Matt Forney
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hustling

Hustling for Love in New York City

This is a guest post by Kid Strangelove. Kid originally published this article at his own blog on July 10, 2012, but he deleted the site a while ago so he could focus on other projects. He asked me if I’d be willing to re-post some of his articles on my blog and I said yes.

On Monday, July 9th, at 6:15 pm on Park Avenue, I decided to take a walk. I had about an hour and a half to kill, about thirty blocks to cover before I got home. It was relaxation time. It was people-watching time.

I saw people of all ages pile out of the buildings, most men looking ordinary with their business slacks and uncomfortably fitted blue shirts. Men and women looking like they traded their gym and relaxation time for the work hard/play hard mantra. Remember the fat kid in the movies in the 1960’s through the early 1980’s? The kid who would be considered average nowadays? The streets were filled with grown-up versions of that kid, male and female. Beer and ice cream are much more instantly gratifying than weights and treadmills after a twelve hour workday. I should know, because I’d made that choice a few times before.

This is what success is considered nowadays: working yourself to death in a conformist environment while your health slowly deteriorates, distracting yourself with alcohol and telling yourself that you made the right choice. You’re a success: you know you are. And all those guys that don’t look like you: slackers. Hippies. I’ll show them once I’m finally part of the one percent!

But I digress. This blog is, after all, supposed to be about my romantic endeavors spanning the city. But on Monday, July 9th, at 6:15 pm on Park Avenue, there were no romantic endeavors and no possibilities of them starting. Everyone was tired, everyone looked bad, and there were no inspiring, sexy sparks anywhere in that crowd.

And it got me thinking: how can anyone actually get laid in an environment like that? After all, you have to convince yourself that this, this is the top of the world, that your financial ambition should provide you with an easy life and the fruits of success should be all around you. But this is not the case. No matter where you are in life, you have to hustle.

It’s just that the financial hustle in New York City is so great—and the perceived romantic opportunities are so many—that people feel that they no longer have to hustle for their personal life. They feel that if they are the perfect Mr. or Ms. Worker Bee that everything else will drop into place for them… and soon. And they are sadly mistaken.

There was a thread on my favorite macking forum calling NYC a cock festival. And I can’t help but agree, because if you are not hustling romantically in NYC, then every single one of your days is like Monday, July 9th, at 6:15 pm on Park Avenue: bland, ugly, empty, and conformist. The thread only confirmed that: ninety percent of its posters rushed to NYC’s defense, claiming that the guy who posted the threat just wasn’t going to the right spots, on the right days, with the right people.

In an ideal world, however, you don’t have to hustle for your love life. It should be simple, fun and free. In the ideal world, you would live in the poosy paradise that many people valiantly search for.

And people are getting mad that New York City, after all the hype of “if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere,” after all the money you spend only to live in a closet, is not a poosy paradise, but a playground for hustlers: a place where you have to work equally hard—if not harder—at romance then you do at money.

However, for those that do hustle, the rewards are many. And once you see that level of reward, once you can feel it so close to you that it’s almost within reach… it becomes impossible to avoid the hustle. I recently stumbled onto a thread called “Models Next to Regular People” on a forum somewhere. It exemplifies this view better than anything:

hustling

hustling

Kind of hard to go back, don’t you think?

In other news, one of my friends’ families has a home in Ukraine. His wife, also a very good friend of mine, wants to invite me there since she feels a bit overwhelmed by his family and feels that my presence will make the trip more fun. My friend said, “I don’t know if you can handle it, your dick will explode from all the hot chicks walking down the street everywhere.” Maybe Ukraine is a poosy paradise. I guess I’ll have to wait and see.

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