Billy Blue

Continued from last week’s Single in the City...

“Hi. Who are you?” I asked, instantly drawn to this complete stranger. He was magnetic.

“I’m Billy Blue,” he said with a charming smile and sparking blue eyes.

“I’m Bacchus,” I returned, unable to come up with something witty to say, unable to focus on anything else in the room.

After staring at each other for the better half of Black Eyed Peas' “I Gotta Feelin’” I noticed some skitterish movement to my right. I was forced to break my eye lockdown with Billy to acknowledge the man who had so rudely interrupted our staring contest.

“Oh, this is my friend Robin, who I came here with,” Billy hurriedly introduced me to his sidekick. I quickly sized up Billy’s wingman and knew I had to divert him elsewhere.

“Oh, well this is Jenna,” I said as I ungracefully grabbed for my girlfriend who was a good five to six feet away, trapped in a conversation with an AARP member who had somehow managed to make his way to the upstairs bar without requiring an emergency hip replacement.

I was ready and willing to pawn Jenna off on Robin so that Billy and I could get back to staring at each other. I didn't know if Robin was gay, straight, employed, homeless, herpes-ridden, or secretly obsessed with Dungeons & Dragons, and unfortunately for Jenna's sake, I couldn't have cared less.

Billy and I chatted each other up for a good forty-five minutes, acknowledging Robin and Jenna only when utterly necessary. He was originally from Ireland, had a college education, didn't live with his mother, didn't own any cats, and was one of NYPD’s finest. I practically melted and simultaneously orgasmed right then and there in the middle of Mad River. Had I found my very own Detective Stabler, who fought crime by day and could consume liver-damaging amounts of whiskey by night? There was a god.

Eventually, Billy and Robin headed back downstairs as Jimmy Whisk and I closed the upstairs bar and wrapped up the very successful Single in the City happy hour. Soon thereafter I made my way downstairs, spotting Billy and Robin across the bar. As I made my way towards my godsend and his wingman, I saw Robin violently kicking Billy in the shin in an effort to give him a heads up that I was about to find him talking to two girls. I laughed and shook my head as I approached, with Robin awkwardly trying to make small talk as Billy blushed and stammered.

But I wasn’t worried about Billy talking to two women over the age of thirty wearing mom jeans with bad roots—I knew that I would be the one who would eventually seal the deal with Billy. And within one week, I had more than sealed the deal…

Single in the City

This past Thursday night, rather than meet up with Annie Smalls and Jenny Saurs for after-work drinks, I paired with dating experts New York Easy Dates and threw “Single in the City,” a happy hour for New York City-based singles. Ranging from twenty-something’s to early forty-something’s, one hundred single people of all heights, races, and professions with an affinity for dollar drinks and the hopes of finding love (or at least a potential Friday night date) crowded into the upstairs bar of Mad River for a good two hours of mingling with complete, but more importantly, single, strangers. While a few brave souls arrived solo, trying to portray an air of cool confidence as they saddled up to the bar to order their first drink, most attendees came with at least one sidekick to cling on to until a solid connection with a fellow singleton had been made.

As the singles filed in and I handed out name tags and directed any thirst and/or nerves towards the bar, I found myself asking, why hadn’t I attended more singles events in the past? While I’ve been rocking the single life for quite some time since The Attorney and I broke up last winter, I had only ever attended one event specifically for singles in all these months (see Three Minutes in Heaven). Not only did my past singles event experience provide me with some great writing material, I also got in a phenomenal Wicker Park make-out session as a result of my attendance. Why wouldn’t I want to take the guess work out of walking into a bar and wondering who, of the attractive, straight men in proper footwear, were available for flirting and perhaps a future fling?

As I made my rounds playing hostess, making sure the attendees were mingling, having fun, and drinking heavily, wondering why I didn’t do this more often, I had two gentlemen ask me how I normally met single men. As I recalled the dates, pick-up’s, and hook-ups of my past single year, I realized that the majority of the men I’ve dated in my New York life have been friends-of-friends, co-workers-of-friends, roommates-of-friends, or at the very least, acquaintances-of-friends. Aside from my rendezvous with threesome-loving, divorce-pending, face-washing-Nazi Jeremy and my short-lived dalliance with speed-dating Brooklyn Joe, The Attorney, Hershey, The Englishman, The Trader, The Realtor, The Accountant, and Benjamin had all come to fruition through mutual friends.

Eventually, the event died down and people exchanged business cards and phone numbers, promising each other emails and Facebook friend requests. I decided that perhaps I should jump on the singles event train. Although I at least knew the basics of what I was getting into when hooking up with a friend of a friend (excluding The Accountant’s surprise attack on my nipples), how bad could a few drinks with a complete stranger really be?

