I spend my days below 14th St. and generally above Canal. I’ve had girlfriends. I’ve been in love. I’ve had my heart ripped out and handed to me by numerous women. I’ve done my share of ripping too. These are stories of my New York.
Maybe she is actually a nice girl and does not want to be treated like a whore?”
Its August in NY. Hot. Sticky. Boring. August. It’s been over a week and she has not accepted my Facebook friend request. She’s not going to. I know because the person who introduced us told me so. I can’t blame her. My best friends assessment of the situation is probably right on. Apparently not all women want to be treated like some second rate bar slut. I was in way over my head to begin with. I do NOT do well at dinner parties or picnics or any number of activities newly thirty professionals seem to gravitate towards.
Coffee. Diet Coke. Diet Coke. Diet Coke. Cookies. More Cookies. Half a fucking box of Entenmann’s and I’m flying. I cant help what happens next. I’m talking to a real woman with a career and an apartment she must own. I’m picturing her place; matching dishes, fireplace, California King bed, a little table to eat breakfast and read New York magazine, I’m sure its perfect. She is basically perfect too; beautiful, tall, thin, and pale. Nothing to prove with her clothes. No attitude. A woman plain and simple. Well no woman is simple but she appears simple and refined. Mixing with caffeine and sugar my self diagnosed ASIC (Adult Situation Inferiority Complex) is kicking into high gear. I’m talking to her and it’s just getting away from me. There is nothing i can do I’m just fumbling. I’m talking to her like she is 21 and drunk at Max Fish, she is 31 and not amused. I’m doing the smarmy asshole thing, and its totally inappropriate. I’m getting the looks now too. Its not just me and her talking everybody is talking. I sound like an idiot. I fucking hate this. What start out in my mind as flirty insults end up sounding like repressed misogynistic anger. I am king kong. Not in a cool Training Day way. I’m this giant dumb gorilla, trying to be playful, unknowingly destroying everything around me. I think I’m cute and clever all the while I’m knocking over buildings, stepping on cars, doing what I want oblivious to the rules of society. I realize the not so subtle mess I’ve made and I crash. No more sugar, aspartame, and caffeine. I go home. Maybe I can salvage this with a Facebook friend request and a little personal message. MAYBE NOT.
“You’ll probably run into her one night when shes had a few drinks and is lonely and take it down then, thin line between love and hate you know.”
I was fresh from the breakup with the LA girl. The idea of really talking to someone, a real date—who wants that in August? August is about sweaty accidents. The girls with careers and king size beds go on holiday. Entire days sitting outside drinking iced coffee. A few pushes and you’re 2 soggy to skateboard. Sway is packed to the gills with tourists. I might meet a french girl in town for 2 weeks. Maybe I’ll end up Fucking someone with the air conditioner off. Maybe I’ll end up with the skate crew on Ludlow, hissing like construction workers. Either or is fine by me. The humid air just feels like sex. Short shorts and skirts are everywhere. One step outside and I’m fighting off an erection. Shit happens. Keep it moving. Its August.
Its Fashion week. Some crappy party. She’s there. I’m nervous and embarrassed. A quick hello. She’s gone. Homeward bound. Career girl will be in bed before 1 am. I will be out all night. Tempting myself. Fuck this. It’s Fashion week.
“you’re getting laid tonight for sure, I mean girls are all dressed like whores it’s their night to be sluts, next to new years this is it. I’m so jealous”
I’m getting the Halloween pep talk from my best friend as I walk through Nolita. He’s home with his new girlfriend. Finally after years of the opposite hes living vicariously through me. I suffered four years of girlfriend while he slept with beautiful woman after beautiful woman. Hopefully I can take some boyish revenge by coming to coffee on Sunday with tales of some far fetched Halloween romp. Cabs are useless on Halloween so I head north on foot. I am walking so fast, paddling aggressively through the rapids of people like some urban fur trader headed into French Canada. I will not stop until my powder horn is empty and my canoe is loaded with pelts. I will return with stores of danger and conquest in the new territories.
