.

What?  What’s your problem?  Why are you rolling your eyes?

Well, knock it off.  I’m just writing in a genre.  In this case the genre is new-future post apocalypse film-noir.  Get into it.  Everyone is doing it these days.

Sometimes people want to come bake with me, but they don’t want to show their face on my blog.  For whatever reason.  In this case the guy who wanted to bake with me is a prominent politician who affects real change in the State Government of New York.  Also, I’m lying.

Anyhow.  What makes you think I’m going to drop a dime on my baking partner?  We got a good thing going on here, see?  I ain’t about to jeopardize that for some skinny pipsqueak who’s rolling his eyes at me.  So wipe that look off your mug and listen up…

I never tried this custard type before, capiche?  It was a squirrely kind of recipe – kind that bakes in the oven, instead of the stove top.  You follow my gist?  Good.   It’s more difficult this way, because the custard tends to separate.  I’m not sure lemon was  great choice either, owing to the high acidity rate of lemons.  Then again, I ain’t no science egghead, so maybe the acidity and the custard separating ain’t got much to do with one another.   I can’t say.

Man.  Writing in this genre is difficult.  I should have watched His Girl Friday a few more times.

What am I talking about?  I got a whole life to live.  I’m supposed to watch iconic old movies more than ONCE?

Oh stop it.  Stop with the silent treatment.

I’m not going to tell you who it was who came over.  He’s famous.

He’s a wealthy Persian.  His family pretty much own half of Iran.  It’s ridiculous.

Also.  Again – lying.

Anyway.  I decided to try piping the whipped cream onto the pie with a pastry bag I improvised out of a Ziplock.

I need practice.  After a couple of  ugly whipped cream towers I decided to just smash them all together and do my normal, rustic whipped cream look.

Rugged.

We had a good time, even though the custard separated, and I really need practice piping on whipped cream.

What?  No.  I’m not going to tell you.

Because.

It spoils the fun.

Okay fine.  He’s a high powered lawyer.  Isn’t.

He’s a professional assassin.  No.

Retired Yakuza, now runs a bingo hall in Canarsie.  Nope.

He’s a middle school teacher with a heart of gold that isn’t yet embittered by the New York public school system.  He really wants to help those kids.  Not at all.

He’s a cowboy.  He’s a hunter.  He’s a sailor.  He owns a cannery.   He provides  home health care to the elderly.  He’s a boatswain.  A tailor.  He is Cheryl Crow.  He’s left handed.  He’s right handed.  He doesn’t have any hands due to a freak accident that occurred on an Artic expedition.  He’s a wedding photographer.  He’s a jerk.  I’m a Jerk.  He wanted me to tell you that we all are Jerks.  He wants you to love him, but he’s a total Jerk and he wants you to eat all the pie.  He wants us all to be Jerks together.  He thinks the iPad should run Flash.  He’s a cruise director for Carnival Cruise lines.  He’s a big ol’ softie.

This has devolved into madness.

Enjoy the Mysterious Stranger.

Jerks.

ThursDATE: Flash Back

by piefolk, posted in Uncategorized

Place: Inverness Florida, a Rural Town

Time:  My Senior Year of High School

Him:  Thanks for coming over.

Me:  It’s just so weird.  It was a weird phone call to get, in the middle of the day.  Just some guy asking if I’m gay.

Him:  Was that the first thing I asked?

Me:  You asked if I was Michael Martin, and then you asked if I was gay…

Him:  And you said yes.  I can’t believe you said yes.  Just like that.

Me:  Yeah.  Well.  I don’t lie about my sexuality.  It makes me feel uncomfortable.  I stopped lying about it a few years ago.

Him:  How many people know about you?

Me:  Whoever cares to ask, plus all of the people that my friends just mention it to.

Him:  Do you think your friends are telling people a lot?

Me: Well, yeah.  I’m friends with all the actorly types.  They love to talk.

Him:  Yeah.  I hate that about actors.  They’re always talking about other people.

Me:  It’s kind of our job.  To find out about people, what they’re like.  We’re not usually judging.  Just perceiving.  We’re interested.  But yeah – my actor friends like to talk.  How did you know to call me?

Him:  One of your actor friends told me about you, and gave me your phone number.

Me:  Weird.  So weird.

Him:  So I looked you up in the yearbook to see if you were cute.  Then I called you.

Me:  Such a strange way to meet somebody.

Him:  So what do you think of my place?

Me:  I like it.

