Filed under: at the bar | Tags: assholes, babies, boys, brooklyn, Greenpoint, hipsters, models, NYC, thugs, whiskey, williamsburg
The Super Models:
It was after 2 AM, and we were glowing with the lascivious social lubricant formerly known as whiskey. We skipped past McCarren Park into Greenpoint and slithered our way past the stumbling eb and flow of horny hipsters waiting for the next hottest thing to pursue into the poorly ventilated dance floor of No Name Bar. We danced under the air-conditioning vent attentively tracking our periphery for hot boys. The minimal eye-candy and plethora of other bars that surrounded us lead us back through the crowd and into the fresh air that partnered so well with chain smoking.
We walked up the street to Matchless hunting for ‘rawrs’– our not-so-discrete coined euphemism for objectifying attractive guys. And as we disappointedly scanned the bar, finding our precarious first-world-problem atypical for a Friday night in Brooklyn, we wondered why we ever left Night Of Joy and its smorgasbord of gregarious dapper fellas. We had naively assumed that all of Williamsburg and its surroundings would be brushed with a heavy coat of Rawr-City-USA. So we left in 30 seconds flat.
We walked across the street to Enids and immediately caught eyes with the (only) two cute boys seated at the corner table, ordered drinks, and sat at the table next to them, the back of my chair an inch away from the Australian one. They sat facing each other, and we sat facing each other, waiting. As the one turned towards us to say something, we quickly enquired about their matching hats, which quickly led to the inevitable introduction that includes: name, age, occupation. With another round of whiskey shots and unification of our two teams we inquisitively inquired about their careers as models, unsure if their bashful admissions to being paid to be beautiful by Marc Jacobs and Armani were true. As the conversation folded into more worldly topic, their lack of interesting things to say, and their invitation to smoke a joint with them outside, was enough to make us believe them.
We left the bar as it was about to close and we quickly paired off into archways of nearby nooks, got stoned, and madeout. Although they seemed to keep an eye out for cabs, we had clairvoyantly decided we had gotten everything we wanted to get out of these guys– namely an ego boost without the sexual dissatisfaction that all models are humans that are not that smart and in no-way guaranteed to be bedroom experts.
When they finally managed to catch a Town Car, one of them held the door open for us as the other one leaned against the trunk. We shook our heads in how presumptuous they were and let them know we weren’t going with them. They seemed shocked, and the impatient cabbie seemed quite aware of the situation. With final kisses and goodbyes, we let them know we work sleeping together, without them, and we held hands skipping away.
The Swedish Guy:
He sat next to me and sipped on his tea. As I waited to order a drink, he asked me what I was having. He knew the bartender and ordered my drink for me. He unbuttoned the gold buttons of his black peacoat and asked me my name, which led to the conversation that goes something like, “Oh I’m just visiting my bestfriend. I don’t live here.” He’d been living in the Lower East Side for 7 years, after studying advertising at the University of Hawaii, and now he owned his own nightclub in the Meatpacking District. He slid his business card over to me. I asked him what brought him to Williamsburg then, and he said he liked exotic hipster girls with great tits. And on that note, he immediately branded himself as a complete pompous douchebag, but inquisitive me wanted to soak up the juicy material that only aristocratic European boneheads could provide.
After elaborating on the successes of his club and his newly-launched limited-edition shoe line (which triggered the sliding of a second business card) he finally asked me what I did and where I went to school. “Berkeley, that’s a music school right?”
“No, you’re thinking of Berklee College of Music; that’s in Boston. University of California, Berkeley, is in California.”
“Oh right, that’s in the valley, right?”
“No, it’s in Berkeley… it’s a pretty prestigious university. You’ve really never heard of it?”
Whatever triggered our political conversation was a 1-way road to dear-God-I-hope-fools-like-this-are-few-and-far-in-between. And he said, “Do you know what the problem is with Jews and Muslims.”
“Please, enlighten me.”
In the most matter-of-fact way possible he turned and said, “Well, neither of them know how to integrate into society. They can’t assimilate. What Iran really needs is a war with Israel. That way, the Iranian government will weaken and the people will be able to have another revolution.”
I tried to be facetious, “How insightful. So much good always happens when innocent people die.” I checked my phone again. “I’ve really got to get going. It was a pleasure meeting you.” I left his business cards where he handed them to me.
