I’ve been talking about venturing out of comfort zones, lately. It seems like the lines of my own zone, which used to be as thick as La Winehouse’s eyeliner, are stretching into skimpy dotted lines now. Is it maturity, or am I just finally realizing that a good man can come in any color, shape, size or background?

It seems as if the “try something new” bug has bitten everyone lately. Angie, who is usually all about tall, dark and debonair, is dating this new guy that looks like he’s in a boy band.

“I usually hate light eyes,” she said, “but for some reason, they look really good on him.” Maybe it’s not the light eyes but the fact that he’s adorable, smart and bat-shit crazy about her. Go figure.

Another friend of mine, Keri, hooked up with this ultra Italian “how you doin’” dude (his name is actually Tony, no lie) at the beach this weekend after we all spent hours making fun of his type after watching that “True Life: I Spend My Summer at the Jersey Shore” show on MTV.
We all have our deal breakers though. And we’re allowed to right? Below are my top five, in no particular order. These are things that – no matter how perfect the guy is – will have me reaching for the “just friend” button. Or running for the door.

1.    Any type of racism.
2.    Shortness. (Shallow, I know but I like to look up and kiss).
3.    Bad hygiene. (If he ain’t about the upkeep, he won’t be about the downkeep, if you know what I’m saying).
4.    Intolerance of people’s spiritual beliefs. (I had a guy scoff when I got into the first 10 minutes of explaining Rastafarian philosophies. He never made it to the Hinduism conversation.)
5.    Bisexuality. (I can compete with other girls, but with guys too? That’s just exhausting.)

I do have to say that in a conversation I had with my girls recently, I found that their lists are completely different than mine. Angie’s list used to actually have “light eyes” on it. Hmm. Does that mean that the man I fall for one day may be a shorty pie? I’d rather that than a racist bastard any day.

I’m always in awe of the twists and turns my single life (and those of my single friends) takes me on. Do we really have any control over who the next “one” will be? And more importantly… should we? Maybe things are just better off flowing organically.

Sadly, my deal breakers are pretty yawny and generic. I’m curious to know what some of yours are… do tell.

I don’t know whether it’s my overdeveloped single cynicism or simply that the metrosexual trend for guys has not made its way out yet, but I feel like every man I date is secretly homosexual.

Maybe I’m being dramatic but I do feel like lately I’ve been getting the gay end of the stick, so to speak.

This all came together for me last week when I went on a first date with a guy named Danny – the second guy I matched at speed dating. Danny is a dancer, an ensemble cast member of a very popular Broadway show, with a sexy, muscular frame that would make Will Smith in “I Am Legend” (yum) look flabby. And he models a little too. This alone piqued my gaydar but I ignored it, wishing and hoping.

The problem here is I like my men mannish. Rough around the edges; scars, stubble, tattoos…that’s all fodder for my sexual appetite. Pretty boys usually make me hurl. I like ‘em looking like they just got into a bar fight (but with the internal patience and peace of Gandhi). Hmm, not picky at all. Wonder why I’m still single.

Anyway, Danny is soft-spoken, artsy, and well…he seems to veer towards many stereotypes that would make anyone wonder why he was out trying to romance me, very clearly a woman. Maybe it’s my broad shoulders, I speculated. He was very interested in me, and asked me out on a second date while walking me to the subway. I told him I’d get back to him when I looked at my schedule for the week, since I needed time to think over the possibility of another evening of great conversation and even greater bewilderment.

I thought I was being silly until I voiced my concerns to my roommates and my best friend Angie, who all were very amused after checking out his facebook page. His modeling pictures were on there, and let’s just say that if gay had a picture next to it in the dictionary, one of these could be it.

“I’m glad my love life is amusing to you.” I said to Angie, cranky at this point.

“Honey, this isn’t your love life, it’s a man wearing eyeliner. He’s got eyeliner on, Rajul.” She said between guffaws.

“Ugh. I don’t understand. I asked him if he was bisexual and he said no, but that he gets that a lot.” I slumped.

