When you’re in my business of failed dating (actually, its quite possible that I monopolize the industry), you frequently run out of content and are forced to look for it elsewhere. (Luckily though, I have my Muse..) And yet, occasionally, little gifts fall into your lap, which is what happened last weekend with the case of the Weinergate.

It was Sunday and we were having a long hungover brunch at Hotel Amour, the kind of brunch when you worry that the staff will slip a laxative in your 10th OJ just to get you out of there, when two of my friends decided that they were going to “finally get me boned”. They hijacked my phone, opened up my contact list and typed in “Tinder”. This resulted in three contenders: Colombian Tinder, David Tinder and a third one – lets just call him Anthony Weiner Tinder. They send all of them the same message – a subtle “Hey sexy”. While the other two tactfully ignored it, Anthony Weiner immediately responded with a “Hey sexy” back. Excited, my friends invited him to come with us to see “50 Shades of Grey”, a film that apparently turned “me” on immensely.

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When it comes to sh*t dating, it is rare for me to find people as wickedly talented as myself. The only person who appears capable of giving me a run for my money, is one of my best friends who has now rightfully earned the title of my Muse, and will be referred to as such. A fellow expat living in Paris, she seems particularly determined to find Mr. Right in this wonderful city, and continuously seeks out various gentlemen in the bottomless pit that is Tinder, resulting in a myriad of colorful adventures.

Last winter, Muse truly outdid herself, picking up none other but a an Air France pilot, a character who kept us entertained for a good six months. Mr. Pilot was a very tall, very charming fellow who quickly swooned Muse with his WhatsApp messages and his text messages and his multilingual voicemail serenades that she would play to me on loudspeaker, grinning from ear to ear. The only issue with the Pilot was that he was based in the city of Toulouse in the South of France, hence they yet had to meet in person.

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In case you guys didn’t know, the gem that is Dbag Dating was first created in 2009, when I was twenty-two, unemployed and certifiably insane. My penchant for reckless globe-trotting and repercussion-free romantic trysts lead to a series of crazy adventures, some of which were chronicled via this very blog. Of course, right as it was starting to pick up, I happened to meet a boy and fall in love, causing me to abandon the project – and dating – altogether. Reading back, I miss the old me, with her wild antics and juvenile, tongue-in-cheeck musings.  And so, I have decided to bring it back in the way we resurrect all nostalgic memories on the Internet – with a TBT!

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Dbags come in all shapes and sizes. Some reveal their true colors right away, letting the freak flag fly on date one and leaving almost nothing to the imagination. Others, the more dangerous kind, parade around pretending to be manicorns, reavealing their true nature only later on in the game. Such is the story of Dan, the Dbag in Disguise who stole about 4 months of my life earlier this year. (I figured this might be a nice cathartic post to step into 2015, not to mention an excellent contender to our upcoming Dbag of the Year Awards!)

This story dates back to the end of February, when I had just finished dating Cyrano de Bergerac and was perusing Tinder on a regular basis in order to find him a worthwhile replacement. On one hungover Sunday morning, I swiped right on a guy who looked like a happy teddy bear in a checkered shirt,  which I must have found comforting, given my troubled mental state. The minute after Tinder had declared our match,  I received a hyper message proclaiming how excited he was to meet me. We chatted on and off all day, until he finally suggested that we expedite the process and meet up that evening.

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Illustration by the mega-talented Kelcey Vossen

I have always wanted to date a doctor. I doubt this is a statement that requires much justification: doctors are sexy, their lives serve a purpose, their selfless deeds warrant them prime real estate in Heaven that you may get to share by association. I’m not referring to the basic dentists and dermatologists, or the more profit-driven plastic surgeons, which are a dime a dozen. No, I’m talking about the bona fide miracle-workers, the surgeons, the guys with higher brain capacity and willpower and stamina than the rest of us mere mortals. Granted, this naive generalization is exactly what got me into the predicament that we will hereby refer to as the story of Doctor Douchebag.

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This story happens to be an impromptu little freebie that was handed over to me by some dbag dating gods, who my must have felt my dry spell writer’s block and decided to supply me with some much-needed material.

You see, this past weekend, I attended a wedding in Boca Raton, Florida, a locale beloved by wealthy elderly Jews that I visited many years ago with my first boyfriend Jason, a nice beefy guy with a distinct Long Island accent. I never really considered returning there until the beautiful ornate invitation appeared in my mailbox, inviting me to join the happy couple at their impending nuptials. The bride, a fellow expatriate who had found love in none other than Sweden, informed me in advance that there would be exactly one single guy in attendance. Coincidentally, he happened to be her ex-boyfriend, so I decided to cross him off in advance and resigned myself to an evening of drunk celibate fun with friends. Little did I know exactly how friendly the night would be.

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