This past Thursday night, rather than meet up with Annie Smalls and Jenny Saurs for after-work drinks, I paired with dating experts New York Easy Dates and threw “Single in the City,” a happy hour for New York City-based singles. Ranging from twenty-something’s to early forty-something’s, one hundred single people of all heights, races, and professions with an affinity for dollar drinks and the hopes of finding love (or at least a potential Friday night date) crowded into the upstairs bar of Mad River for a good two hours of mingling with complete, but more importantly, single, strangers. While a few brave souls arrived solo, trying to portray an air of cool confidence as they saddled up to the bar to order their first drink, most attendees came with at least one sidekick to cling on to until a solid connection with a fellow singleton had been made.
As the singles filed in and I handed out name tags and directed any thirst and/or nerves towards the bar, I found myself asking, why hadn’t I attended more singles events in the past? While I’ve been rocking the single life for quite some time since The Attorney and I broke up last winter, I had only ever attended one event specifically for singles in all these months (see Three Minutes in Heaven). Not only did my past singles event experience provide me with some great writing material, I also got in a phenomenal Wicker Park make-out session as a result of my attendance. Why wouldn’t I want to take the guess work out of walking into a bar and wondering who, of the attractive, straight men in proper footwear, were available for flirting and perhaps a future fling?
As I made my rounds playing hostess, making sure the attendees were mingling, having fun, and drinking heavily, wondering why I didn’t do this more often, I had two gentlemen ask me how I normally met single men. As I recalled the dates, pick-up’s, and hook-ups of my past single year, I realized that the majority of the men I’ve dated in my New York life have been friends-of-friends, co-workers-of-friends, roommates-of-friends, or at the very least, acquaintances-of-friends. Aside from my rendezvous with threesome-loving, divorce-pending, face-washing-Nazi Jeremy and my short-lived dalliance with speed-dating Brooklyn Joe, The Attorney, Hershey, The Englishman, The Trader, The Realtor, The Accountant, and Benjamin had all come to fruition through mutual friends.
Eventually, the event died down and people exchanged business cards and phone numbers, promising each other emails and Facebook friend requests. I decided that perhaps I should jump on the singles event train. Although I at least knew the basics of what I was getting into when hooking up with a friend of a friend (excluding The Accountant’s surprise attack on my nipples), how bad could a few drinks with a complete stranger really be?
As I watched the singletons slowly file out, a tall, striking man with a navy blue sweater and a self-assurance that I hadn’t seen in the past two hours sauntered in.
“Hi. Who are you?” I asked, instantly drawn to this complete stranger. He was magnetic.
“I’m guessing you’re not here for the singles happy hour since it’s over and you’re not wearing a wristband,” I added, noticing his wristband-free wrist.
“I’m Billy Blue,” he said with a charming smile.
And then I boarded the “complete stranger” train…
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Sunday, November 08, 2009
Loose Lucy: Part II
Continued from last week’s “Loose Lucy”…
“Lucy seemed disappointed and a little confused about the whole not having a reservation thing, so I suggested we just go back to my place and order in. It worked like a charm too. Before I knew it, she was on my couch kicking her shoes off and making herself comfortable,” Jimmy recounted with pride.
“I’m totally pulling the diner trick next weekend,” Johnny announced.
“So what happened next? You spoon fed her home fries and the rest is history?” I asked.
Johnny and Jimmy looked at each other knowingly.
“I did make the effort to call the diner, but I lied and told her the line was busy and we would have to call back in five minutes. Again, Lucy was skeptical that a diner on the Upper East Side at 4:00 A.M. could be harder to get into than Buddakan on a Thursday night, but I just skimmed over those minor details and got down to business,” Jimmy explained.
“We started with the basics—making out and heavy petting. But after I took off her shirt and suggested we head into my bedroom, she freaked. She told me that she felt guilty for hooking up with me because she had been talking to Johnny the past few weeks and did in fact like him—she shouldn’t be hooking up with another guy, let alone one of his best friends.”
“So I scoffed, rolled my eyes while shaking my head, took her hands into mine and said, ‘So Lucy, Johnny didn’t tell you, did he?’ Lucy of course shook her head no, looking very worried and confused, as she sat topless with unzipped pants on my living room couch,” Jimmy went on.
“So with all seriousness, I said to her, ‘Lucy, Johnny has a serious a girlfriend. They have been together for over a year and a half. I can’t believe he never told you.’ Well that was all she needed to hear. She stood up, grabbed my hand, and pulled me into my bedroom.”
“You’re such an asshole, Whisk,” Johnny said, pounding his fist on the table. “I can’t believe you ever sealed this deal with Lucy.”
