Weeks pass, and a few phone calls and text messages later the guy had locked me down for second a date. Tickets in the Lexus club at the 50 yard line, a fine bottle of Brouilly la Croix des Rameaux 2012, and a private car to Met Life stadium is all it took. We were on our way to see the Giants versus the Cowboys. Time flies with this broad- he’s a total ridiculous hoot and riot. A video gamer, daredevil and obnoxiously fine townhouse owner, I get whisked away in the car to buttfucking Jersey where we giggle and guzzle down a few vodka sodas.
He audaciously remarks ‘it’s woman’s job to calm her man down, to step in. We are heathens- outta control! completely embarrassing’ - I agree and then subtly remind him that’s it’s not our JOB. The right woman will kick you to the curb until you learn a thing or two or let you slip up and crumble into consciousness.
We sit there in the stadium seats and plan excursion and escapades- Costa rica for kite surfing, Paris- baby where do you want to go??. Everything is a ‘we’, everything is a future projection, where and how future experiences will happen. He promises me Anna Wintor, he’s promising me the world. He asks me what I told my mother about him- (uhm nada??). He names drops his contacts, his relationship with tiesto and paris hilton- i told him i didn’t like her after she moved me out of my seat next to afrojack at Avenue the other night. He concludes- ‘she’s seriously misunderstood’- i’ll say.
Famished, we leave at the third quarter to finish that delicious bottle of Bordeaux and take me to a fine ass dinner. I always pick the restaurant- this time due to the hour, we settle on the only good food and late dining restaurant in the meatpacking near the lincoln tunnel, The Standard Grill. And to our amusement and surprise they are hosting a rambunctious bingo night, full throttle. This broad outlandishly name drops himself and demands a table in the packed and sold out venue. Hostess insists theres no availability on the phone, and to our arrival, we are escorted to a fine booth in the midst of all the action- killer! An outspoken Gay MC infuses the boozed and coked up crowd of working new yorkers, locals and gays with sass and spunk. He spits out bingo numbers while drunken groups clad in homemade emoji masks slurp glass punch bowls of bougie souped up versions of jungle juice- grapefruit and lavender champagne anyone? MC is an entertainment roulette, switching it up with dance off and karaoke competitions to the horror and thrill of random selection.
I order oysters- east and west coast, shrimp cocktail, tar tar, cooked meat. Also that ginger vodka whatever- a few of them…bring it all! By the end of the night I have 6 moscow mule copper mugs in front of me that are all at least half full. that i’m not sure were comped, mistaken, or ordered by myself. What gives. The music is bumping, I’m trying to garnish my kumomotos and punch out ‘N36!!, N THIRTY SIXXX!’. Broad is ordering drugs in the background I hear him request some uppers and ‘throw in a few bars and K pens’. Christ, who am I and where is this all going?- the gays, the people dancing on tables, is this a more refined and evening version of lavo brunch? Sans models and meatpacking scum, but real and funky people? Who invented this party!? I go into the bathroom where this Finance guy gets me into a stall, talk of my beauty and asks to do a line off my tits. I tell him I’m with someone and throw him my number- yikes!
Back upstairs and the broad is enthralled, lingering on my every movement and motion, captivated and mesmerized by my power over him, he unabashedly admits. This CEO is decisive, determined, extreme and he will have whatever he wants. He blurts out he wants me- verbatim ‘vunterable, threatened and intimated by me. first time in 6 years’ So what’s all this you say??? To be his, exclusive!?- I’m shocked and appalled and questioning what the fuck I did to this man to merit such infatuation and obsession even. I’m a chick, a down chick, and a decade and a half younger than his own self, yet i’m seeing him basque in my presence like Ceasar to Cleopatra. I sign the check at a cool 20% tip and he teaches me how to properly forge his signature. We hold hands, and walk home, and once we get to his street I hit the high road and ask for a cab. He obliges gracefully and without a temper tantrum like 99% of the NYC male species you find in that neighborhood. Maneater goes home. We chat on the phone come 3 am and thus concludes a Sunday evening. Next day he calls. I stole the blow, I didn’t even go home with him. What a betch. It was one of the best evenings he’s had.
I order oysters- east and west coast, shrimp cocktail, tar tar, cooked meat. Also that ginger vodka whatever- a few of them…bring it all! By the end of the night I have 6 moscow mule copper mugs in front of me that are all at least half full. that i’m not sure were comped, mistaken, or ordered by myself. What gives. The music is bumping, I’m trying to garnish my kumomotos and punch out ‘N36!!, N THIRTY SIXXX!’. Broad is ordering drugs in the background I hear him request some uppers and ‘throw in a few bars and K pens’. Christ, who am I and where is this all going?- the gays, the people dancing on tables, is this a more refined and evening version of lavo brunch? Sans models and meatpacking scum, but real and funky people? Who invented this party!? I go into the bathroom where this Finance guy gets me into a stall, talk of my beauty and asks to do a line off my tits. I tell him I’m with someone and throw him my number- yikes!
Back upstairs and the broad is enthralled, lingering on my every movement and motion, captivated and mesmerized by my power over him, he unabashedly admits. This CEO is decisive, determined, extreme and he will have whatever he wants. He blurts out he wants me- verbatim ‘vunterable, threatened and intimated by me. first time in 6 years’ So what’s all this you say??? To be his, exclusive!?- I’m shocked and appalled and questioning what the fuck I did to this man to merit such infatuation and obsession even. I’m a chick, a down chick, and a decade and a half younger than his own self, yet i’m seeing him basque in my presence like Ceasar to Cleopatra. I sign the check at a cool 20% tip and he teaches me how to properly forge his signature. We hold hands, and walk home, and once we get to his street I hit the high road and ask for a cab. He obliges gracefully and without a temper tantrum like 99% of the NYC male species you find in that neighborhood. Maneater goes home. We chat on the phone come 3 am and thus concludes a Sunday evening. Next day he calls. I stole the blow, I didn’t even go home with him. What a betch. It was one of the best evenings he’s had.