As I watched the singletons slowly file out, a tall, striking man with a navy blue sweater and a self-assurance that I hadn’t seen in the past two hours sauntered in.

“Hi. Who are you?” I asked, instantly drawn to this complete stranger. He was magnetic.

“I’m guessing you’re not here for the singles happy hour since it’s over and you’re not wearing a wristband,” I added, noticing his wristband-free wrist.

“I’m Billy Blue,” he said with a charming smile.

And then I boarded the “complete stranger” train…

Loose Lucy: Part II

Continued from last week’s “Loose Lucy”…

“Lucy seemed disappointed and a little confused about the whole not having a reservation thing, so I suggested we just go back to my place and order in. It worked like a charm too. Before I knew it, she was on my couch kicking her shoes off and making herself comfortable,” Jimmy recounted with pride.

“I’m totally pulling the diner trick next weekend,” Johnny announced.

“So what happened next? You spoon fed her home fries and the rest is history?” I asked.

Johnny and Jimmy looked at each other knowingly.

“I did make the effort to call the diner, but I lied and told her the line was busy and we would have to call back in five minutes. Again, Lucy was skeptical that a diner on the Upper East Side at 4:00 A.M. could be harder to get into than Buddakan on a Thursday night, but I just skimmed over those minor details and got down to business,” Jimmy explained.

“We started with the basics—making out and heavy petting. But after I took off her shirt and suggested we head into my bedroom, she freaked. She told me that she felt guilty for hooking up with me because she had been talking to Johnny the past few weeks and did in fact like him—she shouldn’t be hooking up with another guy, let alone one of his best friends.”

“So I scoffed, rolled my eyes while shaking my head, took her hands into mine and said, ‘So Lucy, Johnny didn’t tell you, did he?’ Lucy of course shook her head no, looking very worried and confused, as she sat topless with unzipped pants on my living room couch,” Jimmy went on.

“So with all seriousness, I said to her, ‘Lucy, Johnny has a serious a girlfriend. They have been together for over a year and a half. I can’t believe he never told you.’ Well that was all she needed to hear. She stood up, grabbed my hand, and pulled me into my bedroom.”

“You’re such an asshole, Whisk,” Johnny said, pounding his fist on the table. “I can’t believe you ever sealed this deal with Lucy.”

Johnny had of course heard this story before, in fact the very next morning when Jimmy conference called him and six of their other friends who lived together in a house in Brooklyn. But today’s recount was just another painful reminder of both the girlfriend Johnny lacked and the ass he never got from Lucy.

“Well, not only did I seal the deal the old-fashioned way, but my sexual prowess also brought out the freak in her,” Jimmy smugly explained.

“What’d she do? A little dirty talk, ass smacking, hot wax? How freaky can you get the first time you hook up with someone—especially someone you’ve only known for a total of ninety minutes who refuses to feed you?” I asked.

“Well Bacchus, I highly doubt food was on Lucy’s mind when she turned around and asked me to take the alternate route, if you know what I mean,” Jimmy professed with all seriousness.

A loud gasp escaped our table as my, Annie, and Otis’s jaws hit the floor and Johnny buried his head in his hands, wishing Jimmy had never walked into Tin Lizzie that Saturday night.

Jimmy sat back in his chair, beaming with pride as he sucked down the rest of his Heineken. “What can I say, I’m pretty irresistible.”

“What I actually find mind boggling about your little late night rendezvous with Lucy is, number one, that she invited you to visit Browntown the very first time you hooked up; and number two, that she actually forgot the name of someone who she was intimate with in Browntown. Maybe you weren’t as good as you thought, considering she totally erased your name from her Browntown database,” I insinuated.

“That’s a great point, Bacchus,” Johnny agreed. “You must have been pretty awful, Jimbo. I’m surprised she didn’t send you her therapy bill.”

“How could she send him her bill when she didn’t even remember his name?” Annie reminded the table as Johnny, Otis, and I laughed on.

“It happens to everyone.” Jimmy said in an attempt to defend both his ego and Lucy’s lack of memory. “Watch me seal this deal one more time.”

And with that, Jimmy got up from our table, sauntered over to Lucy for a second time that day, all smiles and charm.

“Lucy is skewing single men’s expectations for one night stands. She needs to start hanging out below 60th street.” I declared. “I thought the Upper East Side was supposed to be classy?”

“Not with you in this zip code, Bacchus.” Jimmy Whisk said as he slid back into his seat. “Why don’t you tell us about your latest sexcapade now?”

