Wednesday, March 25, 2015

The Blog About Sex on the First Date

My roomie moved out and my life hasn't changed much other than instead of walking around naked in fear, I now walk around naked fearlessly. Is that a Katy Perry song?

I recently realized at a dinner with a friend that while while I've had girlfriends, I've never
We'll get to Thus Spoke Zarathustra later.
But read it.
really dated. All my relationships grew out of hookups that eventually became exclusive. The title came out of necessity and usually about two weeks in, where souls forged longed to be something more than jealous late night texts. Defining a relationship was something tangible and was better to hold onto than an iPhone, even if it was only for the night without a charger and you woke up equally uncharged and dead inside.

Maybe that's why I have so much trouble nowadays with nailing down if a date is successful or not, or the meandering delay of if I really want to empty my pocketbook on a second date for someone who didn't reciprocate physically on what I had come to expect as a good-looking, moderately successful male in New York City. It was Pavlovian; a good date equals sex, sex equals a relationship. 

"You know what I mean?" I asked my best friend and confidant, Karen, over a dinner of Thai food. 

"I know that you're full of crap."

"I know. And the worst part is I don't know how not to be. I can't gauge the feelings in my stomach between a crush and indigestion until it's too late and I'm in an unhealthy relationship or have diarrhea. Or worse, both. I'm good at every aspect of my life except managing women and incontinence."

"So what are you going to do about it, Sam?"

That was a question for the ages. But then so was what to do about disillusioned youths joining ISIS. And oddly enough it was the same answer for both of us: start with yourself and start not expecting anything. We were all part of a generation of millennialist youths saying the world's not fair and looking for answers, whereas it never had been fair and there never were any answers. But the difference was that they had turned turned to chopping off heads while I had turned to The Upanishads and Maslow. And even though I am "hashtag blessed" beyond belief, I understood the anger. Honestly sometimes I preferred to choose the darkness. It could be so accommodating because when it was completely enveloping, you had the luxury of not recognizing yourself.

"I don't know. I don't trust anyone and hate the process of dating. I want someone to pop into my life, not from Tinder or OkCupid, but organically... and be a petite, educated, employed, beautiful, physically fit, well-read, open-minded woman who has no baggage."

“You never know everything about someone though, Sam.”

I chewed on a piece of undercooked edamame. It had an interesting flavor.

"But then what's the point? What scares me the most is that someone out there, my future wife potentially, is out there living her own life during a part of her life I'll never know anything about that she'll never say anything about. And how do you reconcile that? She could be having sex with somebody right now and I’ll never know about the kiss that led up to it or the broken condom scare after it. And that freaks me out. I know, I know—live presently—but presently the present is this."

"But what would you call this part of your life compared to hers?"

"'The Wander Years.' Do you think Daniel Stern would narrate it?"
A little Nietzsche never hurt nobody.

Karen rolled her eyes. "You never really know everything about someone."

"That's terrifying. But you're right I guess. You can spend your entire life with someone and end up being married to Dennis Rader. Ugh. I wish I believed in organized religion enough to get lost in it. But I don't believe in Oz. If I met the wizard I'd ask for an Apple Watch. That's tangibility to me nowadays."

"Sam, you know what you have a lot to offer. So quit offering it to those who don't deserve it."

She was right. I knew it.

It was like that quote from Thus Spoke Zarathustra: "One must stop permitting oneself to be eaten when one tastes best; this is understood by those who want to be loved long."

The problem was I felt like my flavor changed daily and sometimes even I didn't like it—somewhere between an orange and a watermelon: an orangamelon, or a warnge. A mixture of the two would be a watery pulp of slop. And you'd never want to eat an orange-sized watermelon; it wasn't enough sweetness. But then you wouldn't want to eat a watermelon-sized orange, either; it was too much acid.

The server came with our food and I drenched my tofu pad Thai in citrus with a lemon wedge. 

