my little Blue Book of blue balls

THE SPOTTED PIG, West Village, NYC

I hadn’t frequented the Spotted Pig since I first moved to the city, back when a studio sublet on Christopher and Greenwich for $1500 a month didn’t even prompt me to batt an eyelash….mostly due to its less than impressive pricepoints and proximity to my ex-workplace.  

Turns out—even at happy hour, it is still full of the sort of self obsessed Prada-touting pseudo-hipsters I tend to cross the street to avoid at home in Greenpoint.  Having brought along the dullest sugar-date I have yet encountered, I couldn’t decide where to direct my flirtation, and ended up in a depressing spider web of mature leopard-print clad women, young men I may or may not have recognized (playing the fun game of pretending I had little cattle-blinders on my eyes where each of them was sitting), and this banker gentleman who was the essence of Square.  The wine was fantastic, but it was no match for the special alchemy of boredom and angst I was imbibing all evening.

Next I will skip the banker and get the explosive plate of long, stringy fries, dip them all lasciviously in ketchup and smack my lips resentfully every time I get asked to move my old leather bag off the bar to make space for someone’s lapdog.

BLUE BOOK RATING:

Discrete and Knowledgeable Service - N/A

Flattering Lighting - Who Cares

Risk of Peers - 4

Rape Meter - 2 (if you smile at the wrong person)

Overall Daddy Dating Ambiance - 1  

CHURCH AND STATE, Downtown LA

I work in fashion, so happy hour is usually more 9-to-11 than cinq-a-sept.  Church and State—banked by a sizable village of production houses, and the gaping sunset-pink American Apparel factory headquarters—is still a jovial, company-card-buzzed hub at this hour.  It suits a girl who occasionally mixes her work days with leisure ones.  So does the lengthy list of bullshit francais-inspired cocktails that look poached off a Keith McNally menu. 

If you are hankering for a lazy feast in the midst of people who are sleazier than your date, my advice is to call whichever Daddy is guaranteed to be still at work this late, and convince him to come rescue you in his Alfa Romeo STAT.  The multiple tables of gay executives and heteros trying to out-sleek each other are as flattering for an ingenue aura as candlelight to a face.

Chances are, Monsieur Papa will be just as stressed over his most recent merger or ad pitch as you are about today’s scuffle with Grace Coddington, so tell him you are “indecisive but famished” and he will simply order ONE OF EVERYTHING.   Eat the cheese plate, and all its little preserved-fruit trimmings, but skip out on the “tarts”, which are essentially pizzas by a different name (and one, which I had the privilege to taste and spit out, is completely drenched in a pasty green mulch tasting mostly of nothing with a hint of raw garlic).  For conversations’ sake, cut the cheese coma with alcohol: keep trying new herbal-infused drinks with Daddy until you can’t tell the difference between his Old Fashioned and your Fernet.

When the blonde waitress has to ask four times for your order, and Daddy teases her artlessly with his floppy jokes, all the more reason to sit there channeling a jaded Amelie, sipping and munching as he makes an ass of himself.  The best part of the whole thing was leaving a sea of unfinished platters—we needed two tables, to our two seats, to fit it all—and relishing the warmth of Daddy’s luxury car all the way home.

BLUE BOOK RATING:

Discrete and Knowledgeable Service - 3

Flattering Lighting - 4

Risk of Peers - 4

Rape Meter - 0

Overall Daddy Dating Ambiance - 4

TIME OUT, Southwest USA

Once in a while, a girl’s gotta pack a bag of mumus and moccasins, and take time off from ritual Daddy grooming, in service of wanderlust.  The American Southwest is perfect for this: most men you meet are either effeminate or up to their eyeballs in teenage fatherhood, so no risk of being carried away in a town car to fancy meals and Rape Potential.

Admittedly, there are more than enough bikers, truckers, and withered old ranchers to help a gal out in a pinch; but my first stop is Santa Fe, NM, where my gorgeous friend Iris has put me up for a week so we can frolic together in hippie garb

Sticky with pastries and jam from Tecolote (an OWL-THEMED brunch spot teeming with locals and schoolroom chair and table sets), we trundled around to leather supply stores and dusty vintage shops, letting the New Mexico winds fill our hair and clothes with dirt—because here NO ONE CARES what you look like.  