Just to clarify: gay, straight, bi, fly – it’s all good to me in the game of life. I have no qualms about anyone’s sexual orientation or life choices. With all the hate in the world, I’m happy if anyone loves anyone else. However, I do not want to date a gay man. Not even a gayish straight man.

And it’s not just Danny. The other guy I’m kind of diggin’ has this weird boy band fascination going on, he’s always dressed for a GQ cover, and his eyebrows look like they’ve been groomed by the same person who does Nicole Kidman’s.

Where are all the beer-guzzling, sports-playing, spitting, burping, make-up free men?

Yes, I know I sound like a primitive, obnoxiously traditional fool right now but I don’t want a 50’s chauvinist, just a dude who is an appropriate amount in touch with his feminine side. And prefers female genitalia to male.

Just when I thought the extreme sport of dating couldn’t get any more complicated…

Something odd happened last week when I went out with the Euro-cutie I met at speed dating.

Let me paint a picture for you. It was one of those tropical June nights I lust for – warm enough to sashay around in a skimpy American Apparel dress (not the skin tight tube ones though; that’s too much exposure for a first date). We’d been sitting at this Jazz lounge just a few blocks from my apartment since 8 pm, and at 11, our lively conversation still hadn’t died down. I had to call it a night though because of an impending deadline so we split the check and headed out.

Steady despite the three martinis I slurped down, I ambled along the sidewalk with him for a few seconds, aimlessly staring into the velvety, starless (good ol’ city pollution) sky. Then I felt something touch my hand. Turns out, he had grabbed it. And was now holding it, pulling me just a little closer in the process.

“So you’re into the whole hand holding thing?” I asked, smirking a bit.

“I don’t know. But it’s kind of nice, don’t you think?” He grinned, his accent in full gear. Any type of British accent usually makes me nauseous (sorry, 007), but it really wasn’t so bad tonight.

“I guess.” I replied, chagrined at this cultural phenomenon. It was the first date and he was holding my hand. It was weird. Mostly because it felt kind of natural.

The last guy I dated was really not into the whole PDA thing. In turn, I kind of lost the taste for it. And now that this dude had come along and held my hand, I felt like Samantha in that episode of SATC. Exposed and slightly violated in a good way, like when you’re making out with a guy and his hands roam down the southern hemisphere a.k.a. Bootyland.

Point being, I forgot that hand holding, like (my whole rant on) hugs, can be considered a very intimate thing. It might sound crazy but it’s true for some people, myself included.

As we walked past the fountain on the way to my building, I pulled away to click my buzzing phone off. And sure enough, a few seconds later, there it was again. His hand and mine. Cuddled.

The rest was just the cliché rest of a pleasant first date. Not sure yet if I’ll see him again, but the night got me thinking about romance and if it had gone extinct for me. I date, but I haven’t gotten flowers from a man in quite a while, hadn’t watched fireworks with a man since 2004, etc. etc.

Can dating exist without old-fashioned romance? Not for me, it can’t. I want to reclaim it. It might not be flowers or fireworks, but I sure as hell want something. So Denise and my Summer Fling Contest just got a little more challenging on my end. As for the hand holding? I don’t know if I can get on board just yet, but the dude definitely got an A+ for effort.

I went speed dating last week. The single professional gal going speed dating in the city, could I be more cliche? Truth be told, it was all in the name of investigative journalism. You may be laughing like “Yea right Rajul, you just wanted to get some fresh new tail for the summer games.”

Mock me if you must, but I was really looking forward to the stories I’d be able to tell about the freakshows/crazies I met. As usual, I was wrong and most of the guys I met were actually decent, smart and kind of funny. Well, this is what I could gage in the span of six minutes. It could all be just a script for them until they lured a woman back to their apartment where a cyanide-dipped napkin and three sharpened butcher knives awaited.

