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 He appears cool, calm, confident, withdrawn and indifferent as he sips endless bottles of champagne at his permanent table at the center of his club.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...

Simplicity Anyone?

I stumbled lately out of bed this morning and tripped my way to the subway, eyes half closed with no makeup to find a massive hoard of angry people hovering at the subway entrances. Everyone looked like cavemen scratching their heads and groins. The man wearing socks with sandals next to me couldn't understand the police officer when he told us "THERE ARE NO TRAINS RUNNING IN ALL OF MANHATTAN." The socks and sandals man then proceeded to go down the stairs to the subway station only to emerge again, looking overly pissed off and confused. Like the police officer hadn't told him that "THERE ARE NO TRAINS RUNNING IN ALL OF MANHATTAN."

All 24 lines to the marvelous NY Public Fucking Transportation System were apparently flooded from some blazing thunderstorm tornado that ripped apart Brooklyn last night.

I am really convinced that the Locusts are definitely on their way.

In a period of three short weeks I've experienced an EXPLOSION, a building COLLAPSE near my apartment(I'll explain later), a SHOOTING in front of my apartment door (I'll explain later), and now, a massive FLOOD. What's next? Are these signs from some God or a Higher Power or the Allah Global Warming?

I managed to squeeze onto a smelly bus and then I walked 40 blocks in high heels to midtown Manhattan with sweat beads dripping from my crotch to my toes. I then had to share a cab with some leathery old lady with frizzy hair from Connecticut:

"Nothing works anymore. This country is falling apart! They can't even hold a bridge up! The infrastructure of this country is collapsing from within!" she spewed. Driver! Can you please hurry!"

As Connecticut leather bags continued on her soapbox, I studiously looked out the window at the thousands of people frantically walking to work with their briefcases, backpacks, I-pods, Blackberries, bluetooths, Gameboys, laptops and Grande Frappucinos. It occurred to me that just 100 years ago people didn't need all of this shit. We didn't even HAVE public transportation.

In the world of television programming, there is a well known concept called "Feeding the Beast." Basically, the concept's theory is that a television viewer becomes increasingly sophisticated and demands more and more from a show.

The catch is that the MORE you feed the viewers, the MORE they want, and thus the cycle of dissatisfaction begins and ratings start to drop.

Will we ever have enough? Will we ever be satisfied? When public transportation fails us I've realized that the only true remedy is a teletransporter, that way, we can instantly be anywhere at anytime on time for that important conference call in between instant messaging our potential clients so we can sell them more stuff to communicate with.

When my Blackberry Pearl 8100 dies and I can't get to one of my TWO chargers (one for work, one for home) I feel lost, empty and alone, like Tom Hanks in Cast Away. When my cell phone dies, I die with it...

This morning I set up a web domain for my blog and here are SOME of the instructions:

Open the Domains tab and select My Domain Names. You'll be directed to the Manage Domains page.
Click the domain that you'd like to use with your blog.
Click the Total DNS Control And MX Records in the box entitled Total DNS Control.
Click Add New CNAME Record. If you've already created a CNAME record for your blog's address, click Edit next to the existing CNAME record.
For the Name, enter only the subdomain of the address you want to use for your blog. For example, if you picked www.mydomain.com as your address, enter www here.
Enter ghs.google.com as the Host Name.
Click Continue, and then click Add. If you're editing an existing CNAME record, click Continue and Update.


Really? Is that all?

Explosions and Sobriety

Do you ever feel that you have exhausted all options and all of the options you've been pursuing lead to nowhere, nothingness, emptiness? Well, that's the idea I've been toying with over the last weeks. That is, after I experienced the explosion in midtown Manhattan.

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

On that frightful day, I was on the phone with my Mom, furiously debating on whether or not to attend a "Margarita Madness Singles Happy Hour" when a huge, booming, thundering ominous sound filled the air. I looked above my building and saw what looked like an enormous cloud of white smoke billowing from the top floors. "RUN! RUN!THE BUILDING IS COLLAPSING!" everyone was shouting and crying.

I quickly began hauling my ass toward the East river, hyperventilating and praying that I wouldn't die in a terrorist attack.

As I was running:

I WASN'T thinking about what I would wear to the big party I had on Friday.

I WASN'T thinking about why the guy I had had a good time with a few days earlier still HADN'T called me.

I WASN'T thinking about the fact that I needed to stop binging on Chinese food and exercise more.

I WASN'T thinking that my roots were showing and I needed to get my hair highlighted again.

I WASN'T thinking about getting a pedicure.

I WASN'T thinking about how much money I WASN'T making

I WASN'T thinking about how I wished I had a new apartment in Soho.

I WASN'T thinking about the piles of laundry stacked in my room.

I WASN'T thinking about my lack of direction or laziness.

I WASN'T thinking about getting into another exclusive NYC club.

I CERTAINLY WASN'T thinking about sex, men or relationships.

I WAS thinking that I wanted to live, and, the only person I wanted to talk to was my Mom, to tell her how much I loved her.

