"No matter what I do...", I thought. "The guys I date are just creeps." I walked along Broadway and watched him descend into the subway. I headed to my apartment in the Village where I would then toss one off and go to sleep.
Little did I know ten years later I would recognize him on the shelves of a book store - a New York Times best selling author. While some of his writing smacked of cliches, dribble such as 'six of one, half dozen of another', he was good at what he did: telling the truth.
Our date had started out with some bohemian-like appetizer, I think it was hummus with olives and pita chips, but I can't be certain. This was long before hummus became a staple, sold in vats at any grocery store. I ordered a diet soda. I think he opted for a beer. The conversation waned at several points. I was nervous. He was interviewing - apparently future fodder for a best-selling hit. I was looking for companionship. I thought we had hit it off my experience was limited. He never returned my call.
While I don't believe I was discussed in his book, he published variations on the theme of dating many of which I could have been - hundreds he had met via the early 1990s version of Manhunt, the Village Voice classifieds.