How to Quickly Ruin a Date with a Tall German Man

This email was forwarded to me by a very close friend last night, and for obvious reasons I got a kick out of it. I mean, personally, I would’ve left after the conversation stuck around shopping for more than a minute because I have enough gay men in my life. But I can understand her need to go on. Dating a man 6’8″ comes with a set of compromises, I suppose…

From: Jill xxxxxx <>
Date: January 8, 2012 7:49:30 PM EST
To: Amy xxxxxx <>
Subject: My Date with the German

There’s nothing left to do but write. Put this heart wrenching experience into words.  All I keep saying to myself is “what the fuck just happened?” I feel like I was blindsided. Rewind….8 pm. I walk into Le Caprice on 5th avenue to meet my German. I know I look good, wearing a black tulle dress, payless heels and bundled in my effortlessly chic, yet somewhat cumbersome H&M cape I open the double doors just in time for a windstorm to fuck up my perfectly quaffed locks of brown hair. “Shit” I mumble, there goes my freeze frame, music video entrance. We meet at the bar, he orders a martini “just a little dirty.” It takes him an unusual amount of time to ask me for a drink, or perhaps I’m just being critical at this point. I order a chardonnay. I notice he is approximately 2-3 drinks ahead of me. “It’s ok” I think to myself, after all, he is 6’8. For the first 2 hours, our conversation is AMAZING! Bergdorfs, bulldogs, and more bergdorfs? What more could a girl want? Things start to get questionable when he starts to talk about his “HER-mes” jewelry obsession. For the record Franz, the “H’ is silent. He needs some “HER-mes” jewelry to accompany his watch. “I don’t know,” he ponders, “I think it will just make my watch pop.” Questionable..The fact that he says he can shop for hours and not get bored doesn’t phase me in the slightest, in fact, I welcome that challenge. Around 10 pm we decide to have dinner….thanks, didn’t realize we were still eating on European time- I’m fucking starving. We go to David Burke’s “Fish Tail” for a bite. He orders his 5th? Martini (just a little dirty) of course. I politely order a glass of chardonnay but sip slowly making sure that I will be able to escort HIM home safely. Mid-conversation he blurts out, “our third date should be a cooking date.” I jokingly respond, “a cooking date? I think date 3 is a little soon for a cooking date!” I later admit to him that I don’t want to put my awful cooking skills on display quite yet or quite frankly, have him in my apartment on our third date. A little soon no? He adds, “I just want to be somewhere more private, in case we want to get intimate…” What. the. fuck.

I’m sorry, do I have whore/easy/slut/sure thing written all over my face? I quickly, and probably a little more sharply than I should respond, “Excuse me? I’m not that kind of girl. If that’s what you are looking for then I’m not it.” He takes a big sip of his martini, and says, “well when do you have sex with someone?” Are you kidding me right now? Is this guy for real? We are on a 2nd date and he is asking me this?  What would Patti Stanger say….”Not until I’m exclusive with someone….that’s when. When he is my boyfriend.” He quickly interjects, “how do you know when you are exclusive? Do you assume that I am dating other women right now?” At this point I am so fucking lost. “I have no idea what you are doing and nor should you have any idea what I am doing.” Silence….Very. Long. Silence. I want to rebound quickly because I LIKE THIS GUY. “Look, clearly there was some kind of misunderstanding, let’s rewind and scratch that past conversation out.” He snaps, “Well ok, but I don’t think I did anything wrong.” He takes one last sip of his drink indicating that he is done. I ask, “do you want to go?” He says “let’s wrap it up” and asks for the check. We are out of there faster than a sweater off of a Barney’s sale rack. He walks me to the curb and puts me in the cab. No kiss, nothing. Like I said, what the fuck just happened? How can something that was going so good, turn in the blink of an eye? I text him as soon as I get in the cab, something that I generally would never do, “I’m not sure what just happened….” No response. I’m tired. I’m only 28 and I’m exhausted. Mostly because I feel like I really want love. I constantly put myself out there only to meet guys like Franz, Hanz, and Shmanz. It’s cliche to ask, but what am I doing wrong? Questions run through my head like, am I not pretty enough? Thin enough? Maybe I wore the wrong outfit. At the end of the day I know the answer to all of these questions along with the other insecurities are no no and no. But there is something unsatisfying about placing ALL of the blame on the other person. “Oh, well he’s just an alcoholic….their personalities switch at the drop of a hat” my friend Eve says. “That’s fun.” I sarcastically think to myself. A real winner I found. I guess I dodged the bullet early? No clue. Either way, did I really want to have to deal with the suprise of a “Non-Kosher” salami? Ihren Verlust, Loser.

Bryce Gruber is a Manhattanite mom who can be found jet-setting off to every corner of the globe. She loves exotic places, planes with WiFi, summer clothes, & Sucre brown butter truffles. Bryce's aim is to do to luxury what Elton John did to being gay. Follow her on twitter @brycegruber