See Unavailable By Design and He Touched Me for the background on this one.
Fighting the temptation to feel disheartened—which would have been pointless because a real #121 relationship wasn't in the cards—I met up with Evan for Naked Angels and revealed to him who the object of my bed-centered interests was. "He's perfect!" he said. "You'll never fall in love with him!"
"It's so other-side-of-the-tracks," I agreed.
I was in a feisty mood that when I showed up at my usual Thursday night gathering of like-minded downtowners and saw him sitting alone, I had no qualms about walking over to him, sitting down and saying, “Hey.”
“Hey," he said. "How are you?”
“OK. How are you?”
“Alright. Well, actually, I’m kind of pissed off.”
In his low-talking, slow-paced and near-mumbly way, he told me about how he’d taken in his laundry and they’d lost two of his shirts. “I guess I should stop buying $250 shirts,” he said.
We talked some more and I found out he rented a room in Woodside and worked construction, meaning that he was right, he really should stop buying $250 shirts.
“You look nice,” he said, eyeing me like a piece of meat, which I loved. “Are you doing something after?”
“Thanks. Oh, you know, just hanging out." The truth, of course, was that I got all dressed up on the off-chance I’d run into him.
As things wound down, he asked where I was headed.
“Home.”
“I thought you had plans.”
“They got canceled.”
“Oh, well, I’m heading to the F train,” he said, hinting that I should walk with him.
We hit the sidewalk, walked a few yards, coincidentally passed Evan and a few of his band mates and called to them. Evan turned and looked from me to #121 and back. His jaw fell open and he looked somewhere between amused and impressed.
We kept walking down Avenue B. “You look really hot,” #121 said. “I kind of thought you had a date tonight.”
“Thanks. No, no date.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No, no boyfriend. Do you have a girlfriend?” I felt like I was 12.
“No, I was seeing one girl that I met randomly but she was crazy, so I thought I’d try to find a girl in our crowd—you know, a girl people know."
“So, have you found one yet?”
“Well, I was kind of thinking maybe you…” he said. We were crossing the street, but, for a moment, I was blind to all traffic and deaf to all horns—all I saw and heard was the echo of him saying, “You.”
“…But then I thought maybe you’d say, you know, that I was too young.”
“Oh…really…no….”
“Do you like younger guys?”
“Yeah, well…age doesn’t make a difference.” The truth was that the “youngest” guy I’d “liked” was 23, but that was when I was 26.
“Do you like older women?”
“Yes,” he said as if there was no question about it. “You can’t be much older than me. What, 29/30?”
“I like that you think I’m 29 or 30.”
“How old are you?”
I hesitated.
“I can find out, you know.”
“How?” I asked, impressed.
“Facebook.”
Instantly less impressed, I said, “It’s not on there.”
“Come on. It doesn’t matter—if people take care of themselves, you know,” he said.
"I’m 38."
“You’re 38? Wow, you’re hot.”
And then he told me I was hot about two or three more times.
“You’re 24, right?”
“I’m 25,” he said, correcting me proudly.
“Well, that makes me feel better,” I said.
“It doesn’t make any difference,” he said. He'd caught my sarcasm and sounded like he wanted to drop it. I dropped it. And then there was silence.
“So, what else should we talk about?” I asked.
“My mind is in the gutter,” he said.
Somehow we made it to the front of my building conversing about something. And when we got there, making out was a forgone conclusion.
“I would be tempted to invite you up,” I said as he grabbed my ass, “but I have to call my parents.”
“Are you sure there’s no boyfriend up there?”
Diagnosis: Coo, coo, ca-choo, Mrs Robinson. Jesus loves you more than you will know (Wo, wo, wo). God bless you please, Mrs. Robinson. Heaven holds a place for those who pray (Hey, hey, hey…hey, hey, hey).
This Mrs. Robinson's prayer: Please God, let tomorrow be.
“Hey," he said. "How are you?”
“OK. How are you?”
“Alright. Well, actually, I’m kind of pissed off.”
In his low-talking, slow-paced and near-mumbly way, he told me about how he’d taken in his laundry and they’d lost two of his shirts. “I guess I should stop buying $250 shirts,” he said.
We talked some more and I found out he rented a room in Woodside and worked construction, meaning that he was right, he really should stop buying $250 shirts.
“You look nice,” he said, eyeing me like a piece of meat, which I loved. “Are you doing something after?”
“Thanks. Oh, you know, just hanging out." The truth, of course, was that I got all dressed up on the off-chance I’d run into him.
As things wound down, he asked where I was headed.
“Home.”
“I thought you had plans.”
“They got canceled.”
“Oh, well, I’m heading to the F train,” he said, hinting that I should walk with him.
We hit the sidewalk, walked a few yards, coincidentally passed Evan and a few of his band mates and called to them. Evan turned and looked from me to #121 and back. His jaw fell open and he looked somewhere between amused and impressed.
We kept walking down Avenue B. “You look really hot,” #121 said. “I kind of thought you had a date tonight.”
“Thanks. No, no date.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No, no boyfriend. Do you have a girlfriend?” I felt like I was 12.
“No, I was seeing one girl that I met randomly but she was crazy, so I thought I’d try to find a girl in our crowd—you know, a girl people know."
“So, have you found one yet?”
“Well, I was kind of thinking maybe you…” he said. We were crossing the street, but, for a moment, I was blind to all traffic and deaf to all horns—all I saw and heard was the echo of him saying, “You.”
