I remember her phone call. I was in bed and eager for a story. Holly had perfect timing that night as she relayed a bizarre experience she had the night before.
“Last night was one of those blackish evenings you only find in March,” she began. “I was walking home down Sixth Avenue when a man stopped me to ask for directions. I felt singled out. It felt good. I was intrigued mostly because he was tall with salt and pepper sideburns and a bulky, muscular frame,” she went on, relishing my attention to her tale. Was it my imagination, or was she telling it as though reading a nursery rhyme? Suddenly I was no longer sleepy; I plumped my pillows and sat up, alert.
The man proceeded to ask for directions to Union Square. Figuring he was a stranger to our area, she let him know he was already in it. He asked her where the nearest coffee shop was, working the lost, cute-guy card. She pointed one out. As if by reflex when in the company of a cutie, she handed him her card. He continued by asking her if she’d have coffee with her.
She was hoping the universe had put this mysterious stranger in her path. Women get like this. We want the ever-elusive fairy tale. Clearly he wasn’t from around here, she assumed; maybe there was a chance he was the one, already sensing that he wasn’t one of those nasty, jaded New York men only looking for a piece.
Completely out of character, she agreed.
Minutes after they sat down with coffee—he did not offer to pay for hers—he told her he had lived in the area for over 19 years. She felt completely duped. She’d fallen for a total line! Still, she sat back hoping to somehow make the most of the evening.
He touched her hand and offered her a piece of his brownie. He went on to say his name was Patrick, and he was a painter.
Then he asked her back to his studio to drink wine and view his work. This is where I stopped her.
“Come on, Hols! Give me a break. His studio? How fucking cliché.”
“Wait, it gets better. And by better, I mean worse,” she laughed, embarrassed by her naiveté, but not too embarrassed to continue her story.
After a few sips of wine, he kissed her. He tasted of coffee and wine.
There she was, my friend Holly, the girl who doesn’t kiss on a first date, kissing on a non-date.
He sized her up with his “artist’s eye” and touched her chin while saying, “Bella.”
He was not Italian.
She tried to tell him who she was—what she did for a living, her lifestyle. He didn’t seem interested in talking; his kissing got more and more intense. With each kiss, Holly got more and more turned off.
“We kept on making out. He had a huge erection. Then he told me to give him my tongue,” she said, cringing. “I nearly gagged.”
When he asked her if she’d consider posing for him, she got her purse.
But he didn’t stop. As she approached the door, he asked: “Will you be my muse?”
She scurried to the elevator with him behind her, suggesting they “make love” in the elevator.
On the street, she got a text from him. (Damn those business cards!) “Pardon me for being a bit overwhelmed,” he typed.
Clearly “overwhelmed” was a euphemism for “having my raging boner poke your leg.”
A string of inappropriate texts from him followed over the next week. I went to bed happy to have been told a bedtime story so sordid and entertaining.
Two weeks later, another friend of ours came to the office with the same exact story. She, too, just met a guy on Sixth Avenue asking for directions to Union Square, who then asked her to coffee. She knew Holly’s story from two weeks prior and she freaked out, realizing it was the same guy. He had handed her his number as she left. Thank goodness she didn’t fall prey to Patrick’s “charm.”
Apparently this is his thing. He is of the thought that one line fits all.
The odd thing was that he continued to text Holly. The messages became more and more generic. It became obvious he was sending out bulk text messages every few weeks that said, “Hi. It’s Patrick. Wanna meet up?” He was a fisherman tossing out a line, just hoping to catch something. We deduced he must have one hell of a spam list comprising all the girls he used the line on and was lucky enough to extract cell numbers from.
It became a running joke between Holly, our friend and me. We took to calling him the “Love Spammer.”
Then, a few days ago, I was walking my dog. I was in a hurry so when a man approached me asking where the nearest coffee shop was I didn’t think twice about pointing to the corner Starbucks. As I started walking away, he followed me, asking if he could take me to have tea or coffee.
“Hi, I’m an artist. I just saw you walking by and couldn’t resist asking if you’d like to be my muse.”
I wanted to say, “Oh Patrick, that line is so lame!” but instead I merely eeked out, “No thank you,” and let my dachshund, Mini, tug me away.
Just when I was least expecting it, I had been targeted by the “Love Spammer.” I got hit with a Patrick drive-by. It was sort of being like slimed, but much, much worse. Green goo is somewhat charming in a prepubescent way, Patrick’s drivel was not.
Patrick, if you are reading this, we are on to you. And I feel it is my duty to alert all of NYC-womankind to your antics.
Beware, girls! He is waiting and watching and you could be his next target.
The thing was that Patrick is really good looking. Tannish, straight nose, cropped hair and big, meaty arms. A man this good looking shouldn’t have to default to spread the Velveeta far and wide. I am nearly as fascinated with him as I am with myself.
