![]() Shaggy blonde hair, blue eyes, a week of stubble beard. I turned back to the wide-eyed ordered taker and requested my order of fried anchovies, “head-on” of course, and then looked back at Mr. “Listen, buddy, you were deciding ‘head on’ or 'head off’ for almost 5 minutes,” I snarled, “Like a wimpy pussy boy.” He was probably used to southern belles, who wouldn’t be caught dead eating fried anchovies from the Bon Chovie food stall, let alone be sneaking in front of a slow patron to get to the salty-fried fishy goodness 45 seconds sooner than is arguably right. And turned back around to face the order taker. “Damn right I did!” I snapped, a Smorgasburg pro. “Did you really?” he drawled, annoyed, and paused “just cut in front of me?” He was definitely not from Brooklyn. from “Dirty Hot Warehouse” by Velma Scoobyįiled under Zooey Deschanel breast cupping butterflies soft hands “How about we put the lotion in the basket?” he responded. “Ugh,” Stella finally screamed out loud, then typed, “C'mon, stud. ![]() “My mom used to play his CD’s in the car all the time, so if you wanted me to lose my boner, you just did a good job at that,” he wrote. “How about we dance in our underwear while listening to Marvin Gaye?” she attempted. “My dad spent 6 years on Rikers Island so I avoid islands at all costs,” he wrote. “How about we take the ferry to Governor’s Island and ride around on bikes?” she tried again. “No stars here, babe, I’m in the middle of Bushwick” he messaged back. “How about we sit under the stars and share a bottle of wine?” she asked. She opened her iPad, logged on to How About We, and again began her offers to him… ![]() So she couldn’t stop herself from trying every few days to convert him, and make him meet her for a date. But his profile photo in that tattered flannel, with those hollow cheekbones below his hollow stare, made her fantasize like a teenager. Stella took to calling him ODC, the Online Dating Curmudgeon. “Whatever he wants,” I thought, and shoved the note – my next shopping list – in my jeans pocket.įrom “Locally Sourced” by Belle Sebastianįiled under yoga hot yoga man Park Slop Food Coop goat's milk “Next time you come over, I want to eat food off your body,” he had scribbled on a note attached to the mirror in his bathroom, with an asterisked footnote: “But it has to be organic and gluten-free. I awoke to his empty, sparse apartment which was only two avenues from mine. “It replenishes me,” he explained before running through two sun salutations and an extended crow pose, then mounting me again.Īfterwards, we feel asleep on the yoga blocks. Afterwards, he drank a four-ounce carton of chocolate goat’s milk. I was in his apartment twenty minutes later, making love on a pile of his yoga blocks. Clearly a hot yoga body under his fleece jacket. I was crouched down by the bottom shelf, while he bent from his waist like a rubberband, and grabbed for the same brand of organic flax milk.
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