****

They say everything goes in cycles. I haven't drank a sip of alcohol since the blast, and, my social life has gradually (kind of) fluttered out the door, past the velvet ropes. Keep in mind of course, I'm the kind of person who, at nine years old, would call my Mom at three in the morning to pick me up from a "fun" slumber party just so I could sleep in my own bed.

I don't want to be in a clique. And... I like sleeping in my own bed.

A friend of mine once told me: "Honey, everyone has slept with everyone here in New York." Living here long enough, I've began to realize it's really true.

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

****

Writing this blog has been a bit like sitting on a teeter totter. On one end I'm teetering on revealing TOO much. On the other end I'm tottering on NOT revealing enough, and reading my previous posts usually sends me into a self-conscious frenzy.

What if people find out who I really am?

What if I'm too honest?

Do I really have to elaborate on EVERY detail of my sappy and confusing drunken dating (night) life?

I guess blogging is like dating. A love/hate relationship on facing one's own idiosyncrasies and still trying to come across as lovable and witty on occasion.

After the random, freakish steam pipe explosion that happened at the building where I work, I began to feel angry at myself for the superficial red flushes of emotion that I've splattered across my blog. But now... I've realized that I'm just human, trying to make it in New York, and, unsuccessfully trying to decode the crazy men AND women that I stumble upon on a daily basis.

It's safe to say that BECAUSE of the blast, I haven't been drinking. And BECAUSE I haven't been drinking, I'm not attracted to the men who have been pursuing me, anxious to get in my pants.

Since the explosion, I've ignored the calls and texts and invitations from ALL of the boys and instead have chosen to hide out at home and watch bad reality TV with my cat.

****

This morning as I was walking to the subway, a homeless man in a wheelchair screamed at me, "Miss, miss! Can you help me cross the street?"

I chose to ignore him, afraid he was going to ambush me if I attempted to help him.

The homeless guy then screamed: "You fucking bitch! I hope you break both of your legs!"

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

Maybe, since I survived a random, freak explosion, AND, I have both legs, it's safe to consider going go to the next "Margarita Madness Singles Happy Hour?"

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.

Life is Messy

I hurriedly arrived on time to my date with Cancer Boy last Tuesday to find an attractive yet slightly balding man waiting for me at the cramped bar at the dimly lit trattoria in midtown. I was just relieved because he wasn't unattractive. In retrospect, why was I relieved that he wasn't unattractive? He wasn't really attractive, but he wasn't unattractive. But, that didn't necessarily mean that he was attractive.

Was I just justifying the weirdness that I felt by being set up by a matchmaker?

Me and Cancer Boy talked and talked and talked about everything including the dreaded infamous Religion and Politics, and I couldn't help but getting the vibe that I was being over analyzed, like I wasn't Stepford Wife-ish enough. I managed to blurt out my strong leftist flaming liberal views after the second glass of wine and Limoncello.

Cancer Boy was nice and engaging, but I started to pick up the vibe that he had a closet dose of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

Moi: "So, do you like animals? Have you ever had any?"

Cancer Boy: "No, I've never had any animals, but a friend of mine has a dog and it smells. I don't know about animals, it's just...you know...they smell...and...aren't they messy?"

Moi: "Well, you know, you like... bathe them."

Cancer Boy: "Yeah, but still...they seem...so...so...messy!"

Moi: "Well...isn't...life messy?"

Cancer Boy: Silence.

After the comment about animals being smelly and messy, I knew I wasn't dealing with the "average" man. Here he was, almost 40 years old, lonely and paying thousands and thousands of dollars to a matchmaker to date...me.

Here he was, a leader in the field of the latest complex, dizzying cancer treatment, "very very very" successful by the world's standards yet he had never been around...a dog? A cat? A hamster? A fish? A snake? A rabbit? A bird? Something that would imply he had some sort of beating heart inside his body, some sort of connection with the frivolity of a playful, messy, smelly being other than a human?

I had just recently moved into my friend's apartment with her 12 year old diabetic cat.

Yes, there is now cat hair all over my clothes.

Yes, occasionally the cat throws up sticky, gooey chunky chunks on the carpet.

Yes, the chalky odor of a pissy litter box wafts through the apartment.

Yes, it is messy.

But, when I look into the kitty's eyes, I know he knows something that I don't. He's in tune with some higher realm that we, as jaded cynical humans, can't comprehend.

The kitty makes me feel something deeper than shopping and sex and men and wine and parties and hair appointments and bank accounts.

As Cancer Boy and I were leaving the trattoria, I started to feel sorry for him, like I needed to have a little compassion for this man who had never experienced being messy, as if everything in his life was carefully planned and scheduled and sterile and nothing was smelly. I mean, did he even know how to have sex? I realized he hadn't touched me once during the entire evening.

The thought of a bacteria free, carefully planned existence made me want to roll naked in a field of dirt, exposing all of my seemingly vulnerable imperfections.

*****
On Thursday, I met the founder of HotEnough. He wore a Yankees t-shirt, jeans and running shoes. I was in an evening dress and stilettos, bubbly on champagne, fresh from an event at the Waldorf.

