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...
Monday, September 27, 2010
Monday, September 06, 2010
Teenage Dream
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...
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...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
