The Curious Case of #BrokeBoy [Diary of the Undateable]

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diary of the undateable

This guy from the Bronx, Lee, hit me up on Tinder around Thanksgiving. I remembered that I liked his fashion sense – slim pants, snapbacks and printed tees. He was a cutie. We exchanged numbers and he asked me to hang out Saturday evening, right before I was leaving for school. I told him that I couldn’t but promised that we’d meet up when I came back around Christmas.

“Don’t forget about me,” I said.

“Promise I won’t,” he replied.

And true to his word, he hit me up the week before Christmas. We made plans to meet up that Sunday at 6 p.m. So on Sunday at 5, I texted him and asked if he wanted to meet somewhere specific.

“I’m actually not feeling that well,” he said. “I was thinking you could just come over and watch a movie?”

Ugh. Not again. He was a “come over and chill”-kind of guy…meaning that he was either too lazy to think of a real date, too embarrassed to be seen with me in person, or too shy to just flat out ask if I wanted to have sex.

I told him no and explained that coming over to chill wasn’t my idea of a good first date, and that I wouldn’t be comfortable going to his house upon our first meeting. He understood and asked what I’d prefer to do. I shot him a Yelp link to a reasonably priced bar near Union Square.

“The place looks great, but it’s out of my budget,” he admitted.

I could totally relate. Like me, he had graduated that semester and was still job-hunting. We rescheduled for next week, same time, and agreed that we’d find something cheaper or free to do. Next week came and he gave me another excuse. We eventually fell into a pattern – I’d have something going on, so I’d suggest another time and when the time came, he’d “forget.” Or whenever I suggested something, he’d play the boy who cried broke and offer his house as an alternative.

“It’s not like I’m gonna jump in your pants,” he reassured me. “We could just sit and talk and I wouldn’t even touch you.”

Tuh. That’s what they ALL say. Eventually, I grew tired of him and his invitations. During one of our routine text message convos, I found a way to work in the fact that I’m a virgin. If he runs, that means he only wanted sex anyway, I thought. And, like clockwork, he stopped hitting me up as soon as I let him know.

That is, until the other day when an unknown 646 area coded iMessage popped up on my phone.

“Alright, stranger, I see how it is.”

“Who is this? So sorry…new phone,” I lied.

“Haha you deleted my number. That’s cool. It’s Lee,” he responded.

What could he possibly want after all this time? He asked how I’ve been, what I’ve been up to and how my internship was going before expressing his irritation with me “who is this”-ing him.

“New phone, huh?” he said. “I thought you were broke?”

“Nah. That was you,” I replied, feeling my inner sharp-tongued, Bed Stuy Do or Die Brooklyn girl coming out. And I hide her pretty well.

“So since you not broke, what’s up?” he asked. “When you gon’ take me out?”

Was? This? Dude? SERIOUS?!? It wasn’t the first time that he alluded to me treating him to dinner and drinks. And the first time, it was NOT okay. I get the fact that there are #newrules in dating and whole-heartedly agree with Bey in the fact that girls run the world. I’m definitely a grown woman and I can do whatever I want. Throw yo’ hands up at me. But when is it ever okay for a boy (not a man) to ASK a young lady who he barely knows to take HIM out? My mans, aren’t you supposed to be impressing me? Wooing me? Showing me how much you want to get to know me?

I’ve talked about how there’s really no excuse for a “come over and chill” date or no date at all in a place like New York City. You don’t need money to have a good time. And I’m not that kind of girl anyway. I’m a recent college grad. I know the struggle. Hell, I LIVE the struggle. But I manage to have fun when I want without breaking the bankand  without having to ask my Tinder matches for financial support.

“I don’t trick off on dudes,” I told him.

Eventually, he pissed me off so I had to tell him off. I turned my read receipt on, purposely ignored his last text message and saved his name as #BrokeBoy, tossing him into the undateable ether.

I’m telling y’all. These stories write themselves.

When she’s not watching for Blue Ivy sightings or doing some serious Facebook creeping, Khalea, a recent Howard University graduate, moonlights as a magazine intern and a freelancer in New York City. Follow her on Twitter at @letsbeKHAlear, or feel free to Twatch. Whatever works for you.

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