In last week's story, "The Family Man," the guy wanted to make babies with me. This week's nickname couldn't be more opposite. This guy leaves the party with my now former friend without telling me and with Halloween approaching I find the boy (because that's what he acted like) I nicknamed Werewolf fitting to share.
Werewolf and I “magically” both swiped right one evening and the Tinder gods brought us together. He claimed to be a former rock star. At least he was a former rock performer—his major claim to fame was that his band once opened for Nirvana back in the ‘90s. By the time I met him, his drum-playing rock-god days were behind him and he’d become something of a Renaissance man—and had racked up an unusually large array of pursuits and specialties. He was a magician, a ghost buster (seriously!), a Chakra healer, and a boat captain who simultaneously grew organic facial products from some Amazon mud he collected.
He was also a former ventriloquist. I learned this fact the hard way, when I entered his dimly lit apartment for the very first time. Lined up against the living room wall was a veritable parade of Chucky-like dolls (you know, the doll with the knife from the movie “Child’s Play”) looking like they could go full-Chucky on me, come to life, and kill me at any second.
The warning signs kept coming. A dinner date with Werewolf revealed he was a carbohydrate hater—when I helped myself to a piece of bread from the basket on the table, he glared at me like I’d just taken a big bite of a stick of butter. He thought carbs were some kind of devil’s snack food and avoided them at all costs. I love to eat and I love carbs. I was starting to see a future with Werewolf dissolve with every bite I took out of that piece of bread.
Like any physical fitness freak, Werewolf also spent between three and four hours a day at the gym, every day, followed by a rip-roaring session of Bikram hot yoga.
Oh yeah, he was fit—physically at least.
I admire a guy who keeps in shape (as long as I don’t have to see a video of him running on a treadmill. Yes, a prospective date actually sent me videos of him running on a treadmill. There was no first date.), but Werewolf was more than that. He was some kind of crazy genius (as evidenced by his amazingly diverse range of careers) and had the whole “bad boy” thing going on, which I loved.
Unfortunately, our dates weren’t quite as exciting as he was. We spent most of our time hanging around his apartment, where I watched him play his drums; watched videos from his rock star “heyday”; and worried about one of those Chucky dolls taking me out when I wasn’t looking.
We had been out about six times (practically going steady for me!) when Halloween rolled around, so I invited him to my apartment for a party, after which the whole group was going to go out on the town—in costume, of course.
In case you’re wondering, this is the part of the story where Werewolf got his name.
One of his other many careers (I can’t possibly remember them all!) was as a theatrical make-up artist. Halloween was truly his holiday to howl. He arrived at my apartment in the most convincing werewolf costume I’ve ever seen. Even my dog Valentino was scared!
(Seriously, this is what he looked like!)
That’s when the fun started. One of my guests was a friend named Jennifer—who now happens to be a former friend. She was dressed as an angel, but things went to hell when she locked eyes with the sexy monster I had been dating.
The three of us ended up sharing a cab to the after party, but five blocks before our destination, Werewolf jumped out of the cab, claiming he had to piss so badly he couldn’t hold it another second.
I knew better. He didn’t need to pee—he just didn’t want to pay.
During our entire night on the town, my date, who had at least $100 worth of makeup on his face, bought me one drink, and I pretty much had to squeeze that out of him. Then, true to his magician roots, he completely disappeared. Turns out, he and my angel friend slipped out together, sharing a cab back home to the East Village.
I wonder who paid.
I also met a millionaire on Tinder who conveniently forgot to tell me he was married! He told me about an hour into our date. WTF?