"I like to listen to Simon and Garfunkel's America a lot. It's the only song that I completely understand. That and the Helen Keller song by 3OH!3. Because while I'm looking for someone, I'm really looking for myself, and I think America is an allegory for something unattainable. It's like the Atman in Hindu mythos. It's a longing for something unearthlyIt's the same reason why the Europeans came West, and it's the same reason why Americans went West, and when the California coast rose up to greet them, there was nowhere else to go but inward. And that's America: the great-grand-children of sod house pioneers who now pay child psychiatrists to diagnose their children—with names like Ryker, Hadley, and Jago—with ADHD, when it should really be the parents in on the sofa, but all they end up talking about is their struggle with controlling their kids' in-app purchases instead of how they don't find their spouse attractive anymore. I've never been to Saginaw, but I've been a lot of places and everywhere in between. Everywhere is the same. Everyone is the same. I wish everyone else realized that, including myself."

I was awash with the world.  

"Well at least you can vocalize it, and like your blog post said about the kind of women you won't date this year, at least you know when you're screwing up again and lose that mindset."

Yeah. But then sometimes you just wanna say fuck it all and mount the world. I think there's a Katy Perry song about that, too.

Saturday, March 14, 2015

The Blog About How I Date Black Women

My advice: don't do this.
If you are a male on a spring day run, don't tie your hoodie around your waist. I saw my reflection and it made me question all my choices. But I highly recommend running, especially after being bombarded by emails from presumably white Dallas socialites for the past week about how I lack journalistic integrity.

If you haven't been living under a rock, you've probably heard of Parker Rice and Levi Pettit. They were the two University of Oklahoma frat boys who were caught on camera leading their Sigma Alpha Epsilon fraternity in a rousing chorus of "there will never be a n***er in SAE" to the tune of If You're Happy And You Know It Clap Your Hands.

Anyway, I learned Rice's name by texting a girl I know from the University of Oklahoma that I met at a bar when I visited my alma mater back in October. Draw what conclusions from that you will. She provided me his name, and suddenly I had the Texas Rangers at my New York doorstep. Apparently publishing facts about people can piss a lot of people off, and all upper-class white people in Dallas must have a massive group text going.
If you're going to use racism to make a joke, at least make it a funny one.

I'm not going to talk about how shitty racism is. I've been at the brunt of it before. Case in point the poorly constructed "witticism" a blog reader of mine commented on my last blog post, captured above. Apparently this person had seen my performance in Damn Yankees at Ogunquit Playhouse where I appeared in locker room scenes in my underwear. This person claims that he was able to ascertain that I come from Jewish descent because he could see my circumcised penis through my stage underwear. But note to said reader: chill your boner. I was wearing a dance belt under the underwear. And while I like to think that I'm well-endowed, no man's manhood is viewable through a quarter-inch man-thong of heavily padded cotton.
Can you see my penis? I sure can't.

But while it's easy to call a spade a spade, I can't do it without admittedly being a hypocrite. I was fortunate enough to grow up in the early 2000s where I was more worried about text message overages than who was pointing a camera phone at me while I was drunk. And even then there would probably be no audio and the quality would look like a watercolor painting.

I remember my first sext from a girl on my Razr looked like a Jackson Pollock painting with a nipple overlaid on it. (I know Pollock didn't use watercolor paint, get off my dick.)
Angry Texas, presumably white, lady ends email "white lives matter."
But what does annoy me about the email blasts from the white socialites in Dallas was how they ended their emails with "white lives matter too." But before you shake my hand for being another artistic, New York neo-lib, I'm sorry to burst your bubble but I think "black lives matter" is bullshit too.

It's not that I don't care. I really do. But I think having a discussion about the color of one's skin does about as much good as discussing the color of shit. Both are products of evolution that don't really need to be examined and should be disposed of.

"So you like chocolate, huh?"

It was August 2013 and I had recently gotten back into dating after breaking up with my first long-term girlfriend... who also had happened to be my first white girlfriend. I had gone from a streak of Beyoné-chic to Aryan Nation and back, but it wasn't really something I dwelled on. I just like hot women.

"It's not something I really dwell on," I said, looking at Sierra. We were in Central Park sharing a banana pudding from Magnolia Bakery. "I just think you're super hot."

