“I met him in the bathroom line,” said Sarah, a girlfriend of a girlfriend at an after work Quiet Clubbing event. I turned my headphones off and introduced myself to the “bathroom line guy” and then continued to jump around to the beats of old school Snoop Dog blaring in my ears. My friends and I must have looked like a bunch of pencil-skirted 30-somethings on speed.

 After an hour or so of ridiculously fun dancing and not knowing what someone else is saying unless you’re an expert lip reader, my girlfriends, the bathroom guy, and I decided to head back to my apartment building rooftop to check out the awesome city view from my 5th floor walk up. Thank God the fire alarm didn’t go off this time!

 The girls were taking selfies and bathroom guy and I innocently chatted. I learned he was Serbian (foreign—of course!), his name was Bojan, and he seemed like a really nice guy. That was it. Just small talk. He was into my friend, or so I thought, and I had no intention of taking it past idle chatter.

 We all went our separate ways and I wished my twenty minutes of conversation adieu, never thinking I would ever see him again. After all, he met Sarah in the bathroom line. What can be more romantic than explaining to your children that you met their father waiting for the loo? Sarah, her friend, and Bojan went off to grab a bite to eat and I retreated back to my apartment to throw on sweatpants and walk my dog, Valentino.  After all, it was a work night and staying up past 12:00 am is becoming increasingly difficult for me at my ripe old age of thirty-three!

 Twenty minutes later, I, my holey sweatpants, and my dog emerged onto 9th Avenue. And guess what? We ran into Bojan.  He was alone and a block away from my apartment avidly texting. What was he doing? I thought he was grabbing a late dinner with the girls. I was very surprised to see Bojan. He said Sarah told him she had a train to catch. Then he said she didn’t look like her pictures. I was puzzled.

 Turns out Sarah and Bojan met on the T! Yes, Tinder. That’s right—at some point they both swiped right and the magical Tinder gods brought them together.  They did not meet in the bathroom line. I found it odd that someone would invite their first date to an event where you can’t talk and are surrounded by a bunch of girls you don’t know. No wonder he felt uncomfortable! I guess charades could have worked?

 Bojan walked Valentino with me and asked me out to dinner. I must admit, I was very flattered. I was getting asked out in real life, not online, and it was for dinner—not the old “hey, we should meet for drinks one day” date.  Out to dinner, his treat, AND he was going to pick me up. This meant he had a car. So I let the fact that he lives in Queens slide and decided to break my outer borough rule.

 How could I turn down a guy who is:

A: Cute and has an accent

B: Cute and has an accent and a car!

C: Cute, has an accent and a car, and we did not meet in cyberspace

 I messaged Sarah later that night to ensure it was cool that I went out with “the guy she met in the bathroom line.” I didn’t want to cross any boundaries even though they didn’t know each other. She didn’t feel they were a match. Sarah said go for it, and I did. I guess you could say we met secondhand Tinder.

 A few days later, Bojan picked me up from my office. I found it a little odd he was walking up the block to meet me. I wondered why he wouldn’t just pull his car up in front of my office building.

 We walked a couple of blocks and I questioned Bojan as to where his car was and said, “Are we taking a cab downtown?” Bojan replied, “Yes,” and pointed to a shiny yellow cab glaring right at us ready to chauffer me downtown to our first date.

 I thought Bojan was joking. I nervously laughed but then realized he was not joking when he opened the passenger’s seat door! I slid into his shiny, yellow cab and we started playing twenty-one questions. I was the host. I began querying him about his profession.

 “Has anyone you picked up ever had sex in your car?” His answer, “Yes.”

 “Has anyone tried to pick you up?”

“Yes,” replied Bojan.

  “Have you ever feared for your life?” Yes again.

 The whole time I kept hoping no one would see me riding in the front seat. I admit, I felt a little shallow thinking, “Why the hell does this thirty-two-year-old guy drive a cab?” and “Please don’t let anyone I know see me,” but I swear I’m a really nice and very open-minded person. It was just a new and unexpected experience.

 By the time we arrived to the Lower East Side, we had both warmed up to each other and the awkwardness I felt going out with a taxi driver started to fade away. I became very curious about Bojan and wanted to learn more about him.

 He parked his car at one of those taxi relief stands a mere half a block away from the quaint little Italian restaurant he chose for our first date. I guess there are perks to driving a cab—like not having to circle the block one hundred times for parking!

 Bojan, having worked in the restaurant business before deciding that driving around drunk New Yorkers was his true calling, knew everyone who worked at the restaurant. He came off as well respected and liked. Those qualities in a man get bonus points in my book.

 We were seated at a lovely table in the back right next to the wine cellar. It was very romantic. I couldn’t remember the last time an American guy took me out for more than drinks and trying to feel me up on a first date.

 Bojan and I shared a couple of bottles of wine, amazing Italian cuisine (I let him have the octopus—I can’t put something in my mouth that looks like it can crawl off the plate), and we talked for hours! You know what? We had a very lovely evening. Always the hopeless romantic, I saw myself actually falling for him in just one date. I learned Bojan was born in Serbia and moved to some weird Midwestern state during high school for a foreign exchange program. He stayed in the U.S. by proclaiming political asylum and made his way east to New York City where he went to college and received his degree in finance. Bojan also speaks four different languages and multilingual men always turn me on.  