Johnny had of course heard this story before, in fact the very next morning when Jimmy conference called him and six of their other friends who lived together in a house in Brooklyn. But today’s recount was just another painful reminder of both the girlfriend Johnny lacked and the ass he never got from Lucy.
“Well, not only did I seal the deal the old-fashioned way, but my sexual prowess also brought out the freak in her,” Jimmy smugly explained.
“What’d she do? A little dirty talk, ass smacking, hot wax? How freaky can you get the first time you hook up with someone—especially someone you’ve only known for a total of ninety minutes who refuses to feed you?” I asked.
“Well Bacchus, I highly doubt food was on Lucy’s mind when she turned around and asked me to take the alternate route, if you know what I mean,” Jimmy professed with all seriousness.
A loud gasp escaped our table as my, Annie, and Otis’s jaws hit the floor and Johnny buried his head in his hands, wishing Jimmy had never walked into Tin Lizzie that Saturday night.
Jimmy sat back in his chair, beaming with pride as he sucked down the rest of his Heineken. “What can I say, I’m pretty irresistible.”
“What I actually find mind boggling about your little late night rendezvous with Lucy is, number one, that she invited you to visit Browntown the very first time you hooked up; and number two, that she actually forgot the name of someone who she was intimate with in Browntown. Maybe you weren’t as good as you thought, considering she totally erased your name from her Browntown database,” I insinuated.
“That’s a great point, Bacchus,” Johnny agreed. “You must have been pretty awful, Jimbo. I’m surprised she didn’t send you her therapy bill.”
“How could she send him her bill when she didn’t even remember his name?” Annie reminded the table as Johnny, Otis, and I laughed on.
“It happens to everyone.” Jimmy said in an attempt to defend both his ego and Lucy’s lack of memory. “Watch me seal this deal one more time.”
And with that, Jimmy got up from our table, sauntered over to Lucy for a second time that day, all smiles and charm.
“Lucy is skewing single men’s expectations for one night stands. She needs to start hanging out below 60th street.” I declared. “I thought the Upper East Side was supposed to be classy?”
“Not with you in this zip code, Bacchus.” Jimmy Whisk said as he slid back into his seat. “Why don’t you tell us about your latest sexcapade now?”
“Lucy seemed disappointed and a little confused about the whole not having a reservation thing, so I suggested we just go back to my place and order in. It worked like a charm too. Before I knew it, she was on my couch kicking her shoes off and making herself comfortable,” Jimmy recounted with pride.
“I’m totally pulling the diner trick next weekend,” Johnny announced.
“So what happened next? You spoon fed her home fries and the rest is history?” I asked.
Johnny and Jimmy looked at each other knowingly.
“I did make the effort to call the diner, but I lied and told her the line was busy and we would have to call back in five minutes. Again, Lucy was skeptical that a diner on the Upper East Side at 4:00 A.M. could be harder to get into than Buddakan on a Thursday night, but I just skimmed over those minor details and got down to business,” Jimmy explained.
“We started with the basics—making out and heavy petting. But after I took off her shirt and suggested we head into my bedroom, she freaked. She told me that she felt guilty for hooking up with me because she had been talking to Johnny the past few weeks and did in fact like him—she shouldn’t be hooking up with another guy, let alone one of his best friends.”
“So I scoffed, rolled my eyes while shaking my head, took her hands into mine and said, ‘So Lucy, Johnny didn’t tell you, did he?’ Lucy of course shook her head no, looking very worried and confused, as she sat topless with unzipped pants on my living room couch,” Jimmy went on.
“So with all seriousness, I said to her, ‘Lucy, Johnny has a serious a girlfriend. They have been together for over a year and a half. I can’t believe he never told you.’ Well that was all she needed to hear. She stood up, grabbed my hand, and pulled me into my bedroom.”
“You’re such an asshole, Whisk,” Johnny said, pounding his fist on the table. “I can’t believe you ever sealed this deal with Lucy.”
Johnny had of course heard this story before, in fact the very next morning when Jimmy conference called him and six of their other friends who lived together in a house in Brooklyn. But today’s recount was just another painful reminder of both the girlfriend Johnny lacked and the ass he never got from Lucy.
“Well, not only did I seal the deal the old-fashioned way, but my sexual prowess also brought out the freak in her,” Jimmy smugly explained.
“What’d she do? A little dirty talk, ass smacking, hot wax? How freaky can you get the first time you hook up with someone—especially someone you’ve only known for a total of ninety minutes who refuses to feed you?” I asked.
“Well Bacchus, I highly doubt food was on Lucy’s mind when she turned around and asked me to take the alternate route, if you know what I mean,” Jimmy professed with all seriousness.