He kissed me on the cheek unphased by my reaction to his ignorant arrogance and mentioned once again, “You should visit my club before you leave. I promise, you’ll have an awesome time.”
Thugs in McCarren Park:
We basked in the 77 degree hot sun, watching the league of shirtless boys running 200 meter dashes back and forth. I was waiting for the most adorable boy in Williamsburg– the cutest redhead in the world, just a little over a year old with a bashful smile, sporting a Nirvana T-shirt eager to share his bounty of strawberries and carrot sticks with me. His mom and I had become good friends during my previous visit to NY and I had so been looking forward to meeting him. He was only just learning how to walk and faired better on concrete than grass, on which lumps of dirt and availability of sticks provided far too many exciting reasons to crawl and grab stuff. As he absentmindedly and eagerly blocked and amused traffic on the paved path like a drunken geriatric, he caught the eye of two thuggish dudes strutting.
One had his shirt off, with a chest full of tattoos and a chain belt slinging from his baggy jeans. The other wore a wife beater, and they walked in unison, smiling at my little buddy, they couldn’t keep their eyes off of him. And as they walked past our picnic blanket they turned their gaze and checked out the cutest baby in Williamsburg again and again.
I couldn’t let the comedic moment slip through my fingers. I pushed back my shoulders and sat up straight, held my hands up like I was going to do some gang sign or start a fight, and I said outloud, “What, you want one?!”
With a wink and a sideways pointy finger, that kind that says, “Home girl, you funny,” these baby-loving thugs were totally amused.
Filed under: at the bar, at the office, casual sex | Tags: casual sex, mondays, once-a-week night stand, one-night stand
Once a week, usually Monday’s, at around 9:30 PM, I would walk six blocks to his apartment, ring his buzzer two times, and wait for no more than three seconds for his apartment gate to unlock. I would then walk up three flights of stairs, knock on his door, and he would let me into his minimalist, clean apartment sparsely occupied with standard modern furniture in safe neutral tones. He would notice that I was slightly perspired from the three flights of stairs, and he would offer me a glass of water, because whiskey wasn’t an option, he didn’t drink. Because unlike most guys I sleep with, I didn’t meet this one at a bar/party, I met this one at work, two years before we started sleeping together. It wasn’t until I got laid-off, drunk, and willing to look past his utilitarian REI fleece that I actually finally went home with him. He was a computer programmer, and I was soon to find out an avid extreme-sports enthusiast who had never heard of any of the bands, films, and writers I made references to. In short, we had nothing in common except a mutual interest in getting laid Monday evenings.
So I would sit on his couch and we would sip on water and placidly discuss things like ABC sitcoms, Obama’s healtcare reform plan, and oil-eating bacteria. I would then casually remove my dress and toss it across his room, walk into his bedroom, and remove my bra. He would be walking right behind me two steps away. Three seconds later, I would be lying on his bed, propped up on my elbows, waiting for him to take my panties off with his teeth. I would pull on his hair, and we would roll around his plaid sheets for the next four hours. Four hours, every seven days, for the previous five months, I had consistently been getting laid. And then I went to Mexico and had sex with an Englishman. When I came back, nothing was the same.
Filed under: at the bar, at the warehouse/show/party, BFFs4Eva, making out, Uncategorized | Tags: epic reunion, getting naked, mimosas, Oakland, Rudy's, Stork Club, weird porn, whiskey dick
Last time I saw Little Crystal was 5 years ago. She was visiting from Southern California while I was living in a college co-op in Berkeley. We had a lingerie-party binger that lasted a whole week. We were under 21, and the world was our oyster. The world was our spiked bowl of punch. The world was our Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. A+. I had a bitch of a roommate that was an uptight W.A.S.P. cunt, but we didn’t give a fuck. We hungout in our underwear ’til the break of dawn, over and over again. A love like that can never die. A love like that has an eternal party flame, like smoking the devil’s cigar. A love like that is only girl-on-girl without vagina touching (boob touching is okay and encouraged).
Last Thursday, I am sitting at the bar at the Stork Club and like a flash of lightning there’s Crystal, walking into the room. My eyebrows raise, my jaw drops, I jump off my stool, and yell out her name. For a nanosecond she gives me a dirty look, but then she jumps into my arms, and I spin her around, we giggle, we scream, we tell everyone our story, everyone. And then ‘the party of our lives together’ started all over again. We’ve basically been inseparably drunk for days since our eureka moment. It’s probably not sustainable, but it’s helluva lotta sweet-ass fun. When I walked down the stairs Saturday morning in my underwear, my roommates looked at me like I got laid: “Damn girl, you’re glowing. Who’d you bang last nite?”