Him:  I kind of live here alone.  It’s a long story.  My mom got a good job in Orlando.  So I’m here by myself about 5 days a week.

Me:  Sounds like a bunch of trouble.

Him:  I keep busy.  My friends are here a lot.

Me: I’ll bet.

Him:  Hey can I kiss you?

Me: You’d better.  How else am I going to prove that I’m as gay as my friends said I was?

(He kisses me.  It’s good.)

Him:  I couldn’t do that.  I can’t tell people I’m bi. 

Me:  You’re bi?

Him:  Don’t laugh.  It’s a real thing.

Me:  I know it is.  I just always thought a kiss from a bi guy would only feel half-interested.  But as I say that out loud I realize how ridiculous it sounds.

Him: But you tell people when they ask you.  Inverness is small.  It’s a small town.  People must hate you.

Me:  You know I’m class president, right?

Him:  Yeah.  But still.  I asked around.  Some people don’t like you much.

Me:  I suppose some people never will.  This is a redneck town.  There’s only what?  400 people in our High School?   In the only High School in town?  I think I’m doing okay, being openly gay here.  I think things are going  better than I expected them to when I started telling people.  Lots of people like me a lot.  Some people really can’t stand me.

Him:  You’re controversial. 

Me:  You’re hot.  I’m not controversial.  That makes me sound important, or something.  I’m just getting by, and trying to play by my own rules.

Him:  Maybe that’s what pisses people off. 

Me:  It might be.  Any chance I can get another one of those bisexual kisses?

Him:  Every chance.

(More smooching.  It’s good)

(There is a sound of a car pulling into the driveway.)

Him:  Oh shit.  That’s my friends.  Shit.  My friends are here.  Will you hide in the closet?  I’ll get rid of them.

Me:  Will I what?

Him:  Hide.  In here?  Please.  PLEASE.

Me:  Yeah.  Fine.

(A long time goes by as I hide in his closet.  I lay down on a pile of his dirty clothes.  I can smell him in his closet.  I feel comfortable and angry at the same time.  Eventually I hear the car noise again.  He comes back.  I debate whether or not to fake having slipped into a coma while he fucked around with his friends in the living room.  I decide I’m classier than that.)

Him:  Sorry about that.

Me:  You should be.  You made me feel ashamed.  I don’t like being made to feel ashamed of myself.

Him: I’m sorry.  They know you’re gay.  People kind of know that you’re gay.  It wouldn’t look good.

Me:  This isn’t going to work out.  I’m going to leave.  You can’t be wanting to date me, properly, if you’re going to shove me into a closet when your friends come over.

Him:  Come on.  Stick around.  I really am sorry.

Me:  I know, but now I don’t feel comfortable here anymore.  It’s not you.  I’m kidding.  It is.  It’s you.  But I’m not angry.  I’m just not interested in starting a relationship like this.  On these terms.  I have too much self respect.  It really gets in the way.  I’m not being sarcastic, or joking.  It really gets in the way of things, my pride.

Him:  That sucks.

Me: You’re cute.

Him:  You are.

Me:  Can I get one more of those kisses before I leave?

(We do.  It’s great again.)

Him:  (Under his breath) Fuck…

Me:  Yes.  We should probably do that.  Just so you know what you’re missing.

(We do.  Now he knows what he’s missing.  We lie there for about 20 min.)

Me:  Okay.  I’m going.  This was not the best date in the world.  You need to work on your dating skills, okay?

Him:  Okay.  I’m sorry.  I don’t know what else to say…

Me: It’s okay.  You’re nice.  It’s fine, really.  You’re good at sex.

Him: Thanks.  Will you come over again?

Me:  Probably not.  You’re cute, but I don’t let anyone make me feel ashamed.

Him:  Well.  Thanks for coming over.  You’re a great guy.

Me:  You’re not so bad yourself.  Just get over that shame business, and you’re kind of a catch.

Him:  Well thanks again for coming.

Me:  Well thanks for having me.  It was a wonderful time.  Except for that one part.  Thanks for the make outs.

Jerk.

People Send Me Stuff

by piefolk, posted in Uncategorized

Okay.  So, I never claimed I wasn’t strange.

I’m pretty weird.

That’s a given.  You’ve been to my site.  You’ve poked around.  You get it.  Weirdo city, right?

Still.  The things people send me…

Sometimes it’s pretty straightforward.

Like this:

So no pies this morning. But I did make muffins. Banana yogurt walnut. Pic
attached.

