Forget, the Rankin-Bass puppets and Mickey Mouse direct-to-video Christmas flicks, the greatest way to spread Christmas cheer for all to hear is to watch tinseled rom-coms… Or Elf since I kind of walked into that one.

Rom-coms are a curious choice though seeing as holiday-seasonal depression is certainly real for singles. I may or may not have PTSD from spending the holidays last year not getting texts back from guys as I rubbed salt in the wound by listening to Ariana Grande’s Christmas and Chill EP, only to numb that pain by binge watching Jessica Jones on Netflix.

So, why is it that we go running back to Love Actually each year to force ourselves on that roller coaster that sobers us with the image of that guy holding up love proclamations outside Keira Knightley’s door while we sit on the couch in our PJs dunking our mothers’ cookies into some 2 percent milk?

There is some actual validity to the dual between this British ensemble romp and The Holiday. Kate Winslet and Cameron Diaz are actually therapeutically exercising self-care. Plus, Jude Law with hair and Jack Black being a far more realistic standard for the man we want and deserve are just icing on the gingerbread house.

And yet, my family’s Christmas movie tradition is neither. Instead, each year we gather to watch the underrated comedy masterpiece that is The Family Stone. Sarah Jessica Parker plays the girlfriend that gets taken home to meet the family for a festive stay that includes, but is not limited to disastrous rounds of charades, tearful support of the gays, cheating, and space cakes.

But despite SJP rightfully getting a Golden Globe nod for her work here, I prefer Rachel McAdams as the bitchy perspective sister-in-law Amy. Amy lives in Boston and is a bitter singleton who throws cold-hearted, resentful shade through gritted teeth. I relate. #AmySolidarity

I totally get where she’s coming from in her mistletoe-less misery. The holidays truly used to be the most wonderful time of the year for me until I got old enough to bring home a significant other with whom I could squeeze the hand of while dodging bullets from extended family members’ snide comments. Alas, I have yet to have one candidate eligible, or willing enough, to participate. Instead, I’m the reason the hostess is told an odd number for our party when we go out to eat as a family. Chicken tenders and a double Jack and Coke, please.

It is depressing and I am already scheming for which blood-and-guts television drama will be splattered across my parents’ plasma in order to get through it all. But in the meantime, it would seem the island of Manhattan might just be an almost-safe space for singles during the haul between Thanksgiving and January.

One of those zones within the zone would of course have to be the gay leather bar mecca The Eagle, located deep in Chelsea where your best mode of transportation home would be one of the yellow cabs lined up out front. Ideally, they beckon to the patrons and their one-night-stands who stumble in a tow that was convinced because of sad fellow patrons’ offering to pay the cab fair in an effort to get laid that night.

Inside though are two, three including the seasonal rooftop, floors of the dive bar aesthetic on testosterone and steroids. Beer is nearly the universal beverage within these walls lined with photos of BDSM/kink title holders, TVs playing jock and chamber porn, license plates from the Midwest, and Harley memorabilia. It’s an obvious escape for gay and discrete men looking to drown their sorrows and set their bodies on cruise control; so obvious that perhaps it reaches a fault where men slump their way east to the 1 train in defeat, rats threateningly crossing their paths between Ninth and Tenth Avenues. Hopefully the poolroom and restrooms at least present some pleasure for them.

When even multi-level, dungeon-like gay bars fail to make you forget that, honey, you are actually alone, the city itself supplies so much solidarity. Ironically, the MTA isn’t the only thing in transit in New York; New Yorkers themselves are as well. Sure, we’re surrounded by hoards of families in full tourist force. But so many of us hail from different places, uprooted from our families and transplanted here together in a town with more opportunities than any warm and cozy one horse town sung about in a 2000’s Taylor Swift album.

Instead we have the bartender at our neighborhood haunt, the barista at our preferred Starbucks that has an acceptable amount of electrical outlets, and random Duane Reade cashiers. Recently that final one caught my distress as I sighed about just how loneliness can harshen during the holidays. She understood and I will never forget her for that.

Really, all I had to do was wade my way through the crowd of families swarming the outside of Radio City Music Hall in order to be grateful for not being pulled in so many directions by a singular unit of good-intended love. I callously thought about how many of these people complained on their way here via train, plane, or UFO that they wouldn’t be able to sit next to a significant other. I, for one, am glad I can bypass this stress by being a party of one who messes up Noah’s Ark pairings.

I mean, by going alone, I was able to get a better seat to Mariah Carey’s Christmas show at the Beacon Theatre. It was a festive evening of hearing “We Belong Together” and “O Holy Night” tied together with a cleavage-overflowing red leotard, complete with train. As the Elusive Chanteuse herself would brag, it was a pow moment.