“No one. I partied with Crystal and Co.”
We didn’t start getting naked until Saturday nite. It might have been 4 AM. It might have been 7 AM. People were leaving. The dance floor was dying. We were thinking about leaving. Until it became apparent that the best idea was to take off all our clothes and get into the shower, packed tightly in there, skin to skin, genitalia rubbing all up on your thighs and belly button, like a tin of sardines. We were going to wait for the sun to rise. We were going to make this party count. I was maybe going to get laid. The attempt was made. Whiskey dick won. Instead I bruised my shoulder blades from getting pinned up against the shower wall making out. When we finally got out of the shower hours later, our clothes were toasty in the dryer. The shower floor was tiled with old porn magazines. The shower door was broken. We were still drunk. Crystal was asleep somewhere with a bag of grapes on top of her. It was Sunday. It was time the right time for mimosas, brunch, and almost getting kicked out of Rudy’s, but instead getting relocated to the courtyard. Our whiskey-dick nakedfest talk was too much for the grandpa sitting at the table next to us. His crew was not drinking mimosas.
Among us, there were two dudes that none of us knew. They had fallen asleep at the party at like 9 PM. I gave them a ride home, and they invited us in. They lived in Emeryville, but insisted that they lived in Oakland. They had a huge yard and a gaping hole in their living room. They were really into weird porn. We watched some: one guy put his entire head, to the neck, into the ugliest vagina that ever existed; it looked like a ham with a slit down the middle. It might have been fake, but it looked believably disgusting. We watched some other freaky shit, too. It was time to take everyone home, take naps, find Crystal, and start all over again.
Filed under: at the bar, porn | Tags: extras, Godspeed, Oakland, porn, pornstars, sex, squirting
Did I ever.
I jumped at the opportunity like a wildebeest ready to devour a whole zebra. Here were the circumstances: the porn company was essentially renting out Godspeed to film this porn, inviting everyone to watch, and paying for their drinks. Touching the porn star was allowed and encouraged, but no fingering her unless your nails were trimmed and you hands sanitized. If you were interested in being ‘more involved,’ you could have gotten tested a few weeks prior and done some paperwork in advance. Invitations were being handed out to Hell’s Angels and the East Bay Rats. And I got one, too.
My roommate Vicki bartends at Godspeed. She’s into leather, Lady Gaga, and bikers, “You might end up trading in fixed gear for fifth gear.”
“I don’t think my dad would like it too much if I ended up marrying a Hell’s Angel.” I don’t know why my father’s opinion was my gut-reactionary comment, but it was. Two days later, I’m sitting in class, feeling the cold, sticky clammy sensation of my palms, watching the clock tick. I am reveling with excitement. I imagined saying stuff like, “So what are you doing after class? I’m going to a porn shoot.” but I didn’t. I arrive at Godspeed and I feel like like a 12 year old boy looking at Playboy mags for the first time. Godspeed has kind of an eerie goth vibe. It feels like a sex-cave dungeon for a motorcycle gang that also functions as a bar, a tattoo parlor, a cafe, and a motorcycle shop, complete with skull accents on everything, and candles to set the mood. There is so much suspense. The stage is being set. We are all signing release forms and showing our IDs. We are ready for something epic to happen. I start talking to everyone, learning porno terminology I’d never heard before, like getting fluffed. (Don’t judge me for not knowing what that means.)
I also met Jimmy and Amanda, two of the stars of the show. They weren’t pornstars, not yet anyway. They found this gig in the back of the Weekly’s. Amanda has done some fetish photography in the past; she’s into being naked and super confident about her body. She seems to have a pretty chill relationship with her boyfriend regarding these sort of things. She drove in from Sacramento to do this shoot. I asked her via text the next day if she would do it again. She said, “Yeah I’d do it again. Free beer and food plus essentially being forced to orgasm and getting paid ($200)? Sort of like winning at life.” Her lifestyle made me feel very conventional for caring about the future of my potential political career. Jimmy was from Oakland. He did it for the money: $100 to get his dick sucked on camera by a porn star, sounded good to him. The two of them had also just met that day.
