On Saturday I went out with this model guy I had met while filming Sex and the City 2. I'll call him Jeff, because that's his name.

Jeff is hot. Or at least I used to think so. I thought he was Italian because of his dark good looks and his accent. But it turns out he was born and raised in Pennsylvania and just doesn't enunciate very well. I guess when you're hot you can mumble all you want and people will nod and pretend you're interesting anyway.

We met for dinner in the East Village and right after we ordered he whipped out his phone and wanted to show me a picture. Nano-second predictions of what this picture could be ran through my head: Him kissing his teacup puppy? Him with Kim Kardashian? Or a shot of his ex-girlfriend who "looks just like me?"

Nope. This was better. "I used to do body building." He informed me and held up his Blackberry for me to see. There in the dimly lit restaurant glowed a picture of him in a bright blue Speedo, all greased up with neon orange skin. "Gross." Was my honest reaction.
"Oh wow." Was what I said.
"Here's me with the trophy." He continued. "I won. I always win. Because I always get what I want." He looked at me and added a cheesy wink. He was too entrhalled by his own image to notice me cringe.
"Please stop." I thought. "I don't know what you want from me but I can guarantee you're not going to get it."
But he didn't stop. He scrolled through photo after orange-skinned photo, "Here's me with a slutty trophy presenter."
"Oh wow. You have the same tan." I replied, which he took as a compliment.
"Here's a close-up of my ass." He laughed.
This was torture. He scrolled past some Myspace quality self portraits until he stopped again and got really excited as if he had forgotten these pictures existed, as if he didn't show them off whenever possible.
"Oh! This is me as a stripper! I got this cop uniform and..." The pictures progressed as one would imagine, from fully clothed officer to shirtless officer to guy wearing a G-string and an officer hat.

Why was I doing this to myself? I knew I wouldn't like Jeff when I first met him. He was dense, self-absorbed and boring. But I made myself say yes when he asked. It must have been the combination of the free food, his good looks and my need for some male attention that made me do it.
So what if all he talked about were vapid things - a majority of those things were about how beautiful I was, and that's something one doesn't usually get sick of hearing. But when he complemented me it didn't mean anything. I didn't care what he thought about me. I didn't want him to like me. At this point, I just wanted him to leave me alone. He seemed sincere, but at the same time I couldn't help feeling like he was just buttering me up, getting me nice and slippery so my pants would slide right off.

The more he spoke the less attractive he became. I can't stand being inefficient and I felt like this entire evening was a complete waste of time. I would have rather stayed home working and made myself a box of Mac n' Cheese with no milk or butter than be eating steak and asparagus looking at half-naked pictures of a guy I never wanted to go out with in the first place.

But if I had said no, and I had ended up eating noodles with cheese powder alone and working on a Saturday night I'm sure I would have been just as miserable.