If I’d known there was a pie lifestyle (piestyle?), I’d have signed up
sooner.

5’8″ 150 45 neg vers smart creative prof type. Also pics attached.

Matt

Matt,

I’d love to have you over to bake.  You seem like a nice guy and your letter mentioned baked goods, and you included a face (omitted) pic and a torso shot.  What a gentleman.  I love that you are not afraid of using a floral speedo as underwear for your internet torso photo shoot.  Shows you have a real sense of humor, and you don’t take yourself too seriously.

Now, when you say you’re a ‘smart, creative, prof type’ do you mean what I hope you mean???

‘Prof’ means Professor, right? Not Professional?  Please say you’re a ‘Professor.’  Like Charles Xavier or Emma Frost? Someone who trains young mutants to cope with their staggeringly overwhelming super powers? Just say that you run a school for gifted youngsters, please?   If that’s true, you can plan to have me as your husband and baby daddy for the rest of your life, or until a Legacy Virus makes us make hard choices and really examine who we are…

If ‘Prof’ means professional:  I will still bake with you.  I am just less excited.

Know what?  I just realized something.  You, more likely than not, meant ‘Professional’.

Hm.  Well… I look forward to baking with you at least.  Just, uh….

Stay out of my THOUGHTS Professor!!

On to the next internet weirdo!!!  He didn’t sign his letter, so I’ll just call him Klaus.

wow – PIEFOLK looks like an amazing project,
I´m really curious to see what you are doing in your kitchen,

(You don’t have to be, Klaus – I’m pretty open about what I’m doing in my kitchen.  I photograph it and broadcast it)

I have no experience with making pies and meeting guys
but like the way you present yourself on your blog
and I´m willing to learn more about it

Here’s the drawing that Klaus sent me.


Obviously this old man should NOT stop smoking opium.   He’s simply been accosted by a young boy with a pail full of clear gelatin….  Uh…  Right?  I think that’s pretty clear.  In any case-

Thanks again for writing in, Klaus…

Next internet weirdo, please?

so you handle cock and the handle food, thats gross

bloe me

Thanks for your feedback, Bloe Me.  I can see you’ve taken the time to cultivate the image of who you are, when you enter the internet world.  Your internet identity is Bloe Me.  Wow.  That’s so important. I can tell you want to really be the change you want to see in the world.  I love you for that. I really do.

Here’s my comeback.  Ready?

I bake in my own home.  I wash my hands, stupid.

But there’s really nothing stopping me from working in any of New York’s commercial kitchens, or restaurants…  I mean – I’m certified…

AREN’T YOU EXCITED???  You’ll never know if it was secretly ME who made your food!!!  Yay!!!  We both win!!  But really just me.

You’re welcome.

Next. Internet. Weirdo.  Please?

Strength Training.  Chapter one:  Involve yourself in a horrible accident.

Thanks for your letter!!!  It makes total sense!

Guys.

As much as I make fun of you for sending me weird shit? I’m pretty grateful.  It’s pretty cool to be communicating with you weirdos, even if I don’t always understand it…

Like I said at the top of this post – I’m a weirdo myself.  I live by the weirdo code.  I have respect for you weirdlings, even if it seems like i don’t.

So, thanks, weirdos, for writing in.

And please.  Have a good week.

Jerks.

Hang Man

by piefolk, posted in Uncategorized

I ran into an old friend of mine.  I haven’t seen him in years, even though he only lives 7 or 8 blocks away.  He’s a sweet guy.

This is Anthony.  He’s an artist.

He lives in East Williamsburg.

He does visual art.  Drawings, paintings, photography.

It’s how he makes his money.  He’s a gay role model.

He wanted to come over and bake quiche.  Sounded good to me.

Anthony is a vegetarian.  We made a broccoli, mushroom, and green pepper quiche – with spicy jack cheese.

We spiced the veggies with Smoked Hungarian Paprika as they broke down in the skillet.

Then we spontaneously took our clothes off.

I know what you’re thinking.  Spontaneously?

You’re right.  It was  totally contrived.  Sue me.  Wait.  Don’t.  People have already threatened that.

Don’t sue me.

Anthony used to be a regular of mine when I worked Tuesday nights at R Bar.

I used to throw a fun party there.  The Pajama Party.

Everyone always forgot their pajamas.

So we ran around in our undies.

I asked him to draw something.

I have chalkboard walls in the kitchen.

People draw stuff, sometimes.  He drew that poor British child with the noose around his neck.

