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@hipsterromanceblog
from "Love Me, Kiss Me, Pierce Me, Kill Me" by Pelota Picasu
I had a 50mm guage with a 1 3/4" inch hole, and always loved men violating my stretched earlobes. Damn right I did. But Zach was too big. He simply didn't fit. He once got stuck and my roommate had to come to the rescue with a cocktail of lube, Vaseline, and steamed echinacea water. Either Zach was going to have to shrink his penis, or I was going to have to move up to a 2" hole...
from "Hot Man in Maria Hernandez Park " by Zelda Greene
How hot is Ty? I answer that question with questions from the Buddha... if the Buddha lived in Bushwick:
"How hot is the skin beneath an urban lumberjack beard in July?" or perhaps,
"How hot is it inside that Grumpy Coffee espresso machine at 9AM on any given Thursday?"
Nobody wanted to admit it, but we all read the Dirty Bunny blog. The anonymous Dirty Bunny would rate her nightly Tinder hook-ups based on taste, noises, speed, and after-sex small talk. No more information was ever given, just those four factors, and everyone remained entirely anonymous. Dirty Bunny was downright creepy. Nobody knew what she looked like. Who the hell was Dirty Bunny, any way? Was it one of our crew? A colleague? An ex?
Why didn't we know? Because covering her head -- a full 360 degrees -- was a goddamn clunky bunny costume. She probably slept and showered in the bunny head. Hell knows she always fucked with it on. I knew that for sure. And I was soon to learn that most of my girlfriends did, too.
from "Dirty Bunny Dot Cum" by Presley Adams
from "Unplanned Baby in a Planned Community" by Tyra Bond
Raph Bigsy had been a Portland hipster before he became the most prominent urban architect in the country. Too cool for school, with an ego to match. When ol' Bigsy built the city of Mmblcor, he designed places named Reggie Watts Way, painted the community recreation center in a unique shade of red called Scarlett Johansson, and built a strip mall called Aubrey Plaza. Between 19th and 21st streets he named the parallel street "The XX."
from "His Magic Ukelele" by Brenda Pell
I fell in love the moment he walked down my block playing Jeff Buckley covers on his ukulele, for no one in particular. His chirping falsetto seemed to bounce off the window of Little Skips and waft into my open bedroom window across the street.
He was a general fix-it man around Bywater and the Marigny. He parked his van around the corner from The Saturn Bar, and was living alongside all of his tools in his van, where he'd notoriously installed heart-shaped windows along the van's sides. I was soon to learn exactly why the girls all called him “The Thrill Hammer.”
from "Slam, Hammer, and Drill" by T.M. Silver
from "Online Lust" by Gala Presley
Graham started sending me penis selfies. I'd had other guys do that before, but Graham was different. Each time he’d snap a cock shot, he'd place an object next to his penis for perspective. So I'd get Graham’s penis next to a cashew nut, Graham’s penis next to a grapefruit, Graham’s penis next to a Rubik's Cube. He didn't fool me though; I knew he was actually pretty small. The cashew was just a curved peanut, the grapefruit just a round lemon, and the Rubik's Cube was just a mini one from an old keychain.
from "When Things Got Hairy" by Blush Westover
"Well, I think he loves me," I began hesitantly as we downed another Kamonawannaleiya at The Alibi, "But he refers to my breasts as little cacao nibs." "Don't take insults from a man who uses a typewriter, but still fingertypes. And I think his pocketwatch is a Swatch," said my gal pal Chrissy, bitingly, then added a loud and firm, "Lame!" "You're right," I agreed reluctantly. "You need a real Portland hipster" said Chrissy. "A guy who wants you to grow your pubes back." "Okay, sure, I guess," I said uncertainly. She went on triumphantly, sounding the drum for my inner spirit, "He should want you to grow and groom a nice 'pustache' for him. Now that's real love, sister."
I never thought I could leave Greg. He had more graphic tees than any man I'd ever dated. But then I met Cree. He'd worked at Brooklyn Industries since 2005 and, let's just say, he was twice the man that Greg was. Eureka and hallelujah: v-neck heaven!
from "V-Neck Fantasies" by Melinda Laurel
I met him at the Park Slop Food Coop. I was crouched down by the bottom shelf, while he bent from his waist like a rubberband, and grabbed for the same brand of organic flax milk. Clearly a hot yoga body under his fleece jacket.
He smiled. I smiled back.
I was in his apartment twenty minutes later, making love on a pile of his yoga blocks. Afterwards, he drank a four-ounce carton of chocolate goat's milk.
"It replenishes me," he explained before running through two sun salutations and an extended crow pose, then mounting me again.
Afterwards, we feel asleep on the yoga blocks. I awoke to his empty, sparse apartment which was only two avenues from mine. How had we never met before?
"Next time you come over, I want to eat food off your body," he had scribbled on a note attached to the mirror in his bathroom, with an asterisked footnote: "But it has to be organic and gluten-free. Preferably vegan."
