What do you do if the man you are about to date has a Facebook page that is one gigantic red flag? If you are Juliette Adams, you develop a ridiculous crush and learn a thing or two.
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I walked into Party Lounge, a local dive bar near my apartment in Miami, to pick up my friend, who was visiting for the weekend. It was 4:30 p.m. on a Saturday afternoon and I don’t drink. And I hate bars. My girlfriend introduced me to Hunter, who was sitting a few seats away. He was wearing a black t-shirt emblazoned with “Coconut Mafia” on it. I was wearing a white tank with the words “Skinny Bitch” across my breasts. His head was shaved, which I normally don’t like but . . . “C’mere,” he said softly, as if he thought I might be afraid of him. I walked closer to him and he put his arm around my waist. He was extremely sexy with dirty blond scruff and blue eyes. I was shocked at how turned on I was from just looking at him. He had this permanent devilish smile. He was too much—too cute, too happy; too smooth. He was the type of guy you definitely use a condom with.
I could tell Hunter was much younger than me, which I was used to by now. I’m 45 but I’ve always dated younger guys. He asked for my number and fifteen minutes later, while I was at home obsessively perusing his Facebook page, he texted me: “Hey cutie! It’s Hunter from Party.” Did he live there? Did he own the place? Did it really matter? Turned out he didn’t live there but he lived in the building next door to mine. He also had two roommates, 3834 Facebook friends, and was fourteen years younger than me.
Hunter’s Facebook page is one gigantic red flag. His main photo is of him naked on his terrace, holding a coconut over his balls. For work it says he’s a model/actor, although there is no evidence that he does either of those things professionally. I went through a bunch of his pictures and cross-referenced a few of the sluttier looking girls. Then came the videos—410 of them. I didn’t watch all of them, but most ranged from him drinking, to him throwing up, to him swan diving off cliffs, and skiing off cliffs, lighting his chest hair on fire, and other hijinks that even for me were frightening to watch. Running with the bulls in Texas, drinking something on fire called a Flaming Lamborghini, and having a friend staple his leg. And the only thing more entertaining than the videos and the hash tags (#finallymature – posted on his 30th birthday,) were people’s comments. Someone who looked older and wiser referred to him as “The Master of Disaster.” Someone else wrote, “Remember when you didn’t have a license for ten years?” Then people wrote nice things like “Idiot,” and “Is this necessary?” underneath a video of him about to jump naked into a pool. I read articles he posted links to such as: “Study: Sex and Alcohol Make You Happier Than Having Kids And Religion.” I saw many examples of extreme sports, extreme drinking, and just no shame. He was an adorable, fearless, unapologetic daredevil. Plus he was young, sexy, and completely anonymous.
To be honest, this couldn’t have come at a better time. I had recently ended a yearlong serious relationship with a guy in New York, who had an ex-wife, two young daughters and a lot of stress. Hunter, like me, was single, no kids, no ex-spouse. He had minimal responsibilities. I had no expectations. I wanted something fun, stress free, and easy. Something light, that wouldn’t make me think too much. I wanted mindless chitchat followed by epic orgasms, followed by mindless chitchat. And when I walked into his bedroom that night and saw that he slept in a racecar bed, my fears of us ever having anything more than that, let alone a serious conversation, instantly evaporated. Since he seemed to have a good sense of humor I showed him one of my stand-up routines on YouTube. He in turn showed me a video of him streaking at a Miami/FSU football game, for which he was subsequently arrested. I showed him a second stand up video and he showed me . . . well, he couldn’t find anything else. It’s ok. I mean his resume was short, but I got it: he was nuts. He was carefree, he wasn’t my ex-boyfriend and that appealed to me. And he wasn’t a model or an actor like his profile said – he sold coconuts! Coconut drinks, to be specific. He was a complete alcoholic but very sweet and always smiling, and I never saw him get out of hand. I’m sure he’d slept with half of South Beach, but I liked him. I liked his laissez faire I don’t give a damn attitude. His calm energy relaxed me. His anti-New York personality refreshed me. He was confident and hot and I felt like I could be bad with him and no one except his 10,000 Snapchat friends would ever know.
So what if we had nothing in common? I mean I’m from NYC, he’s from a small town in Vermont. He drinks daily; I’ve been sober since he was 12 years old. I do stand up and he’s fodder for it. So as time progressed and I watched him do idiotic stints on a daily basis: I watched him get a tattoo on his ass, via Facebook. Then I watched him pierce his belly button “on a dare,” also via Facebook. That one was so hard to rationalize, however, as luck would have it, the earring dangled in the exact right place when we had sex. I mean I should have been appalled, but I found the whole thing amusing. I had a ridiculous crush on him, and I laughed at myself while I took notes. But despite his wild public antics, he was so calm and quiet when he was with me. And I realized there was nothing to worry about—because his ass tattoo was not my problem. His belly button ring was not my problem. His drinking was not my problem. So we hung out and laughed and had epic orgasms, followed by mindless chitchat followed by epic orgasms. At a low point in my life he really lifted my spirits up. Say what you want about the Master of Disaster, but he was a harmless guy who knew how to let go and have a good time. Plus the fact that he was from Vermont meant that he was a real man who can build shit with his hands and ski double diamond trails, backwards. Stoned. At night. Naked.
Good for you, and a high five to Hunter, right?
This is why so many men are choosing a single life: The odds of finding a truly good woman to make a life with that will last are pretty close to zero. A man’s life can be ruined financially if he picks badly, etc etc etc. Per Virginia Satir their life will not work out 95% of the time. A lot of men know about that chemical soup that makes us feel like love is in the air – and we know that it will turn out to be ephemeral – a brief madness followed by an endless slavery –… Read more »
This saddens me somehow. Because I never was, and never could be that guy. Growing up incredibly short, the ultimate definition of “hard gainer” scrawny, dorky-looking, with an IQ north of 170, always pressured and harshly disciplined to be a “nice guy”, responsible, successful…it stifled my extreme extroversion, extreme attraction to unwise risk-taking, extreme care-free enjoyment of life. I could probably condense all of the crazy, epic things I’ve done in a little over 4.5 decades into about a week. I have some really great achievements. In small part, I’m willing to accept credit for some things about how the… Read more »
Well I for one have absolutely had it with the Hunter’s of this world so Anthony, rock on. Nerdy, awesome and dependable is 1000x cooler to me than douchey, adrenaline addicted and irresponsible.
Thanks. And yeah, believe me, I know exactly what a good party should be. I used to throw parties. Nothing like renting a warehouse, getting some permits, renting 8000 watts of amps, chase lights, strobe lights, smoke machines, lasers. Setting it all up, getting the bar stocked, making sure the DJ (usually me for most of the night), bar tender, coat check people are all set up, then saying “welcome to my party, I hope you have a good time” to every one of the 800 people who show up… …but then watching all your friends leaving with gorgeous women… Read more »