On Wednesdays, Amanda Chatel will be sharing stories about her strange, fascinating and sometimes wonderful dating life. If it makes you want to date, check out TheGloss dating page.

I had met, let’s call him Johnny Cakes for fun, at a bar in my neighborhood. He was not my type in any way, shape or form: painfully large muscles, shaved head and a white t-shirt (in public, mind you.)

He had just attended Siren Music Festival the week before and while he went on and on about Death Cab for Cutie (going so far as to call them “prolific”). I tried to school him on The Fiery Furnaces and Blonde Redhead who had also been there. Granted, I had not gone, but I was still well aware of what I had missed and Death Cab was not one of them. Sorry, Ben Gibbard.

Somewhere in our banter, that was moderately sober by my standards, I accepted a date with him two nights later. I was still somewhat new to the city and having been mugged just a few weeks before, I was hesitant to give my info to anyone who seemed a li’l shady. Honestly, a Brooklyn native who looked like he’d been pulled out of Goodfellas, (as the muscle for the dapper wiseguys, of course), seemed a bit sketchy to this New Englander. But I decided to I meet him outside the bar where we first met… then came the fun.

First, Johnny Cakes took me to “dinner.” Now, We all have a different idea of what dinner is. Despite my tattoos and penchant for rough-around-the-edges lads I’m not a Wonder Bread kinda gal . I thought this attribute was quite clear, in this case: No. I was taken to a place on East 7th Street (its name I’ve forgotten and I’m not even sure it’s there anymore) where he ordered me a hotdog and French fries. Yes, you read that correctly: he ordered for me. Even if we had been at Pastis on the West Side, this would still be a big no-no for a first date (or any date for that matter). At the time, I was a strict vegetarian and protested, but he insisted it was going to be the best hotdog I ever had. For someone who had maybe three hotdogs in her life and all under the age of five, it wasn’t like I had much to compare it to, and refused it both on my aversion to meat and out of principle. I picked at the French fries while he told me we were going to a show at The Bowery Ballroom. It was a band of which I had never heard, but at least it wasn’t Death Cab.

Before we made it to Delancey Street, we stopped along the way for a few drinks. I should point out that I can drink with the best of them and still be standing. Perhaps, it’s my Irish/French/Swedish/British liver. Either way, I drank a couple pints of Guinness and so did he.

Johnny Cakes seemed OK at first until we got to Bowery where he deliberately head-butted the wall. I’m being completely serious. He looked at the wall, the one right before you head downstairs and head-butted it with, what looked like, everything he had. He then screamed “Yeah fucker!” Me? I dropped my head in my hands in horror and embarrassment.

When we got downstairs, he did it again; but this time to the guy who checks your tickets. We were promptly escorted out.

Back out on the street I asked him if he was drunk and he assured me he wasn’t. I like to think I’m some sort of expert on who’s drunk and who’s not, and head-butting people seems like a telltale sign of intoxication. However, he was walking normally and his speech wasn’t slurred, so I just assumed that perhaps he needed therapy.

As we walked up Allen Street, a car slowed down at the red light and the driver made a comment about my boobs. I don’t have many assets. My personality is wonky, my sarcasm chases people away and, by most accounts, I’m a bitch; so based on that, my boobs are all I have. What did Johnny Cakes do? He ran full speed into the side of the car… with his head. Everyone on the sidewalk gasped as I tried to pretend I didn’t know him; and technically, I didn’t.

The driver jumped out of the car and started yelling at Johnny Cakes for trying to dent his car door…  because heads do that, of course. While I listened to the commotion unfold behind me, I quickened my pace across Houston and up toward my street. I didn’t get too far before Johnny Cakes caught up and he asked me to come over. I lived on East 7th Street then and he was on East 5th, and despite everything that happened, I thought OK; I could use a quick make-out session after all this. [tagbox tag=”dating”]

We weren’t in his apartment more than two minutes, (where no kissing had occurred) when he stripped down to nothing and told me: “I want to make love to you on my brown couch.” I’ll remember that sentence for as long as I live. I looked at him naked on his “brown” couch, thrusting his hips against the air and left. Sure, my morals may be up for debate, but a flaccid cock, a compulsive head-butter and a brown couch is where I draw the line. This gal has standards.


I still don’t know if Johnny Cakes was drunk that night or if that was just his personality; but I never heard from him again. I want to pretend it’s the former, but I’m thinking it’s the latter.

With every debacle that befalls me, the funny and emotionally scarring, I like to believe I’ve learned a lesson. The lesson I learned that night is if you consider Death Cab for Cutie “prolific,” there’s probably something seriously wrong in your head. Again, sorry, Ben Gibbard.