“Last night was one of those blackish evenings you only find in March,” she began. “I was walking home down Sixth Avenue when a man stopped me to ask for directions. I felt singled out. It felt good. I was intrigued mostly because he was tall with salt and pepper sideburns and a bulky, muscular frame,” she went on, relishing my attention to her tale. Was it my imagination, or was she telling it as though reading a nursery rhyme? Suddenly I was no longer sleepy; I plumped my pillows and sat up, alert.
The man proceeded to ask for directions to Union Square. Figuring he was a stranger to our area, she let him know he was already in it. He asked her where the nearest coffee shop was, working the lost, cute-guy card. She pointed one out. As if by reflex when in the company of a cutie, she handed him her card. He continued by asking her if she’d have coffee with her.
She was hoping the universe had put this mysterious stranger in her path. Women get like this. We want the ever-elusive fairy tale. Clearly he wasn’t from around here, she assumed; maybe there was a chance he was the one, already sensing that he wasn’t one of those nasty, jaded New York men only looking for a piece.
Completely out of character, she agreed.
Minutes after they sat down with coffee—he did not offer to pay for hers—he told her he had lived in the area for over 19 years. She felt completely duped. She’d fallen for a total line! Still, she sat back hoping to somehow make the most of the evening.
He touched her hand and offered her a piece of his brownie. He went on to say his name was Patrick, and he was a painter.
Then he asked her back to his studio to drink wine and view his work. This is where I stopped her.
“Come on, Hols! Give me a break. His studio? How fucking cliché.”
“Wait, it gets better. And by better, I mean worse,” she laughed, embarrassed by her naiveté, but not too embarrassed to continue her story.
After a few sips of wine, he kissed her. He tasted of coffee and wine.
There she was, my friend Holly, the girl who doesn’t kiss on a first date, kissing on a non-date.
He sized her up with his “artist’s eye” and touched her chin while saying, “Bella.”
He was not Italian.
She tried to tell him who she was—what she did for a living, her lifestyle. He didn’t seem interested in talking; his kissing got more and more intense. With each kiss, Holly got more and more turned off.
“We kept on making out. He had a huge erection. Then he told me to give him my tongue,” she said, cringing. “I nearly gagged.”
When he asked her if she’d consider posing for him, she got her purse.
But he didn’t stop. As she approached the door, he asked: “Will you be my muse?”
She scurried to the elevator with him behind her, suggesting they “make love” in the elevator.
On the street, she got a text from him. (Damn those business cards!) “Pardon me for being a bit overwhelmed,” he typed.
Clearly “overwhelmed” was a euphemism for “having my raging boner poke your leg.”
A string of inappropriate texts from him followed over the next week. I went to bed happy to have been told a bedtime story so sordid and entertaining.
Two weeks later, another friend of ours came to the office with the same exact story. She, too, just met a guy on Sixth Avenue asking for directions to Union Square, who then asked her to coffee. She knew Holly’s story from two weeks prior and she freaked out, realizing it was the same guy. He had handed her his number as she left. Thank goodness she didn’t fall prey to Patrick’s “charm.”
Apparently this is his thing. He is of the thought that one line fits all.
The odd thing was that he continued to text Holly. The messages became more and more generic. It became obvious he was sending out bulk text messages every few weeks that said, “Hi. It’s Patrick. Wanna meet up?” He was a fisherman tossing out a line, just hoping to catch something. We deduced he must have one hell of a spam list comprising all the girls he used the line on and was lucky enough to extract cell numbers from.
It became a running joke between Holly, our friend and me. We took to calling him the “Love Spammer.”
Then, a few days ago, I was walking my dog. I was in a hurry so when a man approached me asking where the nearest coffee shop was I didn’t think twice about pointing to the corner Starbucks. As I started walking away, he followed me, asking if he could take me to have tea or coffee.
“Hi, I’m an artist. I just saw you walking by and couldn’t resist asking if you’d like to be my muse.”
I wanted to say, “Oh Patrick, that line is so lame!” but instead I merely eeked out, “No thank you,” and let my dachshund, Mini, tug me away.
Just when I was least expecting it, I had been targeted by the “Love Spammer.” I got hit with a Patrick drive-by. It was sort of being like slimed, but much, much worse. Green goo is somewhat charming in a prepubescent way, Patrick’s drivel was not.
Patrick, if you are reading this, we are on to you. And I feel it is my duty to alert all of NYC-womankind to your antics.
Beware, girls! He is waiting and watching and you could be his next target.
The thing was that Patrick is really good looking. Tannish, straight nose, cropped hair and big, meaty arms. A man this good looking shouldn’t have to default to spread the Velveeta far and wide. I am nearly as fascinated with him as I am with myself.