A loud gasp escaped our table as my, Annie, and Otis’s jaws hit the floor and Johnny buried his head in his hands, wishing Jimmy had never walked into Tin Lizzie that Saturday night.
Jimmy sat back in his chair, beaming with pride as he sucked down the rest of his Heineken. “What can I say, I’m pretty irresistible.”
“What I actually find mind boggling about your little late night rendezvous with Lucy is, number one, that she invited you to visit Browntown the very first time you hooked up; and number two, that she actually forgot the name of someone who she was intimate with in Browntown. Maybe you weren’t as good as you thought, considering she totally erased your name from her Browntown database,” I insinuated.
“That’s a great point, Bacchus,” Johnny agreed. “You must have been pretty awful, Jimbo. I’m surprised she didn’t send you her therapy bill.”
“How could she send him her bill when she didn’t even remember his name?” Annie reminded the table as Johnny, Otis, and I laughed on.
“It happens to everyone.” Jimmy said in an attempt to defend both his ego and Lucy’s lack of memory. “Watch me seal this deal one more time.”
And with that, Jimmy got up from our table, sauntered over to Lucy for a second time that day, all smiles and charm.
“Lucy is skewing single men’s expectations for one night stands. She needs to start hanging out below 60th street.” I declared. “I thought the Upper East Side was supposed to be classy?”
“Not with you in this zip code, Bacchus.” Jimmy Whisk said as he slid back into his seat. “Why don’t you tell us about your latest sexcapade now?”
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Loose Lucy
After a Sunday afternoon facial delight at Skin Thera P, I headed up to Manny’s On Second (formerly Blondie’s East) to meet Jimmy Whisk, Annie Smalls, and Annie’s boyfriend Otis for a little Sunday Funday action. As we ordered a pitcher of beer and a few bloody Mary’s, I caught Jimmy Whisk eyeing up the backside of a tall, attractive brunette in a tight, green t-shirt standing at the bar as our waitress repeatedly asked him what he would like to drink.
I kicked his shin under the table to get his attention, “Jimmy, you haven’t even had a beer yet. Keep your pants on and order a damn drink.”
Flustered, Jimmy quickly ordered a Heineken and immediately returned his focus to the girl at the bar.
“I think I slept with her,” he finally divulged. Before we could ask for further details, Jimmy had scooted his chair out from the table and beelined toward the mystery girl.
Annie, Otis and I carefully watched their brief interaction and couldn’t help but notice it was somewhat awkward, even from our seats across the bar. He swiftly returned to his seat at our table and immediately chugged his beer before any of us could ask what the hell kind of interaction the usually suave Jimmy Whisk had just had with the girl in the green.
Jimmy finally came up for air and admitted, “She had forgotten my name.”
As Annie, Otis and I cracked up, Johnny Fuego sauntered over to our table and pulled up a chair. Johnny Fuego was Jimmy’s childhood friend from
“Johnny, you’ll never guess who’s here,” Jimmy chuckled as he pointed towards the bar.
“It’s just some broad he slept with, which could be almost any semi-attractive, single girl with two breasts and most of her body parts intact that has walked through the doors of Mad River within the past six months.” I interposed, rolling my eyes.
“Actually, Jimmy and Lucy spent a very magical night together—after her he pilfered her away from me.” Johnny Fuego cynically stated.
“That’s pretty dick, Jimmy. You know Johnny never gets laid.” I said as I poured Johnny a much needed beer from our pitcher of Coors Light.
“So what happened with Lucy, anyways?” Annie Smalls asked.
“Well one Saturday night after I closed up
“Asshole.” Johnny muttered under his breath as Jimmy continued his story.
“Wait so you knew Johnny liked her!?” I interrupted. “You are an asshole.”
Jimmy ignored our comments and carried on with his legend of Lucy, “It was getting late and I wanted to get the show on the road, so I told Lucy that Johnny wouldn’t be done closing up the bar for awhile and that I could walk her home. I could tell she was torn between waiting for Johnny and leaving with me, but I think we all know what she ended up choosing.”
“On the way home she mentioned hitting up a diner, but I knew it was best to just get her home—my home, that is. I made sure that we crossed
“She seemed disappointed and a little confused about the whole not having a reservation thing, so I suggested we just go back to my place and order in. It worked like a charm too. Before I knew it, she was on my couch kicking her shoes off and making herself comfortable.” Jimmy recounted with pride.
“I’m totally pulling the diner trick next weekend.” Johnny announced.
“So what happened next? You spoon fed her home fries and the rest is history?” I asked.
Johnny and Jimmy looked at each other knowingly.