So the “film” began with us “extras” sitting at the bar, drinking beer, hanging out, chit-chatting, and then the pornstar came out of the bathroom, in a red latex dress with holes on the chest for her breasts to be completely hanging out. Her arms were braced behind her into a lace-latex vice, like a single glove. And from her neck, hung a tray, intended for serving drinks to us. She was escorted by her co-star, whom she only responded to with “Yes, Sir.” In one hand, he had a taser, in the other hand he had a whip. If she spilled a drink, bam! Seemed painful. After that scene, she sucked her co-stars massive uncircumcised dick for a while. We were allowed to take photographs. Thumbs up, smiling like a geek, I posed here for some pics. In the next scene, she was strapped to a bar stool with a wide assortment of belts tying her down and a massive hook was inserted into her butt, the other end of which was tied to her hair. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Why is sex so weird? Leaning against the pool table, Amanda had her vagina eaten out by the pornstar while Jimmy played with her tits and clitoris. I guess sex is just not really a big deal.
There were a lot of takes, and a lot of things happened. There was a lot of free booze, I was pretty buzzed. During one of the takes, I got a chance to talk to the star of the show. She was incredibly sweet. She had fake breasts, but some of the extras were trying to argue they were real. They were totally fake, but ‘a believeable size.’ She had a pretty face, flat tummy, and a big ass with noticeable cellulite. She was 23.
“How long have you been doing this?”
“What got you into it?”
“I had been doing modeling for a few years, and then I got invited to the Playboy mansion, and I met all these girls, and I met Hef. And it seemed like something I could do.”
“How does your career and your personal life come together? Is it hard to reconcile the two?”
“It’s hard, but they’re two different worlds, and I keep them separate. I have a five year old girl, and she doesn’t know I do adult films. When the time is right I’ll tell her.”
“Do you find yourself being constantly body conscious?”
“Believe it or not, I’ve gained weight since I’ve started doing porn since all they feed you on-the-go are fries and cheeseburgers.”
“What do you think makes a successful pornstar?”
“It’s not really about being the prettiest girl with the hottest body. Some girls are just so picky and hard to work with. It’s really just being agreeable and having people enjoy working with you; that helps you get your name out and get more gigs.”
She seemed to love her job. It seemed like it was a choice. In the next scene, she didn’t fake it. I thought it was pee. It rushed out of her body and hit the concrete floor with a splash as her waist snapped back and her jaw dropped as her co-star fucked her doggy-style against the pool table. My jaw dropped, too.
Filed under: at the bar, making out | Tags: bar, beer, first move, Friday, hot guys, intoxicated, making fun, making out, TGIF, whiskey
It might be another rainy Friday nite, but we are unhindered by the necessity of umbrellas. The most amazing people I know are my friends and Friday nite is our chance to be together again. We waited all week, working, studying, dealing with goals, ambitions, and obligations, dreaming of Friday. Now here it is. We are at the bar, drinking beer, taking shots of whiskey, and looking around at everyone else. We judge everything about them–their friends, their shoes, their hair, and their drink of choice. The bottom line is, who’s hot?
“Point him out to me, but not with your finger.”
“12 o’clock, right behind you, he’s drinking a Tecate; he’s wearing a plaid shirt.”
“I don’t see him.”
“He just scratched his head.”
“Oh, that guy. I think he lives with this guy John that Laura slept with.”
It’s 2010, and we ladies still won’t make the first move. I’m sorry, boys. The times may be changing; I might put out on the first date, but I can’t approach a stone fox when I see him. Maybe I’m falling behind the times, but I know I’m not alone. Countless women shave their legs on Friday nites, put on a pair of heels, and have too much to drink. It is a feminine ritual. We are waiting, anticipating, quite often ignoring eligible bachelors, and somehow hoping that the man of our dreams (or someone really attractive) is going to buy our next drink (or sit/stand next to us). This is our fantasy world, and we’re sticking to it. And then maybe after he’s asked if I come here often, we’ll discuss what we do M-F, where we’re from, how we got here, something witty, something anecdotal, something silly, and then maybe we’ll makeout or I’ll give him my number. Or maybe not.
Filed under: at the bar, texting | Tags: dancing, drinking, free drinks, fuck off, gay bars, making out, stalkers, texting
There was a blip of darkness on one atypical Monday nite at 3 AM. After a nite of gay bars and lots of gay men and lots of free drinks, we were back on the street. During the fifteen minute walk home, my arm was linked with a deceivingly straight man that my dear friend West wanted to take home with him. I was supposed to help him seduce him, or something; I don’t remember the plan. There probably wasn’t one. But then I remember my back against a red-brick wall, his arm around my waist, and his lips on my neck. So I let it happen, and it felt like a refreshing mint of heterosexual desire after a nite of gallivanting with the gays. And I wish this was the end of the story.
