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This week, a new-to-NYC blogger working it at a Purim party: 31, straight, single, East Village. My first client presentation for my new job is in an hour. My usual irrational fears set in: that it will be a disaster and I won’t have a job this time next week. New York’s the first time I’ve been wholly single for a while. My presentation’s over and it went better than great. Fat Cat is awesome: hot men, fun games, chilled vibe, and quality jazz. Hungover and knackered, but my out-of-town friends persuade me to meet them at the Cliffs at LIC climbing wall. As I cross the bridge, I recall my New Year’s resolution to start saving money. The first couple minutes are slightly awkward, but soon we’re on the couch joking around. He finally grabs me and I straddle him on the couch. Kevin keeps twist-dancing into my left leg and I keep edging away, until eventually we’re at the wall. Midnight I peck him good-bye on the cheek and fly into an Uber. I write a polite response telling him it’s not gonna happen. Of course at that precise moment he walks out of the bathroom and right into me. It’s the first thing he’s let me pay for, and it’s the least I can do after the lovely dinner he treated me to. I hope I fancy him sober, and that he’s a good kisser. He turns up looking cute as hell in a backward baseball cap. I don’t drink despite everyone else knocking back the cocktails. On time for work and feel like a million bucks since I didn’t drink last night. Tom from Bumble surprises me and asks for a pre-date coffee date tomorrow. I don’t see him, so I head to the back and neurotically check my pocket mirror for smudged makeup.You may only enter this website if you are at least 18 years of age, or at least the age of majority in the jurisdiction where you reside or from which you access this Website.If you do not meet these requirements, then you do not have permission to use the Website." Maybe if you shut the fuck up, we'd be cruising And you wouldn't be sitting, boohooing 'bout your bruises But no, you wanna be Miss Fuck-with-the-Music I'm zoning on Relapse, she's sliding on Blueprint Three seconds it takes for her to turn blue With my hands around her throat, her arms stopped moving Pulse stops too, in the back, look confused As I turn to tell them both not to do shit stupid Red, white, blue lights in the rear-view, shit Swerved to the shoulder, tell them both no moving Sit down in the back, cause the windows tinted As I rolled down mine to forge a new friendship "Aren't you a little too young to be driving?

The village is 33 kilometres (21 mi) north of Salzburg, 4 kilometres (2.5 mi) east of the river Inn, which forms the German border.

He looks smart in jeans and a blue, bicep-hugging shirt, and he’s playing chess on his phone. Within a minute I orgasm, and it’s fucking heavenly. I enthusiastically return the oral favor, and then we have sex. He uses the line “I find dark-haired women with accents interesting — can I take you out some time? He’s trying to buy a drink with his driver’s license, barely able to string a sentence together, and swaying. I could ghost, but he’s gorgeous, and maybe this behavior is a one-off? It takes him a while to get the PIN right on his phone, but when he does, I text myself from it. I’m not immediately attracted to him, but he seems superbright and says he’s just finished writing a romance novel.

He asks me to sit on his face, so of course I oblige. I went last year and it was definitely one of the better singles events. This works to our advantage, though — we don’t have to pay, and everyone is still there. Straight to the bar and within two minutes a shortish, bearded Jew who works in real estate is hitting on me. A tall blonde guy, who turns out to be Russian-Jewish, asks me who I’m checking out.

The village is especially popular with British tourists; as a local tour guide explained: "The Germans all want to see Mozart's house in Salzburg; the Americans want to see where The Sound of Music was filmed; the Japanese want Hitler's birthplace in Braunau; but for the British, it's all about Fucking." Augustina Lindlbauer, the manager of an area guesthouse, noted that the area had lakes, forests, and vistas worth visiting, but there was an "obsession with Fucking".

Lindlbauer recalled how she had to explain to a British female tourist "that there were no Fucking postcards." After a spate of thefts, which included the theft of all four signs in one night, and a total of fifteen over a period of several years, in August 2005 the road signs were replaced with theft-resistant ones, welded to steel and secured in concrete to prevent theft.

Feeling conscious that I’ve now mixed Champagne, vodka, whisky, tequila, and gin. Dancing hard at Home Sweet Home under a shiny disco ball, but not an eligible guy in sight. He is sexy, I trust him, and blog-writing isn’t going very well with my hangover. I manically tidy my apartment, and minor nerves kick in. I send a few Happn messages, but I’m feeling picky and disinterested. My mother messages from Florida, trying to fix me up with her hairdresser’s Jewish son, who she describes as a teddy bear. She can’t believe that in a city of one million Jews, I don’t seem to be dating any. Lock down Saturday-night date with Tom: We’re going to see comedy. Head to dinner with friends at Café Medi and am grateful for a date-free evening. Sebastian finally texts and calls me “bae,” which I love. I may be getting ripped off, but I don’t have time to shop around now. Spend the rest of International Women’s Day evening watching on the couch with my housemate. I consider using my vibrator before bed, but this week’s been so tiring I don’t have the strength. Slept amazingly and feel on top of the world as I stroll to work in sunny Manhattan. Quick makeup refresh before I head to my coffee date with Tom.