"Whatever he wants," I thought, and shoved the note -- my next shopping list -- in my jeans pocket.
from "Locally Sourced" by Belle Sebastian
Stella took to calling him ODC, the Online Dating Curmudgeon. But his profile photo in that tattered flannel, with those hollow cheekbones below his hollow stare, made her fantasize like a teenager. So she couldn't stop herself from trying every few days to convert him, and make him meet her for a date. She opened her iPad, logged on to How About We, and again began her offers to him... "How about we sit under the stars and share a bottle of wine?" she asked. "No stars here, babe, I'm in the middle of Bushwick" he messaged back. "How about we take the ferry to Governor's Island and ride around on bikes?" she tried again. "My dad spent 6 years on Rikers Island so I avoid islands at all costs," he wrote. "How about we dance in our underwear while listening to Marvin Gaye?" she attempted. "My mom used to play his CD's in the car all the time, so if you wanted me to lose my boner, you just did a good job at that," he wrote. "Ugh," Stella finally screamed out loud, then typed, "C'mon, stud. Isn't there anything you want to do. I'd do anything for you. Anything." "How about we put the lotion in the basket?" he responded. She replied with her phone number.
from "Dirty Hot Warehouse" by Velma Scooby
from "Fast and Loud: City Girls Series #3"
The photocopied sign read "All Girl Band Seeks Bass Player. Must love The Ramones and The Raveonettes, drink beer from cans, and have good bangs." I ripped off one of the thin tabs with the 718 number. A land-line. Old school. I was sold.
I was confident I would ace the audition the next day, until I met Brenda, the drummer. Shimmering long black hair. Grey-blue eyes. Pale smooth skin. Then I didn't care if I made the cut, I just wanted to see her naked, close, now.
"It's a really fast 3-4-5 in G" called out the bobbed guitarist, knocking me from my fantasy. My knees buckled when they started the song. But within four measures, the drop dead gorgeous drummer and I locked in, and together we held down the beat in perfect unison. By the time the second bridge rolled around I was more than ready to be seduced my her.
from "A Girl and a Girl Can Just Be Friends" by Elsa Von Taaf
It wasn't just that Poka also had seen (500) Days of Summer over 100 times. It was that, when Poka referred to her favorite movie, she always cupped each outstretched hand into a "C" to emulate the parenthesis in the title. Joy imagined each of her breasts being cupped by each of Poka's soft hands, causing a major flurry of butterflies within, so she always made sure to weave the topic of Zooey Deschanel into conversation when Poka was within earshot.
"Did you really?" he drawled, annoyed, and paused "just cut in front of me?" He was definitely not from Brooklyn. Maybe Alabama?
"Damn right I did!" I snapped, a Smorgasburg pro. And turned back around to face the order taker.
"What the holy heck?" He was bewildered. He was probably used to southern belles, who wouldn't be caught dead eating fried anchovies from the Bon Chovie food stall, let alone be sneaking in front of a slow patron to get to the salty-fried fishy goodness 45 seconds sooner than is arguably right.
"Listen, buddy, you were deciding 'head on' or 'head off' for almost 5 minutes," I snarled, "Like a wimpy pussy boy."
I turned back to the wide-eyed ordered taker and requested my order of fried anchovies, "head-on" of course, and then looked back at Mr. Slow Southerner. Shaggy blonde hair, blue eyes, a week of stubble beard. I was feeling a little bad because he was cute and couldn't have known what he'd just gotten himself into. But I had to show him what a tough Brooklyn girl was all about... starting now. I had to make him crave my dose of sass and sadism that I could, maybe, bring into his world.
When my scrumptious fishies arrived, I turned toward my new southern muffin to make sure he was looking at me. I locked into his eyes from where I stood, dipped the first whole fish in the spicy mayo, and deep-throated it slowly, finishing off with a lick of my lips and a little moan.
I knew he'd be hooked.
from "Food-Stall Foxes" by Debbie Redi Maide
I had checked the work schedule at the food coop before signing up for my next shift. I absolutely had to be on at the same time as Taylor again. His wavy black hair, thick black glasses, and vintage Iron Maiden tee was a lethal package for me. Especially since Park Slope was filled with yuppie scum and dads in pleated shorts. Taylor was a breath of fresh air. Manly, hot, hipster fresh air.
I had planned my outfit that day with some Taylor flirting in mind. Short striped skirt, ripped white Bowie "Alladin Sane" shirt with neon lace bra visible, and hot black booties that would make him imagine me wearing only them.
Ten minutes into my shift, stocking dried kale chips on the top shelf, who should kneel below me, not five feet away, to load some dried chick peas containers onto a low shelf? Taylor. And he looked scrumptious.
I got onto my tip-toes, reaching up to the top shelf, making my skirt rise even higher. I knew he'd see my thong; that was the point. So I let him get a long look, then looked down until his eyes shifted from my ass to my eyes.
"Hi there, Taylor," I purred, ready to invite him to the basement cold storage room, to romp among the organic pluots.
from "Confessions From the Basement of the Park Slope Food Coop" by Elise Marco
The candlelight over small plates at Traif was a nice touch, as were the $14 cocktails beforehand around the corner at Post Office. Most of her other dates couldn't have afforded either. "Being around you makes me want to briefly stop compulsively checking all forms of digital communication," he confessed. That made her heart melt, so she would definitely be letting him in the back door after dinner. But she'd regret it the next morning when she was in pain, and he confessed he'd gotten that line from a Someecards GIF that he'd seen in his co-worker's Facebook feed the day before.
from "Let Him Down Easy" by Penelope Pink
He was trying to open an artisanal stock exchange on the corner of Bedford and Metropolitan, where buyers and sellers gather and yell out what they want to invest in. All local business and cool companies. He'd "gotten buy-in on the idea," as he always said, from People's Pops, Brooklyn Roasting Company, and a number of DUMBO dotcoms like Etsy and Drop.io, so I was confident he'd make something of himself. A hipster Jay Gatsby without the linen suit or the 3-D bullshit. I was smitten, wearing my ultrathin vintage headband, and ready to be his Daisy.
from "My Erotic Hipstapreneur" by Kayla Justice