Going Dutch
I was confused. He kept buying me drinks. Was there a catch? Was he putting rohypnol in my drinks? Using it as some kind of affirmation of male dominance? Lulling me into drunken security before slipping out his penis and revealing the real price of the evening?
Apparently, in America, that's what guys do. They foot the bill on dates.
Preposterous, to an English person. So instilled into our student psyches is this phenomenon of 'going dutch' that we're unable to comprehend the social niceties of the dating ritual. I felt so guilty at not contributing to my first American date that I ended up pressing a pile of bills I could ill afford into his hand. He was astonished, and ended up taking me on another date, revealing halfway through that he had forgotten his wallet, I'd have to pay, did I mind? He'd pay me back another time.
There wasn't another time because I had seen the light. No longer would I ever pay for my own drink, my own meal. No longer would I be constrained by the antiquated English feminist ideals which demand women pay their half of the bill. I was turning into a New Yorker. Make sure you leave a good tip
It's a complicated etiquette though. One must always act surprised that the man is paying. Expectancy must be concealed with graciousness. If a man does not, within the first five minutes, offer to buy you a drink after inviting you out, he is a schmuck. This is a tried and tested formula, and believe me, it is a litmus test for the jerk.
But sometimes this particular dating etiquette disturbs me. Take one friend. Pretty, unemployed, but still inexplicably wandering around in brand new Christian Louboutins declaring her love for the guy who did not pay for the Christian Louboutins. This does not impede said friend from numerous dates with other men at expensive restaurants and the acceptance of designer 'gifts' purely because she enjoys the high life someone else's platinum card provides. She assures me she is not fucking them. So it's OK. I assume 'not fucking' is a metaphor for giving head instead. If you have sex with them, it's prostitution. If you don't, then it's acceptable. Most strippers have this engrained into their psyche. We take money from 'them', but we don't date them, because that's prostitution. If a man is stupid enough to pay for nothing, he'll get nothing. I find it amazing that strippers are looked down on in society. Our actions merely mirror the average Manhattan female. Like the Manhattan female, we're looking for a man who can pay for our Christian Louboutins (though personally I'm happy with Aldo). But unlike the Manhattan female, we're not going to blow him.
I was sitting at the bar in my club one evening talking to a curvy, stunning girl called Desire. She told me about some Israeli guy who'd given her 1,000 dollars the night before in twenties stuck into the back of her dress. She'd assumed they were singles until she walked upstairs and the other girls gaped at her. 'Girl, you have a fuckin' fortune stickin' out of yo' dress!'. She immediately went downstairs and located the guy again.
"So I left early and then went and met him in Crobar. Does that mean I'm a prostitute?"
"Did you fuck him?" I ask, because it seems like the natural question.
"Nooooo," she looks offended. "But I kissed him." She glanced at me earnestly, holding her breath for my judgment.
"Did you kiss him because you liked him or you felt obliged?"
"Well, I liked him."
"So you're not a prostitute. If it's a transaction devoid of emotion then it's prostitution."
She looked pleased, and patted my leg. "Thanks Honey!"
"When are you seeing him again?"
"Oh, I'm not. Unless he comes in here. He's kinda old for me."
It struck me that if my equation were true, probably 90% of the women in Manhattan might aptly be labelled prostitutes. These are the women sharking for the perfect date - one who will match their Manolos and Marc Jacob clutch, and replace said items mutliple times well before next season. But the perfect date is not a life partner. The perfect date has little to do with love or emotion. The perfect date is one who foots the bill, spices up the evening with little gifts and provides the female with the necessary visits to Pastis, Balthasar, The Four Season, 60 Thompson, maybe even Marquee (if he's below 40). If money is exchanged in the less-palpable form of gifts and five-star restaurants, the Manhattan female can sleep easy at night knowing that the flirtation, the kiss, the occasional blow job, is not really what it appears.
I like the fact my dates don't cut into my paltry savings, but I'm astounded by how more and more men are seeing this skewed equation as a recipe for sex. 'I bought you a drink so now fuck me'. That's not how it works baby. Ask any stripper. And like the girls we despise who give 'extras' in the champagne room, my Manhattan female friend is ruining it for those who want to enjoy the high life without putting out. Like the best strippers, the key is to trick them into thinking they're getting something without getting anything. To give off that whiff of inaccessability. To ensure that the price for your company over dinner is equivalent to whatever goes on his platinum card, and the price for getting you into bed is something money can't buy. Sometimes, listening to the women around me and their activities, I feel like a prude in comparison. After all, I've only dated three guys in the last year. The second and third I liked too much to accept the big, fat allowances they seemed willing to throw my way. Now my stripper friends would not approve of that decision.
Unusually, my English friend who has studiously avoided his side of the dating bargain (rarely buying a woman a drink) has done particularly well in Manhattan, having screwed at least five women in the last month, all of whom have strangely shown some form of emotion for him.