We had a great time.  He had to leave right after we took the quiche out.

He took a slice to go, and ate it on the way to his therapist’s office.

Anthony and I had fun.  It’s nice to see an old friend, and to hear they’re prospering.

Please enjoy the photos, and remember to enjoy the quiche.  Jerks.

People Send Me Things.

by piefolk, posted in Uncategorized

Here’s a recent letter:

Good Afternoon Mike,

(I apologize if it’s not okay to call you Mike)
I’m a 22 year old rounding off my bachelors degree preparing to go to Medical school next year. At this point in time I’m doing what I can to keep men away to avoid complications when I start my arduous schooling but there is one person I find to be a particularly weak spot… and I kind of like the attention outside of all my books. Basically, he’s an ex. He and I dated a few years back when I was too young to realize I had a good thing, I was ashamed of being gay and therefore not treating him fairly, we went on a “break” (my choice). While on the break he started dating another guy and he lost contact with me until one day I managed to catch him on his day off. Since we dated I’ve experienced a good deal of adversity in life (medical, familial and a lot of alienation)… the sort that basically make a much stronger and more mature person of the target.
As for the man in question, He’s a loyal sort and when he’s with someone he sort of cuts ties with any guys who might be interested in him, so I understood why he fell off the world… I was also fairly shocked he decided to answer my call. We talked for a bit but then nothing for a few more months when I noticed that he and his then boyfriend had broken up on facebook. He contacted me. He told me how he thought about me during most of his relationship, how every time he was disappointed in his ex he thought about how I wouldn’t or hadn’t done something like that (even in my lame gay shame). Eventually we became great friends again and I wanted to pursue something but he told me he didn’t really want to date right away because of his ex. I understood.
A couple weeks later, he got another boyfriend and after nearly a year (this January) they broke up. We went out for drinks, caught up and ended up fooling around, he told me he wants me to pursue him again and honestly I want to, he made me really happy when we were together and continues to even now… but since we’ve been talking again he’s had a number of issues that make it difficult for him to make time for me. I understand. After I graduate and head to medical school my time is going to be limited and I don’t see myself being able to start a relationship, maintain yes, start no… So, with medical school right around the corner I’m just wondering if I’m being stupid, getting played, by trying to get back with an ex or if I’m just questioning it all because I’m impatient… ACH! What do I do!?
Grateful for any insight,
A.
Dear A.
First of all don’t ever, EVER call me Mike.    Only my immediate family does that, and that’s just cause they don’t want me acting any gayer than I already do.  Mike is the name of a guy who can fix your bike, or will take care of your dog when you’re out of town.  I’m much more of a Michael.  A Michael will make eyes at you in the library while you’re researching staph infection.  A Michael will photograph you in a Starbucks and then post that photo on Facebook to see if anyone knows anything about you.  See the difference?  It’s subtle, but it’s there.
Anyway.  Enough of the truth about my odd behavior jokes.
I don’t know you, and I don’t know this guy.  But given the information you’ve put forth, I’d say he’s probably not the guy you should be getting involved with right now.  He’s your ex.  There’s so much water under the bridge with you guys, and you’re going to medical school soon.  Something about your letter doesn’t feel right to me.  Not having time for meeting new people is not a reason to invest your heart into someone.  Well.  I guess it is, but for my money, that reason isn’t good enough.
Also, he’s had the opportunity to rekindle stuff with you before, and he hasn’t taken it (but he did take the opportunity to fall in love with someone else just a few weeks later – odd, if he wanted to be single, like he said).
I think you should do what you want.  What’s more, I think you will do what you want.  But my gut tells me this guy isn’t being available because he doesn’t want to get close to you.  It could be because he’s extremely busy or whatever, but really, who doesn’t have 30 minutes to cuddle before bed?
I don’t.  I’m blogging this instead.  Selfish.
Just kidding.  You’re not selfish.  Thanks for writing in.
Here’s my advice, cold as it might seem:  continue having sex with him for as long as the new found chemistry holds.  Don’t mention relationship stuff unless he brings it up.  If he doesn’t bring it up, it’s likely an indicator that he doesn’t really want to get close.  If he proves me wrong, even better for you.
I mean, what’s wrong with enjoying a physical relationship with your ex for a bit?  Nothing, as long as you don’t get hurt.  Don’t get hurt.  You’re a sweet guy.  I like you.
xoxoxo,
Michael

TuesDATE: What’s Wrong With Your VOICE???

by piefolk, posted in Uncategorized

Him: Thanks for walking me back to my hotel.