NOTE: Stop in for a chat with Billy, the flamboyant pink-bandana’ed barista at Spirit Espresso for the BEST AMERICANO IN THE SOUTHWEST and some precious mini cinnamon buns that are THREE FOR A DOLLAR (one for me, one for Iris, and one for our driver to a frosty mountain hike!).

WINGATE HOTEL, Dallas, TX

If, perchance, you spend 36 hours getting fucked by American Airlines on your way to spiritual awakening in New Mexico, and are compensated by a 15 hour layover in Dallas, TX—do not be deterred by the pro-military slogans draped on every airport terminal, or the muggy beater van that finally picks you up to chauffeur you to a compensatory hotel room. If life gives you lemons, in the form of gaudy silver airport chapels and cigarette-smelling bedding, make LEMONADE. And by that I mean there is No Better Time for an overseas-Daddy Skype session.

The Dallas Wingate is located in a sprawling commuter’s metropolis of similarly shabby-to-decent hotels; if you find yourself on a shuttle filled with exhausted flight attendants, expect to be ferried to the least-appealing and furthest-away hotel. Ignoring my intuition, which screamed Get Depressed and Worry about Bedbugs All Night, I sucked it up, called the only food delivery place available for a $15 (!!!) quesadilla, and hopped in the shower. I’d been waiting for a bored moment to Skype my Dubai Daddy who’s been bugging me to visit him for ages. Like clockwork, there he was online, hoping for some morning flirtation with his coffee.

Still in a towel, I give Bradley (this married, overly tanned Brit who sells real estate in Dubai) a sarcastic tour of the Average American Hotel Room: odd little antiseptic-smelling toiletries, used-looking bedding, beige everything, and of course a few askance pans of my post-shower self. Thankfully the lighting in my chamber was crap, thus hiding any havoc wreaked on my face by the stress of the last two days.

Changing into a sheer mumu, I then let Bradley watch while the large, dumpy, superfriendly delivery guy came in and discussed the freshness of his fare proudly—“we make all our own stuff, even grill the onions, ma’am, you’re sure gonna enjoy it”. Bradley is laughing AND jealous as I close the door on the friendly Texan, a perfect alchemy to keep him promising the Best Week of my Life whenever I decide I am feeling wild (and rested) enough to fly overseas.

Shortly thereafter Bradley heads to work, his head full of my praise, happy to be kept on the shelf for my possible spa-and-Chanel riddled visit in the future; and I, having done at least one thing productive despite the sheer dinginess of my situation, fall on my ten-gallon quesadilla with the fervor of a starved hyena. (And I’d have to call the bored teenage Wingate concierge to find the name of this 1-800 delivery spot, but to everyone’s credit it was pretty damn delicious—at least to a chick whose last meal was some dry American Airlines nuts two flights and twenty four hours ago.)

BLUE BOOK RATING:

Discrete and Knowledgeable Service - 3

Flattering Lighting - 4

Risk of Peers - 0

Rape Meter - 0

Overall (online) Daddy Dating Ambiance - 5

BUDDAKAN, Meatpacking, NYC

If your companion suggests Buddakan, for dinner or just a late-night drink, proceed with caution: the lights are dim, the space vast and cavernous, and the ambiance encourages naughtiness and excess.  The oft-invisible, hands-off waitstaff and distinctly 90s-asian-casino deco only adds to what can become an exciting night of flirtation and intrigue, or Just Plan Rapey.

Having wandered the cobblestone streets for four minutes or so after leaving dinner, my youngish benefactor for the evening smoothly waltzed up to Buddakan’s big black doors, and ushered me down one set of stairs to the first of several levels, which, when your date insists you partake in a gargantuan shot of Patron, seem to bottom out endlessly like a Matryoshka doll.  

Don’t expect anyone to take notice if your date begins to insult you and/or put his hands where they do not belong; everyone there seems to either be deep into their own tequila-induced mating rituals or, in the case of the staff, too polite and used to the wealthy set’s taste for public indecencies to batt an eye.  To her credit, and my demise, the bartender had gorgeous tits and a quick, generous pour.  I learned some valuable lessons about trusting my douchebag meter at this place, and also decided that no matter how gentlemanly the gent, in the words of the Millionaire Matchmaker, a lady should stick to her Two Drink Maximum.