Although t-shirts and jeans and running shoes on men usually create the most vile distaste in my mouth, a sort of pungent vomiting sensation if you will, I was a bit relieved to see him dressed so...so...casually New Jersey.

After the date with Cancer Boy, a big foaming beer, a NJ boy and a dive bar sounded well, more real, more messy.

We ended up taking the subway (gasp!) to the shitty Upper East Side to some dark wooden hole-in-the-wall-bar. Mr. HotEnough turned out to be rather funny, a bit goofy and quirky, even though he loved loved loved to talk about his business model for his website and how he was getting loads of advertising offers and how he was genius for thinking up the idea for the site and blah blah blah.

I was really drunk.

After the bar and beer and nachos and more beer, we took a walk at 4 in the morning on the outskirts of Central Park.

He said he loved cats and he pulled out his phone chalked full of photos of his aging, sick female cat named Bella.

"She's my baby," he said.

I told him I was caring for my friend's diabetic cat for the summer. He paused and looked into my eyes...

"That's, that's... like, the sweetest thing I've ever heard," he said smiling.

Such a huge gaping contrast to stiff Cancer Boy.

Mr.HotEnough hailed me a cab and I quickly jumped in. He had to take the subway (gasp!) all the way back to Nutley, New Jersey, wherever the hell that is.

I then got a text from him that said, "You know you were supposed to invite me over so I could have bought you breakfast tomorrow!"

Um...he was mad because I didn't have sex with him?

He has yet to call me after our drunken night.

Let's see... A rich oncologist who hates animals and thinks sex is dirty or, a sex addict poor Jersey boy with his own shallow website who loves animals?

I think it would be safe to say...neither.

Oncology with Cigarettes

I decided to dry my alcoholic ass out this week and let my fever break and let my cough turn into a mere hack instead of a deep lung cancerish cry for help. Although I'm still addicted to Advil Cold and Sinus and now, Mucinex, I feel ready for round two three four and five of my big city manifestations and adventures. I just hope I eat enough before I violently chug a bottle of Grey Goose this weekend.

Suck-my-face Kosovo Club Boy has been calling and texting me and asking me out every day. He's such a genuinely cuddly sweetheart but now I know he really likes me and that means I can't like him because, well, where's the challenge?

My favorite phrase is "Ignore Me and I'm Yours."

I met him for a Frappucino yesterday and it almost seemed like our electric chemistry had subsided.

My gay male Broadway singer roommate told me my problem with men is that I subconsciously feel sorry for them when they like me or are frustrated by me so I become too nice with them. The men take this as reinforcement and continue to ask me out and I can't say no because I feel guilty and I don't want to hurt anyone but I still really want to have a lot of unadulterated wild sex but the problem is...I just can't.

I think my delicate heart strings are too intimately intertwined with my vagina.

After the awkward Starbucks rendezvous, I came back to my desk at work feeling a bit perplexed. Why did I have to feel so awkwardly weird? Why couldn't I just treat him as a cool new friend I had met? For some reason the thought of licking his face endlessly began to make me feel ashamed, like a trashy filthy dirty whore.

At that moment, as I was thinking about volunteering to feed the homeless to compensate for my drunken sexual guilt, my matchmaker phoned me.

She told me a "very very very" successful clinical oncologist who is half-Italian "really really really" wanted to meet me. He's apparently 37 with brown hair and brown eyes and he's 5'10" which really means he's probably 5'8".

"Well, can I see a photo?" I asked her eagerly.

"We have to respect the privacy of our clients, so, I'm sorry sweetie, but we have to keep everything strictly off-line," she said, ever so politely.

I guess if I paid $200,000 to a matchmaker I wouldn't want my photos splashed everywhere either.

The clinical oncologist, let's call him Cancer Boy for short, called me one hour later. He sounded a bit dry, straightforward, sort of like, "Hey, this dating stuff is serious business and I need to find a wife who can breed asap."

But on a contradictory note, he also sounded really intelligent and nice. I'm meeting him Tuesday at some Italian trattoria.

What if I get there and he's fugly? Surely my matchmaker would at least pair me off with someone remotely attractive?

On my commute this morning I began to look at every guy with "brown hair and brown eyes." One guy had no chin, protruding bug eyes and a red mole on his neck. The next guy had flaky pale skin, a booger hanging out of his nose and bifocals so thick I thought they were windows.

Then, I suddenly realized that this apparent match is an oncologist. Did I mention to the matchmaker that I have the tendency to chain smoke like a chimney especially when I'm roaring drunk? Oh, and that I also burn myself to a crisp in an artificial tanning bed twice a week?

I'm from Texas.

And, that I think the Western approach to medicine is overly, ragingly, blindingly violent? If the cancer doesn't kill you, it's guaranteed that the chemotherapy and the endless rounds of toxic, bitter radiation will send you swiftly over the edge.

I'm more into the Eastern, non-intrusive holistic approach to medicine, even though I poison myself with carbon monoxide and potent UV rays on a regular basis.

Surely these could be only minor discrepancies that could emerge with Cancer Boy?

Suddenly the idea of a highly intoxicated make-out session with Kosovo Club Boy followed by a thick pack of cigarettes doesn't sound so bad...