Boys Life

“Who was that girl at Dark Room, the one with the short hair, sorta exotic looking? Is she a dyke or what?”

“Yo, my man, really, R——?”

“Yes! That’s her name, what’s up there, can I live?”

“Dude, dude, dude. She’s a Wild Whore. A WILD WHORE.”

“What do you mean wild whore? Like how bad?”

“Dude, yeah, it’s pretty bad. —— fucked her, so did ——. But yo, you could do that easy. She likes dudes like you, if you wanna go where mad dudes have gone before…”

“Whatever, for some reason I’m into her whole thing. Can you hook it up?”

“Got you. She’s a wild whore, it’s going down no question.”

 I start where I left off. Lower East Side. It’s been four years since I’ve been single; I just don’t know any better. I can still run into friends at Happy Endings on a Tuesday; they are not the same friends I saw there in 2004 but they are friendly faces. And I wind up at Dark Room for a birthday party. Dark Room, the name says it all. The kids come here on purpose to hurl themselves against a wall of shitty cocaine and PBR. A few have been at it forever, over thirty and still trying to figure out if they, or the wall will break first. There are randoms too, you can tell them by their jeans or square toe shoes. They don’t quite fit in, but they don’t really belong anywhere else either. This is where the evening takes you when the rest of your friends and co-workers don’t share your appetite for late nights and cheap blow. 

There is this girl there. She’s one of the kids, and she’s beautiful. It’s dark and the lighting is definitely complimentary; she steps out of the shadows to order a drink and is still captivating. She is everything my ex is not. Lots of rings, lots of necklaces, lots of black. She’s not small either. I mean she’s not fat but she is by no means rail thin. I don’t mind at all, she has a beautiful face, a mess of short black hair, and some way about her that I’m instantly drawn to. I get myself  introduced, ” R——.” We talk, and I try to find a sparkle in her eyes, some indication that she might be into me or looking for someone, anyone. Nothing. Maybe she’s just drunk—maybe I don’t even know how to talk to girls anymore. Maybe I’m not cool enough. This happens to me a lot. I’m attracted to imbeciles that are attracted to guys that look like they are in a band, and not guys that look like me. It’s funny because while I’m chasing second rate hipsters,there is probably some nice girl wondering why I’m chasing corny girls that look like they’re in bands, and not a cool normal chick like her. R—— seems like a lost cause and I go home alone. The next day I find out from my friend that she’s a wild whore.

R—— and I are in enough of the same places and know enough of the same people that interaction is inevitable. I’m cocky, a bit of an asshole and she does not like me one bit. She’s twenty and I’m ten years older, and I don’t wear sassy boots or a lot of black, or have rings, or play in a band, if that’s even what she wants. I figure it is because she clearly does not want me. This is fine, because she’s a fucking mess anyway. Really drunk more often than not, a known whore. Let the neighborhood take her, see if I care. The LES as some reaper, carting her soul away slowly, a little piece every night. I still kinda want to fuck her but really don’t know how to go about it so I just end up alienating her. And pretty soon she is referring to me as thedouche-bag.

Skate crew. Saturday night. Around 2 am we end up at Enids. What a shit hole. A bar for people from Ohio, people that won’t stay—transient skateboarders and the women who love them. The place should have a giant neon sign saying FREE HERPES with purchase of six Budweiser. The girls smell like a thrift store and all have little beer bellys. Even the ones that could be cute hide behind intentionally awkward glasses, bad haircuts, and shabby clothes. Nothing doing. Not that I wouldn’t fool around with them, I would. I’m not skater dirt bag enough to be an instant hit here, and I don’t have the wherewithal to garner a following tonight. Who knows what these girls want to hear but I don’t think it’s much of what I have to say. We fuck around and talk shit outside. A girl tells me she just moved here from Venice with her boyfriend. He is home asleep, she is outside Enids talking to me and my boy at 3:30. She is totally sexy, maybe ten pounds overweight for my taste but still doing something.

“How long till you fuck someone else?” I say. “Couples don’t make it here, New York is fucking brutal on relationships, and you being out, talking to me and my shit-bag friends would lead me to believe you’re gonna to be the one done in first. To get wrapped up in going out, being cool, the whole thing. You think you’ll make it another month? Or two?”

“Why would you say something like that?” she says. She’s drunk. 

“OK, sorry but, just wait. you’ll see. Make out with some guy on a night like this, go home feeling all shitty, and it’ll make you hate your boyfriend. He’ll be up the next morning still in love with you, making you vegan breakfast or whatever the fuck you’re into. And you’ll resent him. And that will be the beginning of the end.”

“Jesus who are you? Fuck You.”

“Sorry, I mean, good luck is all I’m trying to say. New York is tough, hope everything works out.”

“Whatever. fucking, Ass Hole,” she says and stumbles off.

“Thanks, dude,” my boy says. “I was kicking it to her friend. Are you going to piss off every girl we meet tonight?”

“Nope, just the ones that need pissing off. Those bitches were the worst,” I say, flicking a cigarette butt into the street. 

“Worst? Who cares. Her friend was so down, and you chased them off. Fucking idiot.”

How do I explain to this guy how it works when you’re not drunk. That it’s a whole different thing, that I’m looking for the little spark, or the bite back. And not manufacture significance or snip out of terror. But a genuine retort, some real chemistry even if it’s fleeting.