BLUE BALLS RATING:

Discrete and Knowledgeable Service - 5

Flattering Lighting - 5

Risk of Peers - 3

Rape Meter - 4

Overall Daddy Dating Ambiance - 4

KOI, Bryant Park Hotel, NYC

There’s nothing like a hotel lobby to inspire a little healthy anticipation—read: dread—at which suited businessman is going to step forward in the corporate sea lunchers. I recommend donning a bright lip shade, to stand out from the pearly midtown neutrals; also, let Mr. Whoever check your coat (tables are so intimate you will have felt several body parts well before your date even begins to boozily insinuate you touch his, under your table).  As we sat down, my date, who fit his description of himself as a portly yet attractive ‘Godfather type’, brushed off menus and told the waitress simply to “overwhelm us”—which she did, with an immense platter of sashimi (my only stipulation; cut the trimmings and just bring me the expensive meat, thankyouverymuch).

The Godfather was keen on the ‘mentorship’ part of dating a younger woman, and so whilst I shoveled silky pieces of salmon between my lips, I batted my eyes encouragingly in response to his lifestyle suggestions (“don’t let this sugar dating become a career”) and his bold attempt at demonstrating sushi knowledge (“this one, I think, is a scallop. Looks funny raw”). The sake list is extensive, but when your YSL-clad monsieur is plucking at his lapels in discomfort (it was a tad warm), opt for the cold sake—glistening and slightly pink, it arrives in a small carafe suspended in ice, inside a glass globe. After a few sips the Godfather was sitting comfortably, and I was in heaven, swimming in delightfully flesh colored food and drink, and basking in monsieur’s glowing appreciation of my backless dress and tousled hair.

The only off-putting occurances: three loud, thirtysomething males at the table next to us—they offered horny, intrusive stares and lude, idiotic conversation that seemed straight out of an episode of ‘Entourage’—and a plate of dry, rather tasteless grilled shrimp, which Godfather ordered but then deemed inedible due to its reliance on an accompanying sauce, which was too sweet for his liking. This guy was the Big Leagues: he had a house in Miami where reportedly kept “anywhere from two to eight” ladies for his delight. I was intimidated, I will admit. But as the sun streaked through the tall windows and the corporate lunch crowd swelled, Godfather began boasting of past conquests, hinting of the hotel rooms that waited conveniently upstairs. I knew I had him, and behind my bedroom eyes kept my solid convicton to remain true to the Blue Balls principle—my company is more than enough compensation for a gent’s generosity.

BLUE BALLS RATING: Discrete and Knowledgeable Service - 5 Flattering Lighting - 4 Risk of Peers - 0  Rape Meter - 1 Overall Daddy Dating Ambiance - 4

MY LOCAL WATERING HOLE, Brooklyn: Bearded urban lumberjacks, merci pour l’amour! Last weekend I was treated like a princess in my own beloved stomping grounds. Rendezvous with fat-pocketed Manhattanites I will, with gusto, but witnessing the existence of young Brooklynites who have good taste in antique light fixtures, taxidermy, AND what to say to a lady has put a little pep in my step. A dirty martini and late-night charades? 5 out of 5.

PEASANT WINE BAR, Nolita, NYC

Part of my schtick as a food-savvy darling is an almost obsessive love of that classic companion to copious amounts of vino: cheese. And this is one love i don’t have to fake in the slightest—especially when it is aged to perfection and presented to me on a rustic candle-laden table. So, when my Italian Upper East Side based date one evening asked me to suggest somewhere clandestine and suited to my taste, I immediately directed him to the dark, cosy wine bar nestled under Peasant proper—reminiscent of my Italian grandfather’s wine cellar, and always smelling deliciously of slow cooked Mediterranean meals, I surmised it would be the perfect place to start myself a nice post-work cheese coma while stroking a tipsy Executive’s ego. And generally there is a large quota of chatty, boring men there, which doesn’t hurt the ambiance when I feel like being a sparkling gem.

True to form, when I waltzed in, Suit was at the bar chatting to the server, who in his odd 70s fur vest and aging shag haircut was the perfect bloke to encourage confidence in my date (confidence, I probably do not need to explain, is a serious aphrodisiac to a physically sub-par but financially top knotch gent, and usually spurrs loads of culinary pampering in the hopes of maybe, someday, getting to treat me to another more personal type of load…).