Loose Lucy

After a Sunday afternoon facial delight at Skin Thera P, I headed up to Manny’s On Second (formerly Blondie’s East) to meet Jimmy Whisk, Annie Smalls, and Annie’s boyfriend Otis for a little Sunday Funday action. As we ordered a pitcher of beer and a few bloody Mary’s, I caught Jimmy Whisk eyeing up the backside of a tall, attractive brunette in a tight, green t-shirt standing at the bar as our waitress repeatedly asked him what he would like to drink.

I kicked his shin under the table to get his attention, “Jimmy, you haven’t even had a beer yet. Keep your pants on and order a damn drink.”

Flustered, Jimmy quickly ordered a Heineken and immediately returned his focus to the girl at the bar.

“I think I slept with her,” he finally divulged. Before we could ask for further details, Jimmy had scooted his chair out from the table and beelined toward the mystery girl.

Annie, Otis and I carefully watched their brief interaction and couldn’t help but notice it was somewhat awkward, even from our seats across the bar. He swiftly returned to his seat at our table and immediately chugged his beer before any of us could ask what the hell kind of interaction the usually suave Jimmy Whisk had just had with the girl in the green.

Jimmy finally came up for air and admitted, “She had forgotten my name.”

As Annie, Otis and I cracked up, Johnny Fuego sauntered over to our table and pulled up a chair. Johnny Fuego was Jimmy’s childhood friend from Brooklyn who fought fire by day and moonlighted at Tin Lizzie on Saturday nights.

“Johnny, you’ll never guess who’s here,” Jimmy chuckled as he pointed towards the bar.

“It’s just some broad he slept with, which could be almost any semi-attractive, single girl with two breasts and most of her body parts intact that has walked through the doors of Mad River within the past six months.” I interposed, rolling my eyes.

“Actually, Jimmy and Lucy spent a very magical night together—after her he pilfered her away from me.” Johnny Fuego cynically stated.

“That’s pretty dick, Jimmy. You know Johnny never gets laid.” I said as I poured Johnny a much needed beer from our pitcher of Coors Light.

“So what happened with Lucy, anyways?” Annie Smalls asked.

“Well one Saturday night after I closed up Mad River, I headed over to Tin Lizzie to see Johnny,” Jimmy began. “When I got there I found him talking to this smokin’ girl named Lucy. So I pulled up a stool at the bar and joined in on the conversation. Johnny was too busy dancing on the bar and doing shots of Jameson to remind me that he had been casually dating this girl, so I took my fair shot at her. Plus, there was no way in hell Fuego would ever seal the deal with Lucy when it came down to it, anyways.”

“Asshole.” Johnny muttered under his breath as Jimmy continued his story.

“Wait so you knew Johnny liked her!?” I interrupted. “You are an asshole.”

Jimmy ignored our comments and carried on with his legend of Lucy, “It was getting late and I wanted to get the show on the road, so I told Lucy that Johnny wouldn’t be done closing up the bar for awhile and that I could walk her home. I could tell she was torn between waiting for Johnny and leaving with me, but I think we all know what she ended up choosing.”

“On the way home she mentioned hitting up a diner, but I knew it was best to just get her home—my home, that is. I made sure that we crossed Second Avenue before passing Midnight Express so she couldn’t sneak in the door and order the bacon, egg, and cheese she had been talking about since 86^th street. When she saw we were passing the diner from the opposite side of the avenue and suggested we go in, I told her it looked way too busy and we would never be able to get a table, even at 4:30am,” Jimmy explained.

“She seemed disappointed and a little confused about the whole not having a reservation thing, so I suggested we just go back to my place and order in. It worked like a charm too. Before I knew it, she was on my couch kicking her shoes off and making herself comfortable.” Jimmy recounted with pride.

“I’m totally pulling the diner trick next weekend.” Johnny announced.

“So what happened next? You spoon fed her home fries and the rest is history?” I asked.

Johnny and Jimmy looked at each other knowingly.

“Let’s just say it turned into the most interesting late night snack I’ve ever had…”

Stay tuned to find out what made Lucy so loose…

The Accountant

It was a cool fall night and I had just wrapped up my usual Friday night happy hour stint at Mad River. Jenny Saurs had consumed an entire bottle of Firefly Sweet Tea vodka during our ninety minute shift and was now hallucinating ants and pizza bagels. Annie Smalls had headed home for a date night and Jimmy Whisk was manning the bar until the last Bud Light-chugging, Jagermeister-slamming, former frat boy crawled out of the bar and headed home to drool himself to sleep.