“Let’s just say it turned into the most interesting late night snack I’ve ever had…”
Stay tuned to find out what made Lucy so loose…
Monday, October 19, 2009
The Accountant
It was a cool fall night and I had just wrapped up my usual Friday night happy hour stint at Mad River. Jenny Saurs had consumed an entire bottle of Firefly Sweet Tea vodka during our ninety minute shift and was now hallucinating ants and pizza bagels. Annie Smalls had headed home for a date night and Jimmy Whisk was manning the bar until the last Bud Light-chugging, Jagermeister-slamming, former frat boy crawled out of the bar and headed home to drool himself to sleep.
That left Red Rider and me to fend for ourselves on the Upper East Side. Predictably, we headed a few blocks up and over to East End. Not fifteen minutes in, Red Rider had found himself a spot in a game of beer pong with three blondes and I was left to chat with our friend Mumbles. As Mumbles was burbling on about a below-the-belt injury he had sustained during a recent street hockey game, I felt a vibration in my back pocket. It was a text message from my latest beau de semaine, The Accountant.
I had met The Accountant a few weeks ago when a mutual friend and he had come into Mad River for a few beers. He reminded me of Paul Rudd a la the incestuous stepbrother in Clueless, and although he hailed from New Jersey, he sported respectable denim and proper footwear. We spent the evening flirting and playing eye footsy*, but unfortunately, no tonsil hockey or hanky panky for Bacchus that night.
Over the next week we developed a textual relationship via Verizon Wireless, complete with picture messages and emoticons. But tonight it was time to take our relationship to a non-cellular level.
The Accountant was coming from the Yankees game and wanted to meet up. I parted ways with Mumbles and Red Rider and met The Accountant a block up at The Bullpen. He had clearly had an intoxicating time at the game, but I had no room to judge considering my liver-damaging level of Jack Daniels consumption over the past four hours.
We commenced our “date” with a shot, his chilled Stoli O, mine J.D., followed by a short game of darts that ended after my first two throws missed the board by a good three feet and my third throw narrowly missed an innocent bystander. It was time to go home to the Love Shack and I was bringing the Accountant with me.
We stumbled out of The Bullpen and swung through a bodega for some water when The Accountant spotted the produce section. He excitedly grabbed a package of strawberries and we were on our way. We headed straight to my room where The Accountant proceeded to feed me strawberries in between our make-out sessions. It was more sloppy than sexy, but I appreciated the effort and the Vitamin C.
Soon enough, the strawberries were out of the picture and so was my shirt. The Accountant’s fondling of my breasts accompanied by an occasional ass grab eventually led to a full on melon sucking session. While The Accountant was getting to oh-so-intimately know my rack, my gaze fell to the package of strawberries on my nightstand—the package of blue, fuzzy strawberries on my nightstand.
But before I could fully process the fact that I had just been force fed moldy strawberries by a slobbering berry lover, I felt a sharp pain on my left breast.
“Oh my god!” I cried out.
The Accountant came up for air, alarmed and confused.
“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” he slurred.
“You just bit my nipple, you asshole!” I snapped.
“Oh really?” he asked with surprise.
“I can’t. You need to leave.” I said as I grabbed my shirt, guarding my throbbing boob with my arm and cursing under my breath.
After a good seven minute struggle of retying his shoes and putting on his coat, I guided The Accountant to my front door.
“But where I am supposed to go?” he asked, staggering towards my door.
“You can go curl up in a sewer for all I care, but you’re not staying here.” I replied, slamming the door shut as Red Rider came out of his room to see what the commotion was.
“What’s going on out here? Who was that guy?” Red Rider asked, half asleep, half drunk.
“That was The Accountant. He fed me moldy strawberries and bit my tit.” I unhappily informed him.
“Rough night, Bacchus, rough night.” Red Rider uttered as he shook his head and headed back to bed, leaving me alone in our living room, holding my punctured milk jug.
Bacch-tionary
*eye footsy [ahy foo t-see] n. First base to eye f*cking.
That left Red Rider and me to fend for ourselves on the Upper East Side. Predictably, we headed a few blocks up and over to East End. Not fifteen minutes in, Red Rider had found himself a spot in a game of beer pong with three blondes and I was left to chat with our friend Mumbles. As Mumbles was burbling on about a below-the-belt injury he had sustained during a recent street hockey game, I felt a vibration in my back pocket. It was a text message from my latest beau de semaine, The Accountant.
I had met The Accountant a few weeks ago when a mutual friend and he had come into Mad River for a few beers. He reminded me of Paul Rudd a la the incestuous stepbrother in Clueless, and although he hailed from New Jersey, he sported respectable denim and proper footwear. We spent the evening flirting and playing eye footsy*, but unfortunately, no tonsil hockey or hanky panky for Bacchus that night.
