This Is Not A Heart

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.

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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.”
Oh god.
“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.”

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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.

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