Members Only (PART III)

The thought that such an evil, treacherous violent cokehead "movie producer" was THAT close to kidnapping me made me feel raw, extremely violated and exposed, like an open, oozing wound. What could I have been thinking to hop into a cab with a complete drugged out stranger?

It occurred to me that when I become attracted to someone, anyone, it's what's on the inside that illuminates who they are, not what's on the outside. Even though this guy was a Richard Gere twin, the anger and heaviness of his personality made him...ugly.

Everyone in the city has a story. Everyone in the city has a shtick.

At 4:30 in the morning on that Sunday night, I started laughing and crying hysterically at the same time. I felt pulled and confused between the sweet, innocent, honest little girl that I knew was screaming inside of me to come out and play, and this sexual, catty, vixen woman howling inside of me, who loved to taunt and tease men.

Which one was the real me? I felt relieved when Uber DJ Boy called and asked me if I was ok.

I told him I was ambushed by some guy at Cipriani's and I was just happy to be home. It was half lie, half truth. I was attracted to evil RG Boy, and I was so ashamed of myself for this fact. It was my fault, my action, my responsibility that I had stepped into a cab with him. RG Boy could have cut up my body into a billion tiny pieces and stored my head in his freezer.

Maybe I'm exaggerating, but I'm a writer, so I'm really sensitive. Or is it, I'm really sensitive, so I'm a writer?

I fell asleep at 5:30 in the morning, still half drunk, the salty tears crusted to my face and my plum eye-makeup smeared across my cheeks. I was jolted up by my alarm at 6:30 a.m. It had been a long time since I had pulled an all nighter on a work night. This excited me, made me feel young and frivolous, like I was in college again and I had stayed up all night partying and I had an important exam to pass.

I stumbled into work, the pungent smell of vodka still on my breath. Luckily it wasn't too busy of a day so I slithered behind my computer and pretended I was working. I was still so confused and exhausted.

Did I really like this 5'8" midget Uber DJ Boy? Is that why I wanted to flirt with as many men as I could, to block off the little crush I had for him? And, WHY did I have a crush on him? Because something seemed so real and normal about him? But, he seemed so possessive, controlling, overbearing and insecure. WHY was I attracted to this? Was it because I thought he had the golden key to this sort of underground high society? And, why the hell did I even care about these empty people with money?

Everyone in the city has a story. Everyone in the city has shtick.

Uber DJ Boy was guest DJing that night at one of my favorite haunts in the city, Le Souk. I could barely stand up by the time 5:00 rolled around, so I told him I couldn't make it. Again, the thought of being a DJ Fucker made me want to run for the hills. I was NOT a groupie.

After a long night's sleep and some alone time, I woke up Tuesday feeling a little more refreshed, a little less confused. But I still couldn't quite pinpoint the strangeness that I was feeling. I checked my phone messages to find that Kosovo Club Boy had left three messages on my voicemail telling me how sorry he was about not returning my call Saturday night, and that he had been stuck in Boston with his sister, and blah, blah, blah, blah. I didn't even remember who Kosovo Boy was at that point.

It's amazing how one's emotions or feelings for someone can flip 180 degrees in a period of 72 hours. Was I being shallow?

Did I like Uber DJ because he was the first guy in a long time to come on to me THAT strong? Did I subconsciously feel obligated to reciprocate his "feelings" because I didn't want to hurt him?

I couldn't understand why Uber DJ had targeted me. There were hundreds of amazingly exotic super-supermodel women who undulated through Cipriani's every week. Couldn't he go bother some of them? Or, did he just want sex so badly that he was willing to do or say anything just to get it?

I was perplexed because I thought he was so real, yet, so full of shit at the same time. I've had a few men in my life like this cross my path, and every time, it's as if they come barrelling through like a tornado and leave an emotional mess behind them. It's as if Uber DJ was this Tazmanian Devil spinning through my life, dredging up all of these uncomfortable emotions inside of me.

ALL in a period of 72 hours.