Over the next week we developed a textual relationship via Verizon Wireless, complete with picture messages and emoticons. But tonight it was time to take our relationship to a non-cellular level.
The Accountant was coming from the Yankees game and wanted to meet up. I parted ways with Mumbles and Red Rider and met The Accountant a block up at The Bullpen. He had clearly had an intoxicating time at the game, but I had no room to judge considering my liver-damaging level of Jack Daniels consumption over the past four hours.
We commenced our “date” with a shot, his chilled Stoli O, mine J.D., followed by a short game of darts that ended after my first two throws missed the board by a good three feet and my third throw narrowly missed an innocent bystander. It was time to go home to the Love Shack and I was bringing the Accountant with me.
We stumbled out of The Bullpen and swung through a bodega for some water when The Accountant spotted the produce section. He excitedly grabbed a package of strawberries and we were on our way. We headed straight to my room where The Accountant proceeded to feed me strawberries in between our make-out sessions. It was more sloppy than sexy, but I appreciated the effort and the Vitamin C.
Soon enough, the strawberries were out of the picture and so was my shirt. The Accountant’s fondling of my breasts accompanied by an occasional ass grab eventually led to a full on melon sucking session. While The Accountant was getting to oh-so-intimately know my rack, my gaze fell to the package of strawberries on my nightstand—the package of blue, fuzzy strawberries on my nightstand.
But before I could fully process the fact that I had just been force fed moldy strawberries by a slobbering berry lover, I felt a sharp pain on my left breast.
“Oh my god!” I cried out.
The Accountant came up for air, alarmed and confused.
“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” he slurred.
“You just bit my nipple, you asshole!” I snapped.
“Oh really?” he asked with surprise.
“I can’t. You need to leave.” I said as I grabbed my shirt, guarding my throbbing boob with my arm and cursing under my breath.
After a good seven minute struggle of retying his shoes and putting on his coat, I guided The Accountant to my front door.
“But where I am supposed to go?” he asked, staggering towards my door.
“You can go curl up in a sewer for all I care, but you’re not staying here.” I replied, slamming the door shut as Red Rider came out of his room to see what the commotion was.
“What’s going on out here? Who was that guy?” Red Rider asked, half asleep, half drunk.
“That was The Accountant. He fed me moldy strawberries and bit my tit.” I unhappily informed him.
“Rough night, Bacchus, rough night.” Red Rider uttered as he shook his head and headed back to bed, leaving me alone in our living room, holding my punctured milk jug.
Bacch-tionary
*eye footsy [ahy foo t-see] n. First base to eye f*cking.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Sex & the UES: Saving Second Base
Cans, melons, knockers, titties, pom poms, airbags, coconuts, jugs, hooters, headlights, chesticles, tatas, racks, honkers, pillows, milk-makers, ninnies. There are countless names for a woman’s breasts, as well as a myriad of things you can do with them: squeeze, nibble, suck, grab, twist, milk, motorboat, titty f*ck, bite, and lick.
The lists of comical names and stimulating activities that go with them are never ending—and so is the number of women who are affected by breast cancer each year. At any moment, breast cancer can strike anyone we know—our mothers, sisters, aunts, grandmothers, daughters, cousins, friends, neighbors, co-workers, our favorite barista at Starbucks. In fact, every three minutes another woman is diagnosed with breast cancer.
So how did I help to fight this devastating statistic? Rather than another Benjamin meets vodka meets All My Children drama-filled episode or a late-night backseat rendezvous with The Realtor, I focused my time and energy on a very different affair this weekend—breasts. Along with my teammates, I helped to raise more than $14,000 over the past nine months and dedicated my weekend to walking 39.2 miles with four thousand other participants.
But during my 39.2 mile trek through
I decided to approach these few and far between men along the way and ask them why they were participating in the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer and what did they love so much about boobs that they were willing to walk a marathon and a half for them?
While their responses varied in terms of what they each liked to do with a set of hoo-ha’s, whether it be sucking the life out of a nipple or squeezing ‘til the sun don’t shine, the reasons they were walking alongside me were overwhelmingly consistent—someone they knew and loved had been affected by the disease.
October is Breast Cancer Awareness month. So whether you are a woman with her own fabulous rack of jugs or a man who values milk-makers, everyone can help in the fight to save second base. Do something today.
Back to storytelling next week…
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Sex & the UES: Stalked
(Continued from Ditched)
…Suddenly, I was in a cab, headed towards the
As our cab barreled up the FDR, weaving in and out of traffic, Benjamin incessantly called and I continuously sent him straight to voicemail. I was unsure of how I would even explain my abrupt Irish exit from Bar 13 to him and, truthfully, I was still in shock that I had just left my date behind. This was one of few moves I had never pulled before.