That left Red Rider and me to fend for ourselves on the Upper East Side. Predictably, we headed a few blocks up and over to East End. Not fifteen minutes in, Red Rider had found himself a spot in a game of beer pong with three blondes and I was left to chat with our friend Mumbles. As Mumbles was burbling on about a below-the-belt injury he had sustained during a recent street hockey game, I felt a vibration in my back pocket. It was a text message from my latest beau de semaine, The Accountant.

I had met The Accountant a few weeks ago when a mutual friend and he had come into Mad River for a few beers. He reminded me of Paul Rudd a la the incestuous stepbrother in Clueless, and although he hailed from New Jersey, he sported respectable denim and proper footwear. We spent the evening flirting and playing eye footsy*, but unfortunately, no tonsil hockey or hanky panky for Bacchus that night.

Over the next week we developed a textual relationship via Verizon Wireless, complete with picture messages and emoticons. But tonight it was time to take our relationship to a non-cellular level.

The Accountant was coming from the Yankees game and wanted to meet up. I parted ways with Mumbles and Red Rider and met The Accountant a block up at The Bullpen. He had clearly had an intoxicating time at the game, but I had no room to judge considering my liver-damaging level of Jack Daniels consumption over the past four hours.

We commenced our “date” with a shot, his chilled Stoli O, mine J.D., followed by a short game of darts that ended after my first two throws missed the board by a good three feet and my third throw narrowly missed an innocent bystander. It was time to go home to the Love Shack and I was bringing the Accountant with me.

We stumbled out of The Bullpen and swung through a bodega for some water when The Accountant spotted the produce section. He excitedly grabbed a package of strawberries and we were on our way. We headed straight to my room where The Accountant proceeded to feed me strawberries in between our make-out sessions. It was more sloppy than sexy, but I appreciated the effort and the Vitamin C.

Soon enough, the strawberries were out of the picture and so was my shirt. The Accountant’s fondling of my breasts accompanied by an occasional ass grab eventually led to a full on melon sucking session. While The Accountant was getting to oh-so-intimately know my rack, my gaze fell to the package of strawberries on my nightstand—the package of blue, fuzzy strawberries on my nightstand.

But before I could fully process the fact that I had just been force fed moldy strawberries by a slobbering berry lover, I felt a sharp pain on my left breast.

“Oh my god!” I cried out.

The Accountant came up for air, alarmed and confused.

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” he slurred.

“You just bit my nipple, you asshole!” I snapped.

“Oh really?” he asked with surprise.

“I can’t. You need to leave.” I said as I grabbed my shirt, guarding my throbbing boob with my arm and cursing under my breath.

After a good seven minute struggle of retying his shoes and putting on his coat, I guided The Accountant to my front door.

“But where I am supposed to go?” he asked, staggering towards my door.

“You can go curl up in a sewer for all I care, but you’re not staying here.” I replied, slamming the door shut as Red Rider came out of his room to see what the commotion was.

“What’s going on out here? Who was that guy?” Red Rider asked, half asleep, half drunk.

“That was The Accountant. He fed me moldy strawberries and bit my tit.” I unhappily informed him.

“Rough night, Bacchus, rough night.” Red Rider uttered as he shook his head and headed back to bed, leaving me alone in our living room, holding my punctured milk jug.



Bacch-tionary

*eye footsy [ahy foo t-see] n. First base to eye f*cking.

Sex & the UES: Saving Second Base

Cans, melons, knockers, titties, pom poms, airbags, coconuts, jugs, hooters, headlights, chesticles, tatas, racks, honkers, pillows, milk-makers, ninnies. There are countless names for a woman’s breasts, as well as a myriad of things you can do with them: squeeze, nibble, suck, grab, twist, milk, motorboat, titty f*ck, bite, and lick.

The lists of comical names and stimulating activities that go with them are never ending—and so is the number of women who are affected by breast cancer each year. At any moment, breast cancer can strike anyone we know—our mothers, sisters, aunts, grandmothers, daughters, cousins, friends, neighbors, co-workers, our favorite barista at Starbucks. In fact, every three minutes another woman is diagnosed with breast cancer.

So how did I help to fight this devastating statistic? Rather than another Benjamin meets vodka meets All My Children drama-filled episode or a late-night backseat rendezvous with The Realtor, I focused my time and energy on a very different affair this weekend—breasts. Along with my teammates, I helped to raise more than $14,000 over the past nine months and dedicated my weekend to walking 39.2 miles with four thousand other participants.

But during my 39.2 mile trek through New York, I noticed that only a small percentage of my fellow walkers were men. They sported “Real Men Wear Pink” and “Save Second Base” t-shirts, rubber gloves for “Free Mammies”, and sadly, “Walking in memory of my wife/sister/mother” signs.