After sitting next to a middle-aged gay couple at the show, I headed back up to West Harlem for a burger at my neighborhood bar. Once there, I was seated two stools down from a gentleman of 28 who, as per the bartender’s knowledge, had been there gulping IPAs since at least 6:00 p.m. that evening. Now at 11:00 p.m., he was stumbling and complaining about, of course, an ex.

Hazily catching sight of my Charlie Brown sweater, he asked me if I had been to a Christmas party earlier. I replied with equal parts pride and shame that, no, just a Mariah Carey concert. He then spiraled into indie-cornered pop cultural references— given my own more mainstream interests. In order to ward him off, I told him that I knew Sutton Foster from TV’s Younger, not Broadway, and that I preferred Audrey over Katharine Hepburn. Worked like a charm.

As scrooge-y and peeved as this all may sound, seeing the candy-coated light show, with its almost intensely foreboding soundtrack of urgency, on Saks Fifth Avenue’s façade actually did make me stop and gape as I filmed for my Snapchat story. Even when flying solo in New York, one can stand in a crowd of couples, families, and fellow singletons, and somehow all loneliness melts away. And for the moments where we aren’t numbed into festivities and being less aware, there’s nothing wrong with taking couple photos with a friend over cosmos or being a twentysomething who drops a letter to Santa in the mailbox at Macy’s. I asked for job stability.

And then, just like that the days between Thanksgiving and Christmas blew away and I was back in West Virginia sitting at the end of a table, the odd non-coupled man out. But I knew what was coming next in the Christmas prep: The Family Stone, and #AmySolidarity.

Edited by Demi Vitkute

The post Holiday Blues while Single in New York City appeared first on The Urban Watch Magazine.

A mellifluous ping, your phone illuminates, it’s a match! Racking your brain, you can’t recall the reasoning behind swiping right to the generic profile picture of lads on tour (which one is he anyway?) It must have been a bedtime swipe at a moment of insecurity or boredom.

We are the millennials, plunged into a world where you can arrange a date with a total stranger with the same ease and speed as getting a takeaway to your door.

Moving back home to London to live with your mother after four years reveling amongst a tight knit group of friends in Brighton is a bit like plunging into a horrible cold dipping pool after the comforting warmth of a hot tub. I decided that making a profile on a dating app could help expand my social circles and who knows, maybe meet someone I was actually into.

Fast forward a few weeks and I found myself exchanging messages with a man whose sense of humor seemed to be mildly coherent with my own and, based on the three available photos, was aesthetically pleasing.

On the evening we agreed to meet I found myself being that girl— the one looking painfully awkward, apprehensive and fidgety outside Brixton tube station waiting for her Tinder date to materialize.

Some thoughts which occurred to me while I waited:

Maybe I should light a cigarette? I pictured myself to an onlooker: gazing unassumingly into the distance, smoke framing my silhouette— I am the mystery Tinder woman. But what if he doggedly loathes smoking, a cruel addiction that cost his great aunt her life following a long and painful battle with lung disease? Maybe I should just put my hands in my pockets? S**t, this coat has no pockets. What’s the point of a coat with no pockets?

Hands on hips then. Maybe I look too sassy and unapproachable?

I could pretend to text or be on the phone, but what if it rings?

This continued for what felt like 20 minutes (in actual fact it was only two), until a figure approached from the opposite side of the road. He was headed straight for me.

It is worth noting here that I tried my very hardest to avoid judgement based on appearance, but, in this circumstance your means of choice are based on this, so it was almost impossible not to.

Prior to this meeting I did some (what I thought to be fool proof) analysis and formed a hypothesis: based on his height in comparison to various objects in his photos and friends around him, he would fall within the 5”11 – 6”4 bracket.

What I hadn’t factored into this was the possibility that:

a) His friends were incredibly small (even smaller than him)

b) His friends were all siting while he stood in the photographs

c) He was photographed in a miniature museum

How had I not factored in these potential loopholes? Annoyed, I realized my analysis was flawed.  At least he was intelligent enough to do that I suppose— that won him some points.

Things went from not ideal on the height front to really not ideal on the conversation and general personality front. He was haughty with a voice that can only be likened to Lord Farquaad (Shrek) meets Hugh Grant (and not in a good way).

He had chosen a hotspot for trendy Brixtonites and when asked what I would like to drink, I panicked and ordered a Guinness. I categorically hate Guinness. What was wrong with me? Too late to change my mind. I then discovered he doesn’t drink at all and refused even a soft drink.