I closed my eyes and sighed as my phone rang for the fifth time in a row. I felt awful, but not awful enough to answer his call. Nevertheless, I knew I had to be somewhat considerate and let him know that I hadn’t taken a quick trip around the corner to Starbucks or been abducted by a sewer-dwelling serial killer—and most importantly, that I was not planning on coming back.
As my thumbs began flying over my Blackberry’s keypad, Juan Jose reached out and grabbed my hand.
“Who are you texting?” he calmly, but nosily asked.
“Juan Jose, I need to tell Benjamin something. We just deserted his ass at a bar.” I replied.
Juan Jose slowly took his hand off of mine and let my thumbs do the talking.
Bacchus: Hey. This isn’t going to work. Sorry.
Missed call from Benjamin.
Benjamin: Wait, what’s the problem? Should I just go back to Beauty Bar? Or did you go back uptown?
Two missed calls from Benjamin. My stomach was in knots and I couldn’t figure out why I felt so guilty about ditching a guy that couldn’t keep my name straight after a few beers and a little sexual arousal.
Benjamin: Hey, I don’t know what I did. What happened?
Missed call from Benjamin.
Bacchus: You totally ignored me when your friends came tonight. This just isn’t going to work.
Juan Jose and I pulled up in front of Danny & Eddy’s where Jenny Saurs, Annie Smalls, and their boyfriends were waiting for us. Through the window, they saw us arrive and stumbled out to greet us. Juan Jose went to pay for the cab, only to realize that his wallet was missing from his back pocket. The cab was, of course, a minivan, the largest and most awkward version a
“You two are hot messes right now.” Jenny Saurs slurred as she exhaled a lungful of smoke.
“And where is Benjamin? The three of you left dinner so you could make it to the play on time.” Annie Smalls noted.
“Benjamin is actually still downtown,” I informed Annie as I pulled my phone out of my purse. There were five new text messages, all of which were from abandoned Ben—and he was no longer downtown.
Benjamin: I went to
Bacchus: Babe, this just isn’t going to work.
Missed call from Benjamin.
Benjamin: This is almost the best relationship I’ve had after only a week. Please forgive my rough-around-the-edges friends. If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t be outside your apartment right now.
Almost the best week long relationship? What criterion was this honor even based on? And now he was at my apartment? Christ, I thought to myself. How did I not get the blue ribbon? And how the hell did he remember where I lived?
While stalkers were very Fall ’09 (both Vinny Chase and Serena Van der Woodsen had obtained them on their respective television shows within the past week), I began to panic that my non-fictional self had just acquired one in real life. This could potentially call for a restraining order, a billy club, and a six o’clock news debut.
Bacchus: Ok. Heading to Mad River. Meet me there.
It was time for me to resolve the situation, once and for all. Between my full-time job, bartending, and broadcasting my sex life on the Internet, my time was both valuable and limited—Benjamin was about to lose his time slot. At least there’s always The Realtor, who was a good lay, readily available on weekdays, and most importantly, drama-free.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Sex & the UES: Ditched
It was Saturday evening and there was a buzz at my door. It was Benjamin returning to the Love Shack, the very Love Shack he had been so swiftly booted from less than twenty-four hours ago after drunkenly uttering an ex’s name during what would have been a sex-tacular time in bed. After accepting his apology this morning, we had reestablished our original Saturday night plans to have a nice dinner and head downtown for an indie play that my friend was producing. What Benjamin didn’t know was that I was bringing two of my trustiest sidekicks along for the ride.
After a quick make-up make-out session that left us both wanting more, we were obliged to leave our racing hormones behind in order to make it to dinner on time. As we walked to Nick’s around the corner, happily hand-in-hand, I informed him that our dinner for two was no more. Benjamin didn’t seem to mind that two of my dearest friends would be joining us, but after last night’s slip of tongue, how could he argue? He had met Annie Smalls the night before and was well aware that she packed a punch, but there was no way to prepare him for Juan Jose.
Juan Jose was my token gay sidekick, something that every girl in the fashion industry is presumed to have. Juan Jose hailed from Spain and was a makeup artist to celebrities and socialites alike, jet-setting to Hawaii one day and to Paris the next. He rarely had anything in common with the men I dated and had not approved of even one boyfriend to this day.
Juan Jose had seen me at my best and seen me at my worst. During an emotional breakdown/drunken stupor after my second heartbreak from The Attorney, Juan Jose came to my apartment, threw me in a cold shower, and told me to get my shit together and my ass to work. He was an honest man, but a damn good friend.
