Saturday morning I woke up after a restless night's sleep with my BlackBerry clenched desperately in my hand. While I did have two Facebook friend requests, an email from my mother regarding health insurance, and a text message (a.k.a. booty call S.O.S.) from a hook-up of many moons past un-so-slyly saying, Hey, its been awhile. Are you out? at 2:56 A.M., I sadly did not have a missed call, text, email, BBM, smoke signal, message in a bottle, or any other possible form of communication from Alejandro explaining why he never showed up for last night's scheduled rendezvous.
As I wallowed in the aftermath of my shattered Teenage Dream over some Bagel Express and The Daily 10, soaking up the fully deserved twelve to eighteen hours to feel sorry for myself, I received an influx of communiqué from multiple friends who were attempting to recover from last night's debaucherous (and somewhat lewd) acts.
Emily was trying to recuperate from her thwarting horny-turned-slightly-poetic late night text to an ex stating, I want your hard dick...in my soul; Lenny awkwardly (and impressively) got hand blasted by a thirty-five year old engaged woman in the middle of a Vince Neil concert; Jimmy John got his monkey unsuccessfully spanked by an unnamed girl whose name he already forgot (although he did know that her friend's name was Destiny, who contrary to popular belief, was not an exotic dancer or escort of any sort); and Mumbles, sadly, woke up in the corner of his room naked and alone. I wasn't exactly sure what went on in the Upper East Side last night, but there for shit sure wasn't any true love or Teenage Dreams, let alone proper communication or acceptable sexual acts for persons over the age of seventeen.
As I spent the rest of my Saturday afternoon watching bad TV in my Ohio State sweats with the good company of my blankies (yes, my blankies from childhood), I suddenly saw my Facebook Internet tab flashing. I clicked on it to find an instant message from Alejandro. I didn't know whether to be excited, angry, or simply glad to know he was alive--he had spent his evening multiple vodka bottles deep with a bunch of Russians, after all.
Luckily for Alejandro, based on his hurried typing, the Russians hadn't gotten drunk enough to where they had played that finger chopping "game" with cigar cutters:
Bacchus, I'm so very sorry I never showed last night. My phone died, then I drunkenly left it in the cab, but luckily Hadar was still in the cab, but I didn't have the cab come to your place because I forgot your address because I didn't write it down because I was in the middle of the Russian party. And I couldn't call you when I got home to let you know I was not coming because my phone, which was dead anyways, was in the cab with Hadar.
If Alejandro had a nickel for every glass of vodka he drank last night and a dime for every "because" he just gave me, it seemed like he would be a very rich man who I should probably at least get another few drinks out of. But all becauses aside, I did, imprudently or not, believe his vodka-infused spun tale. I sighed and thoughtfully considered how I should respond.
I hope you can accept my apology, Bacchus, as I would love to see you again. But I understand if you think I should just sod off.
I could hear his relentless apology in that sexy British accent and I had to smile--and after about thirty-six seconds of contemplation, I decided that I had to forgive him too.
As long as you promise to never leave me staring out a window again, I wrote.
And promise he did. Hell, if the likes of Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton got second, third, and fourth chances after multiple DUI's and drug arrests (apart from the country of Japan), then a vodka-chugging European with a bad hangover and what seemed like a genuine apology definitely deserved another chance.
Here's to hand jobs, regrettable text messages, and second chances, Upper East Side...