Vanilla Overdose

What kind of night starts out at a classy cocktail party and ends with a Lady Gaga dance party at a dive bar?

Only the best kind, obviously.

So a few weeks ago I was invited to a magazine party sponsored by Stoli and R and I put on our finest black cocktail dresses and went to sip on awesome (free) vodka cocktails.

Mid-way through the party, we made friends with a group of very nice, very sweet, very white-bread boys who were all from the Mid-west and went to Harvard. We have appropriately termed them "The Vanillas."

One of them was so dapper and put-together that we are convinced he is none other than Freddie Fackelmayer's doppelganger. Seriously. Down to the jawline that looks like it was chiseled out of marble and the orange fake tan and the douchebaggy personality.

I'm actually afraid that someday they will find themselves in a room together and the universe might implode from the sheer force of their combined douchiness. It's a weapon to be taken seriously, people. (Case and point: have you SEEN Jersey Shore on MTV?)

His Vanilla friends, however, turned out to be nice guys, which isn't surprising since they are young (24) and born and bred in Arkansas and Ohio or some other state in Middle America where it is instilled in them to be gentlemen and hold doors open for girls. So when the open bar shut down at midnight, I agreed to tag along with them to another bar.

The Vanillas subsequently got into a fight about whose ancestors came over on the Mayflower and whether Vanilla Two's grandparents were the indentured servants of Vanilla One's family in Ohio. That was about when I started planning an escape strategy, worried I had wandered into another minefield of intensely boring guys.

(But seriously, could you imagine a whiter conversation? I mean other than an argument over where to buy the perfect pocket square and which club to use on the par-4 ninth hole.)

That was when my favorite song of the moment, Lady Gaga's Bad Romance started playing on the jukebox. Apparently Vanilla One is such a fan of the song that he put in $20 and set the song to play on repeat, much to the dismay of everyone else in the bar.



I, however, was in heaven and since I wasn't going to bail on a jukebox playing Lady Gaga nonstop, I suggested a game of "Never Have I Ever" to loosen up the Vanilla boys and that is when they disclosed something truly shocking.

Vanilla One: Never have I ever had casual sex.

Me: Well how do you define casual sex?

Vanilla One: I've never had sex with anyone I'm not in a committed relationship with.

Me (Thinking I misheard him; after all the Lady Gaga was blasting pretty loudly): Excuse me what now?

Vanilla One: I only sleep with girls if we're in a serious relationship. I've never had sex with anyone that I just met.

Vanilla Two: Yeah, I'm the same way.

Me (Flabergasted): I'm sorry. I just don't understand. You don't sleep with girls unless you're in a monogamous long-term relationship? When did you lose your virginity.

Vanilla One: Not until I was 22.

Me: What?! That was only two years ago.

Vanilla Two: Well, sex is so much better if you're in a relationship and you really know and love each other, so I agree with him.

Me: Well obviously you just haven't had really good casual sex yet. Sometimes it's better if there are absolutely no feelings involved and it's just raw and physical.

Vanilla One: That's quite possible, but I don't plan on finding out.

Me (More confused than ever): OK then. Good talk. See you out there.

As if this wasn't baffling enough, a week later R and I met Vanilla Two for drinks at a party downtown. Somehow his ex-girlfriend came up and we asked him why they broke up.

Vanilla Two: She was just kind of boring, you know?

R: No, I don't know. Was she too vanilla for you?

Vanilla Two: Well we were together for four months and she just wasn't very interesting.

Me: Like what? In bed? Was she not exciting?

Vanilla Two: Excuse me?

R: You know, were things boring in the bedroom?

Me: Yeah, did she not spice things up enough? No handcuffs? No lingerie? No fetish closet?

And at this point, poor Vanilla Two was so shocked and taken aback by the dirty-mouthed New York girls that he toppled backwards off his stool and fell on his back, followed by the stool.

It made such a commotion that the entire bar turned to see what had happened and the guy at the table next to us had to ask R if she was OK because he thought she was having a seizure, but found out she was just laughing so hard that she couldn't breathe.

Vanilla Two (After getting up and sitting back down on his stool and regaining his composure): Good lord, I can't believe you girls are asking me about my sex life. I don't talk about things like that! I never kiss and tell. It's disrespectful. I would never do that!

Now on one hand, I think his behavior is entirely commendable although surprising. I don't know too many (meaning any) guys in Manhattan who refrain from having sex with girls they don't know and then discussing it afterwards. This is a legitimately nice, wholesome boy with morals and values and whatnot.

On the other hand, this is exactly the kind of behavior that takes away from any sort of sexual mystique whatsoever and why I could never be attracted to someone that innocent. I mean, I don't want to date manwhores, but at the same time I don't remember signing on to hang out with Kenneth Parcell from 30 Rock.



Clearly this is the type of guy that finds The Brady Bunch too raunchy because Mike and Carol didn't sleep in separate beds. So there is no way in hell that he could handle my lifestyle. I think one dinner conversation with my girlfriends would send him to the hospital with a massive coronary.

And the last thing I want nor need is the death of a Vanilla weighing on my conscience.