It’s been over 24-hours since my #firsttwitterdate and I have much to discuss. I met Twitter-user @CLRochelle at Nolita House in NYC (8/4/2009) for dinner, drinks and then headed to Kyotofu for dessert. This was a blind-date where we documented happenings for the world (via Twitter) while being blind to each others Tweets/messages.

I understand that some people who are following this story do not have Twitter to follow myself (@Nicky_Papers) or Christine (@CLRochelle) The feed is presented chronologically with numbered Tweets for reference.

Please read our live Twitter Feed (#firsttwitterdate) below:

Tweet #6: My date thought about cheating and calling me to avoid a potentially awkward situation! She half-cheated by sending me a text to avoid walking into an dark and crowded restaurant to spot me. After reading her post date commentary, I now found out she’s “blind” and owns glasses she doesn’t wear and spotting me made her nervous. To ease tension, I want outside to great her as she approached.

Tweet #17: In retrospect, I should have keep my business to myself. Sometimes, I share too many details with people. I thought @CLRochelle would tell more about some of her triumphs, especially her trip to Vietnam. (which I was really interested in learning about!) However, she held back and talked about her freelance work.

Tweet #27 / #45: Let it be known that I never insisted on paying for anything. I did what came natural for me in this situation. Please note, I picked the restaurant(s) so picking up a tab should not be viewed as something negative.

Tweet #28: I knew my date liked cupcakes, I think she appreciated my effort to go for something she’s into.

Tweet #31: My date secretly snapped a picture of me while I was Tweeting. Was she put up to it? I thought that was a little creepy seeing that on Twitter the next day.

Tweet #36: “I brought up past relationships”. For the record, I asked my date if she was seeing anyone. Certainly, that’s a fair question and a typical girl would not be “freaked out” and answer truthfully. However, my date admitted that she is “seeing someone” but it’s “not serious”. The only thing “bold” was her response my question. (As she posts CL ads to go on Twitter dates…?)

Tweet #41: I didn’t stalk my dates blog. I read it thoroughly and enjoyed it! I think she is a phenomenal and comedic writer and has a bright future in journalism.

Tweet #43: The date ended awkwardly on the train platform as we “shoulder-hugged” as if she thought I’d pull a creepo move and slip her the tongue. Get real! I was just making sure she got on her train safely.

Would I date @CLRochelle again? Probably not.

Simply put, the chemistry wasn’t there for me. However, remaining friends and staying in touch about blogging would be smart as she’s a gifted and talented writer.

Last week while clicking through my RSS feeds, my buddy Mike sent me a cryptic IM linking to a Craigslist personal ad for “women seeking men” in Manhattan. While I was expecting a typical ad for an Asian Massage Parlor, or a housewife looking for some hot NSA action, this was an opportunity far more exciting.

Shortly after clicking the link, Mike followed up with an IM saying, “that’s all you bro”. NYC based woman blogger 23, looking to meet a mysterious man via Twitter and go out on a date. The date sounded cool being that we’re close in age and will probably have a lot to talk about as we both blog, however there’s purpose behind the date.

Without hesitation and in good faith, I sent a response to the ad. See below.

Well what do you know? I was selected by my mystery woman (Twitter user) @CLRochelle to accompany her and make Twitter / dating history!

This entire date is to be recorded by Tweets with the following hash tag: #firsttwitterdate so the world can witness our thoughts before meeting, during the date, and our feelings after getting together.

This concept is the first form interactive dating by means of social networking. Simply put, like those TV shows where the lucky dating contestant has an ear piece and guided “by a wing-man”, we’ll both be “guided” by Twitter users world-wide.

So what do I know about my Twitter date so far? Besides from being a talented freelance writer / blogger from New Jersey, she’s also obsessed with cupcakes. If only she knew that I subscribe to Bakerella.com and that Nicky Papers is the self-proclaimed King of all Things Edible, (I’ll keep my Montauk Monster shaped cookies to myself…) this certainly should be a fun date and a memorable experience indeed.

Dating is a lot like soccer sometimes, if you look for where the ball is (action) you’re never going to score. For me, I was wide open and ready for this opportunity. I’m fairly certain my date has done her due diligence by reading my blogs, (seems like a smart and sassy chick) and had no reservations on what was behind “Door #3”. (Obviously hoping to avoid a case of buyer’s remorse at all costs!)

Follow me, (@Nicky_Papers) and (@CLRochelle) on our #firsttwitterdate tomorrow evening Tuesday, August 4th as we will be blind to each other’s Tweets!