In order to get a seat amongst the hipster masses, we found a stall with a small seating area selling macaroons. I sat and tipped half of my Guinness on to the floor before he returned with a flimsy paper plate filled with the sickly colored sweets. The couple next to me most definitely thought I was mad.

Before embarking on a formal interview, which required me to map my entire family tree, education and five-to-ten year plan, all while gagging on the Guinness I didn’t even want, he invoiced me my £2.50 share of the macaroons.

When the interview lulled, I learned that he is an ‘actor,’ which actually translates to playing an extra in a day time soap one time and reads the questions at his local pub quiz in his spare time. This didn’t match the artisan curator I had been dreaming of.

Even before I was informed that I am “more intelligent than I look” (thank you?), I decided 42.5 minutes is definitely a polite amount of time to wait before aborting this mission by reasoning that I have to catch the train home to let in my flat mate. I left out the part that my flat mate is my mother who was most definitely at home in bed. I was escorted to the station and I bid the Lord farewell with a sigh of relief.

As I nestled into the grubby, poorly upholstered Southern rail carriage, I felt safe and peaceful.

With a sigh, I looked out of the window and decided that actually, being single is not so bad after all.

Edited by Ivy Joseph 

The post Tinder Tale: A Date With Lord Farquaad appeared first on The Urban Watch Magazine.

What is love in New York? With 8 million people in the city, you’ve got plenty of fish in the sea. Sure, dating in New York is fun, but so many people are constantly busy and in a rush–too committed to their professional dreams to commit to a lover. But sometimes, when we come home after work and open a bottle of wine, we remember the stunning blue eyes of that girl who we saw on the subway. Then, we become hopeless romantics who believe in second chances and try to find someone who we think we let go in this urban jungle–on Craigslist’s Missed Connections page. Here are some posts that might bring a smile to your face:

1. Love is a Starbucks sign

2. Love is when finally a nice cable guy named Billy comes around

3. Love is the first sight of a cracked laptop screen

4. Love is when you talk about selling underwear on Craigslists at their house…

5. Love is at the steak house and not your girlfriend

6. Love is not defined in law books

7.Love is like Darlene who probably kicked your ass

8. Love is…in your beard.

9. Love is like a short summer dress

10. Love is unrequited

11. Love is playing Pokemon Go together

12. Love is like the toughest skateboarding trick

13. Love is long lost and forgotten

Rooting for you, NYC lovers.

Edited by Brianna Arrighi

The post What is New York Love: Missed Connections appeared first on The Urban Watch Magazine.

I just graduated from Emerson College in Boston. Emerson is so liberal and LGBT-friendly that it has a half-joking, unofficial slogan of, “Gay by May or your money back.” With that being said, there was a wide variety of gay men to choose from. I just wrote that as if I actually took advantage and dated within the Emerson community while there. I didn’t.

New York is supposed to provide an even larger pool of gay men, scurrying between Westside bars on any given Friday or Saturday night. A new episode of Scream Queens is reason enough for us all to congregate and scream YAASS! in unison on a Tuesday night. These are social events in safety zones where we can be who we want to be. Actually, a man could wear a dress through the middle of Harlem and no one would raise an eyebrow nowadays.

For some, these streets and bars are far safer spaces than their own homes– especially if they’re still living with their parents. One would think I could sidestep this by pulling up a barstool and finding fellow cocktail enthusiasts for dates. But no, I have to go on the internet so I can find project men who just want to gulp a good ole IPA.

Once upon a time a guy named Lance and I matched with the magic of mutual right swipes on Tinder. The utter romanticism of it all started with flat messages to each other while I stood in line for three hours on Bowery to acquire access to the Drake pop-up shop and a sunburn. He would punctuate messages with the zest of, “Thanks, man.” Talk dirty to me.

I screenshotted his Tinder profile and sent it to a girlfriend: 27 years old, St. John’s grad, 6’0, and a cosmopolitan balance of Venetian vacay shots and shirtless bathroom selfies. Find you a man who can do both.

Not much gets past my sleuthing gal pal as she pointed out, “26 miles away?!”

Yup, Lance lived on Long Island.

Now, Manhattanites catch a lot of flack for not being open to dating off of our little island of perfection, the very axis on which the entire universe revolves. We may have to pay double for it, but we don’t even need to leave for Olive Garden! Of course, exceptions can be made for some Brooklyn exploring: a night of industrial pub-hopping with hipsters in Williamsburg here or a concert at Barclays Center there. Otherwise, no dates from Long Island, Jersey, Westchester, or… shiver… Connecticut.