I decided to approach these few and far between men along the way and ask them why they were participating in the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer and what did they love so much about boobs that they were willing to walk a marathon and a half for them?

While their responses varied in terms of what they each liked to do with a set of hoo-ha’s, whether it be sucking the life out of a nipple or squeezing ‘til the sun don’t shine, the reasons they were walking alongside me were overwhelmingly consistent—someone they knew and loved had been affected by the disease.

October is Breast Cancer Awareness month. So whether you are a woman with her own fabulous rack of jugs or a man who values milk-makers, everyone can help in the fight to save second base. Do something today.

Back to storytelling next week…

Sex & the UES: Stalked

(Continued from Ditched)

…Suddenly, I was in a cab, headed towards the Upper East Side—without Benjamin. I looked at Juan Jose with knowing eyes. He was right. Benjamin was not for me.

As our cab barreled up the FDR, weaving in and out of traffic, Benjamin incessantly called and I continuously sent him straight to voicemail. I was unsure of how I would even explain my abrupt Irish exit from Bar 13 to him and, truthfully, I was still in shock that I had just left my date behind. This was one of few moves I had never pulled before.

I closed my eyes and sighed as my phone rang for the fifth time in a row. I felt awful, but not awful enough to answer his call. Nevertheless, I knew I had to be somewhat considerate and let him know that I hadn’t taken a quick trip around the corner to Starbucks or been abducted by a sewer-dwelling serial killer—and most importantly, that I was not planning on coming back.

As my thumbs began flying over my Blackberry’s keypad, Juan Jose reached out and grabbed my hand.

“Who are you texting?” he calmly, but nosily asked.

“Juan Jose, I need to tell Benjamin something. We just deserted his ass at a bar.” I replied.

Juan Jose slowly took his hand off of mine and let my thumbs do the talking.

Bacchus: Hey. This isn’t going to work. Sorry.

Missed call from Benjamin.

Benjamin: Wait, what’s the problem? Should I just go back to Beauty Bar? Or did you go back uptown?

Two missed calls from Benjamin. My stomach was in knots and I couldn’t figure out why I felt so guilty about ditching a guy that couldn’t keep my name straight after a few beers and a little sexual arousal.

Benjamin: Hey, I don’t know what I did. What happened?

Missed call from Benjamin.

Bacchus: You totally ignored me when your friends came tonight. This just isn’t going to work.

Juan Jose and I pulled up in front of Danny & Eddy’s where Jenny Saurs, Annie Smalls, and their boyfriends were waiting for us. Through the window, they saw us arrive and stumbled out to greet us. Juan Jose went to pay for the cab, only to realize that his wallet was missing from his back pocket. The cab was, of course, a minivan, the largest and most awkward version a New York taxi cab can come in. As Juan Jose and I scoured the van with our asses in the air, squeezing between the captain’s seats, and blindly feeling for his limited edition leather Miu Miu wallet on the cab’s swine flu-infested, plague-ridden floor, Jenny Saurs and Annie Smalls watched with amusement while sucking down Marlboro Menthol Lights.

“You two are hot messes right now.” Jenny Saurs slurred as she exhaled a lungful of smoke.

“And where is Benjamin? The three of you left dinner so you could make it to the play on time.” Annie Smalls noted.

“Benjamin is actually still downtown,” I informed Annie as I pulled my phone out of my purse. There were five new text messages, all of which were from abandoned Ben—and he was no longer downtown.

Benjamin: I went to Mad River. Please talk to me. I’m up here by myself.

Bacchus: Babe, this just isn’t going to work.

Missed call from Benjamin.

Benjamin: This is almost the best relationship I’ve had after only a week. Please forgive my rough-around-the-edges friends. If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t be outside your apartment right now.

Almost the best week long relationship? What criterion was this honor even based on? And now he was at my apartment? Christ, I thought to myself. How did I not get the blue ribbon? And how the hell did he remember where I lived?

While stalkers were very Fall ’09 (both Vinny Chase and Serena Van der Woodsen had obtained them on their respective television shows within the past week), I began to panic that my non-fictional self had just acquired one in real life. This could potentially call for a restraining order, a billy club, and a six o’clock news debut.

Bacchus: Ok. Heading to Mad River. Meet me there.

It was time for me to resolve the situation, once and for all. Between my full-time job, bartending, and broadcasting my sex life on the Internet, my time was both valuable and limited—Benjamin was about to lose his time slot. At least there’s always The Realtor, who was a good lay, readily available on weekdays, and most importantly, drama-free.