Well it turned out that the rumors swirling around Spaniards and good sex were absolutely, undeniably, irrefutably true. As I relished in my warm fuzzy Alejandro feelings of the night before and hummed Katy Perry's "Teenage Dream" while cold-calling my day away, I received my customary, monthly text from Billy Blue.
Wow, Bacchus! You base a relationship on if a guy is good in bed?! LOL. Your next blog should be "How I Prioritize My Relationships."
I rolled my eyes and replied with a snarky comment, but after I hit send, I realized that Billy Blue's idea actually wasn't half bad. As I stared at my computer pretending to prospect (ok, stalk) potential clients on LinkedIn, I gave some hard thought to what was really important to me in terms of relationships and the kind of man I wanted to be with. And I then realized, oddly and scarily enough, that Katy Perry was actually onto something too.
I wanted to be with a man who thought I was pretty without any makeup on; who thinks I'm funny, even when I'm not (which, let's face it, is quite the rarity); and who I can let my walls come down with. I could do without the whole making forts out of bed sheets bit she threw in as a filler in the third verse, but as cheesy as it was, I did want a guy who could make my heart stop when he looked at me--what girl wouldn't? I was sick of all these New York schmucks with the same Brooks Brothers shirts and bullshit lines just looking for their next lay. Enough was enough and I wanted to the real thing, dammit.
So it was now officially my mission to find my "Teenage Dream" guy and after a week of bliss and one unforgettable night at the Love Shack, I was confident that Alejandro could fulfill all of my unrealistic, idealistic dreams of good men and true love in Manhattan. Who would have guessed that a pop singer and a narcotics detective could help open my eyes to what I really wanted in my Sex & the Upper East Side life, but at this point, I'd take it.
That evening I went out for a multi-hour happy hour with my co-workers and as I finally plopped in a cab to head home to air conditioning and some Friday Night Lights, I received a call from an unrecognized number. I picked up, wondering if it'd be some old flame of years past looking for some late night action or a telemarketer based in India, not realizing it was 11:00pm on a Friday night in the U.S. of A.
"Hey you," a sexy British accent cooed with a slight slur over a racket of noise that was either a bar or a war zone. "It's Alejandro. My phone battery died but I wanted to see if you'd like to meet up for a nightcap."
I could hardly hear him but did manage to catch "meet up" and I was sold.
"Sure, I'd love to. I'm actually in a cab headed home though. Where are you?" I asked, trying not to sound overly eager.
"This crazy Russian party with Vladimir and my boss. But we're leaving shortly. How about I just come 'round to your place?" Alejandro suggested.
Direct and forward--exactly what I was looking for based on both last night's performance and the six vodka sodas that I had just consumed. I gave him my address and he told me he'd be there within a half hour. I could only imagine what went down at a "Russian" party, but had to assume that it involved excessive vodka consumption, a little AK-47 talk, and a handful of leather jackets.
When I walked into my apartment I immediately brushed my teeth, made my bed, and touched up my twelve hour old make-up job, although based on his level of intoxication that was conveyed in our two minute conversation, I highly doubted my primping would matter.
After forty-five minutes passed and still no Alejandro, I was on the verge of a vodka coma, dying to put on some boy shorts and cuddle up with a box of Girl Scout cookies. I reluctantly called the random number that he had rang me on almost an hour ago, only for it to be answered by an unfamiliar voice of a man named Hadar who informed me that Alejandro had left the party shortly after we had spoke.
I hung up defeated, discomfited, and down right ready for bed. I stood at my bedroom window for ten more minutes, hoping that the difference between New Yorker time and European time would eventually coincide. But much to my disappointment, Alejandro never surfaced on my stoop. I went to bed that night with a crushed Teenage Dream, wondering if it would ever be repaired...