 During the course of our brief dating I kept trying to understand why he drives a taxi. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a driver; it is a good honest living, and taxi medallions are hella expensive, but Bojan seemed to have so much potential for more. Plus, I wouldn’t want to know that passengers are having sex in the back seat of my future boyfriend’s car! Bojan said his taxi is his office on wheels and that he didn’t want to work for anyone.

 It was clear we were attracted to one another both physically and mentally. We totally hit it off on that first date! I’m sure the two bottles of wine helped loosen the conversation up.

 After dinner, Bojan drove me back to the slice of heaven I call home—Hell’s Kitchen—but on the way we decided to pick up a passenger for shits and giggles.  Bojan made a quick $10 and I got to experience first hand what the life of a taxi driver is like. I Periscoped the experience for the world to see.  Close to a hundred people tuned into our taxi adventure and commented with statements along the lines of: “Bonnie and Clyde,” “kiss,” “second date,” and “taxi cab confessions.” In a weird way, I found our evening to be quite romantic and fun!

 We dropped the passenger off and then we had our first kiss. All the while I could hear my friend Teresa’s voice in my head saying, “Serbians cheat or beat.” I pushed Teresa out of my ear long enough to have a good five minute make-out sesh while having flashbacks of my Turkish ex-husband, Burak, who neglected me. I am always a sucker for a hot foreign guy and eventually I pushed all bad thoughts out of my head.

 As we were making out two girls jumped in the back of the cab and totally freaked out. They must have thought I was a prostitute or something! I tried to explain we were on a date but I guess they took that as code for a “paying date” and those girls jumped out of the car as fast as you can blink an eye. Bojan and I had a good laugh.

 He then dropped me off at a local Hell’s Kitchen bar where I was meeting friends and we called it a night. Talk about door-to-door service! Bojan proceeded to go work after he dropped me off. It was a Friday night and there’s a lot of money to be made in NYC driving a cab on a weekend night—especially when you’re making $20 a head for each person you drop off at the strip club.  Well, if he ever did become my boyfriend at least I would know where he was.

 I was really starting to like Bojan. The following week I was scheduled to fly up to Rochester for a family reunion and he generously offered to walk my dog with me at 4:30 am and drop me off at JFK airport for free! Anyone who has ever taken a cab to the airport knows how expensive it is! Bojan worked sixteen hours that day ending with me, his final pick up. If that’s not chivalrous then I don’t know what is. Does this count as a second date?

 On our next “official” date he picked me up again—this time from my apartment (always parking the car first instead of just pulling out front) and we went to his neck of the woods in Long Island City, Queens. We dined, had cocktails, held hands, kissed, and talked. It was very nice until Bojan invited me to his apartment where I thought we would simply continue to make out but I was totally turned off by the smell of cigarette smoke that permeated every nook and cranny. His roommate is a smoker and I wanted throw up the entire time.  The smell was that bad! Anyway, we went to second base and he drove me home to the Kitchen.

 I told my friends about my new love interest. Some of them were excited for me and others I met with mixed feelings. They know I’m a sucker for an exotic guy.

 The final time we got together was at my apartment. I had a late night at the place for seniors (where I work) and Bojan suggested that rather than go out for dinner that he come over to my place for a few hours. I was exhausted and the thought of vegging out on the couch with a guy that liked me and I liked back sounded very appealing.  I use the word appealing lightly. Because when Bojan showed up to my door he was dressed in sweat pants and smelled like he had been driving ALL day. The only thing going through my head when my man of the moment showed up was, “You have a car and knew you were going to be going over to a girl’s apartment. You couldn’t drive home and freshen up? Wtf?! Ewwww!”

 Anyway, I let Bojan in and we sat on my couch to catch up about our day but my skin only continued to crawl. Not only did Bojan smell like he had been sitting and marinating in his own juices for an extended period of time, but also his phone started lighting up like a Christmas tree with a message from Sally on Tinder. I realized we were just getting to know each other but he could have at least flipped his phone over if he was going to place it on my coffee table. Sally’s message was turn-off #2 for the evening. The first turn-off was obviously the smell.

 We chatted for an hour or so and ordered Seamless. I really wanted to like Bojan. I truly tried to see past the Tinder messages, the car smell, and the fact that he can’t figure out what he wants to do the rest of his life, but I just couldn’t do it. I finally found a guy who didn’t pull a Vanishing Act (see Chapter 10, “Vanishing Acts” in my book, Nicknames) after one date but at that point is was time for me to make my own VA.

 I was tired and ready to pass out. I politely asked Bojan to leave, at which point he said, “But I bought PROTECTION.”  

“What!” I said.

“Yes, I thought we were going to have sex,” replied Bojan.

“That’s very assuming of you,” I said, in disbelief that he actually told me he bought condoms.

“We would have had sex the last time we hung out if I had had protection,” he said.

“No, we wouldn’t have!” I shot back.

The fact that he told me he bought protection and then proceeded to tell me he assumed we were going to have sex was turn-off #3 for the evening.

 I lost all interest right then and there and knew we weren’t destined for holy matrimony.