****

Uber DJ asked me to come to his apartment on Tuesday after work. I was hesitant because I wasn't a booty call and I didn't chase men around the city and go over their apartments. But, I really wanted to see him. I really wanted to understand what I was feeling. I wanted to see him in the daylight, away from Cipriani's, away from the nightlife, the booze and his, his...music.

I showed up to his apartment that he shared with his cousin from Algeria in midtown. I was in my suit from work, hair pulled sleekly back in a ponytail. I looked more corporate, different than the glamorized, beautified version of myself on hot Manhattan nights.

Everyone in the city has a story. Everyone in the city has a shtick.

Uber DJ met me downstairs. He was more quiet, more reserved, more serious than what I'd seen the weekend before. Was it because he had witnessed me sucking the evil Richard Gere boy's face? I was still so confused.

He had to move his car from some parking garage because the price was about to double, so we walked over to his car. I thought it was weird that he hadn't thought about this before, so we ended up spending 45 minutes trying to find a new parking place for his car.

After the car drama, he turned to me and took my hand and looked me in the eyes:

"You know, I really, really like you," he said ever so sweetly.

"I like you too," I said over-excitedly, still not knowing why it was that I liked him.

We walked back to his apartment and found his cousin downstairs fixing something on his motorcycle. Uber DJ boy put his arms around my waist from behind and told his cousin, "I'm soo in love with this girl."

I said to his cousin, "He's in love with all women," and laughed.

Everyone in the city has a story. Everyone in the city has a shtick.

We went upstairs to his apartment, but not without having the relationship talk, again.

"Well, I guess you'll get tired of dating four guys. You'll start to filter through them and weed out the bad ones," he said grabbing my hand.

Why did I feel so guilty when he said that? Why did I feel like such a shit for being so damned boy crazy? I managed to squeeze a smile out with no comment.

His apartment was tiny but cute, and he started fumbling around his kitchen.

"Would you like to stay for dinner?" he asked sweetly.

"Um, sure," I responded hesitantly. I was supposed to meet a guy for a drink at the Maritime hotel later that night so I knew I couldn't stay too long.

"Do you have a date tonight?" he frowned.

I laughed and said that I was meeting some friends for drinks later. The guilt pangs were beginning to grow and grow. But WHY? Here was this midget man who appeared in my life THREE days ago and suddenly I felt guilty about all of the other men. Was this a sign from God? Was I supposed to drop all of these other men and have a relationship with Uber DJ? WHY? Why did I feel so guilty?

I felt like Uber DJ represented my conscience and seeing him was like a vampire being exposed to light.

Uber DJ began to cook steaks as I watched him closely in the kitchen. We hugged and kissed and everything felt so...so...domestic. So boyfriend/girlfriend.

"Baby, anytime you want to come over, let me know. Just call me and I'll have dinner ready for you. Anything you want," he whispered to me.

Was this guy for real?

As we were eating he proceeded to ask me about Sunday night.

"So, did you kiss that guy? It's ok if you did, just tell me, that's all," he said sort of quietly.

I nearly choked to death on my steak as the meat chunks lodged in my throat. He went on to tell me that one of the waitresses/whores had told him that I was making out with some guy at his table.

"He ambushed me!" was all I could spit out. "He was crazy! I didn't know what to do!" My guilt was swelling into this huge fire pit in my stomach. I felt like I couldn't hide the fact that I was attracted to the evil Richard Gere Boy.

And, I still couldn't figure out if Uber DJ was one big bullshit artist or just a simple, sincere honest hardworking guy who really was putting his heart on the line. Why was he acting like I was his girlfriend when I had really only known him for three days?

We awkwardly finished dinner and he offered to drive me home.

On the way to my apartment, we held hands and talked about the meaning of life and he said to never smile if you don't mean it. He then asked me if I liked him. I said of course and I kissed him and he told me I was the most beautiful girl in the world.

I felt guilty for not inviting him in and I felt guilty and I felt guilty and I felt guilty.

I hopped up the steps to my apartment and cracked open a beer once inside. The thought of meeting another guy for a drink exhausted me so I decided to take a raincheck. I was confused.

A comment that Uber DJ boy had made on the first night at Cipriani's kept replaying over and over in my head like a broken record:

"I don't like bullshitters."

