Dating Blogger Amy: Entry 2 (“The Hamptons”)

Matthew is a 28-year-old coke head who works in finance and is so tall (“6’ 6” and change”) I put him in my cell phone as “Matthew Tall”. I met him at a furniture store party (seriously, they had passed … Read More

By / September 19, 2006

Matthew is a 28-year-old coke head who works in finance and is so tall (“6’ 6” and change”) I put him in my cell phone as “Matthew Tall”. I met him at a furniture store party (seriously, they had passed hors d’oeuvres and an open bar) two months ago in Midtown. One of the first things I said to him was, “I just graduated from N.Y.U.” He retorted, “No you didn’t” because I “look really young.” And so began a push-pull relationship of him asking me out and somewhat stalking me while incessantly teasing me. Yet I felt an inexplicable attraction to him (he does have a cute face, a nice apartment on West Broadway in SoHo, and a big pay check) despite immature teasing about my “small hands,” “big feet,” and other stupid shit. Matthew Tall invited my best friend and me to the Hamptons one recent weekend. We accepted and left on Saturday afternoon, prepared for a fun, luxurious weekend with other rich men in finance. Best Friend and I figured we’d head out Saturday night, go to a the Hamptons’ version of 27th Street (i.e. Cain, Pink Elephant, Star Room perhaps) and have Sunday at the beach/pool, our time peppered with nice meals in classy restaurants. Since I had been sleeping with MT, I expected to sleep in a comfy bed with him in a nice house and Best Friend to have a cozy room to herself. None of the above happened. We started waiting to leave at 2:30 p.m. MT demanded we walk in light rain to the 6 train where we would meet him and his friend Alex Awful. Three hours, two bloody marys, two Diet Pepsis, and two public bathroom trips later, Best Friend and I settled into the back seat of a white Mazda mini van (the only rental car available—severely un-chic) with MT and Alex Awful in front of us. Since Best Friend and I share very particular taste in music, we split an iPod while the rest of the car sat, not speaking, listening to classic rock. We chatted about DJs, the ones we knew, the ones we wished we knew. We giggled and made jokes the whole ride—no more than 2 hours—and had a delightful time in each other’s company. This, apparently, wasn’t allowed. MT ignored me and tried to flirt with other girls in front of me for the rest of the weekend. He kept asking Best Friend and I if we knew how long it would take us to “walk home.” God forbid we’re kicked out of the minivan. Because of course there’s no other transportation to Manhattan, like, oh say, the Jitney or the train. We pulled into the gravel driveway of the house we were staying at around dusk. No one told us this was the house we were sleeping in. No one told us the guy cooking like a maniac in the kitchen was a hired personal chef. No one told us when we were eating dinner or when or where we were going next. So we awkwardly snacked on cheese, crackers, chicken salad, and red wine until we asked if we should get ready. I donned a pale violet Diane Von Furstenburg empire waist top and snug dark jeans. As Best Friend and I did hair and makeup together in the bathroom, I spilled my super glittery silver Urban Decay eye shadow in the sink. Rather than waste it Best Friend and I used it as body glitter and emerged looking like disco balls. The other seven or eight girls staying in the house and the other men said nothing. (As I said to Best Friend the next morning, I’d say the other girls were jealous of the fun times we had together but I don’t think they have thoughts.) At the BBQ of Pretension we minivan-ed to next (which was actually at a luxurious, lovely mansion) I, tipsily balancing on my silver stilettos trying not to spill a red plastic cup of champagne, approached MT: Me: What they hell is wrong with you? Why are you ignoring me? MT: Ummmmmmmmm, you were talking about DJs the whole car ride. Me: So? We were sharing an iPod and listening to techno! What did you expect?! MT: I didn’t know you were going to talk about DJs the whole car ride. Me: Would you rather we talk about… shirts? MT: Yes! So I suppose MT deigned he’d avenge the overheard DJ seminar by calling loudly after “Patrice” at Pink Elephant Hamptons (if you’ve not had the pleasure of enjoying Hamptons nightlife, envy not: the clubs are like log cabins/manufactured homes with not nearly enough toilets). I fumed while Best Friend made the most of the situation and made sure she got the address of where our stuff was and the number of our driver in case worse came to worst and we were either abandoned or had to flee. We finally decide to go to sleep at 8:30 a.m., after a long night of wondering where MT’s coke was (since he always has a SHITLOAD) but sharing a little anyway with another crackhead named “Chadwick.” We lay in bed beneath a stained white cotton blanket, and what I thought was MT stumbled in a few minutes later and flopped down in between us. I roll over and come face to face with Alex Awful. Not MT. “Don’t look at me like I’m crazy,” he says and violently grabs my shoulder and tries to pull me toward him. “You are fucking crazy!” I reply, pushing him away, and roll back