The Local F*ck

by

11/22/2004

94 2nd Avenue ny 10003

Neighborhood: Manhattan

I had made a plan to meet some friends at a place that had opened just one week ago. The prior weekend, we ended up there at three in the morning, and the scene was good: under-populated, smooth, steel drum-like lounge music, a few good-looking peoples. I was impressed by the Mondrian-inspired decor, and the two women’s restrooms that overpowered the one lone men’s.

Whisky sours ensued, as did the 4am hour, and then we were gone. So I went back, exactly one week later, just this past Saturday night, thinking I’d re-acquaint myself with the same scene I had so recently left behind; but found, instead, to my utmost disgust and dismay, a purebred collegiate scene. Chicks with hair freshly blown dry and French manicures, Banana Republican boys, most of them under 5’10” and far too boisterous, and a room overwhelming with American Spirit smoke, too much even for my weekend-smoker’s lungs.

Uninspired, I decided to blow the joint, and called Nick, my local fuck, with whom I have not spoken for some time. “Meet me in the basement bar at ‘Three of Cups’,” I told him.

Stoned, excited, and nervous, I’d had just enough time to make a quick dash to my apartment (across the street from said irritating NYU-ian bar), run up the stairs, ditch my stilettos and white Italian overcoat for combat boots and leather, and trot off to meet my fuck. When I saw him at the bar, I was a little more reserved than I myself had expected. He’s tired, has been working all weekend, knows this is a booty call, and wants to make our meeting over

Budweiser beer, a short and sweet one (despite the fact that it tastes like pisswater). Soon enough, we skedaddle, walk ’round the corner to my apartment, where, up until tonight, he has never been. Up the stairs and inside, after finagling with the 6-cd changer, immediately we start fooling around.

Nick, a heavily tattooed man, likes to get down to business; foreplay to him is the pretzel you eat ten minutes before sitting down in the theatre. He’s pulling off my indigo-blue Bloomie’s-bought DKNY tights, and I feel like I have no control over what’s about to happen, and we’re in my apartment, for christsakes.

Things start getting heated, and I insist upon using a condom, and he’s annoyed because we never used to in the past, but it’s my apartment, and I make the rules, so be it. We do it a little; his dick feels like the maestro’s pointer, as he uses it to conduct his own personal rhapsody.

Man, this sucks. Raunchy and false, I am not pleased. After far too little fucking for either of us to have derived any satisfaction, I lie to him and tell him about the sore on my lip that I am awfully concerned about, and how much “I love” kissing him, and how important it is to me, and that I can’t possibly continue to fool around ‘cuz I can’t kiss, and we should just call the whole thing off.

Anticlimactic, we smoke a cigarette, I escort him to the door, shake off the weirdness of what has just gone down, turn my cell phone back on, and re-establish contact with my friends whom I had bailed on just forty minutes prior. They’re now at The Scratcher on 5th, where I find them, and resume my night, in stilettos.

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