It is around 10:30 PM. I am standing outside a comedy club. I am alone, innocent, and naturally curvaceous. A man approaches me. He is tall, wearing pants made of burlap, and sports a dirty, white t-shit that reads, "S.W.A.K." My nose informs me that he does not bathe or use oral hygiene-type products. He smiles at me and I politely smile back. He asks if he can have my phone number and I politely refuse. He walks away and I am still alone, innocent, and naturally curvaceous.

Another eligible bachelor walks out of my life and down the steps to his home underground. Why must I have such high standards? This is ridiculous. There he was, a nice guy ready to take me out for a slice of Manhattan nightlife, and I refused him. I have to take advantage of my opportunities. I have to seize the day, smell the roses, and dance like there is nobody watching. I have to give out my phone number to the next guy I meet.

It is around 11:00 PM. I am standing outside a comedy club (I have stepped outside again to get some air and to avoid the drunken audience member who has left his seat in order to follow me around the club while attempting to shove dollar bills down my pants). Two men pass by and smile. One of them stops, turns around, and looks me up and down. I scan the specimen quickly, yet effectively. His tiny nose, brown eyes, and small mouth are symmetrically placed on his face. I spot his olive complexion and white teeth as he walks over to where I am standing. He speaks.
Man: Hey.
Mindy: Hello.
Man: Do you find me attractive?

I feel that this man is either very arrogant or very insecure. Yet, there is something strangely intriguing about his blatant bravado, and, in a "future host of American Idol" kind of way, he is very attractive. I have always prided myself on being honest with the men who pick me up outside of comedy clubs, and so I respond . . .

Mindy: Ugh . . . yeah. Sure.
Man: Can I have your number?
Mindy: Ugh . . . yeah. Sure.

I gave him my number. He called. I met him at the W Hotel on Lexington Avenue. It was the worst thirty-five minutes and twenty-two seconds of my life!

Please note:
Due to the fact that both my spell check and my dictionary failed to have many of the inappropriate words used that night, I will not be able to reveal the full extent of our 'conversation.'

I am waiting outside the hotel bar. I am a little nervous. I am about to drink alcohol in a hotel with a total stranger. An image of a cheesy looking man carrying my drug-induced, limp body to a secluded hotel room plays out in my mind. I decide that I will not finish my drink. I hear my name being called. I pray that it is one of my many fans begging for an autograph or perhaps a single lock of hair. I spin around to see a man in a pair of blue jeans and a black t-shirt that is so tight I can estimate the diameter of his nipples. I say hello and prepare for my usual "strange man in a public place" platonic hug when I notice that his face is getting dangerously close to mine. Suddenly it is as if a higher power tests my emergency reflex skills. I turn my head quickly to the side. Foiled, he lands a big wet one on my check. I should have gone back to my apartment right then and there (you should always go back to your apartment as soon as a guy you have never really met tries to make out with you during a public salutation). Yet I stayed and we walked into the hotel bar.

We are sitting on two comfy-looking plush chairs. I scan the room for the closest exit while simultaneously locating nearby inanimate objects I can use as weapons. I spy a pointy, long, modern-looking candleholder and begin to feel at ease. I take a small sip of my drink.

Man: So, Mindy . . . where did you go to school?
Mindy: University of Michigan
Man: What did you study?
Mindy: Theater, European History and –
Man: What was the name of first guy you lost your virginity to?
Mindy: Excuse me?

He actually asked me names and dates in relation to my sex life, and physical details about my body, and other shocking questions that even my memory has censored. He is leaning back in his chair and stroking his forearm with his pinky. He is petting himself as if he is a precious animal on the verge of extinction! I decide to take charge of the conversation.

Mindy: Did you say you went to NYU?
Man: Yup

Stop stroking you sick, nosy, symmetrical-looking thing!

Mindy: What did you study?
Man: How old are you?
Mindy: I'm twenty-three
Man: How do you feel about f*^%ing older men?
Mindy: Excuse me?
Man: How do you feel about f*^%ing older men?
Mindy: ah . . . Well . . .