While sticking with the theme of my last post, I’ve always had a fascination with Las Vegas. I wrote the journal entry above in fourth grade and Vegas has forever remained one of my coveted “dirty destinations”. Aside from watching the Rangers win the Stanley Cup and cheering on OJ in hot pursuit; in 1994 my imagination ran wild as to what really happens in Las Vegas.

In early 1996, my Vegas fantasies came true when I watched Showgirls (staring Elizabeth Berkley) for the first time. The cable descrambler box came in handy (thanks Dad!) as I was able to switch between episodes of Saved By The Bell (Jessie Spano) and “naked Jessie” on Pay-Per-View. As a sixth grader this was my first introduction to porn and I cherished the Pay-Per-View guide (Still have it today!) where I could tune into some quality soft-core action on a schedule of course.

The acting in Showgirls was terrible and the storyline sucked as it got horrific reviews. For me the combination of Showgirls, the accessibility to a descrambler box giving me oodles of adult entertainment, and being able to turn the color of my pee from yellow to “white and sticky” shaped my pre-pubescent afternoons; till dinner time at least…

My fourth grade writing should have been a clear indicator of what would become; a love for all things gluttonous. (And slightly voyeuristic…) My teacher on the other hand thought differently giving me “mad props” on my journal entries. In hindsight, she wasn’t doing anyone a favor as it really was her responsibility to call a parent teacher conference about this.

After going to Vegas more times than the average person (four times in 382 days to be exact) it’s safe say that I know my way around town. Whether I’m going balls deep on a hot Latina, telling a stripper that I used to have long hair, (fabricated lies) or explaining the economics behind VIP bottle service, Vegas is a place that will always be there when I want to cut loose.

As for my fourth grade teacher, I’d like to thank her for her kind words and encouragement. As for Elizabeth Berkley, you were my “Eleanor” as I’ve been never been able to see you naked again (since 96’) and also for the fact that as a sixth grader I came (and gone) in 60 seconds.

You will always hold a special place in my heart. : )

My friend Rob is a notorious bachelor party cut-up. It’s usually the groom’s college friends or the in-laws that find this guy rude, obnoxious, and childish, appointing me as his caretaker.

This bachelor party was for our buddy James (2005 USPC Winner!) and the setting of course, was Las Vegas. On Sunday morning of the trip, the rest of the gang made their departure home. It was Mother’s Day 2008 and only a few stayed behind to enjoy the highlight of any weekend in Vegoose, Rehab at the Hard Rock Casino.

We checked into the Hard Rock, ate breakfast at the 24/7, and made it down to the pool after taking care of my chest hair in the room. (Norelco baby!) After all, this was Mother’s day and one must take into consideration that all women attending a dirty pool party at Rehab must hate their mothers and want to get back at them, or will be partying with Mom in a cabana. Either way it was money for us.

The highlight of the day was finding a hidden waterslide set back from the main pool. I took a few runs and brought Rob to check it out. Rob has a tattoo on his chest that says “Lil’ Boo” in an old English font. Lil’ Boo isn’t his baby’s mama, it’s his cat that he loves dearly. Prior to getting on the slide a gay guy chatting up the lifeguard and asks Rob “who’s Lil’ Boo?” Rob, using the bar above the slide to gain momentum gets distracted by the question, and slips and hitting his head on the slide causing his drunken body to go limp and trail down the slide into the pool below.

The gay guy screams “OMG, he’s out cold!” The lifeguard leaves his station and jumps down, a partygoer shouts “I’m an EMT” and barrels down after Rob, the catty gay dude piles down, and I follow shortly after. It looked bad. Rob hit head hard and I thought for sure he’d be unconscious floating in the pool at the bottom.

Rob was held up by the lifeguard and EMT gasping for air. They asked him a series of questions, (what’s your name, how many fingers am I holding up?) The gay dude participated in the Q/A period and asked Rob once again, “who’s Lil’ Boo?” Rob replied, my cat! The gay dude apologized and told us that his dad “owns the place” and could comp us rooms and get us a table at Body English. He said, “if you need anything I’ll be back on the lifeguard stand”, by the way; my name’s Abraham.

Rob, literally just out of a coma, says “Abraham, eh? What kind of fucking name is that? Your father (who owns this place) named you Abraham? I now see why you’re a giant homo. Fucking Abraham!” Our pal Abe stood their speechless after being belittled by Rob. He exited the pool and shouted “fucking assholes!” at us and we went back to frolicking poolside.