Me:  No problem.

Him:  Sorry my friends were so obnoxious.

Me:  They were a handful.  None of them are larger than 5’6 and yet they drink like lumberjacks.

Him:  What’s a lumber jack?

Me:  A guy who cuts down trees and eats a lot of maple syrup.

Him:  I drank a lot too.

Me:  Yeah.  Everyone got wasted.

Him:  You too?

Me:  No, I just had that one shot that everyone was forcing on me.  I don’t drink much anymore.

Him:  Why not?

Me:  I got tired of acting the way your friends acted tonight.

Him: Hey.  Those are my friends.  They didn’t act so bad.

Me:  Yeah.  I guess they didn’t.

Him:  What did they do?

Me:  They were just gruesome, a little.  They seemed to be competing with each other for attention the whole time, which I hate. (Unless I’m doing it, then it’s hilarious).  I went to theater school.  I’m no stranger to that stuff, but…  Also.  Actually.  This was weird.  Whenever I would compliment them they would all stop and zero in on it, and then ask me to repeat the compliment.  Then they would smile really big and and act condescendingly flattered.  Then they would laugh and ridicule the compliment.  It was a group effort.  It was really off-putting.  I felt like I was being ridiculed for being nice.

Him:  You have to understand.  That’s just Singapore.  We don’t go around giving compliments to each other.  It strikes us as a very fake thing to do.

Me:   I wasn’t being fake.  Here’s it’s considered good conversation to give compliments here and there.  Especially since I was flirting with you, and I wanted your friends to like me.  It’s just smart, here.

Him:  It makes us very nervous.

Me:  Almost suspicious, it seems….

Him:  Maybe.  Maybe that’s true.

Me:  I was being sincere.  Everything I said, I meant.  Especially the stuff about how attractive you are.

Him:  Hey.  Come on now.  You said that before, okay?  I don’t need to hear that.  I don’t want to keep hearing that all night.

Me: What?  Don’t you want me to think you’re attractive?

Him:  Yeah, I already know you do, though.

I’m sorry.  In my country I’m very famous, so I hear these things all the time.  I get tired of everyone telling me I’m attractive.

Me: Believe me.  So do I.  I run a pie blog.  The compliments never end.

Him:  In Singapore I’m a national sports star.  I’m a household name.  I’d say about 80% of people know who I am.  I’m on the national bowling team.

Me:  Bowling? Why didn’t you tell me I was with the Derek Jeter of Singapore?  Will you autograph my chest?

Him:  What’s a pie blog?

Me:  It’s this huge thing in America.  Everyone has their favorite pie blog, and people argue which one is best.  I run a popular one, but not the most popular one…  I’d say only about 40% of Americans know who I am.

Him: Really?

Me:  No.

Him:  You’re joking but I’m not.  It gets really boring.  Everyone knows who I am and they’re constantly glad handling me an giving me false compliments.

Me:  Sounds like a snooze.  By the way.  Here we are.

Him: The W Hotel?  Ah yes.  You must come up.

Me:  Haha.  No.  I said I’d make sure you got here safe.  You’re here safe.  You’re almost as wasted as your friends.  Let’s meet up for dinner on Sunday.  Come over to my place and I’ll cook you dinner.

Him: Just come up now.

Me:  No.  It’s late and I’ve got writing to do and just…  no.  Sunday we’ll be on the same wavelength.

Him:  Just come up now.  Stay with me.

Me:  No.  I really don’t want to.  It’s not you.  I’m exhausted and I’m not good at sleeping in new environments.  Sunday, huh?

Him:  Don’t be dense.  Just come upstairs.  I’ll give you a massage and who knows…

Me:  Thanks for the offer, but hey, we’re asymmetrically drunk from each other.  You’re really cute and I like you.  Let’s meet for dinner?

Him:  Come up.

Me:  I really have to go.

Him:  NO.  Come up!

Me:  I can’t, sorry.  Goodbye.  I’ll see you on Sunday, yes?

Him:  Why is your voice so high?

(pause)

Me:  What?

Him:  Your voice is so high.  It sounds strange.  What’s wrong with it?  It’s kind of grating.

(longer pause)

Him:  Hey.  I’m sorry.