But somehow while me and this very friendly passerby decided it was late and we needed to part ways, I gave him my number. Big mistake. He called to ask me out several times. I never responded. He texted. I never responded. He texted about why I wasn’t responding. Asking if I “felt guilty about what happened.” I never responded. And then something horrible happened. I saw him at a bar. He was there with a girl. I kept out of his line of sight for half an hour until the two of them left. Three hours later, last call is about to happen, we are at another bar, and he shows up, alone. He catches my eye, smiles confidently and walks over, and proceeds to say, “Hey, I hope your nites been better than mine, because mine has been really lousy. Take care.” And with that, he squeezed my shoulder and walked away.
The next evening, it is Saturday nite. Leslie Mac and I don’t know what to do. We decide to go to the same bar. I think it was foreshadowing when Leslie said, “Who goes to the same bar two nites in a row?” Clearly, lots of people. We are drinking and dancing and having fun when he walks up to me again and says, “I really had fun with you that nite, and I’d really like to get to know you better, but no pressure, I’ll be standing there by the bar if you want to come over and talk.” That nite he is referring to was by then six weeks ago. And then he watched me like a hawk while I was trying to enjoy a good ol’ twist and shout on the dance floor. And then he came up to one of my friends and said I was a “really amazing woman.” The next day, he sent me a text: “Hey, how have you been? You looked really sad last night.” I just find it far too overt to say, “I was sad because you were staring at me like a hawk. Fuck off!”
Filed under: at the bar | Tags: champagne, cocktails, cosmopolitans, English boys, John Denver, Las Vegas, London, martinis, one night stands, San Francisco, Soho
I had 3 more days in London starting with that nite in Soho in a dark dive bar, at the bottom of a steep flight of stairs, across a sticky dance floor of bodies packed like sardines, the taste of sweat in the humid air, with apathetic raised eyebrows of pretentious indifference caught in the flash of red, green, and blue laser lights. I was thinking about how much San Francisco reminded me of a Vegas version of a compact, newer, smaller London.
And then he showed up, “Would you like some champagne?” Although it seemed quite unorthodox to order champagne at a bar like this, I went with it. He ordered six bottles for my friends and I, untangled me from my clique after introducing himself, and took my hand and a bottle of champagne and we sneaked off behind a nook encased by an arching pillar where we exchanged names, occupations, phone numbers, and saliva. “It’s a pity we didn’t meet sooner. I’m leaving in three days. But if you’re ever in San Francisco…” So he asked me, “What are you doing tomorrow?”
The next day, we met at six at his favorite cocktail bar with galvanized steel walls, invisibly clean windows, and dramatic lighting. The place was sparsely occupied by business-card-exchanging polo-playing types. I was late. My date was seated at the bar chatting with the bartender about local affairs and business-as-usual sipping on a martini when I arrived. After a flurry of compliments, he wrapped his arm around my waist and escorted me to a discrete booth in the back of the bar. He asked about my story, I sipped on my cosmopolitan, and he talked about the evolution of his career as an investment banker, the challenges and obstacles of his demanding role in the company, and the executive ranks that he had masterfully impressed along the way. I criticized English boys for their propriety and charm. He asked me if I would spend the nite with him. Six cocktails later, I said, “Yes, I don’t believe you’ve ever slept with an American girl.” He hadn’t. “Well you are in for a treat.”
The next morning, I stumbled my way back to my friend’s flat, slept for six hours, and woke up with a hangover in the late afternoon. I had four messages, but it didn’t matter to me, because I was leaving the next morning. He called once more; he wanted to know if I had made it home alright. “Hi, sorry, I’ve been asleep… I had fun, too… Yes, I’m leaving tomorrow… Keep in touch.. Bye.” He emailed me once, but I never responded.
Filed under: at the bar, at the office | Tags: bars, cute boys, economy, employees, employers, getting hired, getting laid, office, recession, romance novels, web 2.0
Veni, vidi, vici, like Julius Caesar and the Roman Empire, I am the volatile factor of my (nonexistent) Empire. The polished verbiage that I pamper my resume with is synonymous to the mascara, rouge, and pointy heels I pamper myself with. I want to improve the quality of your perception of me in the office and in the bar. I don’t want to evaporate like cheap alcohol; I want to leave a Sharpie-infused permanence of me in your mind, forever. When I leave the bar, when I leave the office, I am telepathically whispering to you, “Don’t forget me.”
