Just like that famous-for-being-famous family, this particular foreign import came to me from the faraway land of Armenia. I met him at the rooftop bar at the Gansevoort Hotel. Yes! I thought at the time. I finally met a guy not on the internet. But I should have realized that meeting someone after 12:00am in a dark bar was bound to lead into trouble. But at that time, still reeling from my divorce from Burak, I didn't care! It was dark and the scene was sexy. I now use that as an excuse for the fact that I actually went home with this slime-ball.

Yes, this is one of those dates.

The KC, who I also sometimes call Creeper, seemed like he was on the up-and-up. He told me he worked for the U.N. and was in town on government business—something I have since learned is a very popular line amongst foreign guys looking to score. We shared a couple of cocktails and the usual idle chatter, and he seemed nice enough that when he invited me back to his place, like the fool I too often am, I accepted.

The first red flag came when we were in the cab, heading down Orchard Street to his apartment. Except, he couldn’t remember what the number of his apartment was. I thought that was a little strange, but we had been drinking, and he was from Armenia, so maybe he wasn’t home much? Anyway, eventually he remembered which apartment was “his.”

But when we got to the door, someone else was behind it.

KC explained that this was a guy who worked for him putting gas in his car. “Wow,” I wondered, “how much do you pay a guy for that?” I never found out, because the guy promptly left. I guess to go pump some gas.

I stayed the night, although I did not sleep with KC in the biblical sense. When I woke up in the morning, my new Armenian friend was nowhere in sight, but I was not without male company.

Yes, the gas-pumping guy had returned! Here’s the very best part. When I queried him as to where KC might be found, he said he was PUTTING GAS IN THE CAR!

Oops.

The maybe-not-a-gas-pumping-guy must have instantly realized his mistake, because he blew that Popsicle stand in what felt like seconds. Me? I wanted out of there, too, but not until I did a little CSI New York-style investigating. I wanted to know exactly who this Casanova was.

Sadly, years on the dating scene have turned me into a very seasoned sleuth.

I threw my clothes on and scanned the apartment for any identifying material. I spotted a backpack on the floor, opened it up, and, voila: Inside was a checkbook with KC’s name on top and what I imagine was his wife’s name right under it, unless he had a joint checking account with his sister or his mother. It also indicated that he was some kind of military person who apparently lived in Pensacola.

Clearly, this was not a love connection. I wanted a memento, so I ripped out a check that I would later use to google KC for more info. I also contemplated sending the check to his wife, but ultimately decided I’d done enough damage.

What kind of damage, you might ask?

I wanted to leave KC something to remember me by, so I turned on every faucet in the place full blast and stuffed the drains with towels. Then I ran out of the building, hailed a cab, and rode home with the satisfied smile of a woman who had just flooded out a jumbo sewer rat.

What have I learned from going out with this creep?

>Think twice about leaving the club with a guy who says he “works for the U.N.

>Jump out of the cab at the next red light if your date can’t remember his apartment number. Side note: If he can’t remember his apartment number, he probably will also not remember to send you a “good morning beautiful” text.