First Date: Monday night drinks at La Esquina
First Impression: Tall sissy boy.
What Happened: A week after my psychic reading, I was on my third day of my new job when a Facebook message from a guy I didn’t know popped up on my iPhone: “Hi just had to stop in and say your too cute.” (sic)
I have enough online experience to know that in 99% of unsolicited-message cases, there’s not a whole lot to get excited about. I waited until later that night to open Facebook for a look-see. To my surprise, he was cute. Really cute.
There had to be something wrong with him. Maybe he was short. Or weirdly asocial. A browse of his photos revealed that he towered above other people and was in a lot of party shots—both tall and social. It was perplexing. However, in the red flag category, I also noticed that there were quite a lot of photos with him wearing nothing but what looked like an itsy bitsy teeny weeny boxer-brief type of weeny bikini.
I wrote back: “Thanks. You're pretty cute yourself. And I see you have quite the array of boxer-briefs.”
He replied: "Yea... my best friend calls them manties. Lol would you like to meet for a drink this week?"
After a bit of a back-and-forth, we arranged to meet up for Monday night drinks at La Esquina. On the designated day. I emailed in to work to say I was working from home so that I could fit in a mani/pedi and decide what to wear.
He replied: "Yea... my best friend calls them manties. Lol would you like to meet for a drink this week?"
After a bit of a back-and-forth, we arranged to meet up for Monday night drinks at La Esquina. On the designated day. I emailed in to work to say I was working from home so that I could fit in a mani/pedi and decide what to wear.
The weekend before, Zoe had gotten back into town from what was supposed to have been a three-week tour that had turned into a three-month adventure. To celebrate her return, she settled back into living on my sofa and not really looking for her own place, and then we went shopping. I bought a bunch of dresses from the second-hand shop downstairs. One of the dresses was a nicely fitting red one. I was inspired to wear it.
“What are you going to wear?” she asked the morning of the date.
“The red dress.”
“Oh no, don’t wear the red dress. Red means sex.”
I wore the red dress anyway and, on my way to meet him, phoned Zoe. She was headed out to New Jersey to meet a music producer she’d met online.
“What are you wearing?” she asked.
“The red dress.”
“I’m wearing my red dress, too,” she said, laughing. Zoe’s laugh admits nothing and everything at the same time. From it, one gets a whiff of a diabolical plan camouflaged by an aroma of harmless fun.
La Esquina is one of those New York bars that’s intentionally impossible to find—hidden cool. I wandered around the Lafayette/Spring St. triangle for about 15 minutes and finally found a restaurant tucked around the side of a building that I thought was it. I sat on a nearby bench to wait and soon my phone rang.
A shy, effeminate voice said hello and then, “Where are you?”
“In front of the restaurant.”
I looked up. A tall—spindly, even—boy-man in a white shirt, jeans and a suit jacket saw me and started toward me.
He was awkward but seemed entirely unaware of it. Not when we went around the corner from what I thought was the restaurant and into a diner the size of my thumb. Not when a woman on a stool inside asked us if we had a reservation. Not when he told the woman we were just going to the bar. And not when the woman opened a seemingly unobtrusive door, let us through and we walked down some steps, down a little hall, through a tiny kitchen, down another little hall and through an archway that opened up into a subterranean den of tequila...and, probably, sin.
I picked a low-slung banquette while he went to get drinks. If I hadn’t known any better, the way he languidly stood by the bar waiting would have made me think he was gay. Hell, maybe he was about to tell me that he was gay but he liked to make new female friends on Facebook.
“So [#125], who the hell are you?” I asked.
It was a fair question, seeing as he appeared from nowhere. He was evasive. I began guessing. I actually insisted on guessing. I like guessing. From his myriad party photos in which he was prevalently “mantied” (so gay), Jo had suggested he was some kind of promoter or PR guy.
“PR guy? Promoter?” I guessed.
“No and no,” he said.
I sized up his awkward, almost timorous presence and then said, “You’re a computer guy.”
He looked shocked.
“How did you guess that?...Although I’m not sure I really want to know."
“I’m very intuitive,” I said, aiming to avoid telling him a fraction of what I've told here.
Then things got a little rocky. I wanted him to guess what I did. He wouldn’t.
“Ah, you’re trying to be cute,” he said. “But you’ve fallen short.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re trying to be cute, but it’s not working.”
He’d not only found my buttons, he was leaning on them with his full 6’3” frame.
“Well, how do you propose I be then?” I said, fake-smiling up a storm.
He blinked slowly (so gay) and nudged me.
Ah, I saw, it was just his sense of humor.
We got cozier and cozier, leaning against each other, getting playful (so not gay).
Jo has a theory about men and the size of their packages. “Look at a man’s hands,” she would say in her Cockney-tinged accent. “If he has big hands, he’s got a big willy.”
If the manties-wrapped show-stopper he’d been throwing around on Facebook wasn’t a big enough clue, his hands certainly were. They were huge.
“What are you going to wear?” she asked the morning of the date.
“The red dress.”
“Oh no, don’t wear the red dress. Red means sex.”
I wore the red dress anyway and, on my way to meet him, phoned Zoe. She was headed out to New Jersey to meet a music producer she’d met online.
“What are you wearing?” she asked.
“The red dress.”
“I’m wearing my red dress, too,” she said, laughing. Zoe’s laugh admits nothing and everything at the same time. From it, one gets a whiff of a diabolical plan camouflaged by an aroma of harmless fun.