“Dear Potential Employer, I write an alternative sex column. I, however, am not a pervert. As we all know, sex sells, and I am simply responding to a void in a famished niche of alternative youth culture. I write fictional stories of fictional accounts. My blog is a grocery-store romance novel for the web 2.0 era with one distinct difference: I spin tales in 500 words, not 500 pages. My target audience is twenty-somethings with office jobs and RSS feeds, who eat their take-out lunches at their desk while surfing the net. I offer candid revelations that this young, urban, cafe latte luving, iPhone surfing, dive bar going, designer jean wearing ‘community’ day dreams about. My alternative sex column is nothing short of a ‘quick fix’.”
“Dear Cute Boy, I write an alternative sex column. Yes, my mind is in the gutter, and if you’re into filth, I could be convinced to take you there. If you prove to be entertaining, I might write some prose inspired by you. If you work in a record store, ride a fixie, or write in a Moleskine, I’ve probably already written about you. And don’t worry, I won’t print your name; I never do.”
Filed under: at the bar, casual sex, passing out | Tags: bows, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, momma's boy, mother's day, omg, passing out, religious, stupid tattoos, tecate, the city, the mission, vodka cranberry, vultures
Mother’s Day Eve, sitting in the corner of the bar closest to the entrance, we didn’t have anything better to do but drink Tecate. Then these two boys showed up. “Don’t mind me I just have to wipe this puke off my face,” and one of them reached over to grab a napkin, “What will you ladies have to drink?” And through our own drunken haze we were able to be completely unaware of their incapacitation. Vodka cranberry. What are your guys’ names? I had my eyes on the seemingly sober one with the bad tattoos. Is that your mother’s name tattooed on your chest? It was. I took it as a sign. He had a tattoo of his dog dressed up as Mother Mary on his forearm. I thought it was ridiculously sexy. While his friend repeatedly demonstrated his tummy-undulating belly-dancing talent for my friends, momma’s boy was carving his fingers around my waist. He said, “I like your bow. You’re so pretty, I could eat you.” Drunk vultures want to devour girls that wear bows in their hair. I said, “You’re looking down my dress.” He said, “Can you blame me?” And by the time my bestfriend got back from the restroom, he had his tongue down my throat.
3 AM, as we meandered through the streets of the Mission, we took two steps forward and one step back. “Oh my god, oh my god,” echoed in his breathe every time his hand slid over my hips, down the small of my back, and across my breasts. I love to make boys feel religious. I took him home with me, and before I finished brushing my teeth, he was fast asleep. I crawled into bed next to him and woke up with his hand in my underwear the following morning. He was quiet, mechanical, passionless, mundane. He didn’t remember any of the sweet little nothings that rolled off his tongue the nite before. He didn’t even remember my name.
Filed under: at the bar, casual sex, diagrams | Tags: chance encounters, degrees of separation, greatest novel, neighborhood, religion, sex, small world, the city, the mission, venn diagram
Our alternative subculture is our religion, and the neighborhood we live in is our place of worship. We are sponges that soak up the same mess, clean the same grit, and polish the same surface. Our circulation patterns overlap again and again; sometimes we say hello, sometimes we don’t, sometimes we wish we had, sometimes we regret we had. Sometimes I imagine that he is sitting in a cafe, sipping on Turkish coffee, and staring at the blank abyss of his writer’s block, waiting for me to be the inspiration for the heroine in his greatest novel. I go to the cafe to see if I can spot him; he is never there; we cannot seem to get the timing right yet.
I zigzag through the city with the people I know and the people they know. These are commonalities that allow me to have sex with people that are friends with people that know people I’ve had sex with before. It’s such a small world. These encounters could have happened a plethora of ways. We have mutual acquaintances from various cliques we associate with. He lives a block away from my old roommate, and he grew up with the boyfriend of a friend of mine, and he is friends with my ex-coworker’s roommate, and I met him at a bar that I’ve never been to. In the morning, we were complete strangers; at the end of the nite, we are naked in bed together. Our degrees of separation seem to melt away. Our chance encounter is like the intersection in a Venn diagram.