When it comes to problems in life, I don’t have many. Missing my train and being forced to take the 4:54 AM home to Long Island after a night of boozing tops the list. If I could help somebody else have a good time; especially during the holiday season, “big-ups” to me. I had a rare and special opportunity to give an older gent named Donnie a shot at youth again.

Bob; a trusted friend and valued resource, referred me to his associate Steve. Steve is an estate planner that has a client named Donnie. Steve explained the details of a driving gig that required my services. I would have to “engage the client in conversation” and “take charge of him when necessary”. I kindly accepted the offer; but seriously, what the fuck was I getting myself into?

Steve further explained that Donnie hasn’t been on a date since the 1970’s nor has gone to NYC in over 20 years. Steve wanted to do something special for the holidays, so he convinced Donnie to get a full makeover in preparation for a big night. Donnie tried on new outfits and agreed to let a stylist work with him. (He requested the “Steven Segal” look). Getting a commitment from Donnie to take a date was more difficult, but Steve’s persistence made the magic happen that night.

Here’s the deal: Pick up Donnie and a date at his house, drive them to Manhattan for the Radio City Christmas Spectacular, and then drive them home. We anxiously waited for Donnie’s date to arrive. After 20 minutes of waiting, Leah made her grand entrance barreling her 1989 Cadillac down the street and swooping into the driveway like the pizza delivery guy in Home Alone.

I was pleasantly surprised with the quality of Donnie’s date. (Nice pull Steve!) Leah ended up being a total MILF. She was a flirtatious bar-maid who made Donnie feel special. She had no problem with him putting an arm around her in the backseat. Donnie said a few inappropriate things, but Christ this was his first date in over thirty years!

They both enjoyed the Christmas Spectacular courtesy of Steve. On the ride home Donnie invited Leah back to his place for drinks. He told her he had a bottle of champagne with “her name on it”. She respectfully declined, but I admired him for having the balls to ask. Donnie was in his element with his arm an around her, though I still looked in the rear view for any petting over the pants.

Donnie was appreciative of my services that evening. I don’t think he realized I ended up getting Leah’s number. (What up Ma?) Donnie is lucky to have Steve (estate planner) in his life to look out for him. And now I have a new wingman.

Donnie: Don’t leave your girl ’round me, true playa for real!

I never thought as myself of being a strip club guy. Like most American males, I enjoy my share of booze, red meat, and pussy. This burning desire for me to hit a strip club usually comes out when I’m traveling in other cities. Sitting at the bar and watching titties is OK, but the lap dance is where it’s at. A sleazy male pastime, a justifiable corporate expenditure, and a right of passage into male adulthood: The Lap Dance.

I’ve had my fair share of lap dances in my time and travels, but what makes some lap dances better than others? I’ve calculated a formula to ensure the best bang for your buck (no pun intended) to maximize return on lap dance investments.

First off, build rapport and create conversation with the stripper. Just because she’s got sick moves on the pole doesn’t mean she’s going to give a good lap dance. A lap dance is a sale, so don’t storm the Bastille and buy the dance immediately after she gets off stage. The hottest chick in the club usually doesn’t give the best dances and will try and sell you on a more “intimate experience” in a VIP area. Fuck that! Find the friendly stripper who is fat in all the right places. She’s more likely to work harder during the lap dance as she’s self conscious about her body in comparison to the other girls. Play that self-esteem card to your advantage.

For added quality assurance, pick the right song. This past weekend I got dirty to Kanye West’s – “Flashing Lights”. A song you know and like will always help your cause and keep you from sitting there like a dead fish. The most crucial element of the lap dance is the ass / to dick ratio. This is what’s going to get your motor going. Tuck your boner up and adjust your balls to maximize pleasure and show your girl she’s doing something right.

The pounding of the stripper’s ass on your junk will always prevail. In addition to the ass to dick ratio (grinding) the following elements should be taken into consideration:

1. Blowing / licking ears.
2. Talking dirty.
3. Booty smacks.
4. Scents. (Cotton candy!)
5. Vaginal or anal exposure.
6. Boobs in face. (Nips on lips.)
7. Petting over/under the pants. (The glorified hand job.)
8. Pantomimed blow-jobs or “cock biting”.
9. Finger penetration. (Play on playette; no diggity, no doubt uh!)

