I can see him checking me out the second he walks into the bar. My immediate thoughts about him are:
"Oh hai, I hope my hand shake is firm enough for you."
"Damn what's his name again?"
"Fuck, he's hot."
"Why the hell is he looking at me?"
Again, I was to be taught the lesson I've learned over and over again since moving to New York City: yes, I can get excruciatingly attractive men to go home with me with little more than a flutter of my eyelashes and that no, they're probably not going to be all that interesting or good in bed.
So there we are, one tall, dark and handsome (do you see a "type" evolving yet?) male friend of a friend and one very short Greek female. I'm trying to find things to talk to him about because he's so hot, and talking to hot people is important, even when they don't really have much to say to carry the conversation. I'm throwing back beers and talking about something and something that makes no sense while he's shifting his gaze between my legs and my breasts. At one point I can swear he's staring at the exact place my vagina would be if I were naked.
A tale as old as time begins and we're a modern beauty and the Greek, embarking on the quintessential New York "romance." One minute we're flirting in a bar, the next minute we're going home together and I have no idea why. I have nothing in common with this guy apart from the fact we both think he's the best looking thing to happen to Brooklyn since I once saw Anne Hathaway walking a dog up Roebling.
But I'm lying to you now. I do know why, and it's not just because he looks like the impossible love child of Gael Garcia Bernal, Alcide from True Blood and Aphrodite: it's because I'm really unhappy. I've had a shit week moving house and being let down by awful people. I really like someone, and it's not the Adonis I'm following home at 4am. New York's "tale as old as time" is not the Disney adventure you're thinking of. It's a special kind of sexy time that seems to be prevalent here in the bitch city, the one you need when shopping, cigarettes, Skyping with mum and crying to your friends doesn't make you feel any better; a penis to turn your life around.
So I go home with him, and I go for all the wrong reasons. And as I'm throwing my bra across the room it hits me in the face like Chris Brown: I don't want to do this. I pull away from him and he asks me what's wrong but the only thing I can say is, "Can you call me a car?"
He sits up, "You might want to get dressed first." But I'm ready to go, clothed or naked, I suddenly have never wanted to have sex less in my life. I'm drained emotionally and currently considering going back to the bar to see if I left my libido there.
Seconds later I'm dressed and waiting by the door. I apologize to him but I don't know why, and I worry that sex has become obligatory to participation in New York nightlife. But no, I'm too old for ridiculous thoughts like that. I just don't know what else to say to him as I bite my nails, waiting for the car to come. A loud beep in the night breaks the awkward silence between us, and I make for the door, maybe a little too fast. He chases after me.
At the door he kisses me. "I'll see you again, yeah?" he asks. I sort of want to punch him in the face because that's a really stupid thing to ask. Of course I'm not going to see you again. I just left you blue balled in the middle of the night because I have EMOTIONAL ISSUES. This is it for us; get a grip. I wish he had have said something more poignant, or a line from a Ja Rule song.
"Thank you for having me," I blurt as though I'd just been to grandma's house for dinner. Then I'm turning on my heel, running towards the gypsy cab waiting for me in the middle of the empty street.