over, so exhausted and at a loss I don’t even try to kick him out of bed. The next day after Best Friend and I tried to enjoy shitty coffee and stale toasted bagel halves with fat free cream cheese (so gross I don’t even care if it saves calories) we returned to our room to change, and Alex Awful was still sleeping in his jeans and dirty black tee shirt in our bed. We yelled at him and told him to get the fuck up. We played our ring tones and told him to get the fuck up. Finally Best Friend grabbed a pillow and beat Alex Awful with all her strength. And trust me, she BEAT that mother fucker. Hard. And he left. That afternoon we lounged by the pool after MT yelled at us for asking to go to the beach. The pool was shitty, surrounded by a bunch of filthy dilapidated pool floats and mildewed lounge chair cushions. Whilst searching for Diet Coke later Best Friend and I came across perhaps the only innocent/fun object in the house: board games. We selected Yhatzee and headed back to our chaises, white wine spritzers in hand. Best Friend and I shared a double chaise lounge and Alex Awful displayed his shirtless grossness on a filthy mildewed cushion next to us. First order of business: choosing Yahtzee names. “I’ve got it!” cried Best Friend. She penned DJ Dice atop her score sheet. As I wondered what Yahtzee name could be more perfect than hers, I noticed Alex Awful. “DJ… Harrassed,” I brainstormed aloud. “DJ Harrassed… Comma Sexually!” “OK, DJ Harrassed Comma Sexually,” Best Friend approved and wrote in my name blank. We proceeded to play Yahtzee as loudly as we could, the eight other personality-less people around us maintaining total silence (no one but us made conversation the whole weekend). Best Friend addressed me as loudly and often as possible as DJ Harrassed Comma Sexually. A third of the way through the game we turned to Alex Awful and asked him to blow on her dice for luck. He awoke from his fake nap and obliged us. Worst roll of the whole entire game. Oh the irony had us in hysterics. “You girls are mean,” he said. I think those were the only four words he said all day. From behind the hedge I could see MT’s big head bobbing toward the pool area. He plopped down in a dirty plastic chair at the far end of the pool. “Hey Amy, you want to go on a boat?!” he bellowed at us . Best Friend and I agreed to go. While she prepared a bag of our stuff, I tested out a swing hanging from a big, beautiful tree in the yard in my bright blue bikini, MT watching from the front porch. (If he was going to treat me like shit I figured I may as well make him regret it by looking as hot as possible.) “Are you coming we have to go now! Stop swinging!” So I threw on pale blue shorts and a white cotton baby doll tank top and went to grab a snack for the road, having only consumed the bagel half and a couple cocktails that day. Best Friend asked the personal chef to help us make sandwiches. They were disgusting: cold whole wheat English muffins with Swiss cheese, which I hate, and salami, which I also don’t really like. But I had to eat SOMETHING. MT and Alex Awful directed Best Friend to go with Alex Awful in the pickup truck. I was to ride with MT in a silver convertible broke ass Porsche Boxster. And by “broke ass” I mean huge pieces of plastic and metal were falling off in random places, kind of like the house and it’s electronics in pieces throughout the living room. I slid into the front seat next to MT. I noticed Best Friend coming back from the pickup truck. She was to ride with me in the two-seater. As we were figuring out how to arrange our lanky 5’10” and 5’11” limbs so we could fit in the seat together MT delivered the ultimate insult: “They said there’s not room for two more people.” “On the boat?” asked Best Friend. “It’s not a huge yacht!” snapped MT. “It’s a boat for waterskiing. It’s small.” “They can’t fit two more people? That makes no sense,” she continued. “Well, I’m sorry,” he lied. Best Friend was standing outside the car. I sat not fully aware of the situation. Then I gingerly climbed out of the car. MT didn’t budge, one hand on his cell phone, one hand on the steering wheel. I realized what was going on now: MT was going to go by himself and leave us at the house with its owner, a man Best Friend later dubbed Portrait of Filth. Even though I was wearing huge Ralph Lauren sunglasses that hid half my face, MT could tell I was giving him the dirtiest look I’ve ever given anyone. I stood there in shock, mouth agape as he babbled on: “I’m sorry. They said there’s no room. I’m going to go find out what’s going on and get you guys on the boat.” Bullshit. This whole trip was bullshit. I turned to Best Friend. “Let’s go,” we said in unison. We marched upstairs, collected our bags and demanded a ride to the train station. Immediately. We were speechless. I was so mad and appalled and disgusted and disappointed and perplexed I felt nothing. I couldn’t even tap into my rage or muster a fluster I was so flabbergasted by how we were treated. Men NEVER treat us like that. A train left in half hour with us on it. I have no idea why MT invited us. But I can safely say I will never sleep with him again. [To read Amy's first entry, click here.]

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