Kansas City Justin



256 Grand St., brooklyn, ny 11211

Neighborhood: Brooklyn, Williamsburg

I’ve been dating a Mid-western man for the past two months. 

Well, it’s actually been one month that I’ve been dating him, and one month that he’s been away in Florida “visiting his mother.”  This man happens to be the oldest I have ever dated–41–ten years my senior.  Perfect, I thought. Older, more mature, has his act together, money in the bank, divorced (experienced), and therefore able to anchor AND inspire me.  My Mid-western man is a wee-bit nerdy and conservative, loves dogs, practices his hand at flamenco guitar and can play “Martha, My Dear” by the Beatles on the piano. He also happens to be the man I’ve been thinking I might want to marry.   As the weeks of this 2003 New Year have eeked along, and my mature 41 year-old continues his endless visit with his mother down in Florida, I grow more suspicious, more paranoid, lonelier.   “When are you coming back?”  I ask.

“Just as soon as the mechanic finishes my car I am driving back to the city,” he replies.  Ho hum, that damn mechanic sure is taking his sweet-ass Aunt Jemima time.


Just this past Saturday night, despite the bitingly harsh winter weather, I opted to take a Brooklyn friend up on her “come dancing with me in Williamsburg” invitation.  It’s kind-of a schlepp, I thought to myself, but I also thought that getting out of Manhattan and out there to whoop it up was exactly what I needed to deflect my aforementioned suspicious-and-paranoid loneliness.

“Luxx” is as authentically retro-80s as a person reared on day-glow/paint spattering/glam/glitz could ask for.  Chic homos in rhinestone lightening bolt accessories; bi-level haircuts; gold-thread sweaters with austere shoulder pads; eyeliner on the rim… I will even go so far as to say that Luxx is unpretentious.  And the music—for anyone who likes 80s music—kicks ass.   It didn’t take long before I was bopping my head with the tunes and smiling into the face and smooth complexion of shit… what was his name, Justin, that’s right, his name was Justin.  

Justin was wearing an Adidas tri-stripe jacket and, fuck, what else was he wearing, a wife beater–yes, that’s right–a wife beater.  Justin (age unknown) was a sous chef at Jean Georges.  He was tremendously polite.  Bought me drinks.  He touched my shoulder in flirtatious gesticulation as he leaned in to better hear me over the club music.  He laughed at my quips and was impressed when I used the word “ensconced.”  Justin had skin softer than mine, it was olive, as were his eyes.  He was, in a word, beautiful.  The icing on the cake was that Justin hailed from Kansas City.  How bloody refreshing!

By midnight, Justin had ponied-up for three rounds of drinks.  By 1am, I was reciprocating.  By 2am, Kansas City Justin was treeting me to some Motor City cocaine in the loo of Luxx.  By 3am we were laughing, canoodling and paying too much for Dixie cups of ice water.  By 4, he and I were ebulliently sucking face.  By 5am the club was closing and Justin and I were the last people on the dance floor. (P.S.: I was not pleased with my rhythm on the dance floor; cocaine makes me very disjointed. Justin did not seem to notice.)  At 5:30am Justin was inviting me back to his apartment for some succulent leftovers from the restaurant.  “Babe, you’re very hot.  You should definitely come over and eat with me,” he said. 

“Sorry, I must venture back across the river,” I replied. 

By 6:30am I was stunning my Manhattan doorman with my obvious last-night’s party-girl appearance and soon thereafter, in my apartment , listening to a sweet message on my answering machine…straight from from Florida. 

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