NYC Men: The Club Owner

Each week, I've decided to take it upon myself to dissect the anatomies of the different male species running rampantly in circles throughout New York City, like chickens without heads. This week, we'll focus on The Club Owner.
A BRIEF DESCRIPTION
The Club Owner has the latest Blackberry strategically strapped to his pants for quick drawing, and a slim expensive digital camera in his back pocket to document the Girls Gone Wild atmosphere in which he loves to lavishly indulge. He constantly checks his Blackberry device so he appears to be busy, swiftly coordinating who is let through his velvet ropes and who sits at his coveted table.

The Club Owner usually dresses in a ridiculously hipster-like fashion and isn't afraid to take risks. Such risks include dressing like it's 1982 with high-top sneakers and headbands. He also wears his sunglasses at night so he can see. If the Club Owner is African-American, he will usually grow his hair out into a slight, yet well groomed Afro. If he is white, he will experiment with funky hair streaks of blue, red or green. He appears cool, calm, confident, withdrawn and indifferent as he sips endless bottles of champagne at his permanent table at the center of his club. It doesn't matter if The Club Owner is attractive, unattractive, young, old, short or tall. He WILL sleep with a different woman every night because he CAN.

The Club Owner oozes sexuality. He is a Slut Magnet who isn't ashamed to bump, hump and grind with obscenely young, hot, desperate, frivolous Tarts who shop at Forever 21 and Strawberry and have high-pitched voices. These Tarts usually attend NYU and major in Journalism or some other pretend trade where they could have the possibility of becoming famous. There are also many of these Tarts who are hairdressers and attend cosmetology school. These Tarts are also too trendy and study fashion design at FIT. It is rest assured though, that these Tarts will have an intricate pimped out MySpace page with at least seven pages of "modeling" pictures of themselves in bikinis and lingerie.

The Club Owner loves to indulge these Tarts and The Club owner has at least four of the Tarts at his side while gyrating his head to hypnotic house music.

HOW TO INTERACT
I just recently got myself out of a tangled, sticky situation with The Club Owner species in which I found myself a bit confused. I couldn't figure out if I liked The Club Owner as a real life person who had feelings or if I was just blatantly using him for the gallons of free drinks, table service and VIP treatment. I felt like his Queen and he was my King as we would stand above the crowd at his palace kissing and laughing, laughing and kissing, as my ears would bleed from the piercing music.

When you find yourself involved with The Club Owner, you MUST establish distance from the get-go because actually dating The Club Owner is a tricky situation. If you piss off The Club Owner, or, reject The Club Owner in ANY way, you will NEVER be able to attend his club AGAIN. Yeah, sure, maybe The Club Owner would let you in his club again after the messy break-up, but, do you REALLY want to stand among the peasants on the dance floor at HIS club, watching HIM grope another Tart? It's a very big catch-22 when you think about it. Sort of like if you're a hooker you're NOT supposed to kiss on the lips.

What if you really like his club? What if your friend has a birthday party at his club? What if a future date likes to hang out at his club? What if...you really NEED his club? What if his club has become like a psychedelic drug, a hit of Ecstasy, a sort of uncontrollable addiction and permanent fixture on your nightlife scene?

I found myself sickeningly drunk many nights at The Club Owner's club, intoxicated by the music and the flashing smoky lights...and the vodka...and the champagne. The Club Owner would whisk me through the packed crowd...upstairs to his hidden locked office...

I embraced my inner slut whilst with The Club Owner. (It's important to note that even if you are a virgin or a nun, you will BECOME a filthy whore when you over- engage with The Club Owner and you will do things that even YOU didn't think you would EVER do).

It has taken me months to gradually ween myself off of The Club Owner's club and The Club Owner. Slapping my own hand and quickly deleting his messages from my phone has not been an easy thing to do.

So, trust me, DO NOT DATE The Club Owner.

DANCE with The Club Owner
FLIRT with The Club Owner
INNOCENTLY KISS The Club Owner
OCCASIONALLY RESPOND to The Club Owner's phone calls/texts
HAVE FUN with The Club Owner

That way, when you are stumbling around downtown in NYC you can happily hop into his club...no strings attached, with free drinks and dancing...all night long...

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.