Me: You’re feeling rejected.  And so you’re now trying to make me feel bad.  I tell you you’re pretty all night, and you and your obnoxious, over privileged friends scoff at me for it.  Now, I’m proposing you wait a day or two and then go on a date with me, and instead of gracefully accepting, you try to harangue me into a late night drunken tryst in your hotel room.  But because you feel rejected, or because you don’t feel validated, you’re lashing out at me.  It’s very small of you.  I told you I’m an actor, right?

Him:  Yes.  Listen…

Me:  No.  I don’t think I will.  I’ve been listening to you all night and now you’re going to listen to me.  Ready?

As you can imagine I’ve had my rather unique voice criticized a bunch of times in my life as a performer.  Casting directors, directors, agents, other actors, musical directors.  I’ve had plenty of people try to tell me to change my voice and there was a time when I would have, if I knew at all how to go about it.  How does one go about changing their voice?

But here’s the thing:  I won’t stop.  I don’t ever stop.  I got good at comedy – where my grating voice is an asset.  I keep doing musicals.  I front a band.  I improvise musicals.  So fuck off, will you?  I don’t need you asking me what’s wrong with my voice.  The answer to that question is: nothing.  I have a beautiful, unique, hilarious, powerful voice and you were right – I’m sensitive about it.  But you were wrong – I’m not insecure about it.

Him:  Come on, now.  I’m sorry.  You’re right.

Me:  It’s just so small.  You don’t get what you want immediately, and so you lash out in the cruelest way possible.  It’s… man…  wow…   I’m getting angry.   I have to leave.

Him:  Please don’t leave.  I feel bad.

Me:  Good.  You should.  I was nice to you and tried to make you feel good all night.

Him:  Let me take you to dinner.

Me:  I don’t think i will.

Him:  You’ve misunderstood me.  I’m just being Singaporean.

Me:  I know people from Singapore that don’t behave like you.  Enjoy the rest of your time in New York.

Jerk.  Or, no.  Wait…

Ass wipe.

SaturDATE

by piefolk, posted in Uncategorized

Him:  I didn’t like it.  You called me an imp.  You said I was drunk and negative….  You made me really mortified.

Me:  I didn’t like it either.  You were hammered.  I expected you to be more functional… We chatted for a long time online.  We video chatted… I had high hopes you would treat me better than you did.  You were really kind of mean, and you don’t even know it…

Him:  You have a lot of nerve.  To say that stuff about me, so publicly.

Me:  I’m pretty sure I said: you are mischievous when you’re drunk, and you have a lot of emotions that have to be dealt with immediately.   That’s not completely unflattering.  That’s actually semi-mundane.   Lots of people act like that drunk.

My mistake was, I was too nice.  I should have said exactly how much of a jerk you acted like…

Him:  I was mortified.

Me:  I was mortified. Some of your friends were hostile to me, for no reason.  One of them stuck his hands down my pants.  EVERYONE seemed way drunk or coked out.  It was a lot of energy.  And you were breaking up with your boyfriend.  You put me in the middle of that, and I don’t know you very well.  You threw a tantrum about wanting to go home, and then got alternately maudlin and flirty with me on the train. – IN FRONT OF YOUR BOYFRIEND.  Then you insisted that you wanted to go out some more.  I had an awkward evening that got more so at every turn.  No.  That’s not accurate.  I got my feelings hurt.  It was more than awkward.  You treated me like some sort of dog and pony show you were trotting out.

Him:  You should have left and called me out on it.

Me:  I should have not come.

Him:  Maybe.  Take down the post.

Me:  If I’m hurting your feelings I’ll take it down.  I hate that I hurt your feelings.  I thought I made you seem like a charming guy that got a little too drunk one night.

Him:  Good.  Take it down.  Take it all down.

Me:  Hm…  I dunno.  This is my blog.  My online diary.  I don’t want to be censored.   I’ll take down your pic.  How’s that?

Him:  Okay.  Take it down.

Me:  Sure.  Just say one more thing.

Him:  What do you want to hear?  TAKE. IT. DOWN.

Me:  I know but…  ‘Take it down,” and then what do we say??  What do we do?  When we want our friend to do us a favor?  We say what?

Him:  Take it down or hear from my lawyer.

Me:   We say please. I’ll take it down if you ask me to.  But you don’t bark orders at me.  Just say please.

Him:  Take it down.

Me:  If you say please.

Him: I won’t

Me:  Neither will I.  We’re still not showing respect for each other.  I’m big on that…

Him:  Then hear from my lawyer.

Me:  Okay.

(long pause)

Just know that it came down to just one word.  You could have said one word.  Please.

Jerk.