She laughed and dipped her spoon into the cup of pudding. Her face turned red. I watched the pigments turn from mocha to pink and back. "Well thank you."

"You're welcome."

"You're not too bad yourself."

"I try too fucking hard."

"Why's that?"

"Because I'm Woody Allen in Henry Cavill's body trying not to have a panic attack while I smile for Instagram."

The discussion about race had been brought up by Sierra after we had walked through the Native American portion of the Museum of Natural History. She was surprised when I told her that I was part Native, which then led her to tell me that she had also been surprised that I had even asked her out. "I assumed a guy who looks like you would want that bleach blond, blue-eyed kind of gal."

I looked at her with a grin. "You assumed about me, Sierra?"

She laughed. "Is that reverse racism?"

"I don't think there's such a thing as 'reverse racism'..." I chided playfully. "I think shit is shit. It's 2013 and people are surprised that other people who happen to be a different color are actually people just like them."

"Oh well that's not what I meant..."

"I know. I'm just thinking out loud."

"You're the first white guy that's ever asked me out is all."

"Oh yeah? And?"

I'll spare you the details, but Magnolia wasn't the only thing on the menu. And it was awesome.

But that's my point: Why would you want to limit your prospect of love? Sure, Sierra and I didn't work out. But I would never have had the opportunity to find that out if I had been too focused on the most basic appearance of another person, a person whose ancestors had just happened to chill a bit longer in Africa and get a better suntan than mine. If my mindset as Samuel John Prince had been filled with the tune, "There will never be a n***er with SJP."

We can educate and absolve, but only if someone really truly believes, gospel deep, that the soul standing next to them is no different to them despite its epidermal layer being a different shade. If not, then there's really no use wondering why a college student in Oklahoma thinks it's okay to say the n-word. And for sectarian mindset to declare what color of lives matter.

Because guess what? All lives matter.

And yes, I am circumcised. 

Monday, March 9, 2015

The Blog About The Kind of Women I Won't Date in 2015

A selfie for you to make your iPhone wallpaper
In case you were wondering where I am in my life, I'm currently in my underwear drinking red wine with ice cubes out of a Magic Bullet cup. And if you weren't wondering where I am, I really don't care. And if you're going to give me a shit about drinking red wine with ice, I've heard it before. But I've included a photo of me doing so for your own enjoyment because if there's something the Internet needs more of besides blogs, it's shirtless selfies. And I've been working out.

It's my third night at home alone again this week in nothing but my chonies, despite having started dating again after accidentally dating three reality TV actresses in succession over the course of three years... and realizing that reality TV and the people involved in it were anything but real. You'd think I would've learned that from watching it, or even after the first girl, but I've always been slow on the uptake. Plus they all were super hot. And then I got burned. Three times. There's a third degree burn pun somewhere in there, but I'm lazy so I'll just say this: It left me needing a break after the last one, and not just from women or even vaginas in general but people. The problem with dating and friendship is that there's always someone else involved. So I spent about half of 2014 alone on both ends.

But 2015 came and I made amends with not only friends and past lovers but also my humanness. I had also made some new rules for my return to dating: no reality TV actresses, no actresses, no chorus girls, no strippers, no swimsuit models, no lingerie models, no NFL cheerleaders, no NBA dancers, no pole dancers, no "up-and-coming" pop stars, no girls who "can't even", no girls who don't read, no hipsters, no Brooklynites, no girls from the East Coast or New England, and no non-Americans. The only options I had left myself with were Midwestern nuns, and they were all taken by the vastness of the countryside and God... and I was in New York City taken by experience and my own recovering soul. 

So of course I fucked it up right away. That's what humans do. 

I met Anina on OkCupid and we decided to grab drinks that ended up being dinner. She was a swimsuit model who had been born in Pakistan but had grown up in New Jersey and had plans to move to Brooklyn. I broke four of my own rules right at my first return to dating. But the nice part about it was I realized it. Sitting across from Anina I realized that while she was beautiful, she was not for me. We had a nice chat and while I'm sure she looks amazing naked, I'm never going to find out how amazing—and I'm nearly 100% OK with that. I'll give myself a solid 85%. But if I decided to not lie, I'd say 65%. And I think that's definite progress from when once upon a time I would shut my eyes, my brain, and my heart and try to avoid sharp objects wielded by mean people that thrived on cutting others down.