Perhaps going dutch is a far better concept. As long as it doesn't apply to me.
Apparently, in America, that's what guys do. They foot the bill on dates.
Preposterous, to an English person. So instilled into our student psyches is this phenomenon of 'going dutch' that we're unable to comprehend the social niceties of the dating ritual. I felt so guilty at not contributing to my first American date that I ended up pressing a pile of bills I could ill afford into his hand. He was astonished, and ended up taking me on another date, revealing halfway through that he had forgotten his wallet, I'd have to pay, did I mind? He'd pay me back another time.
There wasn't another time because I had seen the light. No longer would I ever pay for my own drink, my own meal. No longer would I be constrained by the antiquated English feminist ideals which demand women pay their half of the bill. I was turning into a New Yorker. Make sure you leave a good tip
It's a complicated etiquette though. One must always act surprised that the man is paying. Expectancy must be concealed with graciousness. If a man does not, within the first five minutes, offer to buy you a drink after inviting you out, he is a schmuck. This is a tried and tested formula, and believe me, it is a litmus test for the jerk.
But sometimes this particular dating etiquette disturbs me. Take one friend. Pretty, unemployed, but still inexplicably wandering around in brand new Christian Louboutins declaring her love for the guy who did not pay for the Christian Louboutins. This does not impede said friend from numerous dates with other men at expensive restaurants and the acceptance of designer 'gifts' purely because she enjoys the high life someone else's platinum card provides. She assures me she is not fucking them. So it's OK. I assume 'not fucking' is a metaphor for giving head instead. If you have sex with them, it's prostitution. If you don't, then it's acceptable. Most strippers have this engrained into their psyche. We take money from 'them', but we don't date them, because that's prostitution. If a man is stupid enough to pay for nothing, he'll get nothing. I find it amazing that strippers are looked down on in society. Our actions merely mirror the average Manhattan female. Like the Manhattan female, we're looking for a man who can pay for our Christian Louboutins (though personally I'm happy with Aldo). But unlike the Manhattan female, we're not going to blow him.
I was sitting at the bar in my club one evening talking to a curvy, stunning girl called Desire. She told me about some Israeli guy who'd given her 1,000 dollars the night before in twenties stuck into the back of her dress. She'd assumed they were singles until she walked upstairs and the other girls gaped at her. 'Girl, you have a fuckin' fortune stickin' out of yo' dress!'. She immediately went downstairs and located the guy again.
"So I left early and then went and met him in Crobar. Does that mean I'm a prostitute?"
"Did you fuck him?" I ask, because it seems like the natural question.
"Nooooo," she looks offended. "But I kissed him." She glanced at me earnestly, holding her breath for my judgment.
"Did you kiss him because you liked him or you felt obliged?"
"Well, I liked him."
"So you're not a prostitute. If it's a transaction devoid of emotion then it's prostitution."
She looked pleased, and patted my leg. "Thanks Honey!"
"When are you seeing him again?"
"Oh, I'm not. Unless he comes in here. He's kinda old for me."
It struck me that if my equation were true, probably 90% of the women in Manhattan might aptly be labelled prostitutes. These are the women sharking for the perfect date - one who will match their Manolos and Marc Jacob clutch, and replace said items mutliple times well before next season. But the perfect date is not a life partner. The perfect date has little to do with love or emotion. The perfect date is one who foots the bill, spices up the evening with little gifts and provides the female with the necessary visits to Pastis, Balthasar, The Four Season, 60 Thompson, maybe even Marquee (if he's below 40). If money is exchanged in the less-palpable form of gifts and five-star restaurants, the Manhattan female can sleep easy at night knowing that the flirtation, the kiss, the occasional blow job, is not really what it appears.
I like the fact my dates don't cut into my paltry savings, but I'm astounded by how more and more men are seeing this skewed equation as a recipe for sex. 'I bought you a drink so now fuck me'. That's not how it works baby. Ask any stripper. And like the girls we despise who give 'extras' in the champagne room, my Manhattan female friend is ruining it for those who want to enjoy the high life without putting out. Like the best strippers, the key is to trick them into thinking they're getting something without getting anything. To give off that whiff of inaccessability. To ensure that the price for your company over dinner is equivalent to whatever goes on his platinum card, and the price for getting you into bed is something money can't buy. Sometimes, listening to the women around me and their activities, I feel like a prude in comparison. After all, I've only dated three guys in the last year. The second and third I liked too much to accept the big, fat allowances they seemed willing to throw my way. Now my stripper friends would not approve of that decision.
Unusually, my English friend who has studiously avoided his side of the dating bargain (rarely buying a woman a drink) has done particularly well in Manhattan, having screwed at least five women in the last month, all of whom have strangely shown some form of emotion for him.
Perhaps going dutch is a far better concept. As long as it doesn't apply to me.
MIMI IN NY | 4:28 PM |