La Esquina is one of those New York bars that’s intentionally impossible to find—hidden cool. I wandered around the Lafayette/Spring St. triangle for about 15 minutes and finally found a restaurant tucked around the side of a building that I thought was it. I sat on a nearby bench to wait and soon my phone rang.
A shy, effeminate voice said hello and then, “Where are you?”
“In front of the restaurant.”
I looked up. A tall—spindly, even—boy-man in a white shirt, jeans and a suit jacket saw me and started toward me.
He was awkward but seemed entirely unaware of it. Not when we went around the corner from what I thought was the restaurant and into a diner the size of my thumb. Not when a woman on a stool inside asked us if we had a reservation. Not when he told the woman we were just going to the bar. And not when the woman opened a seemingly unobtrusive door, let us through and we walked down some steps, down a little hall, through a tiny kitchen, down another little hall and through an archway that opened up into a subterranean den of tequila...and, probably, sin.
I picked a low-slung banquette while he went to get drinks. If I hadn’t known any better, the way he languidly stood by the bar waiting would have made me think he was gay. Hell, maybe he was about to tell me that he was gay but he liked to make new female friends on Facebook.
“So [#125], who the hell are you?” I asked.
It was a fair question, seeing as he appeared from nowhere. He was evasive. I began guessing. I actually insisted on guessing. I like guessing. From his myriad party photos in which he was prevalently “mantied” (so gay), Jo had suggested he was some kind of promoter or PR guy.
“PR guy? Promoter?” I guessed.
“No and no,” he said.
I sized up his awkward, almost timorous presence and then said, “You’re a computer guy.”
He looked shocked.
“How did you guess that?...Although I’m not sure I really want to know."
“I’m very intuitive,” I said, aiming to avoid telling him a fraction of what I've told here.
Then things got a little rocky. I wanted him to guess what I did. He wouldn’t.
“Ah, you’re trying to be cute,” he said. “But you’ve fallen short.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re trying to be cute, but it’s not working.”
He’d not only found my buttons, he was leaning on them with his full 6’3” frame.
“Well, how do you propose I be then?” I said, fake-smiling up a storm.
He blinked slowly (so gay) and nudged me.
Ah, I saw, it was just his sense of humor.
We got cozier and cozier, leaning against each other, getting playful (so not gay).
Jo has a theory about men and the size of their packages. “Look at a man’s hands,” she would say in her Cockney-tinged accent. “If he has big hands, he’s got a big willy.”
If the manties-wrapped show-stopper he’d been throwing around on Facebook wasn’t a big enough clue, his hands certainly were. They were huge.
I went to say something and stopped. “Well? What were you going to ask me? It looked like it was going to be a very interesting question,” he said. And then he looked at his package as if he’d thought I’d just looked at his package.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Oh, come on, I can see you were going to be naughty.”
I really, really wasn't, but it seemed like he really, really wanted me to be.
“So, what’s the craziest thing you’ve done in the last three months?” he asked.
I thought and thought.
I remembered Nora’s birthday. “I went roller skating on Staten Island a few weeks ago—and we took a limo…” I said. “What’s the craziest thing you’ve done?”
“Well, anticipating you’d probably ask me the same question, I can’t remember exactly, but I have my calendar right here.”
He flicked through the calendar on his iPhone.
“Veronica, Tracy, Mary,” I teased, looking over his shoulder.
I leaned in for a closer look and saw two recurring events.
“What’s ‘Taste’ and what’s ‘Stimulate’?” I asked.
“Well…” he said, “…one is a fetish party and the other is a swingers party.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling my flight response engage.
“What kind of fetish party?” I asked, striking a note of curiosity and thinking that he could just be talking about some kind of get together where people excited themselves by rubbing each other’s feet.
“I can show you pictures,” he said. And then he showed me photos of people dressed in combinations of black leather, black latex, zippers, safety pins, straps, laces…
“Nothing,” I said.
“Oh, come on, I can see you were going to be naughty.”
I really, really wasn't, but it seemed like he really, really wanted me to be.
“So, what’s the craziest thing you’ve done in the last three months?” he asked.
I thought and thought.
I remembered Nora’s birthday. “I went roller skating on Staten Island a few weeks ago—and we took a limo…” I said. “What’s the craziest thing you’ve done?”
“Well, anticipating you’d probably ask me the same question, I can’t remember exactly, but I have my calendar right here.”
He flicked through the calendar on his iPhone.
“Veronica, Tracy, Mary,” I teased, looking over his shoulder.
I leaned in for a closer look and saw two recurring events.
“What’s ‘Taste’ and what’s ‘Stimulate’?” I asked.
“Well…” he said, “…one is a fetish party and the other is a swingers party.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling my flight response engage.
“What kind of fetish party?” I asked, striking a note of curiosity and thinking that he could just be talking about some kind of get together where people excited themselves by rubbing each other’s feet.
“I can show you pictures,” he said. And then he showed me photos of people dressed in combinations of black leather, black latex, zippers, safety pins, straps, laces…
Oh, that kind of fetish party.
To be continued…
Signs of Hope: He was gentlemanly and bought me drinks, and we were getting cozy.
Red Flags: The multiple manty photos. And those recurring events.
Turning Point: When he told me about his recurring events.
Diagnosis: For him: For a committed, monogamous relationship, his level of availability is likely pretty low.
For me: I managed to stay on the date as if I was legitimately curious. And, lo and behold, I actually started to feel legitimately curious…
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