The DD Guide to Online Stalking

This past Sunday, I accidentally ended up at Gleason’s boxing gym in Dumbo, halfheartedly attempting to tone my arms in preparation for my best friend’s impending nuptials.

Somewhere between sucker punching my brother and napping on the mat, I started chatting with a cute guy. He had overheard that we were Russian, and, as a fellow compatriot, was actively trying to make small talk. As we were leaving, he gave me his name, but never asked for my number. Max. (This is possibly the first time I’m using a real name on this blog. MAX, IF YOU HEAR ME, EMAIL ME! dbagdating@gmail.com)

I have to admit that I felt disappointed. After all, it's not every day that I meet a Russian guy who speaks perfect English, boxes (fine, plenty of them box - it's a wannabe Klitschko thing), and even lived in Paris for a few years! Unfortunately, this was the only factual data I had on Max, which was the primary reason for my disappointed. Not only had I not reciprocated his friendliness, I had also failed to source any leads to find him via my top-level investigative skills! 

You see, in addition to my other God-given talents, I happen to be the Sherlock Holmes of Internet stalking, capable of gathering a dossier on an ex-boyfriend or future Tinder date in ten minutes flat. The Curious Case of Max inspired me to share my skills by creating a step-by-step guide to online stalking. 

How to Date Fashion Guys 101

This week, an ex of mine was featured in the New York Times. No, he had not just brokered a multi-billion-dollar investment deal, nor had he been arrested for homicide of any sort. Instead, he was recently started dabbling in the fashion industry, quickly rising to local fame as one of the hippest salespeople in NYC.

A few weeks prior to this, I learned that a former admirer now held a rather respectable position at none other than Vogue. Vogue. An ex from Paris had recently been appointed to manage the showroom of a highly esoteric British designer. In the meantime, another esoteric designer has been making a habit of sending me some rather provocative text messages. 

I am not very cool. I do not look like Cara Delevingne or Charlotte Free. On a good day, I look like somebody took Lara Stone, amplified her significantly in the hip area, and gave her a little Jewish twist. Yet, somehow, I manage to attract the most bewildering type of all male species: the fashion guy.

I attribute this factor to mere proximity. After all, we are all products of our environment, and mine just happens to be predominantly rooted in fashion. Had I listened to my mother and chosen to pursue a career in a slightly more auspicious industry, I probably would have been in the same predicament regarding bankers or lawyers (making it a predicament no more). But I didn't, and so now here I am, forced to deal with a gaggle of willowy hipsters in artfully ripped skinny jeans. 

On the upside, I have now accumulated enough expertise to put together a comprehensive list of pros and cons when it comes to dating this very odd breed of humans.

The Story of Failed Serendipity

This was supposed to be a Notebook kind of story, the type of plot that goes on to inspire major motion pictures. Instead, it’s just a sad recount that proves that I was set up for disaster from a young age.

Let's rewind back a good 13 years, to a time when I was a cute Russian teenager skiing with my family in Germany. I had a new red ski jacket and had just convinced my mother to allow me to get blond highlights, coming close to my dreams of emulating Stacey McGill or Jessica Wakefield.

In an act of teenage rebellion, I dedicated the trip to teaching myself how to snowboard, while the rest of my family (4-year-old nephew included) skied ahead of me. Left to my own devices, I soon discovered that doing nothing 'chilling' was actually part of the snowboarding culture, and began joining the fellow teen slackers perched on the side of the slopes.

It is in that winner crowd that that I met a group of young American soldiers who were stationed in Germany at the time. One of them, a tall 18-year-old tall guy named Mike, took a particular liking towards me, inviting me to join them out for drinks at the ski village that night. When my dad caught wind of the situation, he suggested I bring the poor bloke over for family dinner. My brother was appointed chaperon of the bar crawl, which ended up with B52 shots and what may have been a goodbye kiss with Mike (my memories of that time are a bit vague). With no Facebook to keep our international connection alive, Mike and I quickly lost touch.

From Russia With Love

This is me, obviously. 

Oh, Russia..

Considering the recent news events that have left my motherland in an infinite PR crisis, I’m not quite sure how to approach this contentious topic. I recently spent a week in my native Saint-Petersburg and was left with a rather hesitant opinion on the country and the Orwellian direction its heading into. However, I will refrain from politics and stick to my niche, focusing on truly important matters, such as the Russian dating scene. 

I have to admit I made very little effort to do exploratory research for this post. Unless you're from an urban metropolis, hometowns are possibly the least inspiring place to attempt dating, mainly out of that jaded understanding of the city and its inhabitants. Saint-Petersburg, in particular, has a rather low influx of newcomers  leaving the chance of meeting a perspective somebody at slim to none. Nonetheless, I did gather some general observations that will just have to suffice. 

1. Everyone is married by 26. If you're a guy, 28. For one, its a question of supply and demand. Women in Russia are faced with low qualitative options and are strongly advised to snatch up the best goods early (kind of like at a sample sale). Secondarily, family values are important and people here don't have as much desire to waste time self-actualize before making real life decisions. They settle down and get married and have babies and buy apartments and don't bother overthinking every single little step as though their time is limitless and they are only getting younger. 

Don't F*ck Your Friends

I have a friend, a close friend, a close male friend, whom I have known pretty much since I first moved to Paris. (Unfortunately, I must refrain from further revealing his identity, mainly in order to protect myself from his harem of dejected girlfriends.) We developed a bond over time, first over insomnia-driven Facebook chats, and later through the discovery of very compatible talents in the drinking department. (We once spent 26 hours straight philandering around Paris together. Take that.) 

In addition to being an excellent drinking buddy and conversationalist, armed with an intimidatingly eloquent English vocabulary, said friend happens to be physically very much my type (excluding his penchant for emulating Hedi Slimane in every realm). However, we smartly established a platonic dynamic from the very beginning, making it that much more fun to deny the widespread speculations that we were, indeed, hooking up. Priding ourselves in not letting stupid animal attraction get the best of us, we instead used our photogenic abilities in a strategic effort to piss off our respective exes.

Until last month, that is.  On one Saturday afternoon, after sharing a bottle of rosé in Le Progrès up in Pigalle, we started flirting in a way that was no longer just friendly. The dynamic was so obvious that a Canadian girl we were entertaining that weekend couldn't help but notice the “sexual tension” between us. The rosé kept pouring, blurring our judgment.. We began questioning ourselves. After all, if a perfect stranger could sense it, who were we to fight it?