After a carafe of Chianti, a plate of delectably pliant bufala, and several rounds of discussion about New York real estate, I was rosy cheeked and ready to scour the menu for one of the more obscure, aged fromages, but apparently my luck for the evening had run out. This Italian Executive, who up to now had maintaned a rather presentable facade, began to discuss his opinion on WOMEN. Now, I am no 70s-era bra burning feminist; nor am I a Chelsea Girl Princess demanding Louboutins on her first date. But somehow in this deluded, slightly intoxicated gent’s mind I deserved to sit and take shit on behalf of both parties. No girl, he asserted, “deserves a gift just for meeting up with me. Hell she doesn’t deserve dinner unless she gives like the most amazing BJ ever. What is it with chicks these days, they think they’re so important, I could take home a girl from any bar in the city if I wa-“…ETC. Petulance and bitterness seemed to be the only things on the menu for the rest of the evening. I can make listening to a guy whine about his mother look interesting if it’s over scrumptious food, but this was too much. I don’t know if it was the retro music or the fact that my date could tell I was not going to swallow anything other than wine and cheese that night, but dude was in a serious funk, and even the most perfectly suited venue cannot make a true douchebag into sugar dating material.

At one point, though, between fuming bouts of overgrown adolescent angst and puffs of Acqua di Gio-infused body odor, my date wolfed down a breadstick or two and proclaimed, “these breadsticks are way better than the bread”. I’ll give him that, they are fabulous, and from now on I am going to save this little downstairs joint for sharing a glass of wine—and, yes, the delectable and coplimentary breadsticks—with friends.

BLUE BALLS RATING: Discrete and Knowlegeable Service - 5 Flattering Lighting - 5 Risk of Running Into Peers - 2 Rape Meter - 0 Overall Daddy Dating Ambiance - 5

DECIBEL / HASAKI, East Village, NYC

On a rainy Thursday night, Decibel—a sub-streetlevel sake bar with red lighting, graffiti’ed walls and a few too many fashion-industry peers for comfort—is the perfect spot to make a debut as a frivolous femme who is wined and dined for sport. Within 30 seconds of having stepped inside, tossing my hair over my fur collar and smiling with red lips at the suited, diminutive man awaiting my company, said gent had already started to usher me out the door to grab dinner instead.

This first culinary benefactor, whom I’ll call the Professor, had invited me to Decibel for its post-apocalyptic, Bladerunneresque appeal, having been impressed by my ability to banter about film and theorists like Adorno and Zizek. Points for ambiance, though perhaps too much cool if you are entertaining the mature, slightly awkward set. If good, indulgent times are to be had, I like an environment a little more conducive to ego-stroking.

Onward to Hasaki, just down the block—with just enough miscellaneous dinn and endearingly clumsy, fresh-off-the-boat service for any Sugar Dating discomfort to literally get ‘lost in translation’. The mangled-English sake menu provided the perfect ice-breaker, and we shared a flirty laugh while I asserted my preference bottles over half-carafes. The Professor ordered copious trays of sashimi, and as I loaded my chopsticks with lovely pink slabs of raw fish, proceeded to explore just how much of a Whore I was willing to be; this seesawed between whimsical remarks about how I was “too delicious looking to exist”, and rather low-brow obscenities including my least-favorite sort (the boasting-about-past-hot-affairs in attempt to seem worthy of my affection), but the awkward interruptions by a very young male Japanese waiter and the unconscious ludeness I was able to perform just by shoving piece after piece of quivering sushi into my mouth kept any serious discomfort on my part at bay. The typical too-bright lighting did not interfere with my geisha/schoolgirl demeanor because the waitor—who showed no signs of noticing my date’s age difference, which I couldn’t help thinking might be a cultural thing—plied us with sake all night.

Edgy and apocalyptic it is not, but Hasaki gets my praise for providing superior fish and an environment where even as my date handed me a book and told me not to open it on the subway (“don’t let the ‘presents’ inside get blown away”), not one waiter or neighboring diner batted an eye.

BLUE BALLS RATING: Discrete and Knowledgeable Service - Decibel, N/A; Hasaki, 3 Flattering Lighting - Decibel, 5; Hasaki, 1 Risk of Running Into Peers - Decibel, 5; Hasaki, 0 Daddy Date Ambiance - Decibel, 2; Hasaki, 4