On one particular Vegas trip one of my friends, (seasoned strip club vet.) had a lap dance with all the elements noted above. (inclusive of healthy ass / dick ratio). He ended up pre-jacking and was left to roam the strip club with wet-draws. To his surprised, upon walking out at 9:30 AM his pants were dry! He carried on the rest of the day wearing his semen-caked underwear with pride. The ecstasy he ate earlier that night certainly helped, but finding the right girl was everything that night.

The pre-game’s a necessary and proper way to kick-off any “going-out” night. Whether your taste requires a 30-pack of Busch Light, or liquor; some social lube to fire things up is needed without question. During my junior year of college, my buddy Rudy (home-friend) showed up to my dorm bearing a bottle of Fleishmann’s Vodka ($6.99/liter) and a few Gatorades.

Rudy’s a real “man’s-man.” Although his head is oddly shaped, (Think Hey Arnold!, but with a skinny forehead and long temple region.) he’s a dude that’s about fantasy-football, beer-pong stats, and exaggerating tales of the vagina’s he’s conquered among the boys. (Hi Cassie!) He repeats things, sounds like a hyper-dog when excited, and is a proponent of half-off appetizers at Applebee’s. (Boneless buffalo wings!) He’s good people; but this night the wheels were falling off the train for Rudy. A good soldier was about to go down.

We started the night on my futon, mixing vodka into the top portion of the Gatorade bottles. (Pouring out some for our dead homies.) Rudy was in a bad mood because the Yankees were losing and he dribbled “red” Gatorade around the neck of his Don Mattingly jersey. As the night progressed, his rate of consumption increased. By the 9th inning, he was lighting cigarettes backwards, sporting a “fruit punch” mustache, and banging on girls doors. (“Who wants to party?!”)

We finished the bottle before leaving and hopped in my friend Mike’s Jeep Cherokee. We were both pretty fucked up, but Rudy was completely out of control and harassing Mike’s girlfriend and friend in the backseat. A few hiccups and burps later, the “vomit sensation” took over Rudy and he went projectile out the back window.

The following happened next:

1. Rudy apologizes for puking.

2. Rudy’s denied entry at the bar because he’s visibly intoxicated and left his ID at my building.

3. Rudy’s put in a cab and taken back to campus.

4. I continue drinking with the gang, figuring Rudy’s sleeping it off.

5. Rudy’s found by public safety on the hood of a Ford Explorer (not his), in a pool of his own vomit and piss.

6. Rudy’s missing when I arrive later at my room. Neighbors explain an “unidentified student” was taken to the hospital earlier. (No wallet or ID.)

7. Rudy’s taken to the hospital as a “John Doe”. BAC = 0.33

8. Rudy harasses the nurse and taunts her with the catheter in his penis.

9. Rudy’s released the next morning in my custody and he makes it to work by noon.

During the interim between the nurse squabble and Rudy sleeping, I got him a change of pants. (Urinated his own.) Rudy never returned my Puma track-pants. I had nothing to wear to on Monday while making cold-calls at my job. (Chop-shop stock brokerage.) Rudy paid the hospital costs out of pocket because he didn’t want his parents knowing. Rudy learned some valuable lessons, and laid off the sauce for some time. Good man.

When it comes to nightlife, I make an effort to go as far away from home as possible. I’ll take a train into NYC, crash at a friend’s apartment in another town, or book a flight and rip-it in a different city for the weekend. There’s nothing worse than creeping up from behind and grinding on a girl you went to high school with or telling a dude that was on your soccer team a quick recap on the last five years of your life.

This leads me next to the “bro hello”. You can see it coming from a mile away. The spotting can come from any direction; across the bar, or from the dance floor. It’ll usually be a former co-worker, a guy you went to school with, a friend of a friend, etc. Their right hand will rise up and reveal and open palm. (They come in peace.) Once you’ve been spotted, dodging is impossible. Instinctively, you mirror the motion and engage in a open-palm fist lock at the thumbs. So, what’s up bro?

Sometimes shoulders will be bumped or the opposite arm will come around to form the “faux/bro hug”. Next thing you know you’ve been engulfed (phagocytosis!) into a meaningless conversation putting a distorted spin on what you “do” during the day, romances/breakups, relocations, and future aspirations. The only way to end it is the same way you started it, palms up.

While recently at the Wynn in Las Vegas I ran into “Mystery”. You know, that freak show who was the host of VH1’s reality series “The Pick-up Artist”. (Joe D was the man!) While spotting him across the casino I darted over to say what’s up, making myself guilty of my own pet peeve. Okay, so I had a few cocktails in me. I charged at Mystery with an open palm expecting the same excitement in return.