As we ate dinner, I could feel Juan Jose judging Benjamin, his stare across the table silently asking me why I had allowed a man who shopped at Sears into my pants. Hell, all seventy-five and a half inches of Hershey had been impeccably dressed from head to toe, and he hadn't even passed Juan Jose’s inspection. I knew this scientist from Belmar wouldn’t stand a chance under Juan Jose’s critical eye—but for once, I didn’t care. I was positive that after spending an evening with Benjamin, Juan Jose would see why I gave this St. John’s Bay-Rockport sporting science geek a second chance.
A few hours later we had made it through dinner on the Upper East Side and an off-Broadway play on the Lower East Side. It was time to start drinking. Per Juan Jose’s suggestion, we ventured a few blocks north and headed to Beauty Bar, a nail salon by day, a hotspot for non-hetero’s by night. But Benjamin never flinched. As soon as Benjamin excused himself to use the restroom, Juan Jose gave me the third degree.
“So do you really like this guy? Exactly how long have you been seeing him? Why is he so touchy-feely with you? This is the same guy who called you the wrong name last night, right?” he inquisitively rattled off.
“Umm, yes, a few weeks, is it awkward? Yes.” I quickly answered as Benjamin returned. Juan Jose and I immediately returned to our conversation about a pair of Dior Homme sneakers that he had just purchased while Benjamin silently wondered who Dior was and how could anyone spend over $100, let alone $500, on a pair of shoes.
After two rounds of drinks, we headed a few blocks away to Bar 13 where one of Benjamin’s friends from college was having a birthday gathering. In my opinion, our night had improved with both time and vodka consumption. I could tell that Benjamin was growing on Juan Jose by the drink—until suddenly, I was pushed off my bar stool. I angrily turned around to find an average height, average looking guy sporting a bedazzled Ed Hardy t-shirt and a New Jersey guido attitude.
“Umm, hi. Excuse me. You just pushed me off my seat. I was sitting there.” I bitchily snapped, pointing at the bar stool where The Guido now sat.
“Oh really? Well it didn’t look like you were using it.” The Guido replied with dickface attitude.
“Really, dude? She was f*cking sitting on the stool.” Juan Jose quickly stepped in while I tried to reclaim my seat.
“Aren’t you going to do something?” Juan Jose grumbled to Benjamin while staring The Guido down.
Benjamin was silent for a moment and then replied with embarrassment, “Ummm, that’s actually my friend.”
Juan Jose and I looked at each in disgust and disbelief while Benjamin tried to awkwardly introduce us.
“Oh, you know them?” The Guido chortled as he turned his back to us to order another drink from the bar.
Before either Benjamin or I could say another word, Juan Jose grabbed my arm and steered me to the corner of the bar.
“I don’t like this and I don’t like either of them.” Juan Jose irritably informed me as we walked away. “We need to go.”
Before I could respond to Juan Jose’s demands, Benjamin walked over to us to apologize for his friend. He informed us that the rest of his friends were upstairs and would we please come meet them. Juan Jose and I reluctantly followed Benjamin up the stairs to the bar’s rooftop. I could feel Juan Jose’s eyes burning through the back of my head as we weaved through the crowd towards Benjamin’s friends.
Upon introduction, Benjamin’s friends coldly said hello and quickly returned to their private conversations, turning their backs to Juan Jose and me. I could see Juan Jose’s face getting redder and eyes wider, bewildered at our current situation, while Benjamin didn’t even seem phased by the aura of impoliteness that encircled his group of friends.
Juan Jose grabbed my arm and excused both of us to the bathroom. Before we could walk away, Benjamin quietly suggested that we leave the bar. He could tell that we were both angry and uncomfortable, not to mention completely unimpressed with his choice of friends. We agreed to meet Benjamin outside—he would say his goodbyes while we hit up the bathroom.
But rather than heading towards the line for the bathroom, Juan Jose pulled me outside.
“We’re leaving. Now.” he ordered as he hailed a cab.
Suddenly I was in a cab, headed towards the Upper East Side—without Benjamin. I looked at Juan Jose with knowing eyes. He was right. Benjamin was not for me.
After a quick make-up make-out session that left us both wanting more, we were obliged to leave our racing hormones behind in order to make it to dinner on time. As we walked to Nick’s around the corner, happily hand-in-hand, I informed him that our dinner for two was no more. Benjamin didn’t seem to mind that two of my dearest friends would be joining us, but after last night’s slip of tongue, how could he argue? He had met Annie Smalls the night before and was well aware that she packed a punch, but there was no way to prepare him for Juan Jose.