There was also another strange occurrence on this date with Anina, and that was that I couldn't hear anything she said. It's not that the restaurant/bar was particularly loud or that her voice was particularly soft, it's just that I couldn't hear anything she said to me because I didn't care and somehow my body reacted by physicalizing some fake affliction of deafness. Our conversation ebbed and flowed like cracking salt in the surf tide but all I heard were the waves of goodbye go home, Sam.

“Wilhelmina wants me.”

“Hm?” I asked, somewhere between an appetizer bite and a gulp of beer.

“Wilhelmina wants me.”

“To do what?”

“To buy me out of my current modeling agency.”

“I hope Wilhelmina isn't some Slavic sex ring operator.”



It was just like wave after wave came crashing down on the same bullshit that I didn't care to hear about anymore. I was a modern Helen Keller unplugged.

“Wilhelmina—the modeling agency—wants to buy my contract out from my current modeling agency. They think I have a good look for commercial work.”

I looked at her. She really did. You could not guess what ethnicity she was. Ethnic ambiguity is so hot right now. I also know what Wilhelmina is. “That's neat.”

And it was neat to me. That's it. Maybe some Wall Street guy would shit himself, but I was from a different street that had survived six years in Manhattan as a working actor/writer and knew that a contract could disappear as quickly as it had been signed. It had happened to me. A lot. And the fact that someone wanted to legitimize her modeling career on a date with me didn’t really swing me in any particular direction of caring. Bad times would come, just like good times and we would forget both.

Really great book. Read it. Now.
It was like that John Steinbeck quote from East of Eden: “And it never failed that during the dry years the people forgot about the rich years, and during the wet years they lost all memory of the dry years. It was always that way.”

But unlike Steinbeck’s Salinas Valley, somehow my life seemed to reside in more of a marine coastal environment so I never really saw too much of either, and I don't know if that’s much of a win or a loss. But maybe it was the fact that I had a prescription for Xanax.

I took a drink of beer. It was a good thought to drink on.

“Do you want to be famous?” she asked me.

“Do you?”

“Who doesn’t?” she responded with a laugh. She drank her gin and tonic too slow. She was poised. Or a model counting her calories. It was hard to say in 2015 what was propriety and what was paranoia. I decided to throw an existential curveball.

“I’m not sure. I think fame used to be something earned by talent, but nowadays it can come as easily as a sex tape… and whether that’s on the capitalist or the consumer is beyond me. At best, we're all just a bunch of Kardashians without the cameras. And how many camera crews can there be until everyone has one? Eventually the special person would be the one without the camera."

"Is that your thing?"

"What do you mean?"

"To be the one without the camera?"

"Look, all I know is what I know." I shrugged. "I just realized something when I backpacked through Eastern Europe a few years ago by myself and stood on some beach in Croatia overlooking a thunderstorm on the Adriatic Sea: nobody really gives a damn except a very select amount of people so it’s best to work on yourself so you can at least make those select few happy. I’d rather have two friends I can call when I’m having a rough go then have 5-million Twitter followers I can tweet to. Besides, the earth will get swallowed by the sun someday. What matters? Everybody’s trying to build a fanbase and move up and I'm just trying not to hate what I see in the mirror at the end of the day. Speaking of, I should probably get home."

I got the check and paid and walked Anina home. We said our goodbyes and we made future plans that would never fruit about hanging out again soon. Except she did like a few of my Instagram pictures later that night so that’s slightly disconcerting. But I guess when I was 23 I couldn't really read between the lines, either. Plus my Instagram photos are pretty cool.

Anyway, there comes a point when you want to stop reading and start writing. And even if I had broken some of those rules I had set for 2015, I was happy that I had written them. Because they took meditation and brought reflection.

And when I got home and washed myself and looked in the mirror, I didn't hate what I saw. And yet everybody still gives me shit about putting ice cubes in red wine.