American culture is hardly my forte. Despite living in this country for the past 10 years (three-year-stint in Paris excluded) and being a proud owner of a blue passport that can magically whisk me through the majority of international customs, I can probably tally up the number of American men I have dated on one hand. (New Yorkers don’t count, because, let’s face it, New York is NOT America.) However, I feel that it is my duty as a U.S. citizen to provide this male segment the same Dbag Dating glory that has been granted to representatives of numerous other cultures. In honor of the upcoming Fourth of July holiday, I would like to introduce the official Dbag Dating Guide to American Men, sourced via personal experience and testimonies of numerous girlfriends!
Most things in life are best done with purpose. Dating – for the majority of humans, at least – happens to fall directly into this category, an endeavor with a distinct end goal of securing a life partner and living happily ever after, Disney princess-style. And yet, most of us are well aware that our murky modern dating waters often oblige us to kiss a shitload of frogs until some contaminated variation of Prince Charming eventually crosses our path. While many consider this predicament to be the seedy underbelly of dating, I like to view it as an opportunity to explore a portfolio of unique human characters, enabling me to enrich my life experiences – and this blog. With this in mind, I have summed up the top male species that every woman should degustate at least once in her dating career, just because.
Prelude: This is NOT a letter for the real dbags of this world, the men born lacking an inherent moral compass, the Dan Bilzerians who wear their douchiness on their Tom Ford sleeves, treating people like disposable commodities while preserving the capacity to sleep peacefully through the night.
This is an open letter to the Unintentional Dbag, the man with good motives who got lost somewhere along the way. The Unintentional Dbag was most likely a complete dork who couldn’t get a girl to save his life in high school. This freed up time for him to study, go to a good college, and do very well for himself, at which point he discovered that, in addition to great restaurants and prime real estate, money also has the power to buy the affection of tight-bodied young ladies vying for their first taste of caviar and Cartagena.
Whilst moving back from Paris six months ago, I bitterly bid adieu to many things I loved – fresh croissants, Dries sample sales, cheap travel, men in great suits, the list goes on. In the midst of these misgivings, one of the consolatory thoughts that kept me going was the knowledge that New York had evolved significantly over the years, propelling the rise of an entire new micro-oasis, equipped with its own cultural trends, sartorial codes, and my own personal form of male kryptonite – Brooklyn hipsters in all their disheveled glory! After months of extensive research via the powers bestowed upon me by Raya (who should probably pay me, at this point!), I am pleased to present the 10 Commandments that one should follow if attempting to navigate the wacky waters of this outer borough!
When it comes to a new relationship, nothing is scarier than that first night of sleeping together. I’m not referring to copulation as much as the actual act of co-sleeping, a far more delicate process that immediately determines your subconscious chemistry and compatibility. Not only is there the fear that you won’t vibe well together (nothing is worse than an awkward little spoon feels), but there is also that hidden chance that your Prince Charming by day will turn into a Sleep Freak by night, falling into one of the following categories that every woman should have on her radar!
“Do you miss Paris?” This is a question I hear approximately every week. (For those of you who are new to this marvel of a blog, I moved back from Paris to New York five months ago.) My internal defense mechanism immediately triggers a flashback to my former Parisian HSBC teller, a human allergen of a man who used to take his sweet time finishing his goûter (afternoon snack), before reluctantly buzzing me in and then taking another twenty minutes to deposit my check, a process that required more signatures than an identity change – a vision that causes me to quickly shake my head and sing an ode to American customer service.