There I was blushing. Outgoing, not afraid to speak my mind, willing to talk about just anything on stage, and I was blushing. It is not that I am unfamiliar with lewd remarks and crass inappropriate behavior; it is just that I am familiar with them on crowded streets or shouted out of car windows. I have made time in my schedule to see this man. This is a social occasion that I created. This is harassment disguised in expensive drinks and occasional small talk. I will not sit here and take it. I will humor him, I will mess with him, and then I will write about him in my column.

Mindy: I don't really feel anything in particular about older men.
Man: I can be pretty forward. I'm Cuban.

He laughs and then gives me a look as if he expects me to rip open my shirt upon hearing the word 'Cuban.' I smile a toothless smile.

Mindy: Cool.
Man: Are you Italian?
Mindy: No.
Man: Persian?
Mindy: No.
Man: Israeli?
Mindy: No.
Man: Where are you from then?
Mindy: Michigan.
Man: And you live in Manhattan?
Mindy: Yup.
Man: And you do stand-up comedy?
Mindy: Yup.
Man: And you're wearing a thong right now?
Mindy: What?

He is staring at my crotch as if he is wearing combination x-ray/3-D glasses.

Man: I bet you're wearing a black, mesh thong.

Should I tell him that I am wearing granny underpants?

Mindy: I'm wearing granny underpants.

He is taken aback, but recovers quickly.

Man: I think that's so sexy.
Mindy: Me too!
Man: Do you shave down there? I only date girls who get Brazilian waxes.

He is sill stroking his arm and now he is winking.

Mindy: I don't believe in the cutting of innocent hair follicles.
Man: So, you mean . . .

I make a jungle noise. Perhaps I have gone too far.

Man: Well that's ok. Sometimes I like a lot of –
Mindy: What did you study at NYU?
Man: Oh, by the way-
Mindy: I just asked you a-
Man: You have a great ass
Mindy: No, I really don't.
Man: I was watching as you walked over here, you do!
Mindy: No, no really, I don't. I've got butt dimples, and a scar from when I was bit by a spider when I was two. I had to have surgery.
Man: Well, you know what makes up for it? My long-
Mindy: So, you're Cuban?
Man: What's your favorite feature?
Mindy: Excuse me?
Man: On me. What's your favorite feature? My hair, my eyes, my rock hard-
Mindy: It's so hard to choose.
Man: How about I go get us a room?
Mindy: How about I go to the ladies room and meet you at the front desk?

And I left. I got up, walked towards the bathroom, and then left the building. I was angry, I was embarrassed, I was tired, I was stunned, and I was nervous that I contracted some verbal STD.

Now, as I sit here in my apartment ordering BurritoVille, I am amazed that men like that exist and I actually went out with one. Maybe my mother was right when she advised me to never hand out my phone number to men who do not come with a personal reference or letter of recommendation. Should I close myself off and become bitter and untrusting? Or, should I just file this memory away as some unruly, social anomaly? Maybe I am just a big fat prude, and should not get offended at men who pry into the depths of my sex-life and question the details of my intimate apparel before knowing my last name. Maybe I should just give in to my family, give in to the pressures of the self-fulfilling prophecy and become a lesbian.

As I finished off my Chili con Carne Burrito, I decided not to become a lesbian. Instead, I thought about who would take the blame for my awful date. I decided to blame the closeted homosexual who, just three months ago used me to inflate his ego and cure his desire for social normalcy. Yet, as I wiped a bit of red meat from my chin I convinced myself to stop using closeted homosexuals as scapegoats and to not let one bad date get me down. As I finished off the extra sour cream using my tongue as a utensil I realized that this date was not my fault. It was just bad luck that the man I picked up on the street corner and met at a hotel turned out to be shady. After all, I am a single woman who is wearing granny underwear and who has just finished a burrito filled with spicy beef, chili, and two kinds of beans.

Clearly I know exactly what it takes to find a decent man.