Once I rode over the George Washington Bridge from my Harlem abode for dinner, a movie, and dessert with a guy, who paid for everything. That was worth it. But it isn’t always worth it. Part of why we don’t date outside of Manhattan is because we don’t want to go all that way to be disappointed and we would feel bad if they traveled for us.

So, Lance decided he would visit me in Manhattan: score. But other than strolling around Central Park, he seemed like he was at a loss for other things do in the city… Said the guy from a Long Island suburb. Museums! Bars! Restaurants! Shows! Tourist traps! All in Manhattan! But meeting in Central Park it was.

I sat on a park bench near the southwest entrance on a sunny August afternoon. I was numb off of mimosas since this was post-brunch on a Sunday. Lance kept giving me updates as to just how horrendously late he was going to be. An hour and a half later, we met.

He was hot in person, just under my height and his nose wasn’t as big as his unflattering selfie angles suggested. His normcore, monochromatic grey t-shirt and shorts pairing was a sexy kind of lazy. I liked him!

Conversation was a little stiff as we talked about his stable office job and I tried to explain to him what it’s like feeling like the floor is about to fall through a freelance writer and television production assistant. He had a lot of questions regarding moving to a place in the city, seeing as he was trying to escape living at home with his parents.

“How do you move all your stuff?”

“Umm… Packing light and multiple Uber and subway trips.”

We were getting really personal, guys. So much so that he wanted to have dinner over at AG Kitchen on Upper West Side. Actually, he was just hungry and I needed a cocktail to get me through this. After all, I was physically attracted to him. He was just nervous and dull.

He ordered a burger. I ordered chips and guac with a Manhattan. He even tensed up over my drink order upon finding out the whiskey and vermouth contents of it.

Then, as the server was collecting our menus, it hit me. It was an impulsive question and one that just shot right out of my mouth, impaling him to the back of the booth, unable to escape.

“Are you out to your parents?”

Blind-sided, but not missing a beat, he replied with a blunt no. He asked me the same and I repressed an eye roll to compliment my “Of course.”

“They’ve known since I was a child,” I easily explained.

“How? I don’t get how people can say that,” he exclaimed, frustrated.

“I liked Little Mermaid and they took me to my first Lady Gaga concert when I was 16,” I shrugged.

I deflected the tension by making him try a sip of my Manhattan. He couldn’t handle its strength.

In an effort to charge his phone, we next sat at a Dunkin’ Donuts and sipped coffee. At my suggestion of him charging it at my place he froze. Finally, I asked him just why he had swiped right. He said I have nice eyes. I then asked him his type. He said “athletic and masculine.” Ah, of course, and so goes the ideologies of a closeted gay man. #masc #DL

I expressed my wanting to go on a movie date with a guy, objectively. He said he’d be willing to do that as a second date, even suggesting Suicide Squad, a piece of cinematic excellence loathed by many, appreciated by me. I kissed him on the cheek and he returned to Long Island, never to speak to me in person again.

I wasn’t too bothered by it. After all, being closeted is a deal breaker for me. I’ve worked all my life, and have been out since 17, to live comfortably with my sexuality. I expect the same in a partner. Plus, Long Island. Ugh.

But Lance would still Snapchat or text me on occasion on Fridays, with always the same message, “Happy Friday.”

Whenever I would press him about when the movie date was going to happen, he would just respond with, “haha.”

I finally made the mature, millennial decision to delete him on Snapchat. I don’t keep guys from apps on there seeing as my uses of the dog filter and face swap features are my social media at its most intimate. Tell him, “Boy, bye.”

Then, a few weeks after no communication, he texted me, “Hey, Cooper.” I tensed up, but shot the breeze with him. Then, the next morning, I decided to beat him to the punch and apologize for deleting him on Snapchat.

He hadn’t even noticed. Did he not wonder where all of my flawless, first-attempt selfies had gone?! Anyways, I explained I had assumed he didn’t want to see me again and then proceeded to re-add him.

We still haven’t seen each other again. We don’t really talk. But then, out of the blue, about a week ago, on a chilly, fall Saturday night, he texted me from out of the blue that his dog had been diagnosed with a terminal cancer and given weeks to live.

Over the next couple days, I got Snapchats of the adorable Bichon. He told me the pup said hi. I told him to let me know if he needed anything. His response?

“Thanks, man.”

Edited by Brianna Arrighi

The post OUT in Manhattan: Straight Up or With a Twist? appeared first on The Urban Watch Magazine.