Juan Jose was my token gay sidekick, something that every girl in the fashion industry is presumed to have. Juan Jose hailed from Spain and was a makeup artist to celebrities and socialites alike, jet-setting to Hawaii one day and to Paris the next. He rarely had anything in common with the men I dated and had not approved of even one boyfriend to this day.
Juan Jose had seen me at my best and seen me at my worst. During an emotional breakdown/drunken stupor after my second heartbreak from The Attorney, Juan Jose came to my apartment, threw me in a cold shower, and told me to get my shit together and my ass to work. He was an honest man, but a damn good friend.
As we ate dinner, I could feel Juan Jose judging Benjamin, his stare across the table silently asking me why I had allowed a man who shopped at Sears into my pants. Hell, all seventy-five and a half inches of Hershey had been impeccably dressed from head to toe, and he hadn't even passed Juan Jose’s inspection. I knew this scientist from Belmar wouldn’t stand a chance under Juan Jose’s critical eye—but for once, I didn’t care. I was positive that after spending an evening with Benjamin, Juan Jose would see why I gave this St. John’s Bay-Rockport sporting science geek a second chance.
A few hours later we had made it through dinner on the Upper East Side and an off-Broadway play on the Lower East Side. It was time to start drinking. Per Juan Jose’s suggestion, we ventured a few blocks north and headed to Beauty Bar, a nail salon by day, a hotspot for non-hetero’s by night. But Benjamin never flinched. As soon as Benjamin excused himself to use the restroom, Juan Jose gave me the third degree.
“So do you really like this guy? Exactly how long have you been seeing him? Why is he so touchy-feely with you? This is the same guy who called you the wrong name last night, right?” he inquisitively rattled off.
“Umm, yes, a few weeks, is it awkward? Yes.” I quickly answered as Benjamin returned. Juan Jose and I immediately returned to our conversation about a pair of Dior Homme sneakers that he had just purchased while Benjamin silently wondered who Dior was and how could anyone spend over $100, let alone $500, on a pair of shoes.
After two rounds of drinks, we headed a few blocks away to Bar 13 where one of Benjamin’s friends from college was having a birthday gathering. In my opinion, our night had improved with both time and vodka consumption. I could tell that Benjamin was growing on Juan Jose by the drink—until suddenly, I was pushed off my bar stool. I angrily turned around to find an average height, average looking guy sporting a bedazzled Ed Hardy t-shirt and a New Jersey guido attitude.
“Umm, hi. Excuse me. You just pushed me off my seat. I was sitting there.” I bitchily snapped, pointing at the bar stool where The Guido now sat.
“Oh really? Well it didn’t look like you were using it.” The Guido replied with dickface attitude.
“Really, dude? She was f*cking sitting on the stool.” Juan Jose quickly stepped in while I tried to reclaim my seat.
“Aren’t you going to do something?” Juan Jose grumbled to Benjamin while staring The Guido down.
Benjamin was silent for a moment and then replied with embarrassment, “Ummm, that’s actually my friend.”
Juan Jose and I looked at each in disgust and disbelief while Benjamin tried to awkwardly introduce us.
“Oh, you know them?” The Guido chortled as he turned his back to us to order another drink from the bar.
Before either Benjamin or I could say another word, Juan Jose grabbed my arm and steered me to the corner of the bar.
“I don’t like this and I don’t like either of them.” Juan Jose irritably informed me as we walked away. “We need to go.”
Before I could respond to Juan Jose’s demands, Benjamin walked over to us to apologize for his friend. He informed us that the rest of his friends were upstairs and would we please come meet them. Juan Jose and I reluctantly followed Benjamin up the stairs to the bar’s rooftop. I could feel Juan Jose’s eyes burning through the back of my head as we weaved through the crowd towards Benjamin’s friends.
Upon introduction, Benjamin’s friends coldly said hello and quickly returned to their private conversations, turning their backs to Juan Jose and me. I could see Juan Jose’s face getting redder and eyes wider, bewildered at our current situation, while Benjamin didn’t even seem phased by the aura of impoliteness that encircled his group of friends.
Juan Jose grabbed my arm and excused both of us to the bathroom. Before we could walk away, Benjamin quietly suggested that we leave the bar. He could tell that we were both angry and uncomfortable, not to mention completely unimpressed with his choice of friends. We agreed to meet Benjamin outside—he would say his goodbyes while we hit up the bathroom.
But rather than heading towards the line for the bathroom, Juan Jose pulled me outside.
“We’re leaving. Now.” he ordered as he hailed a cab.
Suddenly I was in a cab, headed towards the Upper East Side—without Benjamin. I looked at Juan Jose with knowing eyes. He was right. Benjamin was not for me.
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