“…But then I thought maybe you’d say, you know, that I was too young.”
“Oh…really…no….”
“Do you like younger guys?”
“Yeah, well…age doesn’t make a difference.” The truth was that the “youngest” guy I’d “liked” was 23, but that was when I was 26.
“Do you like older women?”
“Yes,” he said as if there was no question about it. “You can’t be much older than me. What, 29/30?”
“I like that you think I’m 29 or 30.”
“How old are you?”
I hesitated.
“I can find out, you know.”
“How?” I asked, impressed.
“Facebook.”
Instantly less impressed, I said, “It’s not on there.”
“Come on. It doesn’t matter—if people take care of themselves, you know,” he said.
"I’m 38."
“You’re 38? Wow, you’re hot.”
And then he told me I was hot about two or three more times.
“You’re 24, right?”
“I’m 25,” he said, correcting me proudly.
“Well, that makes me feel better,” I said.
“It doesn’t make any difference,” he said. He'd caught my sarcasm and sounded like he wanted to drop it. I dropped it. And then there was silence.
“So, what else should we talk about?” I asked.
“My mind is in the gutter,” he said.
Somehow we made it to the front of my building conversing about something. And when we got there, making out was a forgone conclusion.
“I would be tempted to invite you up,” I said as he grabbed my ass, “but I have to call my parents.”
“Are you sure there’s no boyfriend up there?”
I shook my head and he applied his powers of persuasion to the situation:
“I’ll be really quiet.”
“You won’t regret it.”
“I could just pick you up right now and take you upstairs.”
I know I'm prone to hyperbole, but I was so excited my knees were actually shaking. I managed to hold firm on not letting him upstairs. What also helped was that, although I didn’t mention it to him, my apartment was in chaos. It wasn’t the first time I’d used my messy apartment as a chastity belt.
“There’s always tomorrow,” I said.
He put his arms around me and picked me up off the ground. “I feel like I might break you,” he said. “You’re so tiny.”
“You won’t break me. I’m tough,” I said as he put me down. My knees still shaking, I propped myself up on the stone column and added coyly. “Don’t you want my number or something?” He took it and texted me. I managed to send him on his way after a few more grabs, calling after him, “I’ll tell my parents you say hello.”
I really did call my parents—about potentially cosigning for the apartment—and when my dad said, joking, “I’m just trying to figure out how I’m going to come up with $3,700 a month,” I said, “I guess that means you’ll have to prostitute your daughter.”
He laughed, but, if #121 had possessed rich money-management skills instead of poor ones, I wouldn't be all that far from it.
After I got off the phone, I looked at the text #121 had sent and laughed. All it said was, “[#121].” I texted him back and we traded messages as he tried to get me to talk dirty. Finally, I got as close as I was going to get:
“I don’t mind if you break me,” I wrote.
“Only a little promise you’ll enjoy it,” he wrote back.
Later, I phoned Kevin with the general details: I’m older “but hot"; he’s 25, a construction worker and dying to take me upstairs and break me.
“If this were a porn, that would be the setup,” Kevin said. “In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen this porn.”
“I’ll be really quiet.”
“You won’t regret it.”
“I could just pick you up right now and take you upstairs.”
I know I'm prone to hyperbole, but I was so excited my knees were actually shaking. I managed to hold firm on not letting him upstairs. What also helped was that, although I didn’t mention it to him, my apartment was in chaos. It wasn’t the first time I’d used my messy apartment as a chastity belt.
“There’s always tomorrow,” I said.
He put his arms around me and picked me up off the ground. “I feel like I might break you,” he said. “You’re so tiny.”
“You won’t break me. I’m tough,” I said as he put me down. My knees still shaking, I propped myself up on the stone column and added coyly. “Don’t you want my number or something?” He took it and texted me. I managed to send him on his way after a few more grabs, calling after him, “I’ll tell my parents you say hello.”
I really did call my parents—about potentially cosigning for the apartment—and when my dad said, joking, “I’m just trying to figure out how I’m going to come up with $3,700 a month,” I said, “I guess that means you’ll have to prostitute your daughter.”
He laughed, but, if #121 had possessed rich money-management skills instead of poor ones, I wouldn't be all that far from it.
After I got off the phone, I looked at the text #121 had sent and laughed. All it said was, “[#121].” I texted him back and we traded messages as he tried to get me to talk dirty. Finally, I got as close as I was going to get:
“I don’t mind if you break me,” I wrote.
“Only a little promise you’ll enjoy it,” he wrote back.
Later, I phoned Kevin with the general details: I’m older “but hot"; he’s 25, a construction worker and dying to take me upstairs and break me.
“If this were a porn, that would be the setup,” Kevin said. “In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen this porn.”
Signs of Hope: Just about everything above.
Red Flags: It was hard to figure out what to talk about. Do we have enough in common for even a casual relationship?
Turning Point: That "You."
Red Flags: It was hard to figure out what to talk about. Do we have enough in common for even a casual relationship?
Turning Point: That "You."
Diagnosis: Coo, coo, ca-choo, Mrs Robinson. Jesus loves you more than you will know (Wo, wo, wo). God bless you please, Mrs. Robinson. Heaven holds a place for those who pray (Hey, hey, hey…hey, hey, hey).
This Mrs. Robinson's prayer: Please God, let tomorrow be.
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