Yes, maybe I watch a little too much CSI but it’s better safe than sorry. Back to the speed dating. It was exactly how it looked on TV, except with more mediocre looking guys (and females - hey, I know I’m no Eva Mendes). The gong sounded and the guy moved to the next table, either leaving you sighing with relief that the mini snorefest conversation was over, or curious for more. I gotta admit, I was hardly bored. These guys had interesting stories, and so did I - not to toot my own horn (one could say I was speed dating so I don’t have to toot my own horn anymore - teehee). Here’s an excerpt of the rundown:

Date 2: The Teacher
“So what do you do?” I asked one date, as I sipped on my dirty mar.

“I’m unemployed and I live at home with my mom,” he said with a straight face.

“Oh,” I said, my lower lip tucked under out of sheer awkwardness. “I um…Oh.”

“Just kidding,” he said and burst out laughing. I laughed too, secretly thinking he could have done better with an opening joke. He actually turned out to be quite funny, so I let it slide.

Date 4: The Scottish Hottie:

(In my head) This guy’s cute, there’s gotta be something wrong with him.

“Are you Indian?” He asked.

“Yes, very much so.” I replied.

“I’ve been to India, have you?”

And from there he went on to compare opinions on the temples of Jaipur with me. It was like music…no, like neo-soul. It’s sexy to me when a man can explore and describe the majesty of a culture different than his own - especially if it’s my culture.

Date 7: The Politically Incorrect

“Are you Indian?”

“Yes.”

“Wow. I go to med school and everyone there is Indian. There aren’t a lot of Indian girls that look like you though. They mostly talk like this, ‘Hullo hov are you?’”

You don’t even want to know the rest of the convo. Let’s just say I tried to bribe the host into ringing the gong in 3 minutes.

You get the gist. Most were no-go’s but I matched with two guys who seem nice and kind of normal and I’m planning to go on dates with them this week. I really didn’t think I’d get dates out of this, based on my squeamishness when it comes to dating new guys, but I really have no choice.

See, Denise (my roommate) and I have a little contest going this summer based on who can have more summer flings. There’s a chart and everything, with little stickers and a guide sheet of rules. We do not play around. BTW, if anyone falls for a guy and ends up in a serious relationship before Labor Day, they are automatically disqualified, shamed to the public and have to tattoo ‘LOSER’ on their arm (in henna - we’re not that crazy).

Speed dating got me kind of riled up, ready for the competition to begin. Now Denise is a professional (dater, not prostitute) and she’s beautiful and smart to boot, so this won’t be easy. But I decided that with the seriousness that is my past love life, I could use some fun.

So I’m in it to win it. Let the games begin.

Ever since I moved to the city, all I do is eat. Yes, I’ve been covering events, taking in museums instead of trashy movies, doing happy hours – all that predictable city stuff as well. But mostly, I’ve been eating.

Why the over-indulgence, you ask? Especially when I love to cook…?

Well, I learned pretty quickly that the first and only thing people say when you mention the new ‘hood you’ve moved into is, “Oh, Rajul I know the most amazing and cheap [insert mouthwatering foreign food here] joint RIGHT up the block from you.”

And of course, I believe the hype and run there before they can even finish the sentence. Hype is a tricky concept though, since everyone has different taste. It’s kind of the same concept with men. Ever cringe when someone says they know a guy/girl who’s perfect for you?

It makes me sit and wonder why I’m so adventurous with food and not so much with men. I always scoff at women who stick to a strict prejudice when it comes to the race, profession or body type of their man candy, but truth be told – I haven’t branched out much myself.

To anyone who is a loyal reader (thank you, I heart you), you know my “type” by now. Tall, of Black or Caribbean persuasion, sweet and funny with a mischievous grin that makes me wonder what he’s been up to. Smart and well-read preferably, though Lord knows that doesn’t always happen. Let me not bring you back to Chris: the hottie witta body, but somehow with Paris Hilton’s brain capacity and conversational skills.

Anyway, I dated this science-y guy briefly (he got his dream job and bounced to another state) that really did something for me. Like really, really did something…ugh, why can’t the good ones stick around? And it wasn’t his science-ness. I just opened myself to something new and ooh, was it worth it.

Point being, I want to keep the adventurousness going.

