Misadventures in Dating

Admittedly this post started off as a reply to a comment on Harper’s blog. Thinking it got a bit long in the tooth I decided to just digress here on my own space where I can use the colorful language you all know, love and expect.

It all started with a chick on Harper’s blog saying she was in Finance, which got me to thinking. Now how many of you chicks and chickits have been hit on by some douche who says he is in fi-nance, and is really something below a Banker, Trader or Executive Management?

If your hand is down, turn off your computer take a large dildo and stick it up your fucking ass because you are full of fucking shit!

I saw a friend of mine at the beer garden on Sunday, she told me she just met a banker, blah blah fucking blah and she wanted me to come meet him. Turns out he is my analyst.

Now I knew this little shit and I couldn’t really give a shit to blow up his spot (the whole bros before hoes thing I guess) so I gave him the opportunity to tell her what he really is or I would, instead he moved on to find another chick. Fine, no foul, play ball.

Here is the hierarchy as I know it;

1. Executive Management
2. Banker/Trader (although traders are sniveling coke heads, they deserve their dues)
3. quants (analysts, usually in cubicles or windowless rooms in sub-basement C)

Anything else is just some other profession that doesn’t matter. Hell I put my assistant before the quants.

Advice: To all you Daba/DABIT’s, remember, all that glitters isn’t gold. Just because he’s in Fi-nance, doesn’t mean is is making the bank you believe think he is making.

• Yes, he can get you into certain spots
• Yes, he can shell out for that bottle of Vodka you pass along to your friends
• Yes, he may even be able to put your feet in those red soled heels you so desperately seek to compliment the DvF draped over that french lingerie that is wrapping the most subtle pieces of flesh your body has to offer.

I guarantee he cant give you all of the above and more, especially in the frequency to which you require it.

Albeit, if he is good at what he does his stock price may increase and he may even be promoted to head chimp. But remember, he will always be an analyst.

Casual Dater Commentary analysts, Bankers, chicks, DABA, dabit, Investment Bankers, Liars, monkeys, traders

Spot: DABA Central (Ulysses)
Chic: 29/American Mutt (WASP)
Body type: Pilates
Occupation: Analyst

As we all know Ulysses is the mecca of the bar scene below Centre Street. It is here every Thursday evening both men and chics swing by for at least one drink to peruse the menu of bankers, traders, analysts, lawyers and other financial types that seek solace in a pint/drink/martini and the opportunity to wake up next to what at some point in the night was a “hot” warm body the next morning.

Perhaps this is where the DABA’s train their little DABIT’s from time to time. Understand that the average woman who goes to Ulysses is not to be underestimated, after all they are not the prey, they are the hunters. I know many DABA’s that have made the leap to MABA by meeting their then FBF at Ulysses.

Finding my usual spot at the bar (sans suit of course) about to have dinner after a long weathering day in the office, not in the mood for the “game” that ensues around, I concentrate on my turkey club and fries while catching up with the bartenders.

Here is the mistake most men who go to Ulysses make. It doesn’t matter if you wear a $3,000 suit when you live in fucking Brooklyn. Most women there want a man that has the “100″ at the start of his zip code. Now if you happen to saunter in shortly after Happy Hour starts in regular clothes, the first thing the astute DABA thinks is you live in the area, hence you are desirable.

I forgot to change my watch to something a bit more subdued. Like true gold diggers they found me. Now I usually wouldn’t mind, but I had my Turkey Sandwich sitting in front of me waiting to be devoured. Yet I had to put up with these pushy little twats coming to order drinks next to me and “accidentally” bumping in to me.

Deciding I had to have my sandwich and eat it, I waited for the right DABA. Eventually she showed, not a fault could be found with her physique. A goddess by any standard or definition.

As she ordered her drink and the bartender was about to charge her, I said to put it on my tab and went back to my sandwich. Surpirised I didn’ start talking to her, she asked why I would buy a drink and not say a word to her.

I simply replied, “you are kinda cute,” and once again went back to my sandwich.

Aside: She knows I am interested but not how much I’m interested. I would have probably ran around the bar naked for a shot at doing her. But I couldn’t let her know that.

Taking initiative upon herself she engages me in conversation, pretty smart I must say. When I was done eating I got up and told her to enjoy her evening. With a look of bewilderment on her face she asked if I were leaving already.

Here was my “in” so to speak. I could stay there and dance around the topic of sex all night or I could git er done.

Walking past her, I ran my fingers down her forearm till I grabbed hold of her hand and led her outside while she asked where we were going to which i relied, “my place or yours?”

Seeing as she lived maybe a block and a half away we went to her place. By the time we got out of her elevator, I was 3 fingers deep into her cheech.

Now I can tell you about the sex, but instead lets play a game, I’ll leave some space here and you fill it in with your version.

The next morning as I gathered my shyte to head home, cliche asks when we would be going out to dinner. Overcome with laughter, I gave her a “misadventuresindating.net” card and said wait for the DABA post, if you still want to talk to me, find my number…

Casual Dater Hit List, Real Life DABA, Hit List, Turkey Club, Ulysses