nycandlove blog

No no, this is not a dreaded lecture on that Trojan man and his almighty horse. I am actually talking Greek Mythology here. Remember the phrase, Beware of [fill in man's name] Bearing Gifts? Well, listen up:

Red Flag (n): A clue or sign that indicates your man is bad news. Can be difficult to detect if hot sex or low self-esteem are involved. Ex (primary source: me):  “T called me this morning and said he had woken up in some other girl’s bed after doing enough coke to sustain the Mexican economy…but like, at least he was honest about it right?”

Trojan Horse (n): A type of Red Flag, packaged in the guise of an eye-brow raising gift. Antonym: bouquet; bling; brunch with his mother.

Now, I have received quite a few Trojan Horses in my day: a creepy voodoo doll; an unsettling abstract nude painting of me in a sexually compromised position (but from a very hot painter); a beautiful book of poetry—which I had to overnight-fed-ex back after the dude harassed me, post-rejection. But luckily, all of the gift-bearers mentioned above—who may or may not have been trying to tell me something in the subtext of their selection—were ultimately innocuous.

But then, there is the anomaly. Like there always is. And if there is one thing you need to know about dating in New York, its this: there are a lot of crazy muthafuckahs out there. Consider the following a cautionary tale…

A wedding at the Pierre. An introduction (Jewish code: set-up) to a family friend’s son. Lets call him Crazy H. Now, I immediately sensed there was something off about Crazy H—the way his Burberry suit was too snugly tailored?— but he was handsome, late 20s, a real-estate mogul. So, I shelved my suspicion and proceeded to go on a few dates (who can turn down a movie premiere? a museum opening?). Then, his mother just happened to ‘show up’ at dinner one night… Then, Crazy H just happened to ‘show up’ when I was out on a date with another man—and sat down at our table. I thanked the lord I hadn’t slept with him yet—by some subconscious better judgment I didn’t know I possessed?—and politely declined to see him again.

Red Flag Lesson #1: Never doubt your instinct. Even if this instinct is clouded by a Ralph Lauren Ad body, a European accent, a Soho House pool invite in the dead of August. If you think there’s something off about him, there probably is.

A week later, a strange package was messengered over to my office. The note read: “You are in need of healing. I hope this will help.” It was a jar of Islamic “healing” oil, which came in a box with Arabic script and a photo that could have been mistaken for Sadaam Hussein. AKA: THE TROJAN HORSE. I hoped Anthrax didn’t come in oil form, stored the bottle in my boss’ fridge, and told my mother I would never go to another family event where this freak would be in attendance.

But a few months later, at the funeral of a close relative, there he was again. Crazy H said he “forgave” me (um, was he referring to the fact that I defriended him?), and invited me to be his date to an induction ceremony Gala for an exclusive all-male private social club in NY. So, I rationalized: perhaps his gift had been in jest after all!

Red Flag Lesson #2: Learn the limits of your own curiosity. And I don’t just mean sexual curiosity. Even if you really had no idea there were still social clubs in existence that excluded women and you are dying to know what goes on in a grown-up version of skull and bones… Still: no.

At the gala, Crazy H introduced me as his “beshert”; he said if I continued to play my cards right, we could announce our engagement at the next society event. Hmm. Then, as he was returning from the bathroom, he caught me flirting with a circle of men. Busted.

Crazy H dragged me out of the gala by the wrist, raging at my “inappropriate behavior.” I tried to run for a cab, but my brand new heels got caught in the Tribeca cobblestone and broke off. He then violently shoved me into the cab and dove in after. Though I wildly protested and considered rolling out of a moving vehicle James Bond style, Crazy H explained that he felt horrible about the whole evening, and wanted to make it up to me: he would take my broken shoe to his special Greek cobbler, give me an extra pair, and then we would go to dinner. Well…he had me at special Greek cobbler. My disbelief: temporarily suspended. Our destination: his apartment. Duh.

Red Flag Lesson #3: Learn your own hamartia, or tragic flaw. If a guy invites you up to his apartment, and you really have no intention of hooking up/ sleeping with him—even if he says he just wants to “cuddle,” or introduce you to his “dog,” or show you photos of his “vacation with his parents”— JUST SAY NO. Because, chances are, you will do something you’ll regret later. And by later, I mean the next morning.

Red Flag Lesson #4: If a guy says he has an extra pair of women’s shoes in his apartment…you can fill in the rest.

The second I got upstairs, Crazy H pounced. Like, full-blown bestial Stanley Kowalski “we had this date from the beginning” attack. My resistance only incited/excited him. Lets just say, for censorship sake, I barely managed to escape his apartment with my dignity intact (I was drunk and shoeless! and drunk!), when I realized I had lost my recently deceased grandmother’s pearl earring circa 1944 amidst the struggle.

I immediately received a text: “I am taking your earring hostage, until you pay for your deplorable actions. And you know what I mean by pay.” How I got that earring back, even David Blaine would have been impressed by. It involved: the use of the very hot painter who gave me that abstract nude; a doorman bribe; a break-in; a violent chase in the middle of the Chelsea gallery district. But I’ll save this story for another installment.

The moral of this tale is: in every relationship, be attuned to unsettling internal and physical clues. Build an awareness of your own feminine intuition, and learn to look out for red flags, especially in the form of Trojan Horses. Even if you never took Psych 101, set aside your penchant for over-over-analysis, and trust your instinct: If a guy seems too good to be true, he probably is; if he’s middle aged and not married, there’s probably a reason; if he gives you a gift that airport security would stop you for carrying,  RUN. And when in doubt, ask your gay boyfriend—at least he will tell you like it is. But if the red flags are a flyin, you should know your best bet is to raise your white flag, move on along, and hope the next one gives you a freaking bouquet of roses.