Mystery shut me down on the “bro hello”. He was assertive and took control of the greeting by opting to give me a “pound” instead of palm to palm contact. All I got was knuckles. (Wtf?) Where’s the love brotha? After the pound incident I was left standing in the casino lobby embarrassed, ashamed, drunk, and alone. How could Mystery play me like that?

I brushed off what happened that evening, but I’m still pissed I got son’d by at guy that looks like a vampire/peacock. That bitch left me out to dry. I’m not trying to glorify the “bro hello”; but Jesus, return the favor when called upon. It’s an unwritten code among men.

Mystery unfortunately for you: It’s game over.

I’ve always been someone who shits better at home. If I am at work, a friend’s house, or a public place, I’m always paranoid that somebody is going to disturb me. Is someone going to knock? Am I going to clog the toilet? Am I going to stink the place up? Like most people, I enjoy going #2 in peace.

A few weeks ago, I was in my cubicle minding my business and casually ripping ass under the desk. That day the farts were particularly obnoxious and could possibly be attributed to the ten pints of Blue Point I drank the night before and the egg sandwich I scarfed down that morning. I made sure I rode low in my chair to keep the stench under the desk and under the radar. I knew that morning I was going to drop a nice one and carry on the day in comfort.

I made my way to the side bathroom in the front lobby avoiding all co-workers in my path. It’s a single toilet (no urinal) with a locking door. It’s only used by men so leaving a hot stench behind is not all that embarrassing. For women and children, that’s another story.

From all the logs I’ve dropped in my time, this one makes the ranks. Easy out, and no traces behind on paper. Sick deal. I’m just about to finish up, but I decided to give myself one more insurance wipe to play it safe. Now, I’m slightly standing up and hunched over the bowl. My pants are at my ankles and my hairy ass is in open air with the front of my button down covering my junk.

Now you can probably guess what’s about to happen next. I see the door knob turn and Rich from accounting is staring at me stooped over wiping my ass with my right hand. That fucker didn’t knock! “Oh shit, sorry!” he said, and quickly shut the door. I was left there embarrassed and wondering how I am going to face this guy who I’ve spoken very little to again.

Rich came over to my cube later that morning and we joked about it. He ended up being a good sport. It was partially my fault for not locking the door and Rich was partially responsible for neglecting to knock, so it was a wash. It ended up being good fun and the accounting department seemed to get a kick about it too.

It’s too bad Rich is no longer employed at my company. He never said goodbye or left contact info. (KIT - keep in touch!) He was one of the good ones. I guess we’ll always have that moment where our eyes met and he saw me crouched over with my hand in my ass. Surprise! From now on I’m more careful about shitting in public and perform due diligence checks on the lock multiple times, just in case!

If you lived away at college chances are you had a weird roommate at one time or another. Sophomore year I lived with a dude named Irving. This guy was always doing weird shit like leaving chicken bones in his drawers, taking naps with his shoes on under the sheets, and tagging his initials on everything. (Coat hangers included.)

It was the beginning of the semester in the winter and I remember the room would get pretty stuffy. I slept in just my boxers because opening a window caused a nasty draft. I didn’t want to end up with typhoid or some shit, so my boxers did the trick and kept me cool at night.

Hung-over one morning, I hit the snooze button and ended up sleeping longer than expected. Well, the truth was I got a handful of morning wood and I was just lying in bed stroking my man meat. I knew Irving was getting out of bed any minute to take a shower before me. Irving was notorious for taking hour-long showers and I would be late for class if I didn’t act fast.

I hopped out of bed making sure to tuck my junk up against the elastic of my boxer shorts and my stomach. I think most guys are familiar with this technique in boner concealment. It’s the only way to ensure that your hard-on is camouflaged.

In my haste I neglected to put on my white-tee before I hopped in the shower, thus leaving the tip of my penis exposed for Irving to examine. He looked at me in disbelief as if he’d never seen another man’s chubby before. How could I have been so negligent as to tuck, but forget to hide with the undershirt?

I had to react quickly. I pulled up on the elastic band and let my dong hang freely. Big mistake. This made the situation even worse. My penis was now in a “semi” state and elevated a portion of my underwear. It was quite obvious that I had morning wood and I couldn’t hide it. I took a towel, wrapped it around me, and darted toward the bathroom. I didn’t see Irving again until later that evening. No mention was ever made again about my morning wood.

When it comes to morning wood; if you are going to tuck, don’t forget to hide!