Was I a bullshitter? Had I become a bullshit artist since living in New York? How did I let the bullshit get this far? And, if I was a bullshitter, why was I a bullshitter?

The next day, Uber DJ left me a message:

"I miss you beautiful woman..."

TO BE CONTINUED

For Your Oral Fixation

Again, I have no legitimate excuse for not typing my meanderings, except for the sheer fact that I haven't really wanted to face the intricate maze and tangled web of crazy happenings I've experienced over the past few weeks.

In between the glamorous parties and gallons of free drinks and cute boys and phone numbers and high heels and "you're hot, you're beautiful" and business cards and dancing and being invited to join this somewhat exclusive snobby site... I am trying to take these days to let it all absorb into my being, like a big frothy wet soaking sponge.

I'm trying to comprehend the actual point of manifesting so many men at once.

Could it be for business networking? For a new job that I keep hoping and fantasizing will land in my lap? Fun? Frivolity? Or is it a form of masochism? Am I subconsciously trying to make such a complicated mess with these men that soon I will want to pack my bags and go live in a cave for the rest of my life?

I have gotten to the point where all of the men I've met have morphed into some insane, spinning devilish beast, screaming and howling at me in my dreams to have a drink and go to dinner and come to his party or art opening.

On top of the erratic, deeply unsatisfiable boy craziness, I'm STILL continuing to see suck-my-face Kosovo Club Boy. The words "I Love You" have come out of his mouth four times.

It's really a mystery to me.

Not only has he shown up to a party and witnessed me licking an Italian boy's face, but, sometimes I don't call him back and accidentally "miss" his text messages, and I innocently flirt with other men in front of him.

And, I stood him up last week because I drunkenly got too drunk and ended up THROWING UP IN THE BACK SEAT OF A CAB.

That's right. I can now say I stupidly mixed rum and vodka and my stomach swelled to the point of explosion and I BLEW CHUNKS onto the floorboard of a cab at 4 in the morning.

I'm 27 years old.

Not that that means anything, but, I'm 27 years old. I think it was long overdue that I finally regurgitated my insides out onto moving public property.

I feel extremely ashamed and mortified, yet, so proud and accomplished.

After all of the vomit, on an oral note, I felt so guilty about the lack of attention and care that I have given sweet, precious Kosovo Club Boy that last week, I finally, finally, finally gave in and gave him oral sex out of gut wrenching guilt.

Is it just me or is oral sex a bit awkward? Embarrassing? I know, I know, there's supposedly a glorious art to it, but really, it's just a penis. How artful and creative can you get? What's next? Should I knit the thing a hat too?

I much prefer sex.

Kosovo Club Boy hugged me tight after our awkward rendezvous and looked me in the eyes and said: "Just be yourself."

WTF? Have I not been being myself this past month? Is that what he meant? And, why did he say this after...after...a blow job?

I frankly don't know where this is going with Kosovo Club Boy. He might be getting too close.

He just might see the real me and my vulnerability and my shyness and my sensitivity and my worriedness and my seriousness and my obsessive ability to question every circumstance and overlook the fact that...I have become compulsively self-centered.

I often debate the fact on whether this city has caused my self-centeredness while thinking about myself as I chain smoke on the front steps of my apartment, a sort of gathering place for all of the weirdos in my building.

One of the weirdos, a 50-something, balding 5'2" ego maniac of a man who thinks he's god's gift to women, loves to interrupt me every time I'm blissfully enjoying my nicotine.

The Old Gimp loves to tell me stories about all of the famous people he knows (which implies that he doesn't know them) and he talks like he's on speed.

I thought it was a bit odd that the day after Kosovo Club Boy came over and told me to "be myself," The Old Gimp handed me a grape-flavored Blow Pop.

Then, yesterday The Old Gimp gave me a handful of Starbursts as he muttered: "For your oral fixation."

I then suddenly remembered that I do sort of have see through curtains in my bedroom.

Maybe I should start scoping out some caves where I can hide.

Or, maybe I should really start being myself. Whatever that means.