date 3 - poop man

We met at night, in a corner. Lexington and 50 something. He got there first. He then said he would be at "Crumbs". A commercial cupcake place (and not even good cupcakes!) is not my idea of a good date, but hell, all for the sake of adventure, right?
I had tea, he had decaf. He had a red velvet and thought we would share. I said I only use those kind of calories with things that are worth it. I tried a forkful and was assured by my own decision.
We sat down in this brightly lit cupcake place while the only man attending was starting to clean up so he could go home. It was, clearly, not a romantic date.
A lawyer, 32, with a masters in Math from Harvard. Very sexy brain. Again, damn those profile pictures, he was not as cute as his photogenic self. He had been back in the city for a few months. He had worked in some underdeveloped country where he was setting up some non-profits to give free legal aid of some sort. He was leaving in a few months to Ethiopia to do the same. 
After the 'Crumbs" man kicked us out we just walked around Lexington and then moved to Park Avenue. 
It had been raining all that day so I was wearing my very bright orange rain boots. I was also feeling great so I was wearing a very short blue dress. He was impressed, I could tell.

He told me how he calls his brother-in-law up to tell him his sister is ovulating. He had overheard a conversation regarding her sister's eggs during the wedding time so now he, as a good mathematician, remembered her cycle. Now he really wanted a niece or nephew. He harassed his brother-in-la.
This guy was funny.
His mother was in Film Production and his family reunions sounded like something I would be very entertained by. He mentioned his twin brother and we discussed their looks, the obvious question being: "who is the handsomer of the two?"
He told me that the thing he talks about the most with his brother is poop. I understood. Somehow poop turns into a topic of conversation between my brothers and me. Poop seems to be a sibling-theme.
We sat by a sculpture on Park Avenue and I told him, between bursts of laughter, the story of the 'Great Poop' (I can't really repeat it, but it has to do with a parent, their back surgery, and a poop so large that as it was pushed out, it broke bone).
I let him walk me home. We discussed his trips. He is 32. In about five or seven years he will be just right. He still has a lot of movement to do before he feels comfortable in his own skin. But then again, there aren't many people with whom you can share poop stories at midnight on Park Avenue, right?