Speaking of trying something different, I had the most sinfully decadent pizza last week at this place called Artichoke. Every single time I walk by this hole-in-the-wall, there’s a line wrapped around the freakin’ block and it intrigues me, and I’m not even a pizza person. Kept thinking, damn they must put crack on this pizza for New York people, who have the most severe A.D.D., to stand in line for an hour.

I described this to my friend Sue, who told me she read about their signature spinach-artichoke slice in one of those pretentious city-centric news blogs. The curiosity alone was enough to bring us there in the sweltering heat. The line moved surprisingly fast and before we knew it, we were devouring this pizza that clearly fell from heaven. There’s no other way.

Sometimes people just need to believe the hype, because it’s hyped for a reason.

My new goal is to start looking at dating in a similar sense as I do cuisine. Yes, Korean may not be what I’m used to but it can end up being delicious and healthy! It’s not like I don’t salivate when I see a really hot guy walking down the street already.

Although, if you put that guy next to another slice of that Artichoke pizza…I can’t promise he’s the one I’d sink my teeth into.

Summertime makes me bold. I don’t know whether it’s the heat, the shedding of layers or simply just all that pent-up hibernation aggression coming out, but I really like the summer version of Rajul.

It’s Saturday afternoon and I’m sitting outside on a shade-blessed bench in a park next to my apartment building, hoping that the wrath of this particular heat wave doesn’t harass my crotchety, old laptop. It’s about 95 degrees and gorgeous. I’m lazy off of two giant slices of pizza (my hangover remedy) still slurping on the last of my Hi-C Fruit Punch trapped under a boulder of ice. As a nice break from my usual bitching, I want to tell you guys about last night, a.k.a. the fun part of being single.

My cousin Priya, our friend Nina, one of my roommates, Arielle, and I went out for some tapas last night and then to a club near NYU. It was a balmy, beautiful night so I ditched my usual grandma, ‘gotta be in bed my midnight’ mode and got all diva-fied to hit the town. After pre-gaming at the crib, and then some white sangria at the restaurant, we were swaying. Luckily, the spot we picked to go dancing was on point – great music (“Oh shit, I haven’t heard this song since freshman year of college!”), a mixed crowd, and enough room to dance without being “accidentally” groped. Although I do play the predator in that game sometimes. What? A woman can’t cop an ab-feel?

Anyway all the girls I went with are in loving, long-term, committed relationships (wah-wah) so they didn’t even want to dance with any of the men. It’s sweet how loyal they are. However, one of them spotted this fine, racially ambiguous looking dude leaning against the wall. That’s when we all got to staring and drooling.

“Wow.” Priya said. “He’s really, really cute.”

“Dance with him. It’s not sex,” I said, very rationally.

“No. Absolutely not,” she said, in her stern, Catholic school nun tone. “Oh! But you can dance with him. Come on – I’ll live vicariously through you.”

She didn’t have to tell me twice. I went over, asked him to dance (summer boldness) and we broke it down to some overplayed, but always club-friendly Sean Paul reggae. He was a great dancer, too.

And so the evening continued in just that pattern, as the girls elected their choice picks for me to socialize with. It was like a watered-down, less corrupt pimping system. Fantastic! Of course, I got my girly ‘don’t infiltrate the circle’ dance time in with the chicks, which is what led us all way to 4 a.m., at which point I had to drag them out of that place before they turned the lights on.

So as I sit here by the fountain, watching the couple-centric New Yorkers stroll by, holding hands and wallowing in summer-loving bliss, I am pleased to rediscover that being boldly single in the summer can be a healthy alternative. And let’s not forget the charm of an inevitable summer fling (or two?)

But as the summer hits its peak on those sensual July nights when the humid air feels like foreplay, when clothes become a nuisance and it’s all about sheets on skin and Jazz in the park and desserts fed by moonlight…does a simple fling deserve all of that art that I’m ready to create?

I may be bold, but I’m not reckless. I’m going to learn from my past, from spilling my soul too frivolously. I’ll give him my dance moves, my dinner conversation, and maybe even a little fondle. But